by Cole McCade
Before flopping one toned, scar-marked arm out to drape over Malcolm, pinning him in place with a drowsy, “…mmnh?”
Malcolm smiled faintly and curled his hand over Seong-Jae’s wrist, letting the warmth of his skin bake into Malcolm’s palm. “Go back to sleep.”
One crow-black eye cracked open the slightest slit, peering at him. “Not without you,” Seong-Jae mumbled into the pillow.
A little knot of warmth curled tighter inside Malcolm, pulling at the strings of his pain until they loosened and wove themselves into something better.
But he still needed…
He didn’t know.
Something.
Anything to take the edge off.
“I’m just…” He sighed, leaning down, bending over Seong-Jae to press his lips into that wild toss of black hair as fine and soft as rabbit fur. “I need a drink, omr-an. To wash the last few days out of my mind. I can’t stop seeing it.” Closing his eyes, he rested his brow to the top of Seong-Jae’s head. “But I don’t want to drink in front of you.”
Not when Seong-Jae couldn’t.
Not when Malcolm wouldn’t parade those quiet reminders of his addiction in front of him, especially after the past few days had re-opened so many old wounds.
The little sips of whiskey or wine with dinner were one thing, but…
Malcolm needed more than a mouthful of bourbon to burn this bad taste away.
Seong-Jae shifted over onto his back, skin moving in soft hisses against the sheets, eyes opening fully until they were looking at each other so close that Malcolm could see nothing but that dark gaze that threatened to consume him every time he gave his focus to Seong-Jae and only Seong-Jae.
“It is all right,” Seong-Jae said, an edge of sleepy huskiness in his voice. Reaching up, he threaded strong fingers into Malcolm’s hair, a soothing stroke that sank down to his scalp, and drew him in for a brush of strawberry lips. “I will wait for you.”
“You don’t have to.” Malcolm half-smiled, lingering to press the words into Seong-Jae’s lips, before reluctantly pulling free, disentangling himself to climb out of bed. “I won’t be long. Get some rest.”
He felt Seong-Jae’s gaze trailing him, as he padded across the room to retrieve his slacks and underwear, stepping into them…
And for a moment wondered what he was doing, choosing the comfort of the bottle over the man waiting for him, sprawled so beautifully against the fine-woven hotel sheets, their stark white crispness only bringing out the kissable amber sheen of Seong-Jae’s skin, his tight-honed body, his catlike grace even more.
But some things couldn’t be kissed away.
Although Malcolm felt the tether stretching between them, nearly pulling him back toward Seong-Jae’s magnetism, even as he finished dressing in his suit and shoes, then slipped out with one last kiss to Seong-Jae’s cheek.
“I’ll be back soon,” he murmured, as Seong-Jae’s eyes closed; as the man leaned into him like a cat being stroked, already half-asleep again.
“Ah,” Seong-Jae sighed. “As you say.”
As I say, Malcolm thought with a faint smile, before slipping out and heading down the hotel stairs to the lobby.
He was surprised to find the first floor hotel bar and restaurant still busy—until he checked his watch. Barely after nine.
Fuck, he really was getting old.
It felt like half past midnight.
The dim-lit room was all black with subtle gold edging and lush patterned carpet, people arranged in intimate seating under soft spot lighting, engrossed in their meals or their drinks; the bar was less crowded, most focused on finishing up a nightcap over a late dinner at their tables rather than pinning down barstools.
Malcolm nodded briefly to the concierge before slipping past a group of businessmen and beelining for the bar.
Only to draw up short when he saw a familiar stocky yet trim figure, hunched over a stool and nursing a half-empty tumbler of liquid gold.
Aanga Joshi.
Malcolm closed his eyes, pressed his fingers to his temples, and pivoted on his heel—only to stop mid-stride as Joshi’s voice drifted over the quiet space, mixing with the classical music piped in from the speakers.
“Khalaji.”
Damn it.
Malcolm bit off a few more whispered curses, then turned back, forcing a smile. “Something I can help you with?”
Joshi flicked two fingers at him, beckoning. “Come on. Sit with me for a minute.”
I’m not on duty right now, you arrogant prick.
Malcolm almost balked. Almost refused.
But he needed a damned drink, and he wasn’t going to let Aanga Joshi chase him back upstairs.
He rolled his shoulders, loosening the tension in his neck, then made himself close that last distance between himself and Joshi, sliding onto the barstool next to him and folding his arms against the bar.
Joshi studied him over the rims of his glasses, then asked, “What’s your poison?”
“Johnny Walker Blue,” Malcolm answered grudgingly. “Neat.”
“Then you’re in luck.”
Joshi raised his hand to the bartender, pointed down to his near-empty tumbler, then lifted two fingers. After a nod from the bartender, Joshi dropped his hand to instead pick up his drink.
