Andy’s not entirely sure why he keeps his old toys lined up so neatly on the shelf, but it’s strangely comforting to have them there, remnants of a simpler time when it was just him and his own thoughts, and Sheriff Woody and the great Buzz Lightyear against the bad guys. No need to worry about taxes or rent, food or clothing or work, no grown-up worries at all, just him and his toys.
They’re lined up sitting down, so he can see their feet, see his own name scrawled on each right foot, ANDY in careful letters so everyone knows they’re his. And Sid’s late again - not his fault, the deliveries take as long as they take and it’s a good job, pays well, tips well, they couldn’t have so nice an apartment without this job - and Andy’s lonely, here in a strange city with no one but Sid and his old toys, looking down at him with undiminished love.
And it’s not like they’ll be able to marry any time soon, Andy thinks - not like the laws will change that fast, not like the stupid politicians will get over their stupid prejudices, not like Sheriff Woody and Buzz can just make everything alright again as they did so often in his childhood dreams. So it’s something about the late hour, and the loneliness, and the line of toys that gives him the idea, and he grabs the marker off the desk before he really thinks about it, and pulls off his socks, and sits carefully barefoot on the bed and writes, in his best block printing, big and bold, along the bottom of his foot: SID.
It tickles a little, and he laughs and props his foot up so the ink won’t smear on the sheets - not like they’re terribly clean anyhow, but hey, points for trying, right? - and grabs a textbook and starts to read. And it really is late, because he does not notice (though Woody does, and smiles to himself) when his head starts to nod, and the chemistry equations turn to strange, half-hearted dreams.
Sid lets himself in quietly, knowing Andy’s probably asleep; the deliveries run so late sometimes, and if he could he’d find a different job, one that would give him more time with Andy, but there aren’t any other jobs that would pay as well, not for a high-school dropout like him, so he works late every night and blinks himself awake for a few minutes every morning to kiss Andy goodbye on his way out the door, and wakes again properly to find that Andy’s left a sandwich in the fridge for him, openface ham with a smiley face drawn on in mustard, and that always makes him feel like there’s a huge hand closing around his heart, that this lovely, sweet man loves him back.
Andy’s asleep, alright, face mashed against his chemistry textbook and one bare foot stretched out towards the door, looks like he got dirt on it or something, Sid thinks, and then notices that it’s writing, that Andy wrote something there, and turns his head and there’s that huge hand again, because, yes, that’s Sid’s name written there. Sid glances up at the shelf of old toys, making sure he’s remembering right, that this is how Andy used to mark his ownership, and then he smiles until he thinks his face will crack.
He tucks Andy in, eases the book out from under his cheek and puts it in the open bookbag, turns off the light and closes the bathroom door so the sounds he makes won’t wake the other man, and sits on the side of the bath smiling at nothing for a few long moments, because Andy loves him, and that is the most wonderful thing in the world. Then he kicks off his sneakers and toes off his socks and takes the marker he grabbed from the bedside table, and braces a foot against his knee, and writes, as carefully and clearly as he can, ANDY.
It’ll wear off, probably, tomorrow, but he’ll write it again, tomorrow night and every night from now on. Maybe he’ll get it tattooed on, come to think of it, though it’d hurt. But if Andy belongs to him, well, he belongs to Andy, too.
He brushes his teeth and pulls on his pajamas and turns off the bathroom light, and when he slides into bed, Andy turns over, half awake, and whispers, “Good night, Sid. Love you,” and is asleep again before Sid can whisper, “I love you, too.” Sid wraps his arms around the other man and sighs, and looks up at the toy shelf, invisible in the darkness. “You understand, right?” he whispers. “We all belong to Andy.”
He almost thinks he hears them answer, “Yes,” before sleep pulls him under.
omg I just ... I can't ... AWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW xD That was SO adorable it was exactly what I was looking for. Thank you so much :D I love the fills you make for my prompts so so much! Hope to read more from you soon!
They’re lined up sitting down, so he can see their feet, see his own name scrawled on each right foot, ANDY in careful letters so everyone knows they’re his. And Sid’s late again - not his fault, the deliveries take as long as they take and it’s a good job, pays well, tips well, they couldn’t have so nice an apartment without this job - and Andy’s lonely, here in a strange city with no one but Sid and his old toys, looking down at him with undiminished love.
And it’s not like they’ll be able to marry any time soon, Andy thinks - not like the laws will change that fast, not like the stupid politicians will get over their stupid prejudices, not like Sheriff Woody and Buzz can just make everything alright again as they did so often in his childhood dreams. So it’s something about the late hour, and the loneliness, and the line of toys that gives him the idea, and he grabs the marker off the desk before he really thinks about it, and pulls off his socks, and sits carefully barefoot on the bed and writes, in his best block printing, big and bold, along the bottom of his foot: SID.
It tickles a little, and he laughs and props his foot up so the ink won’t smear on the sheets - not like they’re terribly clean anyhow, but hey, points for trying, right? - and grabs a textbook and starts to read. And it really is late, because he does not notice (though Woody does, and smiles to himself) when his head starts to nod, and the chemistry equations turn to strange, half-hearted dreams.
Reply
Andy’s asleep, alright, face mashed against his chemistry textbook and one bare foot stretched out towards the door, looks like he got dirt on it or something, Sid thinks, and then notices that it’s writing, that Andy wrote something there, and turns his head and there’s that huge hand again, because, yes, that’s Sid’s name written there. Sid glances up at the shelf of old toys, making sure he’s remembering right, that this is how Andy used to mark his ownership, and then he smiles until he thinks his face will crack.
He tucks Andy in, eases the book out from under his cheek and puts it in the open bookbag, turns off the light and closes the bathroom door so the sounds he makes won’t wake the other man, and sits on the side of the bath smiling at nothing for a few long moments, because Andy loves him, and that is the most wonderful thing in the world. Then he kicks off his sneakers and toes off his socks and takes the marker he grabbed from the bedside table, and braces a foot against his knee, and writes, as carefully and clearly as he can, ANDY.
It’ll wear off, probably, tomorrow, but he’ll write it again, tomorrow night and every night from now on. Maybe he’ll get it tattooed on, come to think of it, though it’d hurt. But if Andy belongs to him, well, he belongs to Andy, too.
He brushes his teeth and pulls on his pajamas and turns off the bathroom light, and when he slides into bed, Andy turns over, half awake, and whispers, “Good night, Sid. Love you,” and is asleep again before Sid can whisper, “I love you, too.” Sid wraps his arms around the other man and sighs, and looks up at the toy shelf, invisible in the darkness. “You understand, right?” he whispers. “We all belong to Andy.”
He almost thinks he hears them answer, “Yes,” before sleep pulls him under.
Reply
Reply
Reply
these two fics are so very, very perfect.
thank you so much for sharing them.
Reply
Reply
SO SO GOOD! YOU WIN ALL THE AWARDS!
Reply
Reply
Leave a comment