The Golden Ratio

by Cole McCade

  “I am sorry,” Seong-Jae whispered against his throat, voice and breaths hitching, shoulders jerking. “I am…I am s-sorry I am l-like this…”

  “Never apologize.” Malcolm stroked Seong-Jae’s hair back from his fever-hot brow, the only part of him that still seemed to retain some kind of temperature. “Never apologize for needing me, omr-an. I’ll do anything you ask of me. That’s what love is.”

  “I do…d-do not…deserve your l-love, after wh-what…what I did…”

  “What did you do, Seong-Jae?” Malcolm stroked his hands over Seong-Jae’s back and arms, trying to rub the heat back into his flesh. “I know…you lied. You hid things from me. But you were afraid…and it’s not weak to be afraid of someone who abused you. It doesn’t make you a bad person because that fear led to bad decisions.”

  Seong-Jae’s fingers dug harder into Malcolm’s shoulders, nails digging in, Seong-Jae’s shoulders hunching. “But th-those…those bad decisions…c-could have killed you!” he flared.

  “But they didn’t,” Malcolm said firmly. “I’m still here. And I still love you. And you deserve it because I say you do.”

  Seong-Jae said nothing.

  Not even when the pain cut deeper, and Malcolm could only watch helplessly as Seong-Jae tried to swallow his cries. Malcolm thought if Seong-Jae asked him for something for the pain—even one Vicodin, one Oxy—Malcolm might actually break and give it to him, even if he knew he shouldn’t. Even if he knew that was one damned slippery slope from withdrawals down into a new addiction, and he wouldn’t do that to Seong-Jae even if it tore him apart to deny him.

  But Seong-Jae didn’t ask.

  Seong-Jae didn’t ask because Seong-Jae was Seong-Jae, and Malcolm had never known anyone who knew so clearly what he wanted as much as Seong-Jae did.

  And if Seong-Jae didn’t understand that that was why Malcolm loved him…

  Malcolm would just have to hold him until he could feel it—without question, without doubt.

  Always.

  No matter what may come, and no matter how bad things could be.

  C

  IT FELT ALMOST STRANGE TO wear a suit again, when he’d been completely casual for the last two months—settling into a sort of quiet domesticity with Seong-Jae, even if he was amazed they hadn’t nearly killed each other practically in solitary confinement like that. Maybe some of it was that they’d spent the first couple of weeks struggling nonstop through the last of their post-inpatient recovery processes, but…

  Malcolm had found it was nice to just…be with Seong-Jae.

  Quiet. Sharing the same space, breathing the same air.

  And he never felt like there wasn’t enough space in the room.

  …not even when Seong-Jae put on the worst true crime shows on Netflix, and snarled at the screen over every tiny thing they did wrong as if he watched the series just for the pure pleasure of picking them apart.

  Malcolm had just read his books, and kept his smile to himself.

  You’re really thinking about making this real, aren’t you.

  Signing a lease together. Something permanent.

  He idly watched traffic over the steering wheel as he took the last turn-off through Baltimore’s morning-gleaming streets toward the BPD Central HQ building, Seong-Jae quiet in the passenger’s seat, gazing thoughtfully out the window of the Camaro and watching the piled heaps of dirty, crusted late winter slurry-snow streak by along the sidewalks. Now and then, the fingers curled against his mouth shifted and he trailed his fingertip down the darkened tan line of the scar slashing between his eyes, starting on his right temple and crossing down between his brows, over his nose, to his left cheek. Mal didn’t even think he was aware of it, but it had started a few weeks ago as the wound healed enough to take the stitches out, and Mal just bit his tongue every time so it wouldn’t make Seong-Jae self-conscious.

  Their scars, somehow, felt like a strange bond.

  Even if they broke up tomorrow, they would always carry these reminders of each other—and that night.

  And the marks Seong-Jae left on his heart would be just as lasting as the scars, if they pulled apart.

  But could Malcolm even do permanent, after Gabrielle?

  Did he have the right to ask anyone for something like that again?

  …something like what, Mal?

  The hell are you thinking?

  He glanced at Seong-Jae sidelong once more.

  He honestly didn’t know.