Then tossed the last of it down in a single hard swallow, before exhaling deeply and dropping the tumbler to the bar.
He looked…
Haggard, Malcolm thought.
Flushed a bit with liquor, but mostly just haggard and tired. Deep lines around his mouth, some of them weathered by time, but some looking as if they’d been folded and creased in just today. A heavy slope to his shoulders. Hands that moved almost helplessly, as if he didn’t quite know what to do with them.
It was hard to dislike him when he looked like the edge of the bar was the only thing holding him up, and exhaustion might just drop him to the floor the second he tried to stand on his own.
“There a reason you called me over here?” Malcolm asked carefully.
“To tell you to put your hackles down.” Joshi’s lips creased bitterly, and he stared down into the empty tumbler, running his fingertip along the rim and raising a soft, shimmering hint of sound. “I’m not going to be a problem.”
Fuck.
This was not a conversation Malcolm wanted to have.
Maybe he could deflect around it.
“Do you want to be more specific?” he asked.
“This isn’t a professional conversation, Malcolm—may I call you Malcolm?”
Malcolm closed his eyes, sighing, then nodded, propping his knuckles against his cheek and watching Joshi warily. “Sure.”
“Thanks.” Joshi stopped, then, his fingertip stilling against the edge of the glass, holding before tapping restlessly, as if timing out the cadence of his thoughts, his words. “I was over the line a bit, these past few days. Didn’t know he was seeing anyone, and it took me off guard. I shouldn’t have been an asshole.” He smirked. “Look. I won’t lie. I’m not over him. He’s a hard man to let go of.”
Malcolm let out a snort, but fell silent as the bartender swung in with two fresh tumblers of whiskey, set them down on little square napkins in front of them, then whisked Joshi’s empty glass away and disappeared.
Only after he’d taken a bracing sip of the mellow yet biting flavor, letting it roll over his tongue and soak hot into the inside of his mouth, did Malcolm answer. “That’s a pattern I’ve noticed.”
“Yeah. I heard about the Sila thing. And that should tell you something.” Heaving a deep breath, Joshi ran one square, blocky hand through his hair, spiking it up in a mess that reminded Malcolm too much of Anjulie. “You believed him. I didn’t.”
“That’s between the two of you,” Malcolm said.
And he really didn’t want to get into it.
That was Seong-Jae’s business.
Seong-Jae’s, and Joshi’s.
And Joshi seemed to agree, because he offe
red a smile that creased the tired lines around his mouth deeper. “It’s in the past. We’re in the past.” He lifted his tumbler as if in salute, then took a judicious sip before dropping it to the bar with a heavy thunk. “I’m not another Lucas Aleks. It’s fine. I only flirt because he gets so amusingly flustered and irritated, but I’ll keep it to myself.”
How gracious of you, Malcolm thought, but held his tongue, only watching Joshi over his own tumbler, waiting.
Maybe he was old, maybe he was paranoid…
But he didn’t trust a truce until he saw the white flag.
Yet something in Joshi seemed to relax, as he let out a soft, tired laugh and smoothed his messy hair down, stroking it back into place with a few rakes of his fingers. “Besides—he likes you. I can tell,” he said, before turning that tired smile on Malcolm. “I’m glad.”
Malcolm regarded that smile, the quiet in Joshi’s body language, his slumped and weary posture.
He was genuine, Malcolm thought.
And for that, he was relieved.
It wasn’t that he mistrusted Seong-Jae’s taste in men that deeply, it was just…
He didn’t want to have reason to doubt someone Seong-Jae clearly still respected, even if there were no feelings left between them.
He set his whiskey down, shifting his weight onto his folded arms, letting out some of his defensive tension. Fuck, his shoulders and neck hurt like hell, and he had a feeling he’d been holding himself stiff for the past two days without realizing how much it was starting to wear on him.
“Some days,” he ventured carefully, “I’m not sure even he can tell the difference between liking me and hating me.”
Joshi let out a brief, snorting chuckle. “…yeah. It’s like that.” With another measuring look, Joshi lifted his whiskey, holding the glass out in offering. “I think we could get along, Malcolm Khalaji.”
“Yeah,” Malcolm said, and clinked his tumbler against Joshi’s lightly before taking another deep drink, scouring down his throat in sweetfire burn and liquid ash. “Me too.”
“Good.” Joshi sighed. “Because I have a feeling we’re in for the long haul, on this case.”
Malcolm stared down into his whiskey; his reflection stared back, rippled and darkened, covered in golden shadows.
He knows you’re coming for him.
And he wants to play.
“…yeah,” he said softly. “I’ve got a bad feeling about this overall.”
“You used to be a professor of criminal psychology, didn’t you?” Joshi asked, then smiled sheepishly when Malcolm eyed him. “Came up in your background screening.”
“For a while, yeah. Needed a break from police work.”
