You can feel Dave's need to say something like a tangible weight on the air. You pick up the glass of champagne you'd set aside in favor of more visceral pursuits and sip it, waiting. He has never been good at keeping his peace.

"Man," he says, "I cannot believe you went there. Hey, twitchy little alien attack beast, welcome to Earth, where sexing up your slave in front of someone you barely know is totally cool and acceptable behavior. Just met? Let's trade orgasm faces, it's like the handshake of my people."

You set the glass down again. "It was a gamble," you admit.

"What. Seriously." You don't have to be able to see his face to know he's raising his eyebrows at you. "Rose, a gamble is when you eat the leftovers in the back of the fridge even though you can't remember when you shoved them in there. Playing public sex chicken with the ambassadors from intergalactic fuckyouupistan is so far beyond that level it needs a new word. A new lexicon."

He's pacing, which means he's afraid he's going to make a facial expression and doesn't want you to see it. "It was a calculated risk," you insist. "And it paid off perfectly. They're confused and exposed and they don't know what to expect from us, and they've demonstrated that they're willing to go to lengths they find uncomfortable in order to avoid offending what we present as cultural norms."

Dave shakes his head and you think you catch him in a smile. "I gotta hand it to you, Madam Lalonde. I don't know anyone else who could provide a more precise political analysis of watching cute aliens bang."

"Thank you, Mister Strider," you say. "It is always a treat to have one's talents appreciated." You rest your elbows on the arms of your chair and steeple your fingers together. "Now. We should make plans if we're to press our advantage tomorrow."