Author: Spoofer4love PM
He never shows hurt. He's always calm. But Chucky knows this can't be true. There has to be something Andy is hiding. ChuckyxAndy. Rated for language.Rated: Fiction T - English - Romance/Hurt/Comfort - Words: 3,250 - Reviews: 4 - Favs: 5 - Follows: 2 - Published: 11-28-12 - Status: Complete - id: 8747246
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
He's always so fucking calm.
It didn't matter what the hell I'm feeling, he's always calm. Scratch the time we fought- neither of us were ourselves that day. I don't want to even fucking think about that day.
But he had always been so calm, just taking all the shit like it was nothing. Even as a kid, he just let all hell break loose on him and he wouldn't seem to even flinch. No anger, no tears, nothing. Sure, with the tiny kid problems like his first day at school, yeah, then all of a damn sudden he was a normal human. But not when it came to the real traumatic things in life.
Not when it came to me.
He's never told me about what happened after I left him with all the blame hanging over his head. He's never said a word about it. He's never mentioned how he felt when I betrayed him. I don't know anything about that time he spent without me, actually. What did he think? What did he do? When I turned out to be the shittiest friend ever, did he just shrug it off like he seems to do everything else?
He gets to hear all of my damn sob stories. But I never get to see his.
I honestly don't know if he even has any.
It kind of hurts, thinking that maybe he wasn't broken when I left. I was broken when I left. On the one hand, it's what I deserve. But on the other hand, what does that mean about us? If he didn't care that I'd hurt him, did that mean that he really hadn't depended on me so much? Or that maybe I was just another problem passing by in his life?
And on top of that, what about the war? He barely escaped a bombing, for God's sake! He doesn't even seem to have the least bit of PTSD in him. How does he do it? Is he really that invincible?
I can already feel hot anger boiling up inside of me. I'm always so fucking anal.
And he always just takes it all. Fucking Super-Soldier.
It's been several months now since he dragged me out here to this goddamn hideous house (one that I have to admit actually turned out fine, but I'll never tell him that) and I thought that meant that we'd, I don't know, get to know each other or some other sappy shit like that. Maybe get to know all his dark secrets no one else knew. But nothing's happened that's even close to that. He's gotten to see me alright, in all my dark glory. But I know almost nothing about him.
I just want to fucking pick him apart.
He's sitting across from me, reading something. "Andy," I growl- it's more of a whine, really. He looks up, that smile on his face. Is it natural? Or did he glue that damn grin on just for me, to not let me know what's really going on in there? "Yes?" he asks, seemingly just eager to hear what I have to say.
Your sugar-sweet voice is obnoxious today, Andy. I fucking hate it.
I don't know how to ask him. What do I do, just go off and start with, hey Andy, you remember that day when I dumped you like a load of shit? Yah, did you fucking cry or anything? Because I felt like a moving van hit me. I can't do that. I don't do that. It's not me.
And I can't say that I want to know that he did cry either. As much as that's true- sick, sadistic bastard that I am- that won't get him to open up for sure.
"Why're you reading? It's not like you'll get any fucking smarter." Smooth, Charles. Smooth.
His grin widens. "What? Are you feeling neglected?" he asks, and damn him if he doesn't sound a bit patronizing.
Goddamn it! No!
I scowl, but that only seems to confirm his idea about me right now. "Fine, fine, I see," he says, ruffling my hair. It's not that I don't like when he touches me, I... it doesn't fucking matter how I feel when he touches me! That's not the point right now, and fuck you for distracting me, Andy Barclay!
I try to show my inner displeasure, but I can't hide the spontaneous rise of blood to my face. Fuck being a human.
He laughs softly. "Alright, Chucky," he says. "Just a few more pages, and we'll do something. Whatever you want."
Not whatever I want. I just don't feel like I could ask you this.
It's not until somewhere around-oh hell, I don't know. Sometime in the early morning or late night. I decide to sneak out from under his arm and take a little trip to the computer that sits out in the living room. It doesn't take long to find some stuff, like the foster homes Andy was transferred to.
He was passed around. Over and over again. Like some sick dog no one wanted. He never even stayed too long, just enough to get attached and then be dumped again. I understand- it's how it was for me. And look at what I turned out to be, and what he turned out to be. Murderer versus soldier. Why did he never tell me this? And just why was he thrown around so carelessly? How dare they! What the hell was wrong with him that they couldn't keep him?
I try to read through some of the files to see, but they're too fucking unclear, and I'm too damn lazy to try and decipher all this weird alien shit. I sigh. Guess I'll never know.
But then my eye catches a name and address. They're not far from here. How convenient. I always hatedwalking anyways.
I have to know. And if Andy won't fucking tell me, I'll find out my own way. I always have.
