"Damn it," Hopper cursed as he cradled his hand to his chest. He placed the tip of his thumb in his mouth, and suckled on the aching skin as he finished pulling a tray from the oven. The fries haphazardly tossed on there skittered dangerously across the tinfoil, one or two even falling to the floor, but he managed to toss the tray onto the stove top without further incident.

"Jane?" He called out around his thumb. He pulled it out with a soft pop, grimacing at the saliva coating it, and tried again. "Jane? C'mon, kid. Dinner's about ready." He turned to the stove, and glared at the crisp fries. He poked at one. "Maybe too ready," he muttered.

He turned to call out once more, only to be startled into a yelp when he realized that she was already standing behind him. "I need to get you a bell," he grumbled.

She frowned in bemusement, but said nothing as she skirted around him to reach the sink. She stood on tiptoes, nearly losing her footing, but snagged two mismatched glasses and proceeded to fill them with water.

Arms folded across his broad chest, hip resting against the still warm oven, Hopper watched with a soft smile before schooling his face when she turned back again. "Fries are done," he uselessly announced with a jerk of his thumb over his shoulder. "So, we'll just wash up and dig in. Sound good?"

She carefully placed the full glasses on the table before facing him again. "Wash up?"

"Yeah," he clasped his hands together and rubbed them as if to warm them up. "Wash our hands before supper. Before any meal," he amended. "Kind of like how we brush our teeth every day?"

She nodded to indicate she followed so far. "New rule? 'Wash up?'"

"Exactly. Gets all those germs off, so we don't get sick."

"Sick." That word strikes a chord with her, and her knitted brow softens. "Like Sara?"

Hopper tenses up, takes a steadying breath, and lolls his head. He isn't sure whether he's going for a nod or a shake of his head, and it's clear that Jane doesn't know either. The confused frown returns. "Uh, sort of. What happened to-" He cuts himself off, aches for a Camel or a Tuinol, both of which he's either cut back or cut out, and tries again. "What happened to her wasn't because she didn't wash her hands." It sounded a little stressed, the way he wanted to make sure she understood that not washing up didn't mean you'd die. He scratches his forehead with his thumbnail.

"Okay," she states simply, and goes to the sink at counter. She looks at him expectantly, and he starts when he realizes that was the end of that conversation.

He pushes himself away from the stove, grabs the bar of soap set next to the faucet, and holds it out to Jane with a slight grin. "You do the same thing you do when you take a bath."

Hopper realizes his mistake too late when she starts to rub the bar of soap across her forehead, and he has to grab the counter to keep his rumbling laughter from bowling him over. "No, no, sweetheart. Maybe not quite like the bath. Here," he plucks the lathered bar from her outstretched hand, and begins to soap up his own.

"See? You do this for, Hell, I dunno. Fifteen, twenty seconds?"

"You count?" She's wiping at the soap suds on her head with a kitchen towel.

"You can," he scrubs underneath his nails, holding his hands up so she can see what he's doing, "Or you can sing."

"Sing?"

"Sure," he shrugs. "Uh, let's see." He bops his head to a song only he can hear, before moving his lips to the words. Finally, he softly grumbles through the words aloud: "Dum, dum, dum. Sweet Caroline," his deep voice carries in the cabin, "Good times never seemed so good. Sweet Caroline, ba-ba-ba. I believe they never could..." He trails off, rinses his hands, and looks down at Jane.

She's clutching the towel to her chest as if she's seen something scandalous. In her defense, Hopper thinks, she probably has. He rolls his eyes, places a hand on her thick curls, and tousles them affectionately. "Wash up, kid, and dig in."

Jane grins up at him, going so far as to swat at his hip with the towel, and grabs the bar of soap.

Hopper snags a fry, chokes down the overdone potato with a grimace, and listens as his daughter softly croons to "Sweet Caroline."

TBC...

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