The Golden Ratio

by Cole McCade

Aanga looked between them before speaking, quiet but firm. “I need you both in L.A.” Not quite entreating…but close. As close as someone as proud as Aanga ever came. “I need you where I can tap you on command to respond to this case instead of having to fly cross-country to fetch you or coordinate meets from different locations, losing even more time. Because I believe you both. We don’t have years of escalation to wait on this case. It’s going to move fast, and we can’t lose a single minute.”

  Seong-Jae arched a brow. “That is highly unorthodox.”

  “Trust me,” Aanga said wryly. “You’ll both have plenty to keep you busy.”

  Then those dark eyes that he had once thought he might love but in the end still managed to respect were on him—fixing on Seong-Jae, seeming to try to push inside him, to find a place within him as if there might still be room for Aanga.

  “What do you say, Seong-Jae?” Aanga asked softly. “Ready to come home?”

  Home.

  That one word alone gave Seong-Jae doubt. Made him question, when…

  He had a home.

  He had made a home in Baltimore. With Malcolm.

  And that home would be out of his reach for…

  Weeks. Months. Years, possibly, if he stepped in on this case and let himself be at Aanga’s beck and call.

  Years steeped in the mind of a blood-drenched killer.

  Years soaking himself in that darkness until he drowned, and completely lost himself.

  Yet he did not know if he could live with himself, either, if there was something he could do to stop this monster…

  And he chose not to.

  For a moment, the fog walling him off from his emotions cleared. For a moment, the glass binding him tightly shattered. And for a moment…

  For a moment, he felt what he had been repressing; what the numbness, the dissociation, had been protecting him from.

  Grief.

  Without stages, without progression, simply raw and shattering and rushing through him with ripping violence, threatening to tear the breath from his lungs, threatening to crack his chest open into a howling void, threatening to choke him into nothing.

  Grief for the peace that had felt just within his reach for the first time in nearly twenty years.

  And now he was watching it crumble up and blow away, shattered into dust.

  Without thinking, he reached for Malcolm’s hand, grasped tight.

  It was only the touch of that weathered hand, holding to his so firmly, with such faith, such reassurance, that let him pull himself together. Let him speak, without his voice breaking and falling into despair.

  “Los Angeles is not home anymore,” he said firmly, looking down at Aanga. “But I will come if Malcolm will.”

  Malcolm squeezed his hand—an unspoken promise, loyal and true, and Seong-Jae knew even before he lifted his head what he would find in those slate blue eyes that watched him as if Malcolm had never looked anywhere else in his life, glowing with warmth, with solemn sweet love.

  “I go where you go,” Malcolm swore softly. “Always.”

  Seong-Jae would not break in front of Aanga.

  But he only hoped the love that burned star-bright inside him right now would be enough to light the darkness, and keep the grief, the horror, the sorrow at bay.

  “Then,” he said reluctantly, “I suppose we are on the case.”

  “Good.” Aanga nodded slowly. “I’ll spend the next few days here working the sites. Wrap up loose ends with Garza, and get all the information and evidence we’ll need to transport from local scenes. We’ll work from the Los Angeles field office unless something happens to bring us back to Phoenix with another suspect.” There was something grave, foreboding, in his eyes as he looked at Seong-Jae, then at Malcolm, a heaviness weighing his brows. “You’ll have tickets home by morning. I’ll clear things with your Captain. Wrap up your affairs, get your things together…because I want you in Los Angeles by the weekend.”

  [15: MOVE SLOW]

  MALCOLM LEANED AGAINST THE HEADBOARD of the hotel room bed with Seong-Jae cradled between his thighs, his partner’s back leaning against Malcolm’s chest and Malcolm’s arms clasped loosely around his stomach. He buried his face in Seong-Jae’s hair, closed his eyes, and just…

  Breathed.

  It was the only thing he could do, right now.

  Breathe, and try to let all of this settle inside him like sediment settling at the bottom of a river, because if he didn’t…

  He didn’t know. He just…didn’t know.

  Too many things conflicted inside him. The horror tried to dominate everything, that shocked raw feeling that made his brain feel burned, ragged around the edges, the sheer idea of everything the Golden Ratio Killer had done struggling to even find a place in a mind that actively rejected the very possibility.

