"Fuck!"
Under normal circumstances, it would be a lovely thing to hear, but in this case, it was the last thing Chucky wanted for his wife pregnant of six months to be screaming.
He turned towards the hunched over bride, laying a hand on her shoulder. "You ok, there babe?" he asked, leaning over with her to look into venomous green eyes.
"Does it look like I'm fucking ok, Chucky?" she growled, rather feral. He nearly jumped away from her in shock, but the time he had spent with her had calloused him to her angered voice. He put up his hands in a surrendering gesture. "Geez, I was just asking," he prodded, trying to get her to lighten up. "Don't be such a bitchy teen drama."
"Say that when you're dealing with morning sickness and contractions that come as a lovely surprise," she retorted, giving him a look that easily seemed to scream, I'd love to see you pregnant and not be a bitchy teen drama.
"Got it, got it, for fuck's sakes," he said, trying to reach for her, but she shoved him away. "Oh fuck off," she screeched, slapping at his hands. Clearly they were unwanted. She stood a bit and began to waddle away painfully. "You're not helping right now."
Chucky snarled and raised his hands in exasperation. Was he ever fucking helping with this woman?
He pushed over the small side table and let it hit the floor with a satisfying crash. Nothing was more calming to him than destruction. He laughed bitterly at that notion. He sounded just like his old man, liking to rip things apart when he was angry.
His father, the bastard, was an alcoholic.
Not to mention he was a terrible father and husband. Chucky remembered seeing his crazed, far from sober face as he would protest that he was. The son of a bitch would come in, nearly tearing down the door and knocking over everything in his path, including his mother and himself.
He'd always be screaming, "I ain't fuckin' drunk, I ain't fuckin' drunk."
Chucky snorted at the memory. Yah, we can see that, old man, he thought to himself. But it wasn't really as funny as he tried to play it out to be.
Because here and now, he had just done something just like that old bastard.
When the fuck did I decide this whole family thing was a good idea?
He couldn't answer himself on that one. What would it be like, having some small thing call him "Dad?" He'd never really thought about it- truth was, he hadn't really thought about being married before Tiffany had brought it up. He had always thought he'd be on his own for the rest of his life.
Which was why, unfortunately, he hadn't thought about what kind of a dad he would be. Would he be just like his own dad?
Damn. He hoped not. But the way he had just reacted earlier, he sure seemed to be going down that path. He sighed heavily. Would he be patient with kids, even? He wasn't even patient now, damn Tiffany and her morning sickness. How was he going to handle little ones who got sick all the fucking time?
Maybe they'd drive him crazy and he'd become an alcoholic, too?
Would he abandon them?
What if he became abusive? His dad had hit him and his own mother lots of times. His dad had left them behind. His dad had been into the drinks all the time- what if that was something that ran in their blood? Didn't they say that you learn from your parents or some shit like that?
He was screwed if that was true.
"Chucky!"
His wife's sudden screams brought him back to reality. Last he had checked, he was himself, not his dad. What the fuck was he even doing here, worrying about this, like his old man really had that much of a hold on him? Because he fucking didn't.
His name was Charles Lee Ray, and his wife was in pain, and he could decide how he would deal with anything that came across him, damnit!
With that thought firmly in place, he hurried to where she had waddled off to, now in the corner of their bedroom, still curled over on herself. She looked at him, fury still burning in her eyes, but he knew for a fucking fact that it wasn't at him. It was at the goddamn pain she was feeling.
"What can I do?" he asked, as gently as one could imagine him asking anything.
He was his father's son, but he was not his father.
Tiffany gave a bitter smile. "Not much, really," she gave finally, holding her stomach. "You just gotta roll with it." She let in a sharp inhale before trying to calm herself and slowly breathe, in and out. "You wanna help me get over to the bed before I completely fall over like humpty-dumpty?" He laughed then, taking her hand and slowly aiding her painful walk before helpfully hoisting her up onto the mattress.
"I'm sorry about being a dick," he offered.
"I'm sorry for being a bitchy teen drama," she replied, grinning and holding his hand tighter as another wave of pain went through her. He moved his free hand to feel her stomach, smiling when he felt a rather feisty and strong kick. "Well, he's an independent little shit, ain't he?" he observed fondly, leaning over her to kiss where his hand had been.
Tiffany just smiled at him. "You're going to be a fine dad, you know that?" she began, a coy tone in her voice. "Dick head personality and all. We just might be ok."
Chucky didn't say anything. He just stared at where his child was resting, hoping somehow, he-or she- could hear what his promise.
What he wasn't, I will be. You remember that, you little shit.