Upon waking up, it takes Dave several minutes to recall the day's earlier events. As he slowly becomes aware of the apparent softness of the ground and the heavy warmth across his body, he finally comes to the conclusion that he probably hasn't been lying out in the snow.

Unless, of course, he has finally succeeded and heaven is infinitely more boring than he has been told.

Dave sits up, shaking the thick blanket from his shoulders. It's still dark, but his eyes adjust quickly, saved by the illuminating pool of moonlight spilling through the window. The room is silent, save for the reverberating tick-tock of a nearby clock.

Rose has disappeared.

Almost regretfully, Dave stands. He shouldn't be here. He's crossing a line. He had promised himself he would make no contact, that he would hop trains out to some distant state where one could ever find him.

He had, of course, done none of those things. Not permanently, at least; he had visited many states, but he seems condemned to gravitate towards his once-friends. It's a sickness, really.

Dave stretches the aching muscles in his back. After years sleeping on hard ground, it's the soft cushions of the couch that have become uncomfortable. Careful not to make a sound, he pads across the hardwood floor to retrieve his scarf, coiled neatly on the hook where Rose left it. He feels much better with it wrapped loosely about his throat, a feeling much in the same vein as the one that forces his inclination for wearing shades of orange and white above all other colours—despite their clear disadvantages to his lifestyle.

Silently, Dave pulls on his worn canvas shoes. His hand hovers hesitantly over the doorknob and he breathes in slowly, praying it won't wake her.

His fingertips barely graze the cold metal of the handle when Rose speaks.

"Are you leaving already?"

Terrified, Dave freezes. His leg muscles contract, a response conditioned by years of experience, alert and ready to launch him through the likeliest opening at a moment's notice. He has to consciously fight to keep his feet planted firmly on the ground.

"I…" Dave struggles to keep his voice level, but no words come. What excuse can he give? Nothing believable, to be sure. It's too late. She's realized it.

But when Dave turns to look at her, he sees her standing in the hall, eyebrows raised slightly but otherwise lacking in distinctive expression. She isn't upset; she's merely observing. He's a germ on the slide of a microscope, and she is the examining scientist. Dave steps back, unsure.

"I was going to do laundry later. If you would like to offer your…apparel, I could do a load of oranges." Her eyes linger on his thin, tattered clothes, stained with the dirt of the ages. "They may last longer if you do."

"I don't have any spares," Dave finds himself saying, as though entertaining the notion. He's not, really. He doesn't want to stay. He doesn't want to trick himself into believing that there's a place for him here. She's his Rose, yeah—but she's also theirs. Fading into obscurity would be best.

"I hadn't intended on doing the wash quite so early, but I can lend you some of John's clothes while you wait. Perhaps take a bath yourself?" Her lips twitch the way they always do when she's laughing at a joke only she is privy to. Dave will find out soon enough, he is sure. That is, if he stays.

He does stay.

He can't not. Not after she caught him at the door, ready to disappear into the early morning without so much as a good-bye. He follows her, beaten, up the stairs again. He watches her go through a dresser and pull out some clothes—none of them in his preferred colours—and reach to drop them in his hands. Dave pulls away, shaking his head. He doesn't want to touch the clothes yet. He's not clean.

Rose looks at him briefly, then gives a nigh-imperceptible shrug and leads him back out the door, down the hall and to the bathroom. She deposits the fresh clothes on the sink ledge and then waits outside the door as he pulls his own damaged garments off. He passes them carefully through the tiny gap he creates before quickly shutting the door again and locking it with an audible click!

Dave takes a long time in the bath, far too long, but he blames Rose for the wasted water. Give a man access to hot water after years of bathing by night in frigid streams and fountains and he'll damn well use up all you've got. He alternates between taking a bath to soak the grime off, then taking a shower to rinse it off, and back to a bath just because he can.

Finally, he thinks he can take no more and steps from the bath, waterlogged and pruney. He dries off, unused to the luxurious quality of the towels. These don't drag at his skin, rough and unpleasant; instead, they are soft and comforting.

Dave reaches over and grabs a shirt, pulling it over his head without thinking. It's blue and hangs like a bad dress. He realizes that John must taller than him, much taller, and he feels like he's been left behind again. He pulls on the slacks and has to roll them several times to make them wearable. He glances in the mirror and flinches at the image. He looks far too white and small, and his hair is an unnatural shade of ginger. He's given up trying to hide his eyes, though more out of contempt for the game than actual progress. He just doesn't care now. Red or orange, it doesn't seem to matter anymore.

He steps out of the bathroom and Rose is nowhere to be seen. He's not surprised; maybe she knows he won't leave without his clothes. That's why she was smiling, he realizes. She knew John's clothes would be like a tent on him.

"Would you like some breakfast?"

This time he doesn't jump. He's slowly becoming used to the way she travels around the house, silent as if floating. He just turns slowly on his heel, a blank expression on his face.

She's still watching him uncomfortably closely. There are dark circles under her eyes, emphasizing her violet eyes and pale and pointed face. Her lips are slightly pursed, her default expression, thoughtful and mysterious with just a hint of self-importance.

"No," says Dave. His stomach growls loudly, giving away his bluff, and Rose gives a tiny, wicked smile.

"Really?"

"Fuck off."

But carefully and ever so slowly, she reaches out and takes his hand. His first instinct is to pull away, but something in him makes him obey as she pulls him back down the stairs and away to the kitchen. He sits and watches as she pulls out flour, eggs, sugar, milk… Had he known enough about cooking, he would recognize the beginnings of a batch of pancakes. Dave doesn't know cooking, though, or baking, or really anything related to food. He knows how to tell if berries are poisonous (usually) and what plants he can eat without getting too sick (sometimes).

Tired but willing, Rose moves about the kitchen, preparing the meal. Dave wonders if he should offer to help but knows it's best for the end result if he doesn't. Instead, Rose works quietly and efficiently, until Dave suddenly has a steaming stack of flapjacks before him.

Dave doesn't think of manners as he eats, and, frankly, he's never really had the opportunity to learn them past a certain extent. He shovels food into his mouth like a starved animal. That's what he is, though, and he doesn't care about hiding it.

He does recognize the cut-off point, though. He stops before the last pancake, setting down his utensils and leaning back. Dave wants to eat it, he really does, but he knows that if he forces one more bite down his throat, it will all come back up again and the entire exercise would have been pointless.

"Were they alright?" Rose asks, leaning on the table.

Dave gives a stiff nod. He doesn't want to speak.

"Very good." She stands and takes his plate, washes the dishes and returns the leftover batter to the fridge. "Perhaps you should rest while the laundry finishes?"

Dave narrows his eyes slightly. He knows his clothes should be done. Now she's the one making up excuses.

Rose seems to realize this and she gives her head a little shake. "I thought I would take it upon myself to mend your clothes. Or would you prefer I let you out on the world in nothing but rags?"

Dave gives a grunt in reply, but the pancakes have made him tired and the patches would be in his best interest. Rose nods and touches his hair briefly, then vanishes through a door and beyond his range of vision.

Content and heavy, Dave returns to the couch. He pulls the blanket up around him and grants himself this brief respite. He reasons that he deserves this. Everyone deserves a vacation and this is his, however short it may be. Besides, a little longer couldn't hurt much.

Right?