  But he put the thought aside as he pulled into the parking lot and stole his usual spot, then exchanged a glance with Seong-Jae before ducking into the stairwell to take the stairs two at a time up to the homicide bullpen.

  Yet he wasn’t prepared for the hard shocking sense of longing that struck, catching him off-guard and stopping him cold as he pushed the door open on their floor and stepped out into the hall, that doorway with BPD Homicide on the stamped plate beckoning to him as if calling him home.

  He told himself every day that he only stayed on the job because it was the right thing to do.

  Because it kept him with Seong-Jae.

  But there was a gnawing in his gut, a heaviness in his veins, and he realized…

  He missed the scent of the hunt.

  But there was no gun in his shoulder holsters, no badge heavy in his breast pocket. He felt like he’d been declawed, defanged…and completely out of place, as he pushed the door to the bullpen open with Seong-Jae at his back.

  A brief moment of silent tension ran through the room, the clusters of conversation and muttering industry falling silent, a few sharp, wary looks turned their way.

  Before, one after another, every eye turned pointedly away from them, every detective in the bullpen going blank as if they weren’t there.

  Guess they were still on everyone’s shit list, then.

  Persona non grata.

  Except to the Captain, who came loping out of her office with that usual free-swinging stride like a jackknife in motion, her loose, crisp black slacks swaying around her angular frame and her heeled, zippered boots clicking. She looked neater than usual, her wild short crop of black hair actually combed into place in a clean side part instead of raked up in a spiky mess, her suit coat crisply buttoned over a broad black tie, emphasizing the lean, razored angularity of her frame, the gray and white fabric sharp against her dusky skin.

  Piercing, foxlike eyes skewered them both, before landing on Malcolm. “I didn’t ask for you.”

  He shrugged. It ached when she looked at him as if they were strangers, but he’d earned it. “I was bored, and didn’t want him taking his Harley in the snow.” He tossed his head over his shoulder to Seong-Jae.

  “I could have driven your car,” Seong-Jae murmured, leaning in close.

  “Yeah,” Malcolm said over his shoulder, “but then I’d have had to stay ho—”

  He was cut off by a sharp, feminine voice from behind them, in the hall. “Move,” someone said.

  Right before something straight, rigid and metallic pressed against his side, shoving firmly.

  Malcolm stumbled into Seong-Jae, eyes widening, as they both let themselves be swept to the side of the door by…

  …by a girl about the size of a teacup, all hair and not much else, a cloud of light brown curls spraying around her freckled, pale, heart-shaped face, her green eyes glinting sharp behind a large pair of pink-framed glasses. She had a small rosebud of a mouth, and that mouth was quite expressive at conveying disapproval as she swept Malcolm over with a look that made him feel about six inches tall. She dropped the slim metal crutch—the silver surface completely encrusted in black glitter appliques of tiny bats—she’d used to shove him, leaning on it and adjusting her weight for just a moment before she swept past them and forward in a fluid swing, crutches working in tandem with thin legs supported by braces to propel her swiftly across the room and toward Sade’s den.

  The backpack she wore jingled, dangling with…several glittery cat collars? She’d been weari
ng a glittery cat collar, Mal realized, with a little silver bell, the PVC the same muted pastel blue as her coat and skirt and tights and fluffy boots.

  And she had fuzzy blue cat ears poking out from her massive showering cloud of curly hair, tucked into the tumble on a little plastic headband.

  Huh.

  Seong-Jae leaned around him, staring after her, blinking slowly. “…who is that?”

  “Temp sysadmin. Possibly temp to hire,” Anjulie answered as she crossed the room to them, straightening her coat. “We need someone if Sade’s not coming back. She comes very well recommended.”

  Malcolm lingered on the door to Sade’s den. Not Sade’s den so much anymore, then…and he realized what was missing.

  Those brightly colored lights.

  They were gone, leaving only the pale white of the overheads filtering out through the door, and a few weak spots of color from the server stacks.

  He guessed the little spider really wasn’t coming back.

  The girl leaned out, then, fixing him with that sharp, withering look once more, stern over the rims of her glasses—before her eyes snapped to Seong-Jae, and Seong-Jae actually recoiled.

