Bad Judgment

by Sidney Bell

  “Yeah,” Mario replied, rubbing his shoulder. “He has diamonds on his watch, Brogan. That’s not a man who loses cases.”

  * * *

  By the time Embry was released, people had stopped carrying their delicious-smelling lunches through the front doors, and the precinct waiting room was half-full and noisy. Mario was in a near-coma in the chair beside him, his head resting on Brogan’s shoulder.

  When the lock on the heavy glass door next to the desk sergeant buzzed, Brogan looked up, and his heart pounded in his chest at the sight of Embry on the other side, Trilby behind him. Brogan elbowed Mario awake—not as gently as he deserved, but it was better than letting him careen to the floor—and jumped to his feet.

  “We’ve cause to hope,” Trilby told Brogan, still unperturbed despite the way Brogan was fidgeting like a mad dog on a leash as he looked Embry over. He wasn’t reassured at the sight: Embry’s blood-stained jacket and vest had been taken from him, his tie dangled halfway out of one pocket, his sleeves were sloppily rolled up, and the top button of his wrinkled shirt was open, baring the graceful point of his collarbone. His hair was a mess, the bruises on his face livid now that they’d had more time to come up.

  He looked, for the very first time that Brogan could remember, unkempt.

  Unkempt and dull and utterly fragile.

  Trilby disappeared back into the precinct, and Mario said something about bringing the car around, a not-so-cleverly-disguised pretext to give Brogan and Embry a few minutes alone.

  Brogan stood there stupidly, wanting to soothe but unsure it would be welcome. He felt big and clumsy around this pale, spun glass version of Embry, and he had nothing to offer that could possibly make a dent in the...the...brokenness of the man in front of him. He seemed listless without his purpose. Lost. And Brogan couldn’t hide from the fact that that purpose had gone partially unfulfilled because of him.

  “Are you all right?” Brogan asked, which was dumb, because the answer couldn’t possibly be anything but no. But he couldn’t not ask, not with everything that had happened and the way Embry stared at the ugly, government-contracted linoleum with the foggy attention of someone gone numb.

  “I should go to a hotel,” Embry said. “You should tell me to go. I’m—I—you have to stop this, it’s not good for you.”

  “We’re back to this? Do you really think I’m gonna leave you now?”

  “You’d open a vein for me if I asked you to, and I don’t deserve it.”

  “That’s not up to you. I decide who’s worthy of my loyalty, Embry, and I pick you. If I opened a vein for you, you’d just stitch me up.” He smiled shakily. “Probably without painkillers, to make sure I learned my lesson, but the end result’s the same.”

  Leaden-voiced, Embry said, “I’m a mess, Brogan. You’ll get tired of it. I’m tired of it.” He closed his eyes. “I’m so tired.”

  “So let’s get you into bed.”

  “And then what?”

  “What do you mean? You’ll sleep, dummy,” Brogan murmured, reaching up to stroke Embry’s cheek, relieved when Embry didn’t pull away.

  “And when I can’t let you fuck me?” Embry’s head tipped away, leaving Brogan to decipher his mood from the messy curls at the base of his skull—hardly informative. “Because I might not be able—”

  “I don’t care about that,” Brogan said exasperatedly, because Jesus, Embry drove him nuts, which was why he wasn’t quiet when he added, “Have you still not figured out that I don’t want you for your body?”

  The dozen people in the waiting room fell silent, and Embry’s eyes opened, the dullness sharpening into something closer to his usual shrewd stare. He shifted his weight, shoulders tense, and muttered, “Do you think you could say that a little louder?”

  Hope bubbled up in Brogan, because Embry had sounded more like himself—grumpy, impatient and disdainful.

  “Well, not only your body,” Brogan continued, squinting like he was considering it. “There’s also your stubbornness.”

  He was pleased when Embry’s mouth tightened—he’d take annoyance over lifelessness any day.

  “Actually, I suppose it was your natural unfriendliness that hooked me,” Brogan mused. “You probably think me wrongheaded for that.”

  “I think you’re an asshole,” Embry said. A woman nearby muffled a laugh into a cough.

