Chucky was a bit of a wanderer.

There wasn't much to do, after all; Andy had let him have free reign of the cabin, and Chucky enjoyed the freedom - but to say he was confused would have been an understatement. The level of trust Andy seemed to be putting in him scared him more than anything else could have. Not that he'd say that to his face - not that he really needed to. No, for the most part, Andy seemed to know what he was thinking. He seemed to know how to get under his skin. He seemed to know what really, truly bothered him - and he seemed to know that not knowing Andy's motives was one of the things that really got to him. Lately, he seemed to be able to read Chucky like a fucking book, and Chucky wasn't sure he was helping things, either. It was getting harder and harder to act around the man, because he didn't know how to act toward him now. He was almost scared just to insult him; he didn't want to end up with his head on a board. And he also didn't want to do anything else that would trigger Andy's new, ah - habits. It was basically a rock and a hard place. They were at a wall, and Chucky wasn't going an inch further.

So, yes, he wandered. Right then, more than ever; stumbling through the cabin absently while Andy cooked dinner. He always ended up back to the living room, mostly because the volume was practically blaring on the TV. The kid had the Shining playing - a classic among horror movies, but not one Chucky could stomach. He found himself turning the volume down a little - unfortunately, during one particular scene he wished he hadn't been around to see. Watching the blood pour out of the elevator was enough to make his stomach roll; he managed to turn away to leave, but it was too late. Clasping his hands over his ears to muffle the frantic screams coming from the television, he stumbled out of the room and down the hall, to the bathroom.

Thankfully, he managed to hold it until he reached the toilet, but then it was over. He threw up, retching into the bowl and slumping over it for a good few seconds. He cursed under his breath - cursing Damballa, and Ayida, and the Loa and everything, everyone he could think of. He would apologize for it later, once he was in a clearer state of mind, but right then he was gonna curse.

He was throwing up, again, when he heard the volume suddenly turn down further, and then the screams abruptly stopped altogether. Then there was a more… upbeat tune coming from the living room, creepy classic horror movie music replaced by something a little more jaunty, and light. Despite himself, he lifted his head a little to turn his gaze toward the doorway, somewhat surprised - and even more so when he heard Andy. "Sorry," the man called - and Chucky noted numbly that he didn't quite sound sorry - before his footsteps retreated back to the kitchen.

But he didn't reply. He toyed with the straps of his overalls and let himself sink away from the toilet, managing to lift his fingers to the handle to flush it. It took him a moment to compose himself enough to heave himself back to his feet, and he did so with shaking legs that felt like jelly, about to collapse underneath him at any given second, at the first wrong step. And so, he walked carefully out of the bathroom, one foot in front of the other, and ended up making his way to the kitchen instead. He'd been avoiding that particular room, but there was nowhere else to go now. Besides, he needed something to drink now more than he ever had.

Entering the kitchen, he made a direct beeline for the fridge. He was certain Andy noticed his presence; the doll wasn't exactly making an effort to sneak around, and the kid was much more observant than he used to be. But he was offered no reaction, or a greeting; Andy simply remained standing at the stove, stirring something in a pot while Chucky made his way to the fridge and pulled it open with a grunt. After surveying each of the shelves carefully, he selected a bottle from where it was wedged into the inside of the door, and carefully pressed it shut.

Turning away, he caught Andy's gaze; the man had the nerve to look almost amused, tugging his lips up into a tiny half-smile as he jerked his chin toward the bottle Chucky was holding. "That's not gonna help you get the taste of puke out of your mouth," he warned.

Well, Chucky knew that. But it wasn't about getting the taste of puke out of his mouth; it was about getting the nausea out of his stomach. So he sneered back at the man in response, mustering up the courage to flip him off before he returned both hands to the bottle. It was slippery, and since it had only been a few days since Chucky had been in the new doll, his plastic hands still couldn't quite grip the bottle just right. But he was still able to twist the cap off, half-heartedly tossing it toward the trash can and not bothering to pick it back up when he missed. Andy sighed at him, but he turned back to whatever he was cooking; Chucky thought he caught the smell of chicken, maybe rice, but he wasn't about to speak up and ask the man. He'd come to realize there were certain things they did together now. For instance, they shared a joint every now and again in front of the TV, watching Family Guy and South Park and the Simpsons. They snacked together when they got hungry enough. They shared a beer sometimes. But they didn't have meals together. They didn't exchange 'goodnights'. They didn't talk like they did when Chucky's head was on a platter. It was their new arrangement.

