A/N: And we're back! This is like my relaxing little fic, all sweet and light and easy. :D

And by popular demand (damn you, you beautiful, lovable devils!), you get your pregnant Wash snippets. Ugh. There are actually TWO of them (see how nice I am?) here since the laws of balance dictated if I write something uber fluffy then well…I'll let you draw your own conclusions. You may also decide if you think the pregnancy snippets are connected to each other.

A thank you to: Pixie Queen Mesa for Paperwork, and everyone who wanted pregnant Wash. All of you, really, for being lovely things…even if you're making me write baby-fic. O_O Which may or may not be terribly out of character.

Domestic Etiquette

Scars

There are the occasional moments where Taylor doesn't wonder if certain individuals are more suited (destined) for each other. It's silly, overly idealistic, and entirely too hopeful for a soldier such as himself. It's only during these rare peaceful interludes that he allows himself to indulge such…flowery trains of thought.

Wash remains asleep beside him, one of her legs thrown lazily across his own, an arm across his chest. Her left hand is lost somewhere down near the wrist he has obligingly moved closer to her, their fingers tangled together. It's an amusing sort of contradiction, all at once possessive and nearly insecure. Almost as if she's still frightened he'll disappear over the course of the night. Silly, really, as he never left her before. Not now and not for the last three weeks they have spent together.

He feels her shift slightly in his arms, smiles as she subconsciously snuggles into his chest. She stares up at him briefly before letting out a pleased sigh, returning her head to his shoulder. Yes, he was still there. No, he had not left in the night.

Wash says nothing as her senses return to her, the lack of danger or any pressing issue allowing her to adjust to the waking world a bit more languidly. She rolls, smirks as she settles herself on top of him, rests her chin on his chest. If her added weight gives him any difficulty he refuses to mention it. They don't speak and so she turns to one of her favorite hobbies: logging each of his various scars to memory. It's almost amusing to watch her, how's silently she's content to trace the damaged flesh beneath her fingers, tenderly grazing each scar.

When she reaches a particularly ugly looking one on his shoulder she pauses, brow arched. He chuckles, "Before I met you. Got it in a scuffle…some place or other. Think it was…a knife. Maybe a bottle."

"A bottle?"

"Can't fault a man for improvising."

She chuckles but doesn't comment. She slides lower, adjusts herself so she's straddling his thighs. He rests his hands steadily on her hips, thumbs brushing over her skin. Despite their promising positions and their nudity there's very little on her face to denote sexual interest. Wash's head is simply inclined to the side, almost curious. The back of her fingers brush across his ribs. The scar there is raised, the damaged flesh still an angry purple white despite the years. "And this one?"

"Slasher. You treated it." He knows she takes pride in her work. He should have died. She'd saved him. Not for the first time. Not simply physically. His words cause her to smile, and with her dark hair hanging in her face the expression is singularly lovely. He moves one of his hands, brushes a mark below her left breast. Wash has enough scars of her own. "I remember this one."

"Somalia," It's all she says. They've both put enough distance between themselves and the war but that doesn't mean she's eager to discuss her brush with death. He nods, his fingers gentle as they trace the marking.

They've played this game for years, showing off their various battle scars. It's a map of where they've been, what they've done. This is simply a new iteration of what they've always shared, though he finds he enjoys the intimacy of this far more. He knows each of her scars; she remembers every one of his.

He pauses, however, when his eyes fix on a shallow marking near her heart. It's a bit too high and too far to the right to have put her in any great deal of danger but it's close enough to merit his attention. Not a bullet, not a puncture wound. For the life of him he can't remember where she'd got it. She fidgets uncomfortably when he touches it.

"You," she mutters, bending to kiss him. It both is and isn't the truth. True, in that the scar itself owes itself to him, false in that he had simply been reacting to an existing wound. The memory returns to him. She'd been shot, bleeding profusely. He'd…overreacted. The bullet, in no small part due to her armor, had failed to pierce her all the way through, becoming lodged in her skin. Without pausing to think better of it (and only catching her eyes briefly to ask permission) he was kneeling at her side, his knife in the gash, prying the damn bullet out.

He'd left his mark on her all those years ago. There's something like poetic irony in its placement and he finds it pleases him. He doesn't mind being so near her heart.

From the pleased little humming sound she makes when he brushes his lips across it, Wash doesn't either.

Snack

Wash is exhausted. Absolutely, completely, one hundred percent bone tired, exhausted. With the commander OTG, causing god only knows what havoc out in the jungle, she'd pulled a far longer shift than she ought to have. The only reason she's here now is Guzman forcibly escorting her from the building, promising to alert her if their intrepid leader decided to return. She falls into bed sometime after midnight; not terribly late except it signifies hour forty-six since she's last slept.

