January 26

## Meta

Timing: January 26 ... 2024? (in 2024, the 26th is a Friday; 2023, a Thursday; 2025, it's a Saturday but Jackson's in Canada or a PPDC mental health facility; 2026, they don't have to play so nice with the PPDC)

Setting: Darling-Jones residence

## Notes

A birthday fic for this shmoo from Rorykurago! (Part of where I found new words for "Wiser", actually.) I've tweaked a couple details to better slot in, but "Thing 1" and "Thing 2" cute were to change.

"so here are marrieds babbies (with actual babbies) on Australia Day, celebrating like sensible Aussies (why Australia Day? Who knows. That"s what they wanted.)"

## Text

The Alarm"ll Play *Land Down Under*When It Goes >did Rory mean this as the title? seeing as that's title case and all?; it is the name of a song, I beileve<

The pitter-patter of tiny feet wakes her: it comes throughout their bedroom door like the approach of Godzilla.

She's face-down in the pillows.

It smells like Jackson.

What day is it?

Saturday.

Her husband mutters about the pitter-patter of tiny feet in huge combat boots.

Charlie drags the pillow out from under her face and hits him with it. Now she has no pillow. But she has a husband.

Jackson grunts when she yanks his pillow out from under his head; she hasn't bothered to look at him, but he's probably still lying limp on his back with her pillow over his face like squid under a rock, limbs in all directions.

She's now face down in his pillow.

Smells like him more strongly.

But what day is it?

Out in the family room Thing 1 screeches a giggle.

Oh.

That day.

Colonisation day.

"It's not called that," Jackson mumbles through the pillow.

It should be.

"No it shouldn't." (nnn i' shhdn't)

There's a mess of parades and barbecues and events planned around the city base staff are encouraged to put in an appearance at. (Charlie especially. Charlie and her biracial kids especially. Affirmative action and all that muck.)

Jackson grunts.

Charlie hits out blindly. Bounces a palm off what might be his stomach.

He catches her hand; holds onto it.

Something jangily bounces in the living room.

"'s basic PR, Firefly. 's got nothin' t' do with the colour of your skin," Jackson says drowsily, thumbing the web of muscle between her thumb and forefinger lazily.

"What colour's your skin again?" Charlie asks into the pillow. (Swallows half of it because it's that or a mouthful of cotton that doesn't taste as much like Jackson as it smells.)

His stomach shifts under her hand; she feels the rueful smile in his quick exhale. (More snort than chuckle.)

's Saturday. And it's bloody Colonisation Day.

Something clangs in the family room. Thing 1 and Thing 2 are up and around; they can't be left unsupervised for long. (Last time led to blue-black smeared across the kitchen cabinets that Thing 1 swore up and down was a map of the Breach, followed by a /**royal** tantie when Thing 2 added some fuchsia to indicate it opening.)

Jackson grunts. "They're your brats."

"'fore sunrise, they're yours, too." Neither has the energy for scissors-paper-rock. They don't move.

What time is it?

No sleep-in. No day off.

"'s Australia Day, Firefly: barbecues and beers, and having a good old yarn in the shade. 's not like anyone's going to ask ya to calculate a nuclear blow-off emission t'day."

Not the point.

"Darl—"

"What colour's your skin, cracker?" There's no vitriol in the pillow-bound mumble, but she raps his abdomen with her knuckles.

He doesn't respond.

Sleep crusted at the corner of her eyes, she dredges her head up from his pillow and drops it on one side. (Feels heavy as a Conn-pod. (Doesn't want to know how much a Conn-pod weighs–*Stupid air filtration system.*)Saturday. Bloody Commonwealth.) She knees him gently, bare skin to his thigh. "Y' can tan as much as ya like, snowflake, you'll still be white. 'n I"ll still be Affirmative Action." Our kids will still be paraded like a bloody political banner.

He looks out from the depths of the pillow languidly, one open eye in the dimness. "We have t' get up eventually."

"'Eventually' ain't now."

"Kids 're up."

Charlie listens carefully.

More thumping. Squeals. Crooning and clattering and ... yes.

She shifts her body closer to his and shrugs against the bedding. "Auntie Andrea's with 'em."

"I like the way you think, but 'm wrecked." His fingers stroke down her arm to her elbow, circling there, but his eye closes under the pillow. He seems content to sketch mindless little patterns on her forearm.

What time is it?

Venting a groan like the blow-off emission he mentioned, she lifts her head and looks past him at the clock (and the black phone, quiet today, still with greasy little fingerprint from Thing 2 trying to dial the President like on /*Stargate*).

Not even six.

Fuckin' A. Six A.M. on a Saturday, Andrea preoccupying the little monsters, and—

Nah. Charlie thumps the pillow half-heartedly with the side of her head to shift the stuffing and closes her eyes. Bugger it.

"You work on ya beauty sleep," she mumbles. "This little black duck's getting{'} anotha hour o' her own." Prob'ly need it t' get through today without decking some brown-nosin" mug anyway.

Fuckin' Colonisation Day, ay?

"'s still not called that."