Rub A Dub Dub
Title: Rub A Dub Dub
Characters/ Pairing: Wash/Taylor, Mini-BAMF
Genre: Romance, Family, Absurdly Gratuitous Fluff,
Word Count: 1,721
Rating: PG
Spoilers: None
Summary: Admittedly, the best moment to have such an epiphany regarding their happiness is not when he's covered head to toe in mud.
A/N: I owed losthaven something happy after bumming her out last time around. She asked for mini-bamf bath times. So here. Have some cavity inducing fluff.
Rub A Dub Dub
“You’re filthy.”
There’s no response. Wash squares her shoulders as she glares, crosses her arms over her chest.
“It’s unacceptable.”
Still no response.
The Lieutenant of Terra Nova sighs heavily, unable to argue effectively with the sight in front of her. She’s not entirely certain how it happened (there’s a one word explanation and that word is almost always Shannon) but the three most significant men in her life are all staring at her with eerily matched expressions, silently supporting each other. Three sets of blues eyes of varying shades stare back at her with desperate hurt, simpering and pathetic. And while she knows it’s nothing more than an act, a half baked scheme deliberately designed to get them out of trouble, she feels something twinge in her chest. It’s ominously akin to pity (or worse, affection) and the stoic woman tries desperately to squash it.
But they’re looking at her….
It’s terribly difficult for her to put an exact time on when she’s seen something as absolutely pathetic as her husband, her son and her friend standing in her doorway, covered head to toe in something that looks vaguely like mud. The stench is impressive and matched only by how damn much of it is smeared over them to the point where it very much appears that this, and not the occasional bit of cream, is their natural skin tone. At her continued indifference they re-intensify “the look.”
She absolutely despises that it’s works.
Wash runs a heavy hand through her hair, stepping aside to permit the filthy creatures pass. Almost simultaneously (she’s been played, no doubt about it) their expressions crack into wicked smiles (makes a mental note not to leave Sam with the two of them again; their horrible influences). Shannon leans against the door jamb (leaving a streak of mud across the surface), arms crossed over his chest as her men slip past her, “Going soft on me, Wash.”
She reaches out absently to swipe a bit of mud from his chin (redundant, and now she’s simply left a clean streak in an otherwise sullied face), a darkly amused light glittering in her eyes, “I’ll consider that when I’m telling Elisabeth to lock your house.”
“You wouldn’t…”
“Try me.”
She’s done it before. The man rolls his eyes, a gentle nod conceding the victory to her. There’s a cry from inside their unit that says things have taken a decided turn for the worse and she scowls. Shannon snickers, “Your kid’s got his dad’s flare for the dramatic Wash. Swear he flew towards that mud pit in slow motion…”
“Go home, Shannon.”
“Oh, c’mon….”
“Before I call Elisabeth….”
He extends his arms to her as if he intends to embrace her, taking a threatening step forward. It earns him nothing more than a hand planted firmly against his chest and a warning shove (too light for anything other than affectionate). It leaves her glaring at her suddenly sullied hand, wondering whether it’s worth the effort to trudge after him and punish him properly.
Another crash from inside gives her the answer she needs.
____
What precisely transpired OTG she can only guess (Nathaniel becomes remarkably tight lipped about the whole of things and Sam is entirely too content grinning at her to explain his most recent conquest). Her Commander dismisses himself wordlessly, shedding flakes of mud as he goes, muttering something about making sure the other children they’d escorted made it home safely. It leaves her, hands on hips, staring at her filthy spawn.
Somehow she is not surprised.
Sam puffs his chest out proudly as she rounds on him, mimicking her posture, smirking (his damn father’s smirk; she isn’t entirely certain she appreciates that it’s one of the things he inherited so early on) at her with such pride. The traditionally dark haired child is stained brown almost from head to toe, only the blue of his eyes marking him as her son.
“You’re filthy, Sam.”
He nods blithely, somehow unable to deduce the problem with this. His father returns home filthy all the time. Certainly this is a badge of honor. That she can’t even manage the requisite amount of outrage with the situation frustrates her somewhat (Shannon’s right; she’s getting soft in her old age). With a sigh, she plucks the three year old from in front of her, swinging him over her shoulder (far less effort and she’d be lying if she said she didn’t enjoy his little giggle).