  But flirting with the edges of that horror was sorrow, for the lives lost and the people hurt for one man’s twisted quest. A sort of detached confusion, that anyone could feel driven to do these things. A quiet and nagging self-doubt that he was even equal to this task, when even if he and Seong-Jae worked so well together…

  This was a complex case, and a pattern he couldn’t even begin to sort out just yet.

  Working this case would take everything he had, and he still wasn’t sure it would be enough.

  Maybe he wasn’t smart enough.

  Maybe he didn’t have the right experience in behavioral analysis.

  Maybe he wouldn’t have the emotional fortitude to face this sickness again and again.

  Or maybe he was just too old and tired.

  Mostly, though…

  Mostly, right now, he was just angry.

  Even with their indefinite suspension…life in Baltimore had been good. Malcolm and Seong-Jae learning how to fit their lives together, recovering from the scars left not just on their bodies, but on their minds. The quiet days, the playful jabs, the work of moving in together, the nights at once sacred and profane in how they came together to kiss, love, hold, comfort…fuck, even the bad nights, the nights when Seong-Jae couldn’t sleep for the cold sweats or Malcolm snapped awake with the feeling of steel wire around his throat. They’d both been hurt, but they were getting better.

  Only to be thrown back into the deep end to drown, without even a psych eval to clear them for duty again.

  He didn’t think he was ready for this.

  He didn’t think Seong-Jae was ready for this.

  And while he wasn’t quite sure where to direct his anger when it seemed to encompass so many things and so many people…

  Part of him wanted to lay it all at the feet of Aanga Joshi, even if Malcolm knew it was more complex than that and he was being entirely unfair.

  He wasn’t that kind of man, didn’t believe in ownership or jealousy.

  But he had a reason to be wary of Seong-Jae’s ex-boyfriends.

  And Aanga looked at Seong-Jae as if he knew every sweet sensitive spot hidden away under his clothing, and that just made Malcolm…

  Hmph.

  “You are tense,” Seong-Jae said without opening his eyes—the first thing he had said in hours. He was so worrisomely blank, but Malcolm had figured out months ago that that was a protective mechanism and often, Seong-Jae simply needed to be held and sheltered until he felt safe enough to emerge from behind that gray wall of nothingness.

  “Sorry.” Opening his eyes, Malcolm took a deep, slow breath, trying to force himself to relax. To just…let go, and let himself calm down to the point where he wasn’t stressing Seong-Jae even more. “I’m trying not to overthink this.”

  “You are allowed to struggle to process this, Malcolm. I know I am.” Seong-Jae cracked one eyelid open, then adjusted his weight to press closer into Malcolm, nestling his head against his shoulder, for all the world like a cat leaning on its human to offer comfort and support. “And you do not have to repress your emotions in a fruitless attempt to remain stable for my sake.”

  Malcolm winced, then smiled weakly.
“Am I that obvious?”

  “Where I tend to self-efface, you tend to self-suppress.” Seong-Jae let one hand fall to rest on Malcolm’s thigh, gripping, kneading, strong fingers a comforting rhythm. “You do not always have to be the strong one. Neither of us have to be. Sometimes it is all right if we hurt and break together, rather than taking turns.”

  “I just…” A sigh dredged up from deep in Malcolm’s chest. “I feel like I’ve been hit by lightning, and I can’t even process how much pain I’m in because half my nerves have been seared away.”

  “Sudden upheaval has a way of doing that. It is quite similar to how I feel, in the moment.”

  “But…it’s worse for you. Because this is plunging you right back into the source of old trauma.”

  “Tch. Stop that.” Those massaging fingers curled, and Seong-Jae’s fist thumped lightly against Malcolm’s thigh. “This is not a game of who has it worse. And I am not the only one with repressed trauma from this job. You have absorbed many years of residual trauma from your work as well, and now have been forced to face the shock of a new traumatic event that has left a deep impression on you. Do not downplay that out of pride, or out of a misguided attempt to avoid undermining my trauma.” With a disgruntled, irritable sound, Seong-Jae shifted partially sideways to burrow into Malcolm, closing his eye again. “Like I said. We can hurt together. And since we cannot fix it and can only take comfort in each other, stop being annoying and comfort me.”

