both of us | {kay}

That flow, that spark, that crown, you looking at the king of the jungle now
Stronger than ever can’t hold me down

For Benedict Tucker, it's another Monday morning. He'd pushed the absolute limits of his alarm clock, had chosen to douse himself in cologne instead of forfeiting more time to a shower, and crammed most of a banana into his cheeks on the way out the door. His uniform - which was only properly crisp when it returned from the dry cleaners - fell askew. He'd missed at least one button, and attempted to rectify the situation on the train to the center of the Capitol. He caught a few shocked stares as he shrugged out of the white jacket, which only encouraged him. He spent most of the ride in his wife beater and suspenders, only making a passing attempt at smoothing out his jacket. As he stepped onto the platform, he shrugged it back on, matched the buttons, and marched into his precinct headquarters.

"Ahh, Mondays," he said to the administrator, flashing his badge (which had been sewn into the jacket as he'd misplaced it so often) as he waltzed through the metal detector. Dick scooped up the stack of missives from his desk on his way to the break room. Which, incidentally, was the best room in the entire building. Nowhere else could you find such piss poor coffee and such excellent gossip.

He strolled in, prepared to be ambushed by a weekend full of parties and hookups and scandals, to find eyes downcast and mouths twisted. He couldn't account for it, so he babbled about his own follies as he poured himself a mug of stale coffee.

From the corner of the room, "yeah, I'm sure no one noticed. Funerals are fucking tough. It's just not going to be the same here without him."

Dick pawed through the stack of papers, teasing out a letter from the Captain. He used his teeth to open the envelope. The sticky sweet of the glue coated his tongue as he scanned the contents of the letter. "Fuck," he muttered.

"Something eating you, Tucker?" One of the funeral-going Peacekeepers asked, an edge to his voice.

Dick straightened, burying the letter in the stack of paperwork. "Wasn't a statement. It was a question. You know funerals; they're always followed by an orgy. I'm surprised y'all are able to walk today."

"Fuck you, Tucker."

"Love to, but I've got work to do." He bit down on the papers, carrying them in his mouth. He waved with his free hand, balanced the hot coffee carefully with the other, all the way back to his desk. Some of the break room Keepers muttered as they walked passed his desk, but they were all entirely too used to him. It was glorious that he'd even gotten one to tell him off, which was depressing. He really needed better quarry.

Sipping on the coffee, he turned over the letter again. He read it twice, just to be sure there wasn't any wiggle room. Then, ignoring the instructions to be prompt and polite, he kicked his feet up on his desk. And he watched her. For an hour he watched grief consume her; for an hour he watched the loss drain all of the color from her face. In that span of time, he fiddled with the pencils on his desk, made paper airplanes out of the forms he was supposed to fill out. But he never touched his coffee.

Everyone else in the office talked about the funeral, about losing their colleague. But no one once approached her.

When he was positive the coffee had cooled beyond repair, he gripped by the base, and stood, spilling the mostly full container all over his rumpled uniform. He made entirely too big a fuss, changing in broad view of the field of desks. He stripped down to his boxers and wife beater, dug out a pair of jeans and paisley sweater from the lost and found, and tucked his ruined uniform under his arm. "Gotta get this stain out before it sets," he said to the Captain, who just rolled his eyes and reminded him about the goddamn forms and promising him overnight shifts for a week. But Dick wasn't even listening as he strolled up to Lani's desk.

"Time to go," he said by way of introduction. "This uniform has a date with the cleaners, and then you and I are getting lunch." He grinned his shit-eating grin. That's the thing about the fool: nothing, not even something foolish, is ever done by mistake.