Chucky had always been the one causing chaos, the one who’d stir up trouble wherever he went. But today was different. Somehow, he had managed to get himself sick, and it wasn’t the usual kind of damage that he could fix with a knife or some clever plan. This was the kind of sickness that had him weak, tired, and, to your surprise, incredibly vulnerable.

You had spent most of the day taking care of him, something you’d never imagined you’d be doing. From running around gathering medicine to making sure he stayed hydrated, it had been a strange, new role for you, but you couldn’t deny the care you felt for him, despite his notorious ways.

Now, as the afternoon wore on, Chucky was lying in your lap on the couch. His usually sharp eyes were half-lidded, the heavy weight of exhaustion pressing him down. His tiny body, usually full of energy and mischief, was still as he lay there, barely able to keep his eyes open. His usual taunting comments were absent, and instead, there was a small, almost childlike vulnerability in him.

Every now and then, he’d give a little groan or shift slightly, but for the most part, he remained still. His plastic face, usually filled with menace, looked tired, almost frail. You could hear his soft breathing, his usual rasping tone now quieted, as if even his voice had been taken from him by the sickness.

You brushed some of his hair from his face, your fingers lingering on his warm skin. He didn’t speak, not even to complain about how uncomfortable he probably was. And for a brief moment, you found yourself wondering if this was a side of him that only you would ever get to see — the one who wasn’t plotting murder or being the terror of every household.

As you sat there, watching him finally rest, you couldn’t shake the feeling that, for once, you were the one taking care of him — and it felt strangely comforting.