AN: I know I don't own them. You know I know I don't own them. I know you know I know I don't own them. And so forth and so on. This story is PG13 for language and contains elements of Carey/Molly, Clu/Fi, Jack/Clu, and Fi/Carey, just so you know.

what is that look upon your face;
a simple mood, or have I fallen from grace?
don't you tell me nothing is wrong--for just how long should this be going on?
is the sky too grey, did your milk taste bad today?
did I fail in bed, was it something I have said?
was it something I have said?

There is nothing quite as sorrowful as the specific moment when a lovely evening is ruined. The flame flickers and then simply dies beneath the force of the elements conspiring against it, and camaraderie turns to resentment and love inspires anger and fear. Nothing ever seems to just stay the way it should. This was an unfortunate phenomenon with which Molly Phillips was quite familiar, and this particular lovely evening was destined to flicker out like scores of lovely evenings before it. They had simply been existing in the same space, sharing a comfortable silence, broken only by his chord-progression practice and the sound of the pages of the book she was half-reading sliding against each other in well-worn grooves.

here we go on and on again, the same old game
of me to blame, of me to blame
here I go jumping round your bed; oh, stupid me
'cause you're the king, and I'm your puppet on a string.
is it so hard to understand?
the situation's getting out of hand

She noticed that he hadn't strummed a note in quite a while and turned to look and see what the source of the sudden quiet could be. He was simply looking at her, watching her read, examining her almost clinically and with an alarming amount of adoration, and it made her quite uncomfortable.

"What?" There was a shade too much irritation in her voice, and the hurt was clearly evident as an instant of confusion flashed behind his eyes, which quickly became sadness, then contemplation, then frustration. And there it was, the moment, the turning point.

"What is it with you?" he finally asked. "It's like I annoy you. It feels like every five seconds you're snapping at me for saying or doing something. What have I done to you?"

"I just don't need all that attention," she said defensively. "And, you know, it does bother me when you seem to be getting too... attached."

"Why?" She didn't speak. He choked the syllable out again.

Finally, quietly: "You know this can't last. It's a secret that can never be told. Eventually, and possibly soon, your parents will start to suspect you're doing something terrible behind their backs, which you kind of are, because you haven't gone on a date in months. Now, don't get me wrong. I love this. I love you. But I'm okay with the fact that this is going to have to end sometime. I've always been okay with that, and when you... do things that show me you're not okay with that, it just bothers me. I don't want to see you get hurt when this ends." She had tried to put it gently, but it was clear that the attempt had failed.

did I drive you mad, am I wearing the wrong hat?
tell me what to do; should I paint the grey sky blue?
the grey sky blue... I wish I could look into your head and read your thoughts
but so instead, but so instead here we go on and on again
the same old game, where you're the king
and I'm your puppet on a string

"What have I done?" He laid her borrowed guitar down on the bed and stood up in a desperate play to force control of the conversation into his own hands instead of hers. "What is it? What have I done to turn you against me?"

"What are you talking about? Weren't you listening?"

"So you're telling me that this isn't new, that you went into this from the start with the idea that when it started to get difficult or complicated, you could just abort, close up shop."

"Well... come on, Carey. Be reasonable. It's obvious now, it was obvious then."

"To you. Because you don't take me seriously. I'm still a child, to you. You don't think I know enough about love for my 'attachment' to you to be anything more than an infatuation."

"Come on, you know that isn't true," she said, aware that he had changed direction; now she was the defendant, he was the accuser.

"Then what is it? Is it him? Are you pushing me away on purpose because of him?"

"No, of course not."

"So if it's not about me, and it's not about him, what is it about? Are you just so intent on being unhappy that you can't stand it when something really great happens to you?"

should I leave or stay?
should I kiss your blues away?
tell me what to do; I'd do anything for you
yes, anything, 'cause I'm yours...

She closed the open book on her lap and stood up, bracing herself for the inevitable. There was only one way this argument could end. "Look, it's really sweet that you think you love me, but you really don't know what you're getting into. I'm not what you need, or even what you really want. You deserve better."

"I don't think that's up to you."

"I was hoping this wouldn't happen, not now, not so soon," she said, approaching him, placing her hand on his face, preparing herself, preparing him.

"What are you doing?" It was difficult to tell whether that was anger shaking his voice or if he was about to cry. She hoped it wasn't the latter.

"You've got to go now." She gave him a sad smile and he pulled away from her, backing toward the door.

just like a puppet on a string,
you're keeping me just hanging on; now hear my song
just like a puppet on a string,
can't you see you're killing me?
in this game, you always win
and I'm your puppet on a string

"Stop it," he said in that same scary tone. "Don't do this to me. Don't do this to yourself. You don't have to. We can just forget this entire conversation." Now he was nearly pleading, though he knew it was futile and it showed.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I hoped it wouldn't end this way."

He just stood there, staring at her, trying to burn the image of her face into his memory, sorry he had taken such opportunities for granted in the past. When she didn't make a move to stop him, he turned and did as he was told, slamming the door behind him, hard.