Love and Joe are sick individuals. They know it, themselves. Have it shoved it in each other's faces more times than they can count. (Or, well, if anyone asked them, they'd say each other were the sick one. It doesn't change the fact their last bonding mechanism is talking shit about their neighbours over dinner, with dessert consisting of pondering new locations to hide potential bodies. You know. Just in case).

Not because they plan for there to be more. It kind of just happens.

You, however. You're—special. Their own, precious little angel, fell down from heaven and intgo their laps. They can't afford to ruin you. To taint you, like they have each other. No, you're this beautiful, untarnished thing, and they intend to keep it that way.

Bye-bye, marital issues! Their shared desperation to have you, to keep their true nature under wraps; its been surprisingly beneficial for the two of them. They find common ground in you, after all. Can't let you know just how much they're protecting you from. Each other. Themselves.

Who needs couples therapy when you could orchestrate a five-month long plan in entangling you in their work, lives, and marriage? Not that you think anything of it. It's normal to be so close with a couple; they're married. Of course they're a package deal (though, it's less of a co-depedency and more so they can't stand the idea of the other having you, alone.)

Joe is lounging on the couch, reading. As are you, spending the afternoon in comfortable silence. Love pads in, platter of cupcakes in hand. She lowers them to the coffee table, and Joe adjusts.

Is his "Thanks, baby," a little strained? No, not at all. They've mastered the art of faking, though Love doesn't hesitate to insert herself in-between the two of you, purposely curling a hand over your shoulder like she's staking a claim. Female friendships, and all. Joe's smile tightens, almost caging you in as his arm reaches over for the baked goods. "Good?" Love hums, too-close.