In light of that, exhausted is something of an understatement. She wants to curl in on herself and sleep for the remainder of the day. She can't (her morning patrol starts before the suns up and she refuses to give it up no matter how she feels) but it's comforting to fantasize about. Stress and worry for Taylor keep her from truly resting, plague her with nervous dreams. She's just tired enough to struggle through them.

Obviously, this is the reason she is wrested from her sleep, a crash from her kitchen tearing her from her fitful slumber, her military training kicking into gear. She's awake, her senses sharp before she can register exactly why. Someone hisses a warning. Silence. Almost as if her unexpected visitors expect her to storm out from her bedroom in a hazy late night rage.

Wash considers the penalty for murder, weighs whether or not it would be worth it or if she could live with herself after (at the moment she can answer with a resounding yes. She could most certainly, confidently live with herself), decides it isn't worth it. Instead, she runs a hand tiredly through her hair, swings her legs over the side of her mattress. Hell, she isn't going to get a good night sleeps with Taylor OTG anyway.

She throws an irritable glare towards her bedside clock, ignoring the taunting neon numbers. Three in the morning. Well, three hours sleep was better than nothing, even if she had to be up in another two. Another crash, this one followed by a low chuckle.

Somehow then, she's not surprised to find two men in her kitchen. The cake she's been saving is out on the counter, a generous portion of it missing. Both men have practically frozen, Taylor with a fork full of the confection halfway to his mouth, Shannon bent to pluck something from her fridge. Both have shallow cuts across t heir skin, both are covered with a light skein of dirt. As if her home is the first place they've come after returning to the colony. It's sweet, if you enjoy a good break in.

She'd like to say this is one of the oddest reasons she's had someone break into her house in the dead of night. She cannot, in good faith, make that claim.

"Sir?"

Shannon flashes her a brilliant smile from over the refrigerator door, closes it, "Morning, Wash. You're looking particularly lovely…"

"Shut up, Shannon." He shrugs easily, goes back to pouring himself a glass of milk. Despite her scowl neither of them seems particularly keen on leaving. Jim simply leans against her counter, smiling contently to himself, eats his snack. "What are you doing here?"

Taylor chuckles, finishes his bite of cake, "Thought you could use some company."

"At three in the morning?"

"Don't try and tell me you sleep, Wash," he levels the fork at her playfully. She shrugs. He's leaning so smugly (triumphantly) against her counter with Shannon. At three in the morning, keeping her from the sleep she needs because of him. And damn if she doesn't hate it because he's right. She can go back to bed but isn't going to sleep. She never really sleeps unless she can verify his location. Which he's allowed her to do now, even if it means breaking into her home.

She signs, steps towards him, intercepts his fork before it reaches his lips. He flashes a mock scowl as she steals his treat. He simply chuckles when she takes the fork to serve herself another bite, not from the cake, from his piece. Taylor arches an amused brow.

Nathaniel Taylor does not share food, especially of the sugary variety. "You're damn lucky I like you, woman."

"Likewise, sir."

Hell, if he's going to steal her from her sleep she at least deserves his cake. She takes another bite.

Paperwork

On the short list of things he positively despises doing, paperwork ranks pretty well near the top. It's how it's always been. For all his best efforts, Taylor's simply a man of action, at home leading soldiers through impossible situations and winning wars. It's what he's good at. It's how he got where he is today. Hell, he's at home out in that jungle, where things are trying to kill him twenty four hours a day. But paperwork? Well, he's just never taken a shine to it, an unfortunately mutual feeling. Regrettable, considering how much of it his position as colony leader entails.

But he does it anyway, for the good of the colony.

He glances across his office desk at Wash, see's a very similar line of reasoning is running through her mind. She's no more fond of it then him and he's well aware that she regrets ever volunteering (he uses the term loosely. Being volunteered is probably closer to the truth) to assist him. She purses her lips, blows a strand of hair out of her eyes. When she feels him staring, she glances up and flashes him a half-smile smile. They hate this.

What's worse, there's absolutely no way to make the process more enjoyable. They know this from experience.

They'd tried drinks to make it more palatable in the early days of the settlement, when things had been more chaotic. Somehow that only ended with a near nonsensical patrol schedule and requisition forms that neglected basic necessities in favor of…he didn't even know. It had been an odd list that he vaguely remembered finding hilarious when they'd written it. They'd take one look at in the harsh morning light and reached the exact same conclusion with similar scowls.

A second time. They were going to have to do the paperwork a second time.

So alcohol was out of the question.

Over the years they've tried a variety of methods, each with varying degrees of success. They'd tried dinner in each other's homes before starting; found it was little more than an excuse to stay away from their task. After numerous failures they've come to the conclusion that, if they truly want to finish their work, they cannot do a variety of things. Namely: drink, eat, speak, take a break for any length of time, or allow their thoughts to wander even momentarily.