  Malcolm couldn’t stop his short burst of laughter—but it eased a bit of the weight crushing down on him, the heaviness in his chest, and he bowed his head to nuzzle Seong-Jae’s shoulder, smoothing his hands up his omr-an’s back, soaking his warmth and the solidity of lithe muscle into his palms.

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “Ass.”

  “Jot.”

  “Your accent is still atrocious,” Seong-Jae muttered.

  “I do it on purpose because you say that every time.” Still Malcolm smiled faintly, even if it felt like a mask, hoping that if he held on to it long enough it would feel real. Settling to rest his chin to Seong-Jae’s shoulder, he murmured, “We’re not going home any time soon, are we. Not to stay.”

  Several moments passed, pensive, before Seong-Jae answered slowly, “…no. Likely not.”

  “You feel responsible, don’t you?” Malcolm asked. “For these murders. For every one that will come after.”

  “Yes.” A single word, so quiet, so empty, and yet it was that very emptiness that made it so raw and painful. “I cracked his pattern. I did not crack him.” Where they pressed together, Malcolm could feel Seong-Jae’s heartbeat skip, shudder, change, thumping between them. “If I had…”

  “They still might not have found him. And this still might have happened.” Malcolm threaded his fingers into Seong-Jae’s hair, kissing his temple. “It’s not your fault,” he murmured against golden skin, tracing his lips toward the very tip of that scar between Seong-Jae’s eyes. “And you don’t have to jump just because your ex snapped his fingers, and you feel guilty for leaving him.”

  Seong-Jae stiffened, pulling back to fix Malcolm with a peevish, almost sullen scowl, black eyes snapping. “…that was not fair. Jot.”

  Malcolm half-smiled. “You just hate when I’m right.”

  “Shut up,” Seong-Jae huffed, then flumped himself down sulkily against Malcolm again, the red fullness of his lower lip thrusting out—but never let it be said that he was pouting. Grumbling, he burrowed his face against Malcolm’s chest. “I hurt Aanga. Selfishly. I know sometimes it is simply that two people do not work out, and that is how it must be, and no amount of pain or struggle will force it to work, but…” He trailed off with a sigh. “I feel as though I used him.”

  “Did you mean to?”

  “No,” Seong-Jae answered after several long moments. “I just realized, once I had learned certain things about myself…” He stopped, and Malcolm thought he might simply let it end there, until Seong-Jae said, soft and almost wistful, “I realized I did not feel the same attachment to him that he felt to me. That my fondness for him was more as a mentor and perhaps father figure, and I quite frankly did not want to tie sex and romance to someone I saw in more of a parental light.”

  “Hey.” Malcolm arched a brow, eyeing him. “Do you see me in a more parental light?”

  “No, old man,” Seong-Jae huffed, and flicked his fingertips against Malcolm’s chest. “Aanga is older than you. Fifty-five.”

  “Huh. He doesn’t look it.” Malcolm chuckled. “And you have a thing for old men.”

  “I do not,” Seong-Jae growled. “Twice is not enough to establish a pattern. Twice is not even a trend.”

  “Uh-huh.” Malcolm let his fingers slip down out of Seong-Jae’s hair to curl against the back of his neck, just…touching, keeping contact, something to comfort them both. “So is he the one you were calling in the middle of the night when you thought I was asleep?”

  He was half prepared to have Seong-Jae kicking to get out of his arms like a cat who’d just had its tail pulled.

  And Seong-Jae did stiffen, tensing, but rather than pull away he just lifted his head, staring at Malcolm strangely. “You were awake?”

  “Guilty,” Malcolm answered with a wry smile. “And from the accents it sounded like you were speaking Nepali. And Aanga Joshi is a Nepali name, isn’t it?”

  Seong-Jae made an inarticulate, flustered sound, a dash of red across his cheeks, and scowled. “Why did you never say anything before this?”

  “You tend to run when I push too hard at your secrets.” And it ached to say it out loud, ached to admit it, but… “And back then, I was afraid if you ran…you wouldn’t come back.”

