Work Text:
The hallway outside the Senate chamber smelled like cigarettes, furniture polish, and old men trying to outlive history.
Lyndon B. Johnson stood with one hand braced against the wall, looming over everybody who crossed his path like a thunderstorm in a tailored suit. Even after the presidency, even after the war had chewed through his legacy and spat it back out bloody, he still occupied space like he owned the country underneath it.
Then there was Jimmy Carter — all sharp smiles and Georgia softness, the kind of man people underestimated because he looked like he might apologize before ruining your life.
Lyndon hated him instantly.
“You’re too damn clean,” Lyndon muttered, eyeing Jimmy over a glass of bourbon.
Jimmy smiled politely. “And you’re drunk.”
“Former presidents are allowed to be.”
“Former presidents are also allowed to develop shame.”
That got a bark of laughter out of Lyndon — sudden and rough. “Christ. You talk like a Sunday school teacher holdin’ a knife.”
Jimmy took the empty seat beside him. Too close. Deliberately close.
The ballroom around them buzzed with donors, reporters, old cabinet members. Somewhere, a band was massacring “Stars and Stripes Forever.” Nobody important was paying attention to them yet.
Good.
Lyndon leaned back. “You think you’re better than me.”
Jimmy crossed one leg over the other. “I think I sleep better than you.”
The grin vanished from Lyndon’s face.
There it was.
The wound.
Jimmy had always been good at finding weak spots. People saw kindness and forgot kindness required observation. You couldn’t comfort people without first learning where they broke.
Lyndon stared at him with narrowed eyes. “You got no idea what it costs to run this country.”
“No,” Jimmy said softly. “I think I know exactly what it costs you.”
Silence.
Hot. Sharp. Dangerous.
Lyndon’s fingers tightened around the bourbon glass hard enough Jimmy thought it might crack.
“You smug little Baptist,” Lyndon growled.
“And yet you keep inviting me to these things.”
“I invite everybody.”
“You watched me the entire night.”
That hit harder than either expected.
Lyndon scoffed and looked away first, which in itself felt historic.
“You got this act,” he muttered. “The decent man routine.”
“It isn’t a routine.”
“That’s worse.”
Jimmy’s expression flickered — amused, but tired around the edges. “You know what your problem is, Mr. Johnson?”
“I got several.”
“You think guilt is the same thing as morality.”
Lyndon turned back slowly.
The room suddenly felt too small.
“You wanna say that again?”
Jimmy should have backed off. Anybody sane would’ve.
Instead he leaned in.
Close enough for Lyndon to smell peanuts and aftershave.
Close enough to make it obvious.
“You heard me.”
Lyndon grabbed Jimmy by the wrist under the table with startling force.
Not enough to hurt.
Enough to warn.
The smile disappeared from Jimmy’s face at last.
There was the real thing underneath: stubbornness carved down to the bone.
“You think because you build houses and grin for cameras you’re pure?” Lyndon hissed. “This country eats men like us alive.”
Jimmy didn’t pull away.
“Maybe,” he said quietly. “But it ate you first.”
Jesus Christ.
Lyndon looked like he wanted to either kiss him or kill him.
Possibly both.
Especially both.
The band swelled louder. Applause erupted somewhere across the ballroom. Neither of them moved.
Two Southern men with accents like warm honey and old violence, sitting knee-to-knee beneath chandelier light, pretending hatred and fascination weren’t kissing cousins.
Lyndon finally released his wrist.
Jimmy looked down at the reddening marks, then back up at him with something almost fond.
“Told you,” he murmured. “Drunk.”
Lyndon laughed again — low, bitter, helpless.
“You are gonna be the death of me.”
Jimmy stood, smoothing out his suit jacket.
“No,” he said. “History already handled that.”
And then he walked away while Lyndon watched him go like a man witnessing either salvation or a natural disaster.