Was it awkward? Sure, sometimes. But Andy seemed comfortable with it, and Chucky was trying his damndest to adjust, so there wasn't much of a problem with it otherwise.

Even so, he had to hide a frown by sipping from the bottle. And Andy was right, of course; the taste of the beer made the lingering taste of puke a little stronger, and a little worse. And he almost felt like he might just throw up again. But he took another sip anyway; he knew if he stopped drinking, he was going to receive an 'I toldja so' or something of the sort from Andy, and he wasn't going to let the damn kid win at something else, too. That, and it was the only kind of beer Andy had at the ready - he had a horrible taste in alcohol, if Chucky was honest.

But Andy didn't turn back, and Chucky was about to resign himself to retreating back to the living room - but he did pause to watch Andy for a moment longer. He wasn't sure why - but he'd never seen the man so intent and focused on something. Even when he was hunched over his laptop or busying himself with paperwork. Even when he was cutting. Or when he was torturing him. He never looked this relaxed and content and concentrated, and he'd never seemed this happy to be doing anything. Well - happy was a strong word. His eyes were still blank and dull, and lifeless like a dead man's. But the smile on his face was a little softer, a little more real.

He took another sip, no longer frowning. He was… curious. He was intrigued.

Chucky hated himself, with every fiber of his being - but he hated Andy Barclay even more. He was furious, he was appalled, at how this man managed to keep him here where he wanted him. How Andy managed, single handedly, to almost tame the beast inside of him. Chucky still didn't know if he'd be able to kill Andy even if he could handle the sight of blood - and it pissed him off, to realize that time and time again. The revelation managed to shock him every time.

He could leave, and the doll knew this. Andy retreated to his room at night, and Chucky was often left to his restless wandering until he managed to pass out on the couch. But he didn't have to stay; whenever he wanted, he could run when Andy's sleeping, and he doesn't ever have to come back. Sometimes he wondered, if he did escape, whether Andy would chase him down. He wondered if it was worth it. He wondered if he was the only thing keeping the kid alive at this point. As long as Andy had to watch over him and keep him in line, he had less of a reason to do something else with his knives. Something worse than just carving into either of them. Once upon a time, Chucky would have given anything to be able to kill Andy Barclay, in any way he possibly could. But now, for some reason, he found himself balking at the thought.

In some twisted way, he realized he'd grown to almost see the man as a friend. There were times, every so often, it felt like he might not hate Andy as much as he used to - and vice versa.

He admonished himself with a quiet sigh as he left the room, deciding to leave Andy to his own devices for the time being. Maybe he'd join him in the living room to watch television later; sometimes Andy would come and eat on the couch and Chucky would relax in the chair while the TV blared one of the few shows they shared an interest in. Sometimes they laughed over the same jokes; sometimes they joked around a little themselves. It was almost nice. But, other times, Andy would eat in the dining room, and Chucky would get the TV all to himself. Like now; so he climbed up onto the couch and grabbed the remote to start flipping through the channels, lifting the beer to his lips for another sip and fixing his eyes on the screen. He ended up going to their pre-recorded shows - nothing good tended to be on during that time of the night, anyway.

The doll set it to an episode of Family Guy and sat back to watch, sighing.

About halfway into the episode, Andy finally entered the room. He was carrying two plates, but Chucky didn't focus on him long enough to see why - so what if the guy was hungrier than usual tonight? He probably smoked a little too much earlier, it wasn't exactly a big deal, and it shouldn't have been any of Chucky's concern. But, Andy ended up surprising him (and at this point, the only thing the doll was really surprised about was the fact that he was surprised at all) by setting the plate down in front of him before sitting down on the couch, on the other side, far enough away from Chucky so that there was an entire cushion between them. For a moment, Chucky could only stare down at the food. Chicken and rice, as he had suspected, with a biscuit and gravy on the side. He managed to flick his gaze toward Andy, then back down. "The fuck?"

Andy snorted. "You're welcome." He took a bite of his chicken, washing it down with a few swallows of beer himself, and Chucky spared him a dubious look. But still, Andy didn't say anything, taking another bite and swallowing it down with another mouthful of beer before he finally opened his mouth again, seeming to sense Chucky's lingering gaze on the side of his head. "I just realized, you don't eat dinner. Or really at all," he commented. "So, there. Enjoy."

