by Mona Spoilers: None Rating: G Disclaimer: Very much not mine. All belongs to Joss.

~

He leaves dirty socks on the floor of the bridge.

Kicks 'em off under the console when he's been there for a while. Zoe's military sensibilities make her (almost visibly) twitch every time she sees them. She's sure he does it to her on purpose, violates so flagrantly her methodical efficiency just to irritate her. Wash glances out of the corner of his eye, smiles and says, "Hey lamby-toes," in his most innocent tone.

Her eyes dart from him, to the grayish, mostly-clean socks. One is under the console proper, one is dangerously close to her left boot where she stands behind his chair. She has to fight the compulsion to snatch up each tubular piece of cloth and put them somewhere. Anywhere. Away.

She blinks.

There are dinosaurs haphazardly strewn over the console; their plastic bodies sprawled over switches and screens that look important.

How can he see what's goin on under'em . . . Doesn't he *need* those?

Hawaiian shirts and more socks and underwear and wrappers from molded protein bars and fliers for nude beaches on Athena and Boros and Persephone and even Ariel litter the floor of their bunk most days. Well, Zoe thinks, that's more of a reminder or maybe a suggestion than anything else.

But Zoe always makes the bed anyway. She can't stand not to. Bedsheet corners so sharp you should fear to be cut when you climb in. She is two minute showers (well "bowl of water and a cloth" really) and cleaned and properly stowed guns and always be prepared for inspection . . .

She twitches again as Wash spins around in his chair - a blue protein ration wrapper floats to the floor from her husband's lap. He doesn't seem to notice.

Wash's hair smells like scorched coffee-mix and engine grease and sweat. Messy and warm and alive and he's smiling at her like he's daring her to say something.

"Hello dear," Zoe replies and buries a kiss deep into the blond spikes.