  Seong-Jae blinked at him, his expression crumpling, before dark lashes swept down as he lowered his eyes. “I…I am sorry, Malcolm. I was trying so very intently to keep Sila from touching you, from tainting you, little knowing that he had already woven you into his web since before I ever set eyes on you. Aanga at least knew of my attempts to pin down this elusive potential figment of my imagination, and when I wanted to protect you…” Seong-Jae swallowed. “He was the only one I could ask for help.”

  “Hey. Come here.” Malcolm coaxed Seong-Jae in closer, just a touch of pressure against his nape, enough that Malcolm could brush his lips first to one corner of that lush mouth, then the other, as if he could coax the deep indentations of guilt away. “It’s all right. I know you had your reasons. It’s in the past, I just…wanted to know. And thank you for telling me the truth.”

  “I am trying.” Seong-Jae closed his eyes with a pained sound, resting his temple to Malcolm’s. “Deflection is…an unfortunate habit, but I promise you that I am trying, Malcolm.”

  “I know you are. I know.” Malcolm sighed, curling his arms around Seong-Jae’s shoulders, gathering him in. “That bastard just gets under my skin. He told me I was too soft for you.”

  “…what.” Seong-Jae snarled under his breath. “Why would he even say that?”

  “Your guess is as good as mine. Did you tell him about the cupcakes?” Malcolm answered with a snort. “Or am I just not a big enough asshole for you? Were you hoping for someone more dominant? Whips and chains and grinding you into submission?”

  “…I would murder you if you even tried, and they would never find the body.”

  Yet…there was something odd, there. Just a little catch in Seong-Jae’s voice, a momentary hesitation, but it was something Malcolm knew far too well when he felt as though he had learned to read the language of Seong-Jae in the length of silences, the cadence of breath, those tiny hints of body language that hinted at restraint—as if Seong-Jae’s tongue was a leash holding his words at bay, silencing his thoughts. Malcolm should probably let it go, but…

  “Seong-Jae…is…there something about me that isn’t…enough for you? Something he did for you that I don’t?”

  “No,” Seong-Jae answered vehemently, opening his eyes, staring at Malcolm fiercely. He was
all crackling black lightning like this, sharp-edged and fierce and quick-strike hot. “I want you just as you are, Malcolm Khalaji.”

  That shouldn’t gut him so much, in all the best ways…and yet the worst ache was that that doubt was still there. That question, when Seong-Jae had kept so many things from him, and Malcolm’s smile felt like a cut in his face, in his heart.

  “Wanting me as I am doesn’t mean I’m giving you everything you want, omr-an,” he said.

  “It is nothing,” Seong-Jae swore softly, lifting a hand to thread his fingers into Malcolm’s hair, working his way back slowly in a soothing stroke until he found the band of elastic tying it back and worked it free. “I swear. I am not secretly pining for some unfulfilled longing, Malcolm.”

  But his gaze darted away for a moment.

  Just a moment.

  And Malcolm sighed, shoulders slumping.

  “Seong-Jae.”

  Seong-Jae winced. “…nnh.”

  “Seong-Jae.”

  “Nnnnh,” Seong-Jae repeated in a low, irritable whine, even as he tugged Malcolm’s hair elastic fully free and sent his hair spilling loose, a release of tension and a cool rush as it fell down over his neck and shoulders.

  Eyeing his boyfriend, unable to help a touch of fond exasperation, Malcolm plucked the elastic from Seong-Jae’s fingers and set it aside on the nightstand. “Seong-Jae, what happens when we keep secrets?”

  Seong-Jae hung his head with a groan. “…my obsessive ex-boyfriend kidnaps you, incites a city-wide riot, and attempts to force me back into narcotic dependency by trapping both of us in a sinking freighter in the harbor, but only leaving a viable avenue of escape for myself.”

  “Exactly.”

  “I simply…” Seong-Jae shook his head. Something in those dark eyes pleaded with Malcolm, something tired and just too heavy and heartsore. “If it had been an issue, anything I was dissatisfied with, I would have told you before.”

  “You can tell me now,” Malcolm coaxed softly.

  “Not tonight,” Seong-Jae said. “For tonight, just…love me, Malcolm.”

  Love me.

  Had Seong-Jae ever said that so openly before?