-5-

You can imagine that the doll gave Andy the whole afternoon Sunday sermon on how he had put up with all those "godforsaken carolers" for his sake, to which Andy gave a very mumbled thank you before falling back into a very fitful sleep for the rest of the night. He had barely been able to fix dinner, and the two of them had eaten in bed in the end, Chucky having to help push him back.

"Tell me this isn't all muscle!" he'd exclaimed as he struggled. "You're too fucking heavy!"

In the morning- as much as Chucky had fought with him to stay- Andy had left for work again. The doll, when he had given up and retreated back under the covers, could feel himself flinch every time he'd heard the young man sneeze or cough violently, followed by heavy sniffling and stumbling around to get dressed for the undoubtedly busy day.

"It's a Saturday, for shit's sake, does it really matter if you just don't go?" he'd asked once more; but Andy had shaken his head whilst lazily tucking the doll back under the covers and mumbling something about still being needed this time- I suppose in his fevered mind, it was time for someone to be in bed.

Why does he always have to over-work himself? Chucky was angrily storming about the house, pretending he was simply in the normalcy of a foul mood- when in truth, he was actually quite worried about just how well Andy was taking care of himself.

He was walking about the house- actually, more like storming about like a wild animal- making a fuss over nothing in particular and finding himself with their plates from the night before stacked in his arms. He wasn't quite sure when he'd picked them up, and he wasn't all too knowledgeable on what he had planned to do with them. He figured he'd at least take them on over to the sink- after all, what was the point in putting them back when you'd already gotten them? Besides, he had nothing better to do.

By the time he'd reached the kitchen, he'd found other things: a fork and a spoon in a tea mug (which had most likely been there for a night or two). And by the time he reached the sink, he supposed to himself that perhaps he just might as well wash them. It wouldn't take all that long, would it?

Besides, he was becoming rather tired of doing nothing, and watching Andy seemingly do everything and starting to fall apart was bothersome to him. He would never admit it to a soul, but it was distressing him greatly, the way the young man was piling every responsibility on himself. It was as if he didn't think the doll could do anything.

Well, I'll show him, the ignorant little shit, he thought determinedly, as he rinsed the mug and laid it out to dry on an old dishtowel on the counter. I'm dang capable of doing things by myself.

He was feeling a bit dizzy himself- they were both sick, after all- but he refused to let Andy know. He knew exactly what that overprotective boy would do, and in his mind, Andy was too sick to need to be dealing with anyone but himself. He was at work, for pity's sakes, stumbling about like that this morning! It was unsettling to the doll.

"You should have come home earlier," he griped at said young man when he came back later than usual.

Andy gave him a bleary look, but what really made Chucky feel a bit guilty was the fact that Andy still worked up enough energy to manage a smile for him, despite what he'd said. "I'm home now, aren't I? Did you really miss me that much?" he responded, the sickness apparent in his voice, and yet there was that vibe of mischief.

The nerve of him. He still mustered up the gall to tease?

"I'd slow down if I were you, buddy," he told him, watching how Andy's steps were a bit wobbly. He had to catch himself and continue with a sort of farce before the concern in his voice became apparent. "The last thing I want to do is carry you up some goddamn steps again."

Andy laughed, but it was hard to cover how miserable it was. "I'm going to go make some tea," he mumbled, almost dragging himself towards the kitchen. "You want some?"

"Andy, stop it, I can do that too, you know, what do you think, I'm fucking five?" Chucky retorted, and had not even half-finished what he'd wanted to say when Andy popped back out, confusion in his golden, gentle eyes.

"Did you wash dishes today?" he asked, the hint of surprise very apparent in his voice.

Chucky crossed his arms and was very tempted to pout, but decided that for the sake of his masculinity, he should do otherwise. "I told you," he protested, looking up at Andy almost sternly. "I can do things. Maybe if you'd just sit down every once in a damn while like I tell you to, you'd see. You ought'a listen to me more often, you know that?"

Andy grinned softly before coughing into his cupped hand. "So," he began a bit weakly. "What do you propose I do now, mother?"

Chucky snarled quietly at the jest. "Like I know!" he snapped. "As angry as you're making me right now, I think you should just get outta my face and go to bed, you idiotic little bastard. I can't have you dying on me and having to take the blame for it!"

He held his frown, but Andy seemed to understand; that, or he was at the point of exhaustion where his own mind couldn't tell him what to do, and so was looking for instructions to follow.

"And I don't see what you're making such a fucking drama about- there were only five damn dishes! Do you hear me?" he called to him, before shuffling quickly after him to make sure that Andy actually made it to the bed.