Title - Dinosaur Express

Author - Kourion

Summary: '"Ok, Mr. Jenkins, sir do you have your boarding pass, sir?," Dylan asks of his purple and yellow My Little Pony. Thomas the Tank Engine can't make trans-Atlantic trips by water, but he can serve as a boarding attendant on a 'luxury cruise ship'?' Future family fic/ Jane POV/ Jane and his son.

A/N: I obviously needed a break from angst, drama, and sad scenes. Hopefully it's light enough to appease those who may be feeling low with my other stuff (!), but real enough that it doesn't come across as pure, meaningless fluff either. Btw, this was part of a longer ficlet. But that one won't be ready for a couple of days more at least. In fact, there are certain things that I've written into the other fic (so far over 10K), that have made me decide to release it a little later (after Little Stars is complete). In the meantime, here you go...a short little scene between Patrick and his son. :)

Reviews are love, btw -)

"Chooo choooo, here comes the Dinosaur Express! Allll aboard you guys!"

I skim Thomas the Tank Engine across the surface of the bath water.

Dylan frowns.

"You're not doing it RIGHT, Daddy!," he pouts. "There is no train station in the ocean! They are getting ready to board the Queen Anne luxury boat! I've told you this one gazillion times or more!"

"One gazillion times, huh? Or more? Really - that much, huh? Wow. That's a lot of times."

It's in all these impatient little moments that I'm reminded just how similar Dylan is to Teresa...

Dylan apparently hasn't heard me, but demonstrates what he wants in tonight's tub scenario by pulling a large plastic duck towards where I'm currently crouching. It's actually a floating soap dish, but Dylan uses it as a 'boat' for Mr. Tibbles, his brontosaurus, and Cool Cal, his T Rex. He also has two My Little Ponies that stand out amongst the throng of dinosaurs I bought for him like sore thumbs. Girly sore thumbs. Sadly, I'm starting to suspect that the My Little Ponies are his favourite characters out of the bunch. Jenkins and Giles are their names (both boys, by the way - so don't be confused by their flowing manes of purple and pink, or their sparkle, diamond makeup). Grace bought him the pair, actually - for reasons I cannot begin to understand - and since the kid is smitten with Grace, well...

I start the task of rubbing in the chemical-scented de-chlorinating shampoo. The little man is a fish in the pool, but now his blond hair has turned lime-slurpee green.

Dylan sits very still for once as I massage in the soap and generate a lather.

I decide to re-engage my kid, already bored with the task.

This is going to take awhile to get all the green out...

"Didn't Jenkins and Giles board the Queen Anne Luxury boat last week, Dyl? When they went to Martha's Vineyard to pick fruit?"

My son ignores me, and instead carries on with his play.


And *I'm* not doing it right?

Without waiting for me to play the role of Jenkins, my boy continues on in a deep, husky voice.

"My boarding pass? Oh yes, my good lad. It should be right here in my pocket! Oh no, wait one moment... I can't find it!"

I think we need to get this kid some plastic army men, or something...

"Mr. Giles, kind sir, have you seen my boarding pass?," and now one pony addresses the other.

I think we'll need those army men sooner rather than later...

"No, Jenkins! Did you leave them in the carriage? Did you? Tell me!"

Good God, that dinosaur sounds frantic.

"Here comes the horrible squid of DOOM!," I sputter out, trying to add some verve to this scenario. With evil cackling, I drop a handful of magnetic alphabet blocks from the fridge into the tub. Water jets up as the blocks hit the water... pelting the Queen Anne Luxury Liner in a torrential downpour of freezing Atlantic water.

"Oh NO! The boat is sinking! Mr. Giles, Mr. Jenkins...grab your cellular phones, gentlemen! Call 911! Hurry!," I warble.

I then make some high pitched screaming noises for extra drama, and holding onto Cool Cal and Mr. Tibbles, I make them both jump up and down hysterically. Their frenetic panicking is doing very little to help the situation improve, if I do say so myself. In fact, from the looks of things, their dinosaur bulk combined with their freaking out seems to be making the situation worse.

This is kinda fun...

"Somebody help us! Call The Salvation Army! Call the American Red Cross! Hurry Mr. Jenkins! Hurry Mr. Giles!," I screech, enjoying myself too much to just stop now.

The duck soap dish is quickly filling up with bubbly water and is...

...now sinking.

Dylan shrieks in anger, and brings two tiny fists down to hit the water, drenching me in the process. It actually pelts up in an arc from the force of his frustrated pounding.

Oops. Maybe I went a little overboard. (Pun intended).

Still, I shake Dylan's arms for added emphasis, not really wanting to end the game too soon. I'm having a blast, and so drop more blocks into the basin.

I might as well go for broke...

"Save us, Obi Wan Kenobi! You're our only hope! Call 911 before it's too late!"

Dylan actually looks upset now. He makes a little T-shaped motion with his hands for Time Out!

"That's all WRONG, Daddy! They are in the ocean! They are on a CRUISE ship. They can't call 911!"

"What about The Texas Rangers?," I supply, easily.

"They came from England! No Texas Rangers!"

Ok, bud, chill out.

"What about the coast guard? Or the ocean police?"

"No! No Ocean Police! They JUST want to take a holiday cruise!"

What's the point of having a precocious and gifted child when they take everything so seriously?

"Woah, buddy...calm down."

"Their ship is at the bottom of the sea! You ruined their whole holiday, Daddy!"

"It's just a game, Dyl. We can start over. That's what's so much fun about games!"

He's shaking his head back and forth now. Getting soap lather everywhere, too.

"They never will want anything to do with this cruise line again! They were on holiday!"

"Yes, you've said that already, Dyl. Look, buddy...this is just a GAME, Dylan," I repeat, my voice completely serious now.

The little guy stands up then, still upset, his string bean body dripping soapy bubbles all over the bath mat as he clamours out of the tub.

"No more bath, buddy? Huh? Want to leave that soap in your hair, too? Or would you rather I rinse it out, first?"

His eyes radiate a classic Lisbonesque annoyance. It's incredible, really.

He's still in a mood.

I get it.

"I'm gonna get Mommy. She always does baths properly! No squid!"

I sigh, but nod anyway. And push away an immature jealousy when he finally leaves the room.

A ridiculous, searing sort of disappointment fills me, and the thought that flitters through my brain next also causes me a terrible sense of shame, and guilt.

I miss my Charley.




Charlotte always loved our bath times.