  “The two of you should invest in a more effective brand of soap,” the girl said crisply, her voice carrying over the room. She spoke with a certain lilting primness that made it hard to tell if she was irritated, or on the verge of laughing. “You still smell like freshly ejaculated semen, and Platinum brand lubricant.”

  Before she disappeared once more to a chorus of muffled snickers, leaving Malcolm spluttering, managing to choke on fucking nothing on his next breath of air.

  Seong-Jae just stared, lips parted and frozen, before he mumbled a numb, deadpan, “I. What.”

  “That’s Adelaide.” Anjulie smirked. “She’s honest. I like her.”

  Honest.

  That was one word for it.

  Malcolm sucked in a few more breaths until they evened out, then smiled ruefully, shrugging—but his smile faded as Anjulie shot him another look that said he wasn’t out of the doghouse yet, and she wasn’t interested in sharing the joke. She eyed him, before sighing and jerking her pointed chin at Seong-Jae.

  “My office.” Another look for Malcolm. “I suppose you can come. But keep your mouth shut.”

  …huh.

  Just what the hell was going on?

  But Malcolm dutifully kept his mouth quite shut, and dipped a bow for Seong-Jae to precede him.

  Of course Seong-Jae rolled his eyes at him.

  Of course.

  And swept past with that long, prowling stride, taut shoulders moving inside the black leather racing jacket that used to be Malcolm’s but would never look as good on him as it did on Seong-Jae.

  Even before they stepped into Anjulie’s office, Malcolm caught a glimpse of what was waiting for them through the glass front wall of the room, marked in the set of firm, square shoulders inside a crisp suit—the sort of neat, nondescript black suit that just screamed federal agency. Only a fed would be able to take a fine double-breasted wool suit that expensive and make it look that completely bland and uniform.

  The owner of the suit waited with his hands clasped in front of him and his feet spread in a square stance; he was a little below average height, but radiated the easy confidence of a man twice his size, his wide shoulders adding to his bulk to make him rather solid and imposing. Older, his skin that particular shade of rich golden-brown with subtle red highlights that said Southeast Asian, complemented by the thoughtful cast of angled black eyes. His sharply, neatly cut black hair was beginning to gray at the temples, and seemed pinned back by the severe, black-rimmed glasses resting on his smooth, broad nose. He had a sort of weathered grace to his face, all slopes and angles, handsome enough in a sort of withdrawn, self-assured way, his mouth grave and authoritarian with a touch of kindness.

  But that self-assurance and gravitas completely vanished as Seong-Jae stepped into the room ahead of Malcolm. The man turned his head toward him—and stiffened, eyes widening as he recoiled.

  “What happened to your face?” the man demanded, while Seong-Jae stopped in his tracks, going pale, just staring at the man with a stricken expression that Malcolm couldn’t parse as either irritation, horror, or both.

  “Why are you here?” Seong-Jae blurted at the same time.

  Malcolm blinked.

  …oh, he didn’t like this.

  Suit.

  Fed.

  FBI, probably, and he knew Seong-Jae.

  He had a feeling a mess was about to explode, and overflow this tiny office.

  He pulled the door closed behind him, leaning against it and staying out of the way; eyes on Seong-Jae and the stranger, Anjulie rounded the desk, but held her tongue as well.

  The stranger offered Seong-Jae a self-deprecating smile and spread his hands. “Well…”

  “No,” Seong-Jae bit off, a growl deepening his voice into a husky, jagged-edged rasp. Black eyes snapped. “Whatever you want, the answer is no.”

  “Seong-Jae,” the man pleaded softly, and Mal ground his teeth, hackles bristling. No colleague should be using Seong-Jae’s given name with that kind of familiarity. “He’s back.” Heavy significance on the words, the man holding Seong-Jae’s eyes firmly, something dark and meaningful passing between them. “That one case you always…”

  That particular stillness Seong-Jae had when something completely captured him, that silence that flowed through him like water, fell over him now. He remained wordless with just the slightest parting of his lips, staring at the man—before with a soft tch, he tore his gaze away, staring past the Captain toward the windows looking out over Baltimore.

  “When?” he asked tightly.