This is a nuisance. And a challenge, truth be told, because they are friends and friends are usually expected to at least register the others presence. If they wish to finish, they cannot do even this. It's also difficult because frankly, there are perhaps a thousand other things he'd rather be doing (Wash included, crude though it is) then paperwork. But it has to be done. For the good of the colony.

That is the only reason, the only reason, why he ignores Wash's foot as it brushes against the inside of his leg. Nothing about her composure changes, her expression remains dully disinterested. If he didn't know her better it could easily be brushed aside as an accident. The second time she does it, he's suspicious. The third, he's convinced.

Lieutenant Alicia Washington, the stoic, the stern, is trying to play footsie with him.

Oh how the mighty have fallen.

When he arches a brow she's unable to suppress the hint of a smile, grins down at her missions statement. He can't help but sigh, gently slides her foot out of his lap, "You're a child sometimes, Wash."

"Yes, sir."

She moves her foot back, "Pay attention." But his tone is hardly frustrated and when he bats her away its with little force. She doesn't look up, just keep smiling, goes about her work.

"Of course, Commander," But she doesn't stop her game. She'll move her leg, he'll shift away. It goes on this way for a bit. By the end of the night, her feet are resting in his lap, one of his hands idly tracing a pattern from her ankle down her knee. Sometimes she'll give a little stretch, brushing against him in a manner that's nothing less than deliberate. She doesn't bother to hide her grin when he catches her.

For the good of the colony. He keeps reminding himself that's why he stays focused.

But damn does he hate paperwork.

Positive

Wash's life reads like a study in the bittersweet. She'd become a soldier, lauded for her skills but had been unable to protect those who needed her most (her brother, her family, Ayani), had fallen in love with a man who's heart belonged solely to another. Made friends only to lose them, kept living but without purpose.

It is how she knows better than to trust her new life. Somehow it's to perfect. The man she loves returns her affections, her home is safe, her friends are safe, her world is safe. She's protected the things nearest her heart. And the universe permits this, allows her to go blissfully on.

It's almost enough to lull her into a false security. Almost enough to make her forget. Everything's going so well, why should one more thing raise suspicion?

They hadn't planned her pregnancy, not really. It had simply happened. They'd never really even talked about it, figured both were past that point in their life. They had a colony full of children to tend to. Odd, then, that such a surprise had delighted them so.

It was simply one good thing to add to the others, right? One more positive facet to bring her new life that much closer to perfection. She is, for the first time in years, truly, unconditionally happy.

Perhaps that's where she made her mistake.

She doesn't trip, she doesn't suddenly fall sick or any other number of clichés. One morning she simply wakes up, a hint of pain and then…nothing. Nothing at all. It's simply a feeling of hollowness, a paranoia that has her check herself in to the hospital. She tells herself it's nothing. Just her overactive imagination.

Funny (and she doesn't mean it in the proper sense, not for a moment), how wrong she's been about everything recently.

There are tears in Elisabeth's eyes when she explains the situation, her fingers absently clasping and unclasping her jacket. Wash has simply…lost the child. Nothing more, nothing less. She can't explain why exactly it's happened, until now everything had been progressing fine. She can only wager a guess. Wash isn't terribly young and Taylor is her senior by two decades. Things simply…happened. It takes a moment for the words to even register in her addled mind. Numbness spreads over her conscious mind, a desperate attempt to remain in control. The simple fact of the matter is if she wishes to remain calm she cannot allow herself to feel.

Dr. Shannon squeezes her hand, offers an embrace. Through the nothingness she's enveloped herself with she's aware of the other woman's tears staining her shirt. She wraps an arm around her, remains silent. To any passersby it would appear almost as if the lieutenant's the one offering comfort.

She doesn't tell Taylor, not at first (a part of her knows Shannon will do it), goes home instead. Pours herself a drink and finds she hates she can do so without concern. The amber liquid burns in her throat, offers a cold sort of comfort as she settles herself on her sofa, stares at nothing in particular.

The rational half of her knows its foolish getting upset over such a thing. She'd never known the child, never heard its voice, seen its face, held it. It if was truly sentient it was little more than a stranger to her. You didn't mourn strangers.

The rational side of her tells her it's a good thing. Neither she nor Taylor are young, and their lifestyle is...it just…it's for the best, isn't it? By all rights this is a good thing. A positive change, a mistake set right.

Her rationality sounds desperate even to her own ears, desperately grasping for something to cling to, to keep her from shattering. She's the lieutenant. She's better than this. She's in control. It isn't enough to keep her from leaning her head against her knees, takes unsteady breathes. Whether she likes it or not, she finds her eyes screwed shut, burning. Somewhere, she hears the door open, refuses to look up.