"The fuck?" Chucky asked again, with a little more feeling behind the words now. He was more than just dubious; he was pissed, and he couldn't really understand why. Hell, this was a pretty nice gesture coming from the guy who had tortured him for four fucking years, but he was still getting angry. Maybe because he was getting sick of dancing around the subject of whatever sick game Andy might have been playing here. Was it some kind of psychological torture? Mental? Emotional? Was he just fucking playing games with him now? He didn't understand. "Seriously, Barclay? You're cooking me dinner now? What's next, you gonna propose?"

"Just eat it," Andy groaned. "I had enough to share and I figured I might as well. It's been long enough, you should be almost completely human by now. If you don't eat, you'll die."

"The hell is that such a bad thing?" Chucky retorted, seething now. "I don't want your fucking-"

"Your existence confuses me," Andy interrupted. Chucky snarled, about ready to snap at him just for that, but he couldn't even get his mouth open to say anything before Andy was continuing, just as casually as if they were discussing the weather, or something of the sort. "Your presence is annoying, and I hate your guts, but the thought of something bad happening to you upsets me. At least, something bad happening to you that isn't my own doing," he added, and the grin that he shot in Chucky's direction then was as sharp and dangerous as a shark's. "Haven't you ever heard the saying, 'don't look a gift horse in the mouth'?"

Chucky bit out a laugh, sharp despite the odd twisting in his gut he couldn't explain. Andy's words pissed him off even further, but on some level, he almost felt kind of warmed by them. But that only served to make him even more angry in the long run. "Is this really a gift?" He argued. "You're just doing this shit out of the kindness of your heart, huh? We're pals now, is that it?"

"Haven't we always been?" Andy crooned. "Friends to the end, eh, Chuckles?"

"Go to Hell!"

"I'll meet you there."

Chucky curled his lips back, opening his mouth to retort, but he couldn't think of a response. Andy only chuckled at him before he turned away again, and the only thing Chucky managed to spit out after a moment - which only earned him another quiet huff of a laugh - was "and don't fucking call me Chuckles, you piece of shit," before he turned back to the plate in front of him.

Briefly, he considered the idea that it might be poisoned. But he didn't think Andy would do that; they both knew it would take a little more than poison to keep the doll down, right? And he'd died more times than he could count, anyway. He always came back. Andy wouldn't take that risk - but even though he knew this logically, he still couldn't help but ponder. As dumb as it was, the idea of Andy trying to poison him was a lot more plausible than him giving him food out of sheer kindness for whatever fucking reason his idiot brain had conjured. Picking the plate up, Chucky narrowed his eyes, curling his fingers around the fork carefully and scooping up some of the chicken and rice. It smelled good, for sure; he took a bite before his mouth had time to properly start watering, frowning as he chewed. It wasn't Swedish meatballs, but, shit, it was pretty good. He wasn't gonna say it to Andy's face, but the kid could actually fucking cook.

He half-expected a snarky remark from the man, but he was silent now, fork clattering against his plate as he ate and watched TV in content silence. The episode changed. Andy snickered at the beginning, and Chucky allowed himself to crack a grin despite himself, but it faded quickly as he took another bite. He might be enjoying himself, but he didn't want the kid to know that. And he definitely didn't want him to get the impression that Chucky was enjoying his company.

He took another bite, and tried to think of the last time someone had cooked for him. The only thing he could come up with was… Tiffany. And, honestly, it was enough to make him go rigid. Every muscle in his still somewhat half-plastic body pulled taut, grip on the fork tightening a little bit as he stared at the TV, before steadily dropping his gaze to the plate in his lap. Tiffany. Truthfully, he hadn't really thought of the woman up until… well, up until now. Sure, on occasion, Andy would try to urge their conversations in that direction, attempting to make Chucky talk about his (ex?) wife, but Chucky didn't entertain that too much. For the most part, he would rather have Andy's focus on him instead of his wife and kid… kids? Whatever. As much trouble as he had showing it, he really did love Tiffany. And he really did care about Glen and Glenda. He'd always wanted a daughter (god damn Barbara had been proof of that, but that hadn't exactly ended favorably), and his father always insisted that Chucky needed to have a son, so that he could carry on the tradition. He wasn't even angry with the little prick for killing him, either. That was what was supposed to happen. It was tradition, just like everything else was.