He gets up in the morning, around seven, for work. It's nice, not having to work. I hate getting up early, but I'll admit to myself only that it's sort of nice to feel Andy's warm body press against me in a morning hug before heading off. I won't tell him that either. He has his fucking secrets, and I'll have mine. "Jesus, Andy, do you have to do this everyday?" I ask as grouchily as I can. He only smiles- again with the smile, Andy. Do my biting words ever hurt you? Do they? Why don't you tell me? "Well, good morning to you too, sunshine," he murmurs before kissing my forehead. I still get hot wherever he kisses me. Goddamn it.
Do you feel this way when I kiss you? Whenever I actually do, which is rare.
Maybe I'd do it more often if I knew if it affected you like it affects me.
It doesn't usually take long for him to get ready and leave, but this morning it seems he's taking forever. Hurry the fuck up. He had left when I started to slide out of bed, but then he runs in all of a damn sudden because he forgot his keys or something equally as retarded, and I have to jump back in before he sees me up so early.
He'd ask questions, and I don't feel like answering any of them.
When he's finally gone- and for sure, he's gone, because now I wait until I hear the sound of the car driving out onto the road- I get up and crawl back onto the chair in front of the computer. Just a simple browse through my history and I find the page again and scribble down the address.
Fuck you. I will pick you apart, Andy. I will rip into your deepest parts and find out what you never talk to me about. Dr. Ray is on the move.
Those little fuckers better be home, I think to myself as I fucking toddle in these goddamn short legs. They just better be. I will be pissed if I walked all this way for nothing. It's sort of hot- no, it really hot out here. I'm sweating like a damn pig. This really better be worth it. This is for Andy- no, not even for him. This is for me. This is only because I want to know.
Their house is small. It looks like a house that would hold a loving, pussy family. But you never know. Houses lie, like everything else. Even Andy lies, in his own way, fuck him.
How am I going to do this? Shit. I never think these things through. What the hell. It's too late now. I'm already here.
I ring the door bell, after reaching for it shamelessly like the bad bitch that I am even though I'm so short like a goddamn child. Is this why Andy doesn't talk to me? Does he think I can't handle it? Sometimes he forgets, I think, that I am an adult, and an older adult at that. There are dogs barking,.
I finally hear someone coming. The door unlocks and I see a young woman peek her head out. "Hello?" she asks uncertainly. The moment she looks down and sees me, she squeals in some sick pathetic delight. "Well, hello there, sweetie," she says, patting my head. "How can I help you?" Goddamn it. Again with the thinking I'm a small cute child.
But whatever. I'll do whatever I gotta do to get this information.
"I need to ask you some questions... miss..." I try for a shy type. That's probably what she guessed me to be like anyways. Her smile widens. "Well, aren't you cute?" shes asks, opening the door a bit so I can come in. "Of course! Whatever you like..."
I follow her into this too overly decorated, too neat house. It looks so unnatural. I just can't see Andy here, I just cannot. The woman gestures to her overly plush couch, so I sit on it, not even a bit surprised at how lumpy it is. Of course it would be.
"So," she starts, folding her hands all fucking perfect in her lap. I can't think of why I hate her so much at first, her and her little perfect house. I just feel the anger crawling around inside me. "What was it you want to ask me?"
Oh yah. You bitch.
Why the hell did you throw Andy away like some unwanted animal?
It's not really fair that I'm so angry at her. It would be fair if I was only angry because of what she did. But I'm also pissed off at Andy because he never told me these things, and because she's here, in front of me, I feel like someone should take the heat- and damn if it won't be her.
But if I freak her out, she won't answer my questions. And I need those answers.
"I need to ask you about Andy Barclay," I say, barely bottling the fury that wants to rip her fucking throat out. I think my voice took a dark tone anyways- the look on her face tells me she didn't expect this to come out of my mouth. But I can't stop now. "Why'd you give him up?" Her face turns pale- guilty as charged. "An...Andy Barclay?" she asks slowly. "How on earth do you know him?"
I sigh. I really want to punch her in the fucking throat, but I don't. "I live with him," is what I say. It's all I can say. I don't know how else to describe our damn relationship right now.
I press on. "So why?" I ask again, more forcefully than I intended to.
She breaks down and cries, and it takes forever for her to finally stop wailing her pathetic ass off. And then she tells me a little story. And as she tells this little story, I find out some things about Andy that, of course, I never knew before.
Most importantly though, I found out that Andy Barclay, calmest person I ever met, had a time when he wasn't so goddamn calm. He was a nightmare. Not in a violent way, but he apparently had crying fits, and lots of them. To the point where it frightened the families and he was "too much stress"
Too much stress?
Too much stress?! Andy Barclay? And no one stuck around at all? And here I was, telling him he'd never understand what it was like to be abandoned.
She's still crying. "Thanks," I say, still trying to hold in the furious heat that seems to be burning me inside out. I'm like a fucking oven. I don't even try to comfort her, the bitch. I'll leave you like you left Andy...
It's a long walk home. I'm furious. Mostly at all these motherfuckers, but also at Andy. How? How could he not tell me? How could he look at me with that straight face when he told me those countless times to be honest with him when he's not even honest himself? The hypocritical piece of shit!
