In the End

When the Ball is in Your Court

"I don't know, and I don't really care anymore. I'm tired of fighting," Andy says, for what feels like the umpteenth time. He's staring down into coffee cup, avoiding Kristen's scrutinous gaze.

Kristen just huffs at this, flicking her towel across the bartop. Jeeves' band is not playing today, but there is that similar smooth jazz floating around them. A very contrarian setting. Andy leans against his hand and averts his eyes, still unable to meet her continuous glancing. He can see her in his peripherals, chatting up other customers and serving orders, all the while just dying to come back and reprimand him some more. He supposes. And which he absolutely deserves.

He quickly peeks over, just to see if she is looking, and when he sees her bent down to pick up something from the lower shelves behind the bar, he slips out his flask and douses his coffee with the contents. So much for sobriety. If Kristen knows about this or any of his other recent episodes she would be much more anxious.

He tugs at his sleeve, feeling another itch already lingering beneath his skin just thinking about it.

"And how many corp- how much company does he bring around to the apartment, and how much does he leave you with a mess to clean?" Kristen asks, and he nearly jumps out of his skin. He knows she is in the right to ask, but he cannot help the bristle of defensiveness tickling in his blood. Maybe spiking his coffee right now was not the most genius of eurekas. He can already feel an unjustified rage growing inside him.

And for who? Himself? Chucky ? He forces his jaw shut. Kristen does not approve at his nonverbal admission; she makes it quite clear.

"Listen, I know about your whole complicated tie with him, but..." she stops, almost annoyed at the customer down the bar banging their cup for her attention. Andy watches her work, and sips at his coffee. The sting of the whiskey is almost welcoming. Like his awaited reckoning.

He swallows it down right as Kristen swings back around, empty styrofoam cup stacks in hand. Her hair is falling apart in every way that it can, almost as if the thick curls are runaway prisoners from their hairbanded cell. He almost wants to smile, but their tension is too thick for him to try and push down or brush away.

" What was I saying? Oh - listen, I just..." she pauses, her face wrinkling. It is endearing. He is so lucky to have a friend who cares for him this much. "I just don't want to see you in the just busted because you're still attached to your favorite toy."

There is a bit of snide in her voice. He cannot blame her. He should feel the same way. But unfortunately - he is the kid with the attachment to said 'favorite toy.' He stopped wrestling that identity a while ago by now.

"Is he living with you?" she asks.

"No," he says. "Just comes in and visits a lot. We argue, and then he's gone again. It's strange."

Almost comforting , he nearly adds. But he feels that Kristen has been frontloaded with much too much information as is, and the description he uses even now creates a pained expression across her features. She does not say anything of it, however, but instead busies herself some more. More than likely, she is trying to give herself time to think.

He does not understand it himself, and he envies her the time she has to ponder it, whereas he just has to accept it as the way things are now, between him and the other. He clenches and unclenches his fist, swallowing down his own self-loathing and disgust. There is nothing that he can do about it now, he has invited the devil into his home. He opened the door. Glancing up again at Kristen, he just hopes that she can at least understand his welcoming of the murderer because he has become so tired of pushing him away. Chucky will come, whether he wants him to or not. Over and over again.