After a long night at an awards ceremony held for the fire department, wherein all of the LA County Fire Department and their 'plus one's attended, Captain Hank Stanley flops down on his and his wife's bed.
He is exhausted.
The awards ceremony had, of course, followed the A-shift of Station 51 working no less than three traffic accidents and a near drowning the day prior, all brought about by the torrential rain.
He heaves a sigh as he bends over to remove his spotlessly polished black dress shoes.
After managing that, he sits up straight, just in time to see Emily walk by and into their bathroom. He watches her as she stops in front of the bathroom vanity and as she looks into the mirror.
She picks up the cold cream container and opens it, smearing it on her face to remove her make-up then wiping it off with a damp washcloth. Once she has taken all of it off, she rinses the washcloth, rubs soap on her face, and starts scrubbing.
He shakes his head, watching it all.
Seems like a lot of unnecessary trouble.
Em. Why do you even put that stuff on to begin with?
"What stuff?"
Hank jumps, startled, and realizes that his wife is looking at him.
"What?" he questions, confused.
"You asked why I put that stuff on…" she replies, now equally confused. "I asked what you meant."
… So he had spoken his thoughts. Well, since it's out there now…
"Make-up. Why do you even wear it?"
Not much more clear on his question or the cause of it, she leans on the vanity, giving him one of those looks.
"Why do most women wear make-up, Hank?"
He nearly rolls his eyes but refrains.
"Em. I mean that I don't understand why you wear it. You don't need it."
"I'm not exactly twenty anymore."
"What has that got to do with anything?"
"Oh, Hank," Emily snorts, shaking her head and returning to make-up removal.
"What?" he replies, his eyebrows furrowing as a frown finds its way onto his face. "You think I'm joking."
"No. Just being the sweetheart you've always been."
Silence meets her reply.
She finds that odd because Hank rarely gives up on any argument so quickly as that.
Shrugging it off, she turns away from the door to set down the used washcloth, and by the time she turns back, her husband of seventeen years is leaning against the vanity, rather intently staring at her.
That her normally bull-in-a-china-shop husband had managed to actually get up from the bed, cross their bedroom, and enter their bathroom to sit on the vanity without her noticing is enough to leave her a little surprised.
"What—"
"You want to know what I see? Right now? Without that gunk covering that gorgeous face of yours?"
She smiles a little shyly and blushes.
"Hank, you—"
"I see a dust trail following a beat up green pick-up truck. Days with blue skies and wide open fields, when we'd cruise around until I had to give that old pick-up a rest. Let's see… What else?" he questions, thinking aloud as he watches her.
"I see a hundred year old tree in the middle of nowhere with some initials carved into the trunk. And there's a t-shirt hanging off one of the branches. My t-shirt… That had to be put up there after a certain mischievous woman pushed me into the river… and then jumped in after me."
His eyebrow raises but his expression is soft as he gazes at her, that boyish grin spreading across his face.
She can't help but smile a little herself at the memories and quietly asks, "You see all that, do you?"
With that same grin on his face, he stands and pulls her to him, his hand cupping her cheek as he looks down to meet her upturned gaze.
"Emily. You don't look a day over ridin' around with the windows down and watching sunsets on a riverbank…"
He then leans down, bridging the remaining distance, and kisses her.
Fin.