And speaking of the devil, he's waiting for me when I get home.
"Where have you been?" he asks, that playful smile tugging on those pink, teasing lips and that all too familiar warmth in his soft golden eyes... shit. Focus. I'm angry right now, and for a good reason. He's still so calm! Still! It infuriates me now more than ever, now that I know this. If he had been gone long, you know I would have given him hell for it!
Doesn't he feel the insecurities I feel? Didn't he wonder if I was going to abandon him like everyone else?
"Out, Andy," I say lowly. His eyes don't even drop at my obviously foul mood. They just close slightly as he smiles bigger. Damn it, must he be so fucking adorable even now? "Alright, alright," he giggles lightly. There's a dimple in his left cheek from his smile- he's still innocent about what's going on here.
Fuck me. I can't deny it. He's extremely... it makes me shudder to admit it, but he's really cute when he wants to be.
But I'm still mad at him.
"I was talking to a Mrs... what's her name? Oh. A Mrs. Lowen. She's quite a nice woman," I say, trying and failing to hide the triumphant poison in my voice.
Aha. His eyes drop then, and I can see the happy light in them dimmed. "Oh," he says, trying to act like nothing's wrong. "What made you talk to her?" I growl. "Andy," I snap, and he jumps slightly. He looks at me questioningly, but he knows what's coming. "You have something you want to fucking tell me?" I ask, waiting. Giving him the chance to come clean now. But he doesn't say a word, just keeps staring at me with those large doe eyes, like a lamb about to get slaughtered.
Why is he so scared to tell me? "Why?" I ask out loud. "Why have you never just told me this stuff? Do you know what I heard about you? About what I did to you that day when I left you?" I take a step closer to him, and he visibly shrinks in front of me. "Why did you go off and do that for?" he almost whispers. "Why did you have to do that?"
And yet still, he's so calm. I will get inside you, Andy Barclay. You can struggle all you want.
"Why didn't you tell me?" I shout angrily. "Why didn't you? Andy, you suffered! You couldn't sleep for nights because of me! You would cry for me all the time! You wouldn't eat, you wouldn't speak, you... you were so lost! You were so fucking broken! And you still suffer, don't you? Why didn't you tell me about this?" My voice is incredibly loud now, my anger so very obvious.
His eyes are misting with tears, his lip is trembling, he's even shaking, and damn, I am such a sick bastard for being turned on by this.
"I..." he stops. "Chucky, I..." he's trying to maintain his natural calmness, and I can just hear him telling himself to just deal with this calmly and that it would soon be over. "No, Andy," I order. "We will not just brush over this. We are going to fucking sit down and talk about it, goddamnit! You always tell me not to hide things. So what the fuck is up with you hiding stuff now, huh?"
He sinks into the couch and covers his face. I want to punch him, I want him to cry, I want him to just tell me! I want him to be opened and exposed!
His shoulders shake as he starts to cry into his hands. "I..." he chokes out.
"I didn't want to burden you with anything more than you already have..."
I can barely hear the pitifully whimpered phrase, but it hits hard all the same. Of course. Of course... it's Andy. I should have known he was doing this for me.
"You can't do this forever, Andy," I murmur, pulling at his hands to reveal him. He was always so calm to me, so it was strange to see him being the one who has an emotional breakdown instead of me. It's really fucking nice, actually. "You can't always be the hero. You don't fucking have to always be the hero." He looks at me, and I see a face so hurt, I don't know what to do. I don't know how to comfort him. "Andy," I whisper softly. "Tell me. What do you want me to do?"
He blushes, but I don't know why. He shouldn't be ashamed of crying. He's been hurt! My Andy- my sweet, innocent, damn loving cherub- has been hurt. "Just..." he whispers tiredly. "Just let me hold you."
What? Why? What a fucking weird thing to ask. He's hurting, and he wants to hold me. Not the other way around.
"Why?" I ask, even as I comply. He holds me so tightly and so close, I can hear the stuttering of his heart from his sobbing. "How does this even help?" He turns a darker shade of red. "Does it really matter?" he asks. I nod. "No more secrets, Andy," I growl. "I mean it. Out with it." He blushes and pulls me against him again, and I can barely hear his muffled voice in my hair.
"It comforts me when I can feel you so close," he says. "When I couldn't sleep all those nights, I tried holding onto anything else, my foster parents, my pillow, even stuffed animals or dolls, but it was never the same... it was never..." his cries grew again, and his fingers latched onto me.
"Just cry, Andy," I say. "Just fucking cry..."
I let him hold me. I mean, why not? He deserves it. On top of that, knowing he needed me so much, seeing him so needy for me is just too good, it's so good. And it's just too damn nice to watch him tremble and blush helplessly whenever I kiss his forehead or his cheeks...
I know I said no more secrets, but...
I think this boner of mine is better off not mentioned.