A/N: Kinda cracky, kinda silly Wash/Taylor fluff. Because I wanted to write some, damn it, even if it is absurd! These are really just little snippets, not really connected except in the fact that they involve little domestic things. It seemed silly to post them separately so you get them all at once. :D

Erm...and as for the last one. I don't PERSONALLY think there's anything much to it but...if you're easily affronted by...shower themed fun times...might not wanna read it. It's not M rated but, there you are.

This is dedicated to my ever lovely, insanely talented partner in crime Inu-midoriko. Because we have the best, craziest conversations ever documented. You can have this and, of course, Taylor, frolicking in the jungle. :D

Domestic Etiquette

Sleeping Arrangements

Wash is not a peaceful sleeper.

It's not a guess, or a vague statement, or a feeling, it's a fact. A god damn dyed in the wool fact, that despite her (some would say) tyrannical, vice like control of her emotions during her waking hours, she tosses and turns in the night more often than a twitchy child. She'd been like that years ago in the service and she is exactly like that now.

Admittedly, she is not used to sharing her bed with someone else.

At least that's what she tells herself, and hopes Taylor understands, as she turns onto her other side again. It brings her nose to nose with the man in question and he regards her with a mixture of amusement and idle frustration.

"You good, Wash?"

No. She most certainly is not. And it's his damn fault. He's sleeping on her side of the bed, and he's throwing off the tilt of the mattress, and he's there, breathing. Being himself. In her space. It's infuriating really, and she lets out a little huff, "Fine, sir." The fact that he chuckles assures her he's in on the lie. Instead of calling her on it, he closes his eyes.

There's something peaceful and open about it and for a moment she's content just to watch him sleep. He looks…younger, less worn. The fact that she's one of the few people to see him so unguarded fills her with a ridiculous surge of delight, utterly undignified for a woman of her age and rank.

"Stop staring, Wash," he mutters, not bothering to open his eyes.

With a sigh (of contentment or dissatisfaction), she returns to her tossing. Lays still for a moment (just long enough to lull Taylor into a false sense of security) and turn again. She grits her teeth. It's the damn side of the bed…it's all…

In the middle of her turn, Taylor clamps an arm around her waist, holding her flush against him, effectively stilling her movement. He nuzzles her neck somewhat affectionately, offsetting his warning squeeze to her middle.

She isn't on her side of the bed. And he's thrown off her mattress hugely. And now he's breathing directly on her neck. However, with her head cushioned on his shoulder, feeling his warmth at her back, and with the air smelling pleasantly of…him, she can't help but feel this is vastly superior. To sleeping alone or in any other manner.

Wash ceases her turning for the remainder of the night.

Shaving

The first time he shaves over at her place she simply continues on with her own morning rituals. A part of her knows he has to shave and it's a remarkably trivial task in the grander scheme of things. It's the second time, when her morning is less frantic, that she pauses in the doorway and watches him.

His expression is one of concentration, his eyes always a step ahead of his razor, planning the next stroke. In contrast to some of the other men she's seen, he chooses to use a straight razor for the task. It's more difficult to handle, undoubtedly, but she can't argue with the results. And there's something intoxicating about watching him handle the potentially deadly, gleaming, edge, flick it over his throat without a second thought. It leaves streaks in the white foam but leaves his skin wondrously smooth. Sometimes he hums old songs to pass the time, something she doesn't remember him doing since before Somalia. It somehow manages to make her feel simultaneously older and younger.

She finds she likes it, so she watches him do it more often, even if it slows her routine.

Sometimes, he'll look over at her and chuckle, bemused at her interest.

And sometimes, he'll get a positively fascinating look, his mouth curving up in a delicious smirk and simply watch her right back. Blue eyes meet brown and refuse to break contact, even as his razor slides over the contours of his jaw.

Around the third week or so, she arrives to find him waiting for her, that mischievous look on his face. Without speaking he simply hands her the razor.

"Sir?"

"Think you've been watching long enough, woman. Time to show me what you've learned," he sounds almost like he did nearly two decades earlier, when he'd taken such delight in critiquing her form during their combat training. She arches a brow, indicates he take a seat.

It's a fairly large step, for any couple. No man wants his face torn up; to trust another with that ability bespeaks no small amount of trust. With them it is more than that.

Because he's seen, firsthand, what she's capable of doing with a knife. And, with his eyes closed, the razor gliding over his throat, she could easily end him. If the notion took her that she wanted control of Terra Nova, or would prefer roughing it with Mira and the Sixers, she could carry through. He's fast, but not fast enough to stop her.

A part of him knows she'd never do it; all of her knows that causing even the slightest harm to him would sear her just as badly.

She mimics the strokes he's been using, tracing the patterns from memory and mapping them to her subconscious. She knows the planes of his face well enough to do this with her eyes closed, even if she is relatively unfamiliar with his razor. A few moments later, she surveys her work with a pleased smile.

Taylor runs a hand across his jaw, checking her work in the mirror. He tosses her a rakish sort of smile, taking to razor she's extended to him.

"You do good work, Wash. Might have to use you more often."

He rarely shaves himself after that.

Morning After:

Despite officially being a member of the bridal party, Wash is more closely affiliated with the groom. It's really the only explanation as to why she is permitted to attend Mark Reynolds bachelor party. That and Josh needed her house to, as he put it, plan the intimate, low key evening the groom had requested.