“Cheat,” he chirps, giving her shoulder an affectionate pat, leaves a muddy little handprint across her bare shoulder. She throws a glance at him, still smiling blithely to himself, tracing a few of the scars exposed by her tank, too tired to really protest his accosting.
He continues to behave when she sets him beside the tub, standing with almost comical seriousness as he waits, parroting a parade rest. The child stares suspiciously at the steaming water, skimming his hands over it as it nears the edge of the tub. It isn’t until she’s clearing her throat in warning that the entirety of his fate dawns on him. Big blue eye stare up at her desperation, pleading with her, begging her not to make him remove his mark of triumph. At least for today; glances at the bath, back at her, back at the bath.
Her son heaves a heavy sigh, holds his hand over his head in surrender, permitting her draw his (ruined) shirt over his head. Sam gives the water a disdainful sniff. And he’s looking at her with those eyes again, the barest hint of a pout (also his father’s because there’s no damn way she’s ever pouted).
Goddamn it.
____
His body aches.
The simple fact of the matter is that he’s not as young as he once was. And sliding down a muddy hillside was not precisely the best decision he’d made in his life (but his son had looked so absurdly happy he’s almost willing to venture it was worth it). All he wants to do is return home, shower, and fall into bed. And while he isn’t entirely sure where or how he expects to find his family he’s fairly certain this is not it.
The Commander leans casually against the doorway, smirking to himself as he watches the scene play out in front of him. The tub is full nearly to the brim with some fruity smelling concoction, a thick coating of bubbles floating across the surface. And in the center, splashing and delighted, is his son. Wash is seated by the edge of the tub (an absolutely ridiculous and completely not her sort of smile tugging at her features), scoops up a handful of the stuff and sets it on Sam’s head, leaning in to smear the washrag over his shoulders, leaving a clean swath in the mud. The child practically preens under her attention, holds his head high as she finishes her task.
His wife is muttering something, chuckling under her breath ( and if asked to justify this woman with the one he’d known fifteen years prior he’d find himself nearly incapable of such a task). It sends a wave of affection through him. For the first time in years he can say without any doubt that Wash is happy (that he’s happy) and it brings with it some semblance of peace. She’s deserves it. With her lips curved upward, eyes dancing with a light (contentment) that is only just beginning to look at home within their depths, she’s something fantastically beautiful.
It’s a peace neither of them deserve, have strove to create for others and never hoped to achieve for themselves. To have it now...
Nathaniel pushes off the door frame, his tone openly amused as he joins his family, “Wonder how much Shannon would pay me for this…”
Her posture immediately goes ramrod straight. Knowing full well that he is testing the limits of her already tenuous patience, he crosses to sit beside her, frowning at the soaking wet floor. Without even thinking, he reaches over to give Sam an absent pat on the head. The boy scowls (his mother’s scowl) when it leaves his newly clean hair dripping mud and disappears beneath the water. Content with the presence of both his parents, their son sets about entertaining himself, plays with his toys in the bubbles. Everything oddly perfectly, strangely serene, in a life where they have come to expect chaos. It leaves Taylor smiling, leaning over to press a kiss to the side of his wife’s head.
She leans just as quickly away, scowling at him, brings a hand up to brace against his shoulder.
He tries again with much the same results.
With a wicked grin playing across her features and without a word of explanation, the woman stands, grabbing the towel from behind her. In one smooth move she pulls her son from the tub, draping the boy in the oversized material. Sam twines his arms affectionately around her neck, tired enough to go without protest, leans his head against her cheek. Mother and son share a look and she gives him a slight squeeze; Wash whispers something (undoubtedly insidious) in his ear.
And then, his face brightening delightedly, Sam says, “Dad. Dad is filthy.” The last word is noticeably slurred but the intent translates perfectly.
“Traitor,” it loses a great deal of its edge when he can’t stop himself from smiling, shaking his head at the absurdity of being chastised by his own son. It only causes the pair of them to snicker, Sam ducking his head as Wash presses a proud kiss to his cheek.
He’s left sitting on the floor of the bathroom staring after them, smiling despite their act of aggression. Smiling because for the first time in years everything is positively perfect. It’s the same ridiculous expression Wash finds him with nearly half an hour later as she’s tucking their son into bed. The same expression she’s somehow attempting to kiss away as she hauls him bodily back towards the bathroom, insisting he missed a few very important swathes of dirt.
