Title: Greg Versus the Washing Machine

Notes: The worst part about this story is the title. Or I hope so. I found this while cleaning out my computer, and now I'm wondering if the fact that I couldn't come up with a title is the reason this isn't published yet. Anyway… enjoy.

Greg could taste blood. His foot was killing him, his clothes smelled like decomp, he was now bleeding, and despite his best efforts, he had woken Sara.

"Greg?"

"Fine! I'm fine," he choked out, swallowing down blood and trying to sound natural.

"What was that noise?" she asked, coming to stand in the doorway.

"Nothing. Go back to bed."

Sara looked from Greg, teetering pathetically on his left leg, to the washing machine, lid open and half full of soapy water. She gave him a stern look. "Gregory. What did we say about getting into physical altercations with the appliances?"

Her tone made him defensive. "I'm sorry, okay? I just get confused with all of your rules. For instance, you are allowed to kick the piece-of-shit washing machine when it craps out, but I'm not – "

"That's because, quite frankly, you kick like a sissy and hurt yourself," she explained, indicating his limping gait as she pushed him out of the way so she could access the sputtering machine.

He continued as if she hadn't spoken. "But at work, neither of us is allowed to kick piece-of-shit scumbags who beat their wives and kill their children. Except under certain circumstances like if they're trying to kill us or steal evidence." Sara knelt and snaked her arm behind the washer. "But we can threaten them, except I can't because I'm no good at it, but Brass can, and he's really scary. Although I suppose those aren't your rules."

He was getting a little worked up. Sara was only half way paying attention as she jiggled wires and hoses. "And it's really not fair that you get to call me 'Gregory' when you're being all serious, but you've only got a short name so I can't do the stern, 'you're in trouble', full-name thing."

Sara stood back up, hit the start button, and gave the machine a swift smack – with her heel, not her toes, like a certain ex-lab rat had a tendency to do – and was satisfied to hear it begin chugging again. She then turned her attention fully back to Greg, who was pouting a little bit. If it weren't for the dark circles under his eyes, she would have made fun of him for acting like a small child. Instead she just rolled her eyes and smiled, moving closer to kiss him. She jerked away almost immediately.

"Are you bleeding?"

"No."

Sara gave him the look that usually preceded the "full-name thing." He looked away, embarrassed. "I bit my lip. I didn't want to wake you up with my cursing and yelling after I kicked the damn washer."

"Greg, I swear, keeping you alive is a full-time occupation… Did you break any toes?"

"It's unlikely that I could have mustered up that kind of force after the day I've had."

"Then please come to bed."

He couldn't really say no to that, especially when she was beckoning him with her hair mussed, clad only in his T-shirt. He felt it only fair to warn her though – "I had a decomp today."

"I know. I can smell it on your clothes. Why didn't you just toss them?"

"Because I like those clothes! You gave me that shirt for my birthday. I should have known better than to wear it to work. Damn Murphy and his stupid law," he muttered.

"I can buy you another shirt, Greg. It's less expensive than a new washing machine," she teased.

"I didn't break it! It was like that when I got there," he protested.

"Here's a new rule: You can dry and fold the laundry, cook and clean and do the heavy lifting. But please stay away from that poor machine. It doesn't like you, and you only cause each other pain."

"Sara, has anyone ever told you that you give a new meaning to adding insult to injury?" Greg grumbled as he stripped off his clothes, tossing them in the general direction of the hamper.

Sara grinned. "You mean besides you about once a week?"

"Well if you weren't so mean to me, it wouldn't have to be pointed out so often."

"I'm not really so mean, am I, Greg?" she asked innocently as she moved over to let him settle into the bed. He sighed heavily as she wrapped her arms around his shoulders. His unruly hair tickled her chin and his breath was warm against her collarbone. "For instance, you still smell like lemon-fresh death, but I'm letting you sleep in the bed."

Greg laughed and slipped his arms around her waist, his left hand resting warm on the small of her back, underneath what had originally been his Stanford T-shirt but was now worn only by her. Sara turned off the lamp and relaxed back into the pillows. As she combed her fingers through Greg's hair, he murmured, "I'm sorry I woke you up."

"Don't worry about it," she replied quietly. "I sleep better with you here, anyway."

"I guess it's just as well. Who knows how far things could have gone between me and the washing machine? It could have gotten ugly."