  “The name-calling,” Brogan said, snapping his fingers as if he’d somehow forgotten something important. “That really did it. Also, all the times you didn’t laugh at my jokes even though they were funny. No mortal man could’ve resisted you.”

  Embry’s bruised, swollen face twisted into a glare. “Are you through?”

  “You almost broke my hand the first time I put the moves on you,” Brogan reminisced fondly. “That was hot.”

  And there it was. The Doomscowl. Possibly the most beautiful thing Brogan had ever seen—his heart ached at the sight of it.

  “I don’t like you even a little,” Embry said scathingly, and Brogan kissed his forehead, the knot inside him beginning to slip loose. Embry was pissed off and resentful, but he was also here and awake and fighting.

  “I know, baby,” Brogan said, smiling. “I’m really mean.”

  As voices picked up again around them, Embry muttered something under his breath that sounded a lot like dickhead.

  “How many times are you going to try to dump me for my own good?” Brogan asked, leading him toward the front door. “Just out of curiosity.”

  “What’s the point?” Embry asked. “It never works. I might as well resign myself to your martyrdom.”

  Brogan beamed at him. “Oh, good. Then I’m going to take you home, because Mario’s exhausted and Giz is probably chewing on the couch without you there to keep him in line.”

  Embry sighed like Brogan was the most unreasonable person alive, but as they emerged into the clean spring day, Embry’s hand wormed its way into his, and Brogan held on.

  Epilogue

  Embry: Eight Months Later

  When Brogan’s key turned in the lock, Embry’s stomach flipped. He hovered in the living room, reminding himself of the basics of healthy communication in couples: “I” statements, eye contact, honesty and patience. He’d want you to bring it up, he told himself, then promptly wimped out and escaped into the laundry room.

  His therapist, Carol, had told him that shooting video game people in the head didn’t count as a coping skill—fabricated acts of violence not being calming for people with anger problems or something—so Embry had gotten into the habit of doing chores when he was upset. And between the stress of getting the immunity deal hammered out and the subsequent work he’d done with the district attorney and the ATF, there’d been plenty of upset to go around. The week he’d spent testifying had left him with the beginnings of an ulcer and he’d gotten up four nights in a row to wax Brogan’s floors.

  Unfortunately, that wasn’t a euphemism.

  But he was getting better. Slowly, and with nearly as many steps backward as forward, he was getting better.

  By the time he dumped a basket of toasty socks on the couch, Brogan had ditched his suit for jeans and a T-shirt, and he was drinking a beer, staring into space.

  “Something wrong?” Embry asked.

  “Nah. That twitchy guy from HR invited you to the company picnic next week,” Brogan said. “Partners are welcome. I think he was a little offended that I double-checked, so he did everything but roll out the red carpet for you.”

  These days, Brogan was a community liaison for a non-profit devoted to promoting the safe and responsible use of firearms. He’d gotten fired from Security Division—Timmerson had been regretful but firm—for breaking his NDA during the Touring debacle, but he hadn’t been as dismayed as Embry would’ve thought. He’d blown off Embry’s apologies, say
ing that he’d been planning to change careers anyway.

  Personal protection wasn’t a good fit anymore, he’d said.

  Which Embry knew was code for I won’t make you lose me, too.

  So Brogan spent half his time arguing with members of the NRA about the benefits of mandatory safety education for potential gun owners and the other half teaching women—and some men—how to shoot rapists in the junk.

  Embry approved.

  “We can take pasta salad to the picnic,” Embry decided. Brogan smiled at him.

  “How was your meeting?”

  “They offered me a spot. I said I’d think about it.” He’d spent an hour that morning talking to the chair of the Physics department at Oregon State University, and he’d kept his interest concealed, which had resulted in hints that a full scholarship was in the works.

  “Still sure about this?” Brogan asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Harvard—”

  “We’re staying here,” Embry replied.

  “It’s Ivy League. My job’s nothing special—”

  “Your family is here. Mario is here. That matters. Plus, you’re doing it again.”

  “Hey, I like being a sap, remember? I can offer to do selfless things if I want to.”