Characters/ Pairing: Wash/Taylor, Mini-BAMF
Genre: Romance, Family, Absurdly Gratuitous Fluff,
Word Count: 1,721
Rating: PG
Spoilers: None
Summary: Admittedly, the best moment to have such an epiphany regarding their happiness is not when he's covered head to toe in mud.
A/N: I owed losthaven something happy after bumming her out last time around. She asked for mini-bamf bath times. So here. Have some cavity inducing fluff.
Rub A Dub Dub
“You’re filthy.”
There’s no response. Wash squares her shoulders as she glares, crosses her arms over her chest.
“It’s unacceptable.”
Still no response.
The Lieutenant of Terra Nova sighs heavily, unable to argue effectively with the sight in front of her. She’s not entirely certain how it happened (there’s a one word explanation and that word is almost always Shannon) but the three most significant men in her life are all staring at her with eerily matched expressions, silently supporting each other. Three sets of blues eyes of varying shades stare back at her with desperate hurt, simpering and pathetic. And while she knows it’s nothing more than an act, a half baked scheme deliberately designed to get them out of trouble, she feels something twinge in her chest. It’s ominously akin to pity (or worse, affection) and the stoic woman tries desperately to squash it.
But they’re looking at her….
It’s terribly difficult for her to put an exact time on when she’s seen something as absolutely pathetic as her husband, her son and her friend standing in her doorway, covered head to toe in something that looks vaguely like mud. The stench is impressive and matched only by how damn much of it is smeared over them to the point where it very much appears that this, and not the occasional bit of cream, is their natural skin tone. At her continued indifference they re-intensify “the look.”
She absolutely despises that it’s works.
Wash runs a heavy hand through her hair, stepping aside to permit the filthy creatures pass. Almost simultaneously (she’s been played, no doubt about it) their expressions crack into wicked smiles (makes a mental note not to leave Sam with the two of them again; their horrible influences). Shannon leans against the door jamb (leaving a streak of mud across the surface), arms crossed over his chest as her men slip past her, “Going soft on me, Wash.”
She reaches out absently to swipe a bit of mud from his chin (redundant, and now she’s simply left a clean streak in an otherwise sullied face), a darkly amused light glittering in her eyes, “I’ll consider that when I’m telling Elisabeth to lock your house.”
“You wouldn’t…”
“Try me.”
She’s done it before. The man rolls his eyes, a gentle nod conceding the victory to her. There’s a cry from inside their unit that says things have taken a decided turn for the worse and she scowls. Shannon snickers, “Your kid’s got his dad’s flare for the dramatic Wash. Swear he flew towards that mud pit in slow motion…”
“Go home, Shannon.”
“Oh, c’mon….”
“Before I call Elisabeth….”
He extends his arms to her as if he intends to embrace her, taking a threatening step forward. It earns him nothing more than a hand planted firmly against his chest and a warning shove (too light for anything other than affectionate). It leaves her glaring at her suddenly sullied hand, wondering whether it’s worth the effort to trudge after him and punish him properly.
Another crash from inside gives her the answer she needs.
____
What precisely transpired OTG she can only guess (Nathaniel becomes remarkably tight lipped about the whole of things and Sam is entirely too content grinning at her to explain his most recent conquest). Her Commander dismisses himself wordlessly, shedding flakes of mud as he goes, muttering something about making sure the other children they’d escorted made it home safely. It leaves her, hands on hips, staring at her filthy spawn.
Somehow she is not surprised.
Sam puffs his chest out proudly as she rounds on him, mimicking her posture, smirking (his damn father’s smirk; she isn’t entirely certain she appreciates that it’s one of the things he inherited so early on) at her with such pride. The traditionally dark haired child is stained brown almost from head to toe, only the blue of his eyes marking him as her son.
“You’re filthy, Sam.”
He nods blithely, somehow unable to deduce the problem with this. His father returns home filthy all the time. Certainly this is a badge of honor. That she can’t even manage the requisite amount of outrage with the situation frustrates her somewhat (Shannon’s right; she’s getting soft in her old age). With a sigh, she plucks the three year old from in front of her, swinging him over her shoulder (far less effort and she’d be lying if she said she didn’t enjoy his little giggle).
