A/N: I honestly had no idea where I was going with this fic I'm sorry it's such a mess haha. Seriously though too many commas were made here, I just couldn't stop myself from rambling. It must be my nerves getting to me what with school returning and all. This is just a random fic to tell the truth, the soap is what I wrote it for, not Scott or Allison lol. I so know this is gonna be one of those fics that people read and go… what did this have to do with anything. Sorry guys once again but I hope you guys find something good about it though!

Disclaimer: I do not own Teen Wolf or any associated characters. This is a work of pure fiction.

Summary: When I was little, my father used to come home from work at seven o' clock precisely. His hands were always covered in grime and dirt, but I didn't mind. I loved to sit by the sink and watch, encased in awe, as he rubbed our white aloe soap over his hands.

Special thanks to AwesomeActress1001for Betaing this story :)

White Soap by FlyingNymphLady

When I was little, my father used to come home from work at seven o' clock precisely. His hands were always covered in grime and dirt, but I didn't mind. I loved to sit by the sink and watch, encased in awe, as he rubbed our white aloe soap over his hands. As he scrubbed them together, the soap would turn from silvery white to dirty brown. The action was like magic to me; when I went outside to play during the day, I would try and get as dirty as possible, just so I could change the soap in my own hands from white to brown. The process fascinated me - I'd watch, mesmerized, as the brown soap dripped down into the sink, washed away by the spray of water droplets.

It wasn't just the soap's color that fascinated me, though; it was the continued ritual my father had carried on for as long as I could remember. He scrubbed the dirt away like a child's lullaby, soft, but demanding cooperation from its listener. Satisfied with his work, my father would dry his hands on the towel beside the sink, reaching for me once he was finished. I remember his hands were always immaculate when he reached down for me, as if he didn't want any of his day job making its way into our lives. Back then, though, I was mostly spellbound by the sheer transformation to bother looking past the pale calluses, groves cleared of all discrepancies. Hoisting me into his arms, my father and I would make our way to my mother, her bright smile greeting us as we came.

One night, when my father came home, his hands were covered in red, dripping blood. He said nothing as he walked to the sink, and I waited patiently on my stool, watching as he went through his ritual, the red soap suds falling into the basin with a soft spatter, barely audible over the sound of the water. The red suds scared me, but I couldn't leave my spot, as it would break our tradition - break the routine my father and I had perfected over these many years. I watched, mildly horrified by the scene before me. Part of me had wanted to ask my father what had happened, if he or someone else had been hurt, and why there was so much blood. But the ghostly look in my father's eyes stopped me from letting those questions bubble to the surface, something inside me saying this was not the time for it. I waited, relief growing in my chest as I saw no injuries on my father's hands. The disappearing red suds seemed to bring my father back to me, his face regaining its usual giddy default expression (my mother often told me it was where I got my own looks from).

He reached down for me, and I looked at my father's hands, examining them as I had countless times before. Mid-approach I stopped, spotting an offensive patch of red still lingering on my father's palm. Whirling around, I dragged my stool to the front of the sink, my father waiting to see what I was up to, not questioning the determined look on my face. I drew his offending hand to the sink, his body following by association. I pushed down on the liquid dispenser, gathering a pool of silvery-white soap in my little palm, massaging it gently into his skin, trying to imitate the way I'd witnessed him do it a hundred times. I was still clumsy with my movements, my tiny fingers having to work extra hard to do as he did every day.

From behind me I heard a quiet hiccup, and I turned around, looking up into my father's eyes to see tears falling freely. I reached up with my small fingers and brushed them against his bushy cheek, beginning to get scared. "Did I do something wrong, Daddy? Did I wash your hand wrong?"

My father caught me in his arms, squeezing me tightly to his chest. "No, no, you didn't do anything wrong. You're the only thing I've done right. I love you so much, kiddo."

"I love you too, Daddy." I tried to reach my arms around him (since his neck was too far away), but my young appendages were too short to reach around his frame. He didn't seem to mind, though, and he continued squeezing me tightly, almost as if he thought I was going to run away when he let go. "I'm not gonna run, Daddy, I'm gonna be right here. Always."

I heard my father choke out another sob, and I tried to squish him back. Maybe he needed a hug like the one he was giving me to feel better. Momma came into the room, hearing the stressed notes erupting from the washroom. She stood in the doorway for a minute, I remembered, because I recalled how her perfume soaked into my nostrils before I actually felt her arms around me. My parents hugged me in between them, my father's distressed scent regressing into a clammed – or, rather, a home smelling one.

Later on, when I was much older, I realized how much my parents had truly sacrificed for each other. For me. Their marriage hadn't been considered legal in the eyes of my mother's parents; my existence had been an abomination to her family name, but she'd given it all up to be with my father, to have me. She wasn't the only one who'd given up things in their life for our family. My father, the strongest wolf I'd ever known, had given up his life with a pack, given up his own pack-mates to be with my mother and me. Years later, he told me about what had happened that night he'd come home with blood on his hands. He made me promise never to tell my mother, and I agreed; she wasn't a dainty woman, but she didn't need to know about what had transpired that night. There was nothing to tell her, I reasoned; the white soap had washed it all away.

- End -

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