And Tiffany… god, how he loved her. She was the only woman he could say he did. And yeah, it was true, Chucky had had multiple 'partners' over the years. Especially when he'd been a teenager. He and Tiffany had grown up together, and even when they'd gotten together, neither of them saw anything wrong with Chucky seeing other people. It was just a way to keep himself entertained; none of them lasted. Fuck, he even killed some of them just for the hell of it. But he never got bored with Tiffany - she had been more to him than some fling, or a one-night stand, or some kind of 'trophy wife' kind of deal. She had been his best friend growing up, and the person he'd wanted by his side through thick and thin. No, he hadn't planned on marrying her, because as far as he was concerned, marriage was where the relationship went downhill.

And he hadn't been entirely wrong. She'd left him after that. Left him, just like everyone else.

And he'd never have fucking expected it, not from her. And, yeah! It had hurt like fucking hell. But he was over it. They were both over it. She'd helped him find the Pierce family, and even track down Andy. But they'd lost contact. Andy had taken him to an entirely different place, presumably because he knew Chucky had someone else helping him out, and the doll wished he knew what Tiffany was up to these days, but he didn't have the slightest clue. It had been- what, four? Five? It had been years since they'd spoken. Chucky found himself wondering if she'd moved on; she had the kids to tend to now, more important things to worry about. Probably thought Chucky had gotten what he'd wanted and was out there having fun alone.

Tiffany Valentine, his mind whispered, and he shut his eyes for a moment. The mere thought of her, after so long apart, was as intoxicating as being in her presence had always been. Every part of him ached to be close to her again. He loved her - he had trouble saying it and he had even more trouble expressing it, but he loved her. He had always loved her. My amare.

"I'm going to bed." Chucky didn't offer anything more than a hum of acknowledgement, opening his eyes to focus on the screen again. "Turn the volume down," Andy added, leaving the room.

Chucky turned it up. Andy didn't say anything.

He put the plate down on the table, hearing Andy's door click shut, and resigned himself to another restless night on the couch. Anxiety buzzed through him, more intense than usual; he bit the inside of his cheek and leaned his head in his hand as he stared at the television, seeing nothing but a blur of colors. Even the noise was nothing more than static to him at that moment. The only thing he could hear was Tiffany's name whispered in his ears over and over again; he could hear her voice, he could feel her arms around him - he could almost smell her expensive perfume, the kind he always grouched and complained about, but he'd always secretly loved.

It took a while, just sitting there, completely enveloped by his memories of her, for him to decide that he just couldn't do it anymore. He couldn't take the tense, silent nights alone already, but the fact that Tiffany was on his mind now only made it worse. He looked out the window, briefly studying the star-covered sky, before turning away and sliding down off of the couch, frowning.

He made his way to the phone Andy had on his desk, heart stuttering slightly against his chest. It was a home phone, and he noticed it was still plugged in. Once again, he marveled at the amount of trust Andy held (or at least, the arrogance, in which he assumed Chucky wouldn't dare attempt to double cross him?) as he picked it up, pulling it out of the receiver carefully and turning it around. The buttons beamed back up at him, numbers illuminated in the dimly-lit room. For a moment, his chest tightened, and his breath caught. He wondered why he hadn't thought of this before, and immediately scolded himself for not trying this sooner as he pressed one one of the buttons, letting his fingers drift over them. He hoped Tiffany hadn't changed her number.

The phone rang twice. He kept it pressed to his ear, gripping the desk with his free hand.

Why was he doing this?

"Hello?"

Oh.

That was why.

His heart fluttered, and he almost doubled over. It was a painful feeling, to him - and he almost laughed at the realization that Tiffany had always been able to torture him in ways Andy Barclay could never hope to, even with all the knives and blowtorches in the world. His throat closed up, though, and he tilted the phone away from his mouth as he swallowed and breathed in. It was a moment of truth, and Chucky wasn't good at those. Whatever he did, whatever he said, wherever this conversation led them - it was easily one of the most important things ever. Tiffany had to be pissed at him for just dropping off the face of the Earth. Maybe things hadn't been completely okay with them, but he wasn't blind to the way she felt about him, either. She loved him as much as he loved her - she was just better at showing it. Maybe too good at showing it.

He brought the phone back to his ear. In the background, he could hear children. Laughter, faint but still loud. Thumps and giggles and shouts every so often. It was almost as intoxicating as the sound of Tiffany's voice, and it choked him up nearly as much. Those were his children.

Chucky leaned his head against the edge of the desk and breathed, swallowing thickly. The lump in his throat gave a little, enough for him to speak. "Hey, Tiff."