“Cheat,” he chirps, giving her shoulder an affectionate pat, leaves a muddy little handprint across her bare shoulder. She throws a glance at him, still smiling blithely to himself, tracing a few of the scars exposed by her tank, too tired to really protest his accosting.
He continues to behave when she sets him beside the tub, standing with almost comical seriousness as he waits, parroting a parade rest. The child stares suspiciously at the steaming water, skimming his hands over it as it nears the edge of the tub. It isn’t until she’s clearing her throat in warning that the entirety of his fate dawns on him. Big blue eye stare up at her desperation, pleading with her, begging her not to make him remove his mark of triumph. At least for today; glances at the bath, back at her, back at the bath.
Her son heaves a heavy sigh, holds his hand over his head in surrender, permitting her draw his (ruined) shirt over his head. Sam gives the water a disdainful sniff. And he’s looking at her with those eyes again, the barest hint of a pout (also his father’s because there’s no damn way she’s ever pouted).
Goddamn it.
____
His body aches.
The simple fact of the matter is that he’s not as young as he once was. And sliding down a muddy hillside was not precisely the best decision he’d made in his life (but his son had looked so absurdly happy he’s almost willing to venture it was worth it). All he wants to do is return home, shower, and fall into bed. And while he isn’t entirely sure where or how he expects to find his family he’s fairly certain this is not it.
The Commander leans casually against the doorway, smirking to himself as he watches the scene play out in front of him. The tub is full nearly to the brim with some fruity smelling concoction, a thick coating of bubbles floating across the surface. And in the center, splashing and delighted, is his son. Wash is seated by the edge of the tub (an absolutely ridiculous and completely not her sort of smile tugging at her features), scoops up a handful of the stuff and sets it on Sam’s head, leaning in to smear the washrag over his shoulders, leaving a clean swath in the mud. The child practically preens under her attention, holds his head high as she finishes her task.
His wife is muttering something, chuckling under her breath ( and if asked to justify this woman with the one he’d known fifteen years prior he’d find himself nearly incapable of such a task). It sends a wave of affection through him. For the first time in years he can say without any doubt that Wash is happy (that he’s happy) and it brings with it some semblance of peace. She’s deserves it. With her lips curved upward, eyes dancing with a light (contentment) that is only just beginning to look at home within their depths, she’s something fantastically beautiful.
It’s a peace neither of them deserve, have strove to create for others and never hoped to achieve for themselves. To have it now...
Nathaniel pushes off the door frame, his tone openly amused as he joins his family, “Wonder how much Shannon would pay me for this…”
Her posture immediately goes ramrod straight. Knowing full well that he is testing the limits of her already tenuous patience, he crosses to sit beside her, frowning at the soaking wet floor. Without even thinking, he reaches over to give Sam an absent pat on the head. The boy scowls (his mother’s scowl) when it leaves his newly clean hair dripping mud and disappears beneath the water. Content with the presence of both his parents, their son sets about entertaining himself, plays with his toys in the bubbles. Everything oddly perfectly, strangely serene, in a life where they have come to expect chaos. It leaves Taylor smiling, leaning over to press a kiss to the side of his wife’s head.
She leans just as quickly away, scowling at him, brings a hand up to brace against his shoulder.
He tries again with much the same results.
With a wicked grin playing across her features and without a word of explanation, the woman stands, grabbing the towel from behind her. In one smooth move she pulls her son from the tub, draping the boy in the oversized material. Sam twines his arms affectionately around her neck, tired enough to go without protest, leans his head against her cheek. Mother and son share a look and she gives him a slight squeeze; Wash whispers something (undoubtedly insidious) in his ear.
And then, his face brightening delightedly, Sam says, “Dad. Dad is filthy.” The last word is noticeably slurred but the intent translates perfectly.
“Traitor,” it loses a great deal of its edge when he can’t stop himself from smiling, shaking his head at the absurdity of being chastised by his own son. It only causes the pair of them to snicker, Sam ducking his head as Wash presses a proud kiss to his cheek.
He’s left sitting on the floor of the bathroom staring after them, smiling despite their act of aggression. Smiling because for the first time in years everything is positively perfect. It’s the same ridiculous expression Wash finds him with nearly half an hour later as she’s tucking their son into bed. The same expression she’s somehow attempting to kiss away as she hauls him bodily back towards the bathroom, insisting he missed a few very important swathes of dirt.