At least that's how the kid had presented it to Taylor. However, standing at the still open door to Wash's house with Dr. Shannon, he can't help but think something went awry. The worry that had begun to manifest on the woman's face at the absence of her husband and son (neither they nor the groom had returned) fades, replaced by a curiosity tinged with dread.

Every window in the place is closed, the drapes pulled tight. Wash's meticulously neat home is in shambles, bottles of various flavors of alcohol strewn on every available surface. Some are expensive and some are…combined in manners most would consider positively volatile.

They find both Reynolds and Josh in her living room, curled in on themselves on the sofa, attempting to die silently. When Elizabeth calls out to them, they simply moan and go back to their previous task. Namely, finding a way to bind their faces with the lieutenant's upholstery.

Wash and Shannon are not far away. The commander and the doctor cannot help but share an amused glance; their respective mates are curled on Wash's bed, pillows clasped over their heads. Some sort of juvenile pillow barrier divides the bed in half, erected the night before to assure both parties nothing untoward would occur during the night.

The doctor crosses to her husband, nudging his shoulder gently, "Darling, are you well?" It earns her pained groans from both individuals.

Shannon manages to get out a few words, his speech slurred both by the intense ache in his head and the pillow covering his face, "No. Let us die in peace."

"Gonna kill your son, Shannon," but it lacks some of the steel that would usually imbue her tone. It's surprisingly breathy and exhausted, and sounds very much like the effort causes Wash physical pain. "When I can move again."

Taylor, after a moment's effort, pries the pillow from her grasp, taking in her disheveled appearance. He's seen her drunk perhaps three times over all their years, but never to such an extent. And despite having seen her riddled with bullets and bleeding to death, he doesn't wonder if this is what's going to kill her. Even in her current condition, he can't help but tease her.

"Should of thought of that last night, Wash. Up and at em', you've got patrol."

He isn't going to make her do it. A part of her has to know that. Still, she makes the most pathetic little whine, and it's so not Wash, he can't help but laugh. Deep, full belly laughter.

It causes both Shannon and his lieutenant to cringe. The two exchange sympathetic glances, roll closer to one another. Jim lifts his pillow, and then covers both their faces.

Showers

The first time he tries to surprise Wash in the shower does not end well.

Admittedly, the running water was loud and he's been trained to be quiet and she's been trained to react to such attacks but…

Nursing his bruised jaw he can't help but think, maybe, just maybe, she overreacted a bit.

The second time, they are both running late and they share simply to save time.

On the third, it is Wash who initiates, reminding him exactly why he is so fond of the woman. He hears her coming, refrains from turning. He's rewarded with her embracing him from behind, her arms snaking around his waist. She hums lowly, the sound echoing up his spine, a pleased sound that carries the cadence of a song he's fond of. Her tongue traces the contours of a scar near his shoulder, a particularly unpleasant one she'd had a hand in mending so many years prior. She's cataloged most of his wounds over the years and it's finally paying off. Her fingers find her favorite, a jagged tear that begins just below his left hip and weaves ominously lower. To be fair, she does deviate course a bit, her breathy chuckle in his ear causing him to groan as much as the placement of her hand.

Wash is mercurial when it comes to her affections, a thing both delightful and frustrating. Sometimes she's almost playful, with her kisses light and surprisingly tender. Sometimes she'll simply smile against his lips. When one of them suffers a wound, or he returns from a trip outside the gates, they are the long, desperate kisses of lovers, belying an intimacy neither of them cares to put to words.

And sometimes it's like this, where nipping transforms to bites, half teasing, half frantic.

When he turns, she catches his lips almost immediately. She miscalculates the distances and in the slick environment they end up colliding with a bit more force. Their lips grind together, and he imagines he hears their teeth click. Painful, but not entirely unpleasant. She teases his lower lip between her teeth, (she's terribly fond of using her teeth, his lieutenant…), perhaps a bit harder than most would consider comfortable. There's something undeniably teasing in the gesture however and he finds himself smiling.

It's a simple thing, pinning her under the faucet. She's not in much of a mood to resist him, or play one of their games for dominance, choosing instead to wraps her legs around him, enjoy his closeness and the heat of the water washing over them. He dips his head, nipping her shoulder.

He receives a throaty reply, closer to a purr than anything else. The thought of his composed, stoic, lieutenant uttering such a sound is almost absurd, and as if echoing his thoughts, she repeats it. The woman's hand are somehow everywhere at once, one minute in his hair, the next splayed across his chest, the next dragging his own to her waist, her breasts. Her lips are little better, at his mouth, then his ear then trailing a sloppy pattern along his jaw, pausing to drag her teeth across the sensitive skin there. It's desperate and maddening and frenetic, and leaves him kissing her forehead rather than her lips momentarily.

When he finally manages to wrestle her into a proper position, she pauses, her head tipped lightly to the side. It's an almost surreal image, undoubtedly beautiful. The early morning light cuts through the window at precisely the correct angle to illuminate her face, bring some fey light to her dark eyes. Water beads catch the light, leaving traceable patterns down her neck, chest, and stomach. With her black hair hanging damply in front of her eyes, framing her face just so, she's lovelier than he's even seen her. She purses her lips, all the teasing gone, takes his face in her hands.

He isn't one for flowering words, and she isn't one for dramatic images or desperate romance. Still, she leans her forehead against his. The next kiss is feather light, fleeting, sweet and nearly chaste despite their…situation. It says things neither will vocalize. In return, he nuzzles her cheek. The moment passes and Wash's temperament changes again. Her kisses shift back to nips, signifying their little heart to heart is over.

They arrive significantly late for work that morning.