The sounds Wash gave him were delicious, encouraging, and when all he wanted to do was roll them the fuck over and just rut like weasels, Tucker surprisingly kept himself in check. Self-control might not have been his forte, but he was even impressing himself. Especially when Wash was basically exploring his mouth like Lewis and Clark on a foot trail across the goddamn country.

Fuck.

Most of the pain of the day was burned away from the way he kissed Tucker, but the sharp edges remained. What would Church (Epsilon. It's important here) think of them, them together? Kissing. Seeking out something akin to comfort in alcohol and each other. Could all of the fucking projections and calculations lead them to this?

Would this be the same tomorrow, when the pain was a little less?

Tucker slowed the kiss, tapering it off, turning his head to brush his lips over that stubbled cheek that said it was five o'clock somewhere. His own face was surprisingly smooth, no hair, no marks, just dark skin that was soft to the calloused fingers on his jaw. "Wash," he whispered, and it was low, sultry, dark and soft like velvet as he loosened the hold of his legs. He just wanted to see what the other man would/could do.