Work Text:
The first time he folds her laundry – it’s not weird, she’s in the infirmary and he’s trying to be nice – he thinks that something odd must have happened between the hamper and the washing machine. How are all of her socks unmatched orphans? Okay, not all. He does manage to find one matched pair.
After that, he starts to pay closer attention. On missions, everything measures up. Matching pairs of standard, military-issue crew socks. On team nights, she wears boots, and there is no way that he can ask to see her feet without things getting awkward. So his research is limited.
One day, while running with Cassie at the playground, she squats down to tie her shoes, and he sees them, clear as day beneath the cuffs of her jeans: one white with a green stripe and one baby blue. Even the lengths are different. He can’t help but smile at this small chaotic indulgence in a highly organized life.
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There is a pile of laundry on the recliner waiting to be folded, but they two are laying together on the sofa instead. He’s rubbing her feet. One foot sports pink butterflies, and the other is striped. What a pair, he thinks and smiles. Mismatched socks? Him? Chaotic indulgences in a highly organized life!