  “And I can refuse to accept them.” When Brogan opened his mouth to protest again, Embry said, “There are things I can compromise on, and where I go to school is one of them. Your happiness isn’t. So shut up, please.”

  Brogan settled back, pink spots of pleasure darkening his cheeks. It was adorable, up until he ruined it by asking, “Did you wear the bow tie?”

  Embry considered lying, then admitted, “Yes.”

  “Did you take pictures for me?”

  “No,” Embry said through his teeth, ignoring Brogan’s grin.

  “Eh, that’s all right. I’ll get you into it one of these days. Maybe just the bow—” He broke off, turning his attention to his beer bottle, scraping at the label with his thumb. “Sorry. You okay?”

  No, he wasn’t, because Brogan couldn’t even mention sex these days without thinking Embry was going to implode.

  The thing was, Embry couldn’t blame him. That day in his office, when Joel had—well, it had left landmines, and Embry hadn’t been the only one forced to deal with them. Brogan had been there for every nightmare, every outburst of fury and surge of shame, and all that was to say nothing of the clusterfuck that ensued the first time they’d tried to have penetrative sex. They’d made do with occasional hand jobs up to that point, but that single stressful attempt at fucking a couple months ago had ruined it all. Embry winced just thinking about it, because Brogan had lost his shit at the idea of fucking Embry while he sweated and grimaced and clenched his teeth in an effort to get that hurdle behind them, unpleasant though it’d been. The panic attack that’d hit Embry during the argument that followed hadn’t helped his case.

  So if Brogan had developed a rampaging case of kid gloves, well, the situation had sort of demanded it. They’d made out a few times since then, but it was always awkward and tentative, and it never failed to remind Embry of things he didn’t want to think about. Brogan could always sense it, and they’d yet to end a session on a good note.

  Embry had been taking baby steps on his own, though, and things were getting better. He’d—embarrassingly—followed Carol’s advice and begun masturbating regularly, and he’d gotten to the point where he could come while fantasizing about penetration, so he was confident that he was ready to try it, even if he wasn’t confident about this conversation.

  Embry was tired of talking. He wanted action, damn it.

  But fuck, he was nervous.

  He hated being afraid, hated that Joel’s hands had left fingerprints behind. He hated that Brogan feared making Embry feel guilty or pressured, and so only looked at him with heat in his eyes when he thought Embry wouldn’t see. He especially hated the idea of hurting Brogan, and it seemed inevitable, because what he had to say required delicate handling and Embry was a sledgehammer.

  He was also a coward. Rather than saying what he wanted to say, which was that Brogan should get his cock out, he asked, “Why is there a penguin on your sock?”

  “Because penguins are cool,” Brogan said, sounding relieved. “I always wanted to visit the North Pole and see a penguin. I’m gonna make sandwiches. Turkey okay?”

  Embry resumed folding clothes and replied, “You’re thinking of polar bears. Penguins don’t live at the North Pole. And yes, turkey’s fine.”

  Brogan hauled himself up and vanished into the kitchen, calling back, “That can’t be true. Polar bears eat penguins.”

  “What?” Embry glared at the wall, hoping Brogan felt it on the other side. “They do not. Polar bears eat seals and walruses...are you fucking with me? How do you not know this? This is second grade stuff.”

  “I don’t believe you,” Brogan yelled. A cabinet door fell shut.

  Embry gave up on the clothes and headed for the kitchen. Clearly, scowling only worked if Brogan could see it. “I have no reason to lie to you about where polar bears live.”

  “If polar bears live at the North Pole, why doesn’t Santa use them to pull the sleigh?” Brogan asked, licking mustard off his thumb with the air of someone who thought they’d won the argument, which was dumb, because he never won. Embry was the uncontested champion of arguing in their house.

  “Are you high?” Embry asked. “Have you seen a fucking polar bear? There’s no way they’re as aerodynamic as reindeer.”

  “Polar bears make about as much sense as reindeer, seeing as neither of them can actually fly,” Brogan pointed out. “Polar bears are stronger, too. You’d only need half as many to get the job done.”

  “Polar bears aren’t pack animals. You’d never get all of them attached to the sleigh at once.”

