jennickels: (rvb: i like me)


It's Father's Day, and Caboose has a plan. It goes about how you'd expect a Caboose plan to go, so Wash reluctantly comes to the rescue. Part of the retirement fluff series.
828 words | [PG]


Wash follows the smell of something burning into the kitchen. He takes in the scene—there is paper and markers and glitter strewn over the table, and a pot billowing thick black smoke. And in the middle of it all—Caboose and Junior.

“Caboose, what are you doing? You’re going to burn the entire base down.”

“Oh, it’s okay, Agent Washington. I took the batteries out of the smoke alarm, so it wouldn’t bother anyone.”

Wash stares. “That won’t stop-” He doesn’t bother to finish. Wash pulls the pot from the stove. He can’t tell what was even in it. “Were you hungry? You could have asked someone to make you guys lunch.” What does a Sangheili eat anyway?

“It’s Father’s Day!” Caboose says as if that explains anything.

“What?”

Caboose rolls his eyes like Wash is being the unreasonable one. “It’s Father’s Day, and I’m helping Junior make something for Tucker. Even if he is stupid.” He mutters the last part under his breath before putting on another glowing smile. “We looked it up, and it said that kids make macaroni art for Father’s Day.”

Wash rubs a growing pain between his eyes. It’s typically how all of his conversations go with Caboose. “Caboose, you’re not supposed to cook the macaroni first.”

Junior lets out a string of honks and blarghs. Wash doesn’t need to understand the words to get the meaning—Junior already tried to tell him that.

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jennickels: (rvb: i like me)
561 words | [G]
There are still a lot Wash has to learn about the inner workings of Blue base now that Epsilon is gone. Like Caboose’s sleeping habits.


The knock on the door is light. For a moment, Wash isn’t sure he heard anything, but there it is again. A soft tap, tap, tap. He rolls over, checking the time on his computer terminal. 0124.

“This better be important,” he grumbles, hauling himself out of bed. “I was sleeping good. Sort of.”

He’s ready to dress-down the idiot waking him up, but it’s Caboose standing there, shifting from foot to foot and fiddling with the edge of his t-shirt.

“Caboose?”

“Oh, hey, Agent Washington. Did I wake you up?”

“Yes, you did. It’s one-thirty in the morning, Caboose. What’s wrong?”

“Oh.” He pulls on the hem so hard it tears. His shoulders slump. “I was just kind of having a problem.”

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