It's a good thing, it's a good thing, it's for the best…

She tries to breathe and the sound comes out choked and halting. Taylor (she doesn't have to see him to know it's him) settles beside her wordlessly. Hesitates as if unsure he has the right to touch her. When she doesn't look at him he gathers her to his chest, rests his chin atop her head. Like she's some goddamn child.

"Wash…"

She fists her fingers in his shirt, tries to ignore her tears. Feels his arms tighten around her. Almost too tightly, almost to the point where it's difficult to breathe; she doesn't care. She clings to him and doesn't give a damn if it's weak of her. Taylor's the one man she'll permit to see her in such a state. He pretends not to notice the way her breath hitches as she convulses in his arm. He pretends, for her prides sake, not to be aware of the dampness of her eyes.

"Maybe it's for the best," he mutters, and she pretends not to notice how near his tone is to cracking. She pretends not to notice his tears in her hair.

She holds him to her more desperately, chokes back a sob, "Maybe."

They both pretend they aren't lying.

Negative

The first time Elizabeth Shannon tells her she's pregnant, Wash asks her to repeat herself. Not in the quizzical sort of way or even the optimistic my dreams have come true way. It is, rather, the "god help me, you better be lying and damn if I don't hate liars," sort of way. The other woman is too ecstatic for her to notice.

When she tells Taylor later that evening she's half expecting for him to look, she doesn't know, disappointed in her. They hadn't planned for this to happen and neither of them is exactly young. She expects him to storm out of their home, returns hours later smelling of liquor and tell her Jim has convinced him that he can live with the situation or some other cliché. But he doesn't do any of those things.

He simply stares at her for a moment while the news sinks in. He practically leaps over the table to close the distance between them, grabs her shoulders and kisses her soundly. When he pulls away, he's smiling, though she can see the hint of worry still buried in his eyes. His first attempt raising a child had been painful. But he loves her and will love any part of her (of them) just as entirely. How could she expect him to regret that?

For a while it seems like she's the only damn person in Terra Nova not cart wheeling in joy.

She can't help but feel a little irritated (with the situation and herself) that this has been sprung on her. And she doesn't particularly enjoy the morning sickness or the weight gain (though through sheer force of will she's able to keep the later to a minimal. The former she has less success with.). Or the fact that her unborn child is already demonstrating its father penchant for causing havoc, kicking and turning almost constantly.

She'll admit to feeling love for the thing. And she'll admit that, deep down, she's enjoying this. Enjoying the closeness it offers her to Taylor. Enjoying the simple, easy, entirely too common joy of setting up a nursery (dinosaur themed, of course), discussing their future.

But it's always bittersweet. A part of her expects it all to come crashing down on her. Neither she nor Taylor is meant for domestic bliss. They are soldiers, tried and true. This is little more than an intermittent moment of peace before the next wave of chaos breaks on their shore. She keeps bracing herself for the dream to collapse.

So when Taylor looks up from his reading, gathers her to his chest, she smiles. And she continues to smile as they discuss their child. (He's convinced it's a girl. Insists on it, even, with the most ridiculous smile on his face. It breaks her heart a little. Because a girl would be like its mother, wouldn't it? He won't have to risk another Lucas. She never mentions she'd prefer a boy.) But even half asleep against the man she loves, in their home, she can't shake the feeling of dread.

The months pass (relatively) uneventfully. The fear never fades entirely but it becomes easier to manage. Taylor's been through this before. She's gone through situation far more strenuous. She can do this.

In the end, it hurts like hell. She's been knifed, shot, burned and whatever else and can say without a shred of doubt that labor hurts. She comes dangerously close to breaking her superiors hand when he attempts (its ill advised, admittedly) to pacify her.

But as she lays recovering, her hair still plastered to her forehead, undoubtedly looking like hell, she can't shake the feeling on contentment. Despite the cramped confines of the bed, Taylor's laying beside her, half of her resting against his chest, their child (their son) sleeping in his arms.

She knows all parents are innately inclined to compliment their kid's looks. But he's just….beautiful. It difficult to tell so early on, but he has her hair. His father's eyes.

She's exhausted and, for the better part of the next few years, won't be getting enough sleep. They're both too old to have a child. Their lifestyle isn't conducive to it.

But lying beside the man she loves, watching her son sleep, for perhaps the first time in her life, Alicia Washington comes to a conclusion. No matter what the future brings, at the moment she can find absolutely nothing negative with her situation.

Sky: HAHAHAHA! BAM! Did I switch the titles of the pregnancy snippets in an attempt to throw you off which one of them was angsty? YES. I regret nothing. Although, I feel horrible for writing it (and preferring it over the happy one…), pleasedon'thurtme.