#kryptonitanott

Washington glances at himself in the mirror - grey suit jacket, yellow tie, pants nearly as dark as the shadows under his eyes from paranoid insomnia - and back to Carolina with a shrug. “Looks fine. Where’s Tucker?”

“Waiting for you, asshole,” comes a voice from around the corner. Washington steps out of the little bedroom and into the hallway. Tucker is dressed in sleek black, with a tie that nearly matches his signature blue-green armor, eyes on his tablet. The clothes actually seem to fit him, and Washington feels a stab of envy at how Tucker can mold himself to fit this role.

And then he looks up, gives Washington a dramatic elevator-eyes and a “damn, people might actually believe that I’d tap that” and all of his respect goes out the airlock.

———

The first hour is a disaster. 

By the time they escape the cloying mass of delegates all trying to one-up each other in terms of false charity, Washington is ready to drown Carolina’s earpiece in his complimentary cocktail. Her instructions had led to improvisation, then to barking orders and now to a frosty silence while she no doubt tried to cool  her nerves and try to find some way to corral them both.

Tucker, for his credit, is good at playing the part of the vaunted guest. He’s lapped up the praise given to him by all parties - only gloated a little bit in the face of a Sangheili representative lauding Junior’s skills in sports and politely tabled discussion of his not-entirely-intentional pregnancy - but his ability to cooperate ends there. They’ve split up for the moment, with Washington hunched over a table that allows for the best view of all the entrances and exits, and Tucker as close to the ‘bar and broads’ as possible.

The pass Tucker makes at a waitress is so obvious Washington can see it from here. Part of him wants to throw his glass at the bastard, but he knows that a scene is the last thing they need right now. He just needs to be patient, wait it out a few short days on this pleasure cruise and–

“Marital problems?” asks someone at his elbow. Washington jumps, hand halfway through reaching for a gun he isn’t wearing, before looking over to his new companion. It’s some form of alien, one he doesn’t totally recognize; somewhat humanoid, but with a hunched back, bald head and a flat face. Small, bright eyes take him in, and the alien smiles. “It is not to worry, David Tucker. There is to be a dance soon, and all will be well.”

“A…. dance.”

“Yes. I have studied much human culture,” the alien preens, “and I do nothing in small measure.”

“Great. Fine. Okay.” Washington takes a sip of his cocktail, keeps a straight face as Carolina chimes in with a mocking ‘really?’ and looks back at Tucker.

To his surprise, Tucker is already looking at him. Surrounded by humans and a smattering of aliens, he seems to have paused in the middle of a story to look for him. After a beat, his face settles into a grin and he gestures for Washington to come join him.

“If you’ll excuse me,” he says, pulling social grace out of his ass as he stands. The alien doesn’t stop him, so he descends the short flight of stairs back down to the main floor of the room.

As he approaches, Tucker takes the last step to close the distance and, as smoothly as though he’s done it every day for years, leans up and kisses Washington on the corner of the mouth. Brief enough to be chase, long enough that the sensation lingers and distracts Washington from Tucker’s greeting.

“What?” he asks, his tone harsh and flat compared to whatever playful thing Tucker had said. “Come again,” he flails for a pet name, “peaches?”

‘Did you just call him–’

“I said,” Tucker says, a little sharper this time, “that I told everyone about your bowel condition, so you don’t have to hide it. Feeling better?”

The rate at which Tucker is able to gain and then immediately, dramatically lose Washington’s respect is enough to make his head spin. “I was,” he grits, “but I feel like I might need another drink.”