Chapter Text
“I cannot believe you’ve never told me about this,” Grif whispers in awe, staring at the bustle around them.
“But Grif! I’ve told you about the fair a thousand times!” Donut says, hands propped on his hips.
“No Donut, you’ve told me the story about how you wrestled a greased pig a thousand times,” Grif says. “You’ve never told me that there’s a place where literally everything is deep fat fried.”
The Iowa State Fair was one of the most traditional places left in a still very traditional state. There were booths with bright signs, advertising every kind of food, as long as it was deep fried, chocolate coated, or on a stick. Music could be heard faintly over the bustle of the crowds and the sounds of animals, and the odor of animal shit managed to permeate the smell of popcorn and hotdogs.
“You’re going to destroy my heart, aren’t you?” Simmons says dully, looking vaguely horrified.
“You act like he didn’t already,” Tucker says cheerfully, hands in his pockets as he looked around.
“No, he’s definitely told you about the food before,” Wash says to Grif as blandly as possible in order to hide his smirk. “I remember. He told you about how he swallowed a corndog whole and then you started—”
“That’s right!” Donut grins proudly. “I have great control over my gag reflex.”
Grif and Simmons make identical horrified expressions. “Please stop there,” Simmons begs. Donut, oblivious as ever, plows on.
“You know, it took lots of practice, but I eventually got deep throating those babies down! And I’m always sure to swallow!” Donut beams.
“Why wouldn’t you swallow it? It’s food, what else do you do with it? That’s just so unnecessary!” Simmons is flushing brightly, unable to even look at Donut at the moment.
“Dude, look on the bright side. At least he didn’t call them wieners,” Tucker says. He nudges Wash, waggling his eyebrows. “Hey Wash—”
“If you continue that sentence, I will hurt you,” Wash says.
Tucker makes a face. “You’re no fun.”
“That’s not what you said last night,” Grif calls, smirking. Tucker flips him off.
Donut beams. “C’mon, I’ve got to show you my favorite places!”
“Did we lose Doc?” Wash asks, slightly hopeful.
“I mean, last time we didn’t notice we’d lost him, so probably not,” Simmons says as they all weave between the crowd, following Donut.
“Of course not!” Donut calls behind him. “He’s volunteering at the medi-tent!”
“Probably giving sunstroke victims orange juice or something,” Tucker says, snorting.
“Ta-da!” Donut says, spreading his arms out wide to show off the chicken barn.
“Why am I not surprised that Donut’s favorites are the roosters?” Simmons asks the world at large, sounding very tired.
Grif, surprisingly, doesn’t make the necessary follow-up joke. Instead, he appears to be distracted by…
Oh god.
“A pie-eating contest,” Grif says almost reverentially.
“No,” Simmons says immediately.
“You can’t stop me, Simmons,” Grif is already heading for the sign up table.
“Grif!” Simmons makes a move to tackle Grif, but nothing gets between Grif and unlimited pastries.
“He’s a man on a mission,” Tucker says, brushing Wash’s hand with his own briefly. Wash smiles at him, then frowns.
“Where’s Junior?”
“Oh right, you weren’t there,” Tucker says with a nod. “Sarge took the kids to the rides.”
Wash stares. “You left Sarge unsupervised with the kids.”
“Grey’s with him! I’m sure it will be fine.”
“Tucker, Junior’s probably too tall for most of the rides!”
Tucker frowns at him. “I’m pretty sure it’s a “you must be at least this tall to ride”, dude, not a “you can’t be an alien” to ride.”
“There are still height limits!” Wash says, and Tucker starts to grin as his voice rises. Wash finds himself flushing slightly at the grin on Tucker’s face.
“Calm down, Wash,” Tucker says, grabbing Wash around the waist, pulling them together. He bumps Wash’s nose with his own before kissing him quickly. “Dude. He’ll be fine.”
“You two are so gross,” Grif has returned from the sign-up table triumphant. Simmons has buried his face in his hands in despair.
“Says the guy with the wedding ring,” Tucker sings, letting Wash go.
“Niner has Caboose, right?” Wash asks.
Simmons nods. “He’s her baking assistant.”
“Caboose? In a kitchen?” Grif actually looks concerned there, but it’s probably for the safety of the food more than anything to do with property damage or lives lost.
“Niner has it under control, I’m sure,” Wash says, but he’s worried too.
In the background, there was a faint explosion.
“I’m sure that has nothing to do with Caboose,” Wash says slowly.
They all exchange looks.
“Blue team problems,” Grif says immediately.
Tucker flips Grif off again before he and Wash start running.