  “Yesterday afternoon,” the man answered.

  Malcolm frowned, idly tracing his thumb beneath his lower lip before stroking through his beard, flicking his gaze between Seong-Jae, the newcomer, and Anjulie, who watched with a sort of weary patience that said she didn’t want to be here and didn’t need this on her doorstep.

  “Am I the only one who doesn’t know what’s going on here?” Mal asked.

  The newcomer glanced at him as if just barely bothering to acknowledge he was there, allowing Malcolm to exist in his perceptions. “Is he cleared for this?”

  He is standing right here, Malcolm growled to himself, but bit his tongue.

  Anjulie sighed, gesturing toward the man. “This is Special Supervisory Agent Aanga Joshi.”

  Fuck.

  Malcolm hated when his intuition was right.

  “Behavioral Analysis Unit—BAU,” he concluded immediately, just because he knew Seong-Jae’s past—then narrowed his eyes, flicking over Joshi again. Something prickled in the back of his mind; that name was Nepali, and…

  Late nights, lying in bed, while Seong-Jae slipped out and Malcolm pretended to be asleep, pretended not to hear the subtle, furtive whispers in a language he’d swear was Nepali, quick secretive phone calls that weighed on Malcolm for night after night, but he didn’t know how to ask What are you hiding? until what Seong-Jae was hiding had a steel wire around Malcolm’s neck and lilting, hateful laughter in his ear…

  He worked his jaw, trying to ignore the sense of unease that ran a clammy cold licking tongue down his spine and settled in an icy congealed lump in the small of his back.

  It didn’t mean anything.

  But, “Division Chief,” he added, after another glance over Joshi—the way he carried himself, the shine of his shoes, the weave of his tie. His hands. He had weathered hands, but they weren’t hands that did active field work. Once, but not anymore. They’d settled behind a desk, just as Joshi had.

  So something critical must have sent him out from behind that desk, and out here to retrieve Seong-Jae.

  Something that would take rank to pull off, if he was coming for Seong-Jae in person.

  Joshi regarded him with the same assessing gaze, but whatever he saw—as he scanned over Malcolm with a sort of guarded interest�
�he kept to himself and simply offered a tight, withdrawn smile. “Good catch.”

  “He’s here to request Yoon for a special case,” Anjulie said, sinking down into her chair and leaning back, cocking one ankle against the opposite knee. “Apparently an inter-agency task force of two.”

  “No, thank you,” Seong-Jae said immediately.

  “Seong-Jae,” Joshi said, with an exasperated heave of his shoulders. “You’re the best one for this case. You were the one who cracked the pattern.”

  “And I left the BAU,” Seong-Jae threw back. “I do not wish to work a case with you. I have a job here.”

  “Technically,” Anjulie cut in dryly, “You don’t right now.”

  “Not helping,” Seong-Jae snarled.

  He was practically vibrating, his hands slowly curling into clenching fists, his upper lip drawing back from his teeth one fraction at a time—all those little tell-tale signs Malcolm knew by heart, things someone else might miss…but he realized he wasn’t the only one taking in those signs.

  Joshi was, too, watching Seong-Jae with absolute attentiveness.

  And Malcolm didn’t think Seong-Jae would appreciate Malcolm’s sudden and extremely possessive urge to rest a hand to the small of Seong-Jae’s back—when it would be as much an attempt to comfort him as it would be an attempt to mark his claim, when he caught the intent of another animal with Seong-Jae’s scent on his tongue.

  No.

  He was just reading into the taut, charged body language between them.

  …wasn’t he?

  The silence stretched on for several more moments, before Joshi said, “One case. He killed nearly three dozen people this time—in one swoop. He’s going to kill more. You could prevent that, if you can help us predict where he’s going to go next.”

  Seong-Jae closed his eyes, chest rising and falling in a slow, deep breath. “That is not fair.”

  Joshi smiled faintly. “What can I say? I know what gets under your skin.”

  “Fuck. You,” Seong-Jae spat with a vehemence that Malcolm practically felt like static on the air, and fuck if he had to hold himself in place—only for Seong-Jae to turn that fierce look on him, dark eyes hot, boiling, but also…