  “Think how cool it would be, though. A whole troop of polar bears pulling a sleigh. There should be fire somewhere. A secondary propulsion system in case the bears get tired. Like a jet engine.” His eyes went wide with awe, presumably at his own genius. “There should be a jet engine, Embry.”

  Embry opened his mouth to describe exactly what a jet engine would do to the unfortunate polar bears, and then abruptly realized what they were arguing about. “I think I need to question some of my life choices,” he said instead.

  Brogan grinned at him and held out a plate. “Here.”

  When they’d eaten and cleaned up, Embry finished the laundry, well aware that he was just procrastinating now. Brogan was studying their shelf of video games, eyes lingering on “LittleBigPlanet 3,” which would suck up their whole evening if Embry let it, so he needed to act quickly.

  “I want to fuck,” he said, and somehow he sounded perfectly normal. Good for him.

  There was a looooong hesitation. Finally, in the tone of a man facing the guillotine, Brogan said, “Yeah, okay.”

  He walked over, awkward and a little stilted. He kissed Embry willingly enough—shallow, courteous kisses, and Embry pressed closer, opening to him eagerly, and for a second Brogan responded. He rumbled with pleasure, kissing Embry harder.

  But then his grip on Embry gentled. His breathing slowed. The kiss eased back, becoming softer, more tender, and Embry was so damn ready to scream it wasn’t even funny.

  He pushed Brogan backward to sit on the couch and straddled him. Brogan’s eyes slammed closed as Embry rocked against him, and again Brogan lurched instinctively in the right direction—his fingers clenched on Embry’s hips and he bucked up against Embry’s ass, and it was—yes, that was what he wanted. The sheer force of Brogan’s want for him.

  And then Brogan settled him with a soothing hand on one thigh, even going so far as to whisper, “Shh, I’ve got you. I won’t be rough.”

  “Oh, believe me, I know,” E
mbry growled, and climbed to his feet. Brogan’s mouth fell open, and Embry started pacing, because Brogan didn’t get it, and that meant Embry had to talk.

  This was all stupid Carol’s fault. Stupid psychotherapy. Stupid Freud.

  “Use words,” Brogan reminded him, still patient, so he didn’t even sound all that condescending, which only made Embry want to kick him more.

  “I want to fuck,” he said, because he could do that part in his sleep.

  Brogan frowned. “Uh, what do you call what we were just trying to do?”

  Embry had to think about that. “I call it making love,” he said finally.

  Brogan’s lips twitched. “That’s very romantic,” he replied, doing an abysmal job of keeping the laughter out his voice.

  “And I’d like to be fucking,” Embry said.

  The laughter vanished and the frown returned.

  “I want it to be passionate,” Embry continued, feeling like a toddler taking its first steps and falling all over the place. “We can do better.”

  Brogan’s face went blank, and Embry kicked the couch. Christ, why was he so bad at this? Why did he keep hurting the one man who would give him anything?

  “You don’t like the way I touch you?” Brogan asked tonelessly.

  “Don’t be dumb,” Embry said. “That’s not what I’m saying. I mean that I want it to be like before. I want you to want me.”

  “I do,” Brogan said, starting to sound impatient.

  “I want you to show it.”

  “You were just sitting on my hard-on,” Brogan pointed out. “What part of that was unclear for you?”

  “It’s not about your cock. It’s about how you treat me.”

  “Which is how?” Brogan asked. “Like I want you to feel safe? Like I don’t want to hurt you?”

  “Like a rape victim,” Embry blurted, and then bit his lip. Fuck. He hadn’t meant to say that. Brogan didn’t like the R-word—it made his hands shake.

  Brogan didn’t say anything. His mouth flattened, and Embry wished he’d told Carol that yes, he would prefer a relationship based on lies, thank you very much. He reverted to the dorky speech that he’d written during his last session with her, because he was obviously doing a shit job on his own. “I’m grateful for your love and compassion and patience, and you’ll never know how much I appreciate all the ways you support me, but I’m ready to approach sex from the assumption that I am healthy, and that means that my needs have changed. Now when you support me, it’ll look less like giving me space, and more like allowing me to be passionate and playful.”