Your name is Dave Strider, you are thirty years old, and you're beginning to wonder if you really are just as crazy as Rose seems to think you are.

Hands holding open the door to your loft, three sets of feet are making their way in, one pair small, one pair clacking on hardwood with ebony heels, and another walking so light they may as well be floating just above the ground. After all have filed in, you come too, clicking the door shut behind you.

"I can't believe we're at Daavey's!" Casey coos, hitting the palms of her hands on to the sides of her face as she spins in awe, taking in the expanse of your living space. "It's so cool!"

You chuckle, going to pick up Molly and John's bags for them, heading into your room. "You guys can stay in here - I got a king size, so Casey can squeeze on in too."

John seems displeased, huffing and shaking his head. "Dave, it's your house! We can't take your bed from you!"

"I agree," says Molly (and you wonder if she's so eagerly agreeing to John and has been the whole time you've been interacting with him, to be some eager lapdog, or because she's always been this way and you're just too sick with envy to admit it). "We brought some blow-up mattresses, since John said your place wasn't family sized!" You suddenly remember when picking out locations to take up residence, and some were described as just that - perfect for settling down. You laughed at the realtor, because you knew then and you know now that settling down just isn't in your life's plan.

"Nah, it's chill," you say, putting your hands up. "I'm a singular unit," as you know you'll always be, "and I pass out on the couch a lot anyway, just shut your yappers and get the hel— heck, in the room, will ya?"

Eventually they resign, and you're left playing with Casey, who's chattering chattering about getting to go to Disneyland soon, and how excited she is for this and that and everything in between. It was decided that they should just stay at your place due to your relatively close proximity to the theme park as is. Of course, in light of this situation, you pawned off all leftover alcohol and any other non-child-friendly possessions, at least until their stay is over.

But with each passing moment of this, you're quickly realizing why Rose was so intent on keeping you from this (or well, more than you'd already felt). Within the past few weeks, you've managed to slowly slide the gauze back over your wounds, the scabbing of expected skin having been roughly torn off, but you not willing for a moment to let the blood rain freely. And yet, it seems that each second is another knife driven into the wound, draining the drops that were there prior and piercing ones anew.

Rose was right when she said this was their second honeymoon - the two are practically joined at the hip (and you hope that while they use your bed while alone, not hips plural) and at the lips. Casey always seems to relieve it a bit for you though, playing a "Blegh" noise with you at every kiss or every stupidly cheesy comment (you admit that John's make you laugh and your face go a little red just because of how adorable he is), before you guys look away in 'disgust'. Casey is bittersweet now though - because you aren't sure when, but somewhere along the line in your daydreaming you started to think of her as more than your best friend's daughter, but as yours. And maybe when the parents are divorced, it wouldn't be weird, and maybe even helpful, but now you're trespassing and all your laughter with her is hollow.

So, you're crazy; you've gone around the bend and you're finally accepting it. You know this trip will be the end of you, will tear that open wound to shreds (because it is only halfway through their first evening here, and here you are, already believing this to be true), and yet you feel like you need be appreciative of it, because John is happy, Casey's happy, and in some ways you've helped it. You've made them survive and you've made this evening where they all smile and all the ones to come possible. You wonder if you hadn't done your best, if this wouldn't have happened.

You wonder if you let your walls down sooner, if you did ever, if things would be different, and you'd not be a bystander.

Wishful thoughts and empty dreams are useless though, because side characters need no backstory, so you just chuckle, and pop in another DVD, Molly in John's lap and Casey in hers. You go to sit on the other side of the couch, accepting (but oh so aching), before fingers tangle themselves around your jacket sleeve and pull you in, John and Casey forcing you close with them. You laugh and focus on the television.

It isn't until Casey's dozing off and John's putting her to bed, that Molly then confronts you. You are standing in the dimly lit kitchen, your mug of hot chocolate steaming in your hand (Casey demanded you all have some earlier, and this is the last of it) while you lean against the counter. She smiles softly at you, going to sit at the little barcounter of the kitchen, facing you. "Can I have a word with you?"

You nod, continuing to sip at your mug expectantly. You haven't the slightest idea what she would want to talk to you about, especially at this moment in time, but a part of you feels like it can't be good.

"Good, good," she says, adjusting her pajama shirt as she fidgets some in the stool. "Well, I guess… I just wanted to thank you."

"Huh?" you manage out eloquently - not startled, a mere exclamation of inquiry.

She giggles, nodding and picking at her nails as she stares down at the counter. "For everything, I guess. I realize you and I haven't been on the best of terms in the past, and that you might not think too highly of me after all that's happened," and then dammit she's smiling too honestly at you, with such worried glass eyes. "But you've helped my husband survive, and my daughter too - not just survive, they've actually been really happy, and I think I should give you your credit where it's due."

And suddenly you are aching the strangest of aches - ones of thanks and gratitude for the recognition you hate to covet but feel you deserve, and ones of guilt, because here's this woman who honestly loves her family, and yet you haven't been able to see her beyond the eyes of a petty lovestruck teenager (which you guess is because well, you never got to be anything but that).

You nod, taking a solemn breath. "It's the least I could do, chillax."

She nods also, and there is a silence, one of awkward nature and yet also comfort, neither knowing what to say when you've reached a final, yet incomplete, understanding.

"You're still in love with him, aren't you?"

The sip of hot chocolate you had been letting warm your throat is suddenly convulsing inside as you choke, sunglasses knocking themselves unhinged and hanging from your nose in your startled moment. You hack repeatedly, worried for your breathing and your burning tongue but more for the exponential amount of shock that is reverberating throughout you.

She laughs (a laugh that sounds like his, as they've become so fond of each other), before standing to lean over the counter and pat you with genuine concern. "It's not some big secret, or at least, not to me," and she's smiling softly, a sad smile embroidered with pity, so much like the one Rose has worn at you for years, but with an added level of remorse. "But it's okay - I know you just want him to be happy, and I want that too."

You're nodding, again and again in a slow dance of acceptance. You can't yet decipher whether you are being washed over with relief or with something else entirely.

"So I also wanted to thank you for that, for doing what he needs," and she's breathing, adjusting in a conversation two people in love with the same person should never have. "It's amazing to me."

Another nod, your lips and throat betraying you from saying any words because this wasn't ever meant to be discussed, you had never even consideredthis.

"And just, one more thing… I'd say I hope you find love with someone it can work with, or something," and she laughs nervously, trying to be kind but realizing her place complicates things. "But I don't think that'd help you. Either way, I hope you can be happy, okay?"

The honest and genuine smile on her face just now is the one you think made John fall for her, and you're smiling back just a bit, your eyes even tireder than a man your age's should be, but hidden behind a thin black veil of acting. "Thanks."

Molly seems to understand that you don't want to say much, as she nods and goes to step back. "That was all. I… hope that wasn't too awkward?"

"Nah, it's cool as ice."

"Okay, good," a few more steps back to unite with her loving husband. "Good night!"

"G'night," you sigh some, leaning against the counter once more, and wishing you had more than just a damned mug of sugar.