“What’s the textbook say about cases like this?”
Malcolm just looked at Joshi, before shaking his head.
“There’s nothing textbook about a case like this,” he said.
Before pouring the last of his whiskey down his throat, as if its burn was a sacramental fire to scorch his body and mind free of the things he’d seen.
As if he could ever be the same again, once this case was done.
C
SEONG-JAE WAS BEGINNING TO THINK Malcolm might not be back for some time.
He told himself he did not need Malcolm’s warmth next to him to sleep.
Told himself he was fine.
…telling himself that did not make it true.
Especially not when all he could do was lie on his back and stare at the ceiling, watching lights from the street below play over the pale canvas as if watching a strange projector show.
And seeing things, in the interplay and shift of colors.
Seeing terrible, bloody things.
Malcolm made him forget those things—with his kiss, with his touch, simply with the way he smelled when he was sound asleep and sprawled in this languid heap of muscle, radiating a warmth that Seong-Jae often basked in until it soothed him into slumber.
They had been together for less than six months.
Not even partners that long.
He should not be this dependent.
Should not cling so hard.
But he knew himself; he knew himself far too well.
If he did not cling so very hard…
His instinct, instead, would be to shove Malcolm away.
And he could not endure that.
Nor, however, could he endure another minute of waiting.
And, with a sigh, he dragged himself out of bed to dress.
Putting on shoes after midnight should be a crime.
He took the stairs down to the hotel lobby and bar out of habit, another thing he had picked up from Malcolm; the dim-lit space was almost empty, when he ducked inside.
Which made it far too easy to pick out two familiar shapes, lurching toward the door.
Malcolm.
Apparently unconscious, or at the very least intoxicated enough that he might as well be.
And Aanga Joshi, supporting Malcolm as if he did not have twice Aanga’s bulk, Malcolm’s arm draped over Aanga’s shoulders and Malcolm’s head lolling against the top of Aanga’s skull.
“C’mon, Mal,” Aanga muttered with an amused sound. “Move your legs.”
“Dun wanna,” Malcolm mumbled, words slurred, and rolled his head back, eyes drifting open for a moment, sightless and staring up at the ceiling, before they closed as his head flopped forward again. “Carry me like a princess, Aanga.”
Seong-Jae arched a brow, just…staring.
Well.
They had certainly gotten onto a first-name basis rather quickly.
Aanga paused as he caught sight of Seong-Jae, and offered him a rather rueful, embarrassed smile as he drew to a halt in front of him. “Hey,” he said. “I was just getting him wrapped up to return to sender.”
“…this.” Seong-Jae pointed between the two of them, Malcolm to Aanga and back again, scowling. “I do not know what this is, but I most certainly do not like it.”
“What? Don’t like your ex getting a little too friendly with your lover? Afraid I’ll tell a few of your worst stories?” Aanga teased, a grin drawing his lips wide.
“Yes,” Seong-Jae snarled.
“Don’t worry about it. Malcolm and I made our peace.” Aanga jostled Malcolm with his shoulder. “Didn’t we, big guy?”
Malcolm cracked one eye open. “You’re a smarmy prick.”
“Yes, I am.” Aanga gently eased him forward, toward Seong-Jae. “Here. I think you’d rather have Seong-Jae than me.”
Malcolm perked briefly, bleary eyes cracking to slits again. “Seong-Jae’s here?”
Seong-Jae sighed. He had never seen Malcolm like this—intoxicated to the point of complete loss of control. It was Malcolm’s right as an adult, but…
Normally he minimized himself to a few sips of whatever went best with what he had made for supper.
Normally he did not like being out of his senses this way.
But Seong-Jae stepped forward to slip his arms around Malcolm, relieving Aanga of his weight and instead hefting the old wolf against himself, propping Malcolm up against his side and looping his arm over Seong-Jae’s shoulders.
“Come here,” he said softly. “You are a mess.”
“I know,” Malcolm sighed, before tilting his head against Seong-Jae’s shoulder with a sweet, utterly unguarded smile peeking through his beard. “Hi, omr-an. Hi. I missed you. I love you. Hi.”
“…if you say that again, I will leave you to return to our room on your own,” Seong-Jae growled, then eyed Aanga. “Why are you not nearly so intoxicated?”
“I didn’t need it as much.” Aanga smiled, a touch of melancholy turning his black eyes reflective. “Sad, isn’t it? That I don’t need to drink myself empty anymore after seeing the things we see. You remember your first one?”
Seong-Jae stilled, then reflexively tightened his arm against Malcolm.
He remembered.
A murder-suicide where a homegrown terrorist had slaugh
tered an entire immigrant family, then killed himself, leaving anti-immigrant messages sprayed all over their walls, his home filled with propaganda and the pinky finger bones of individual kills the suspect had accumulated over time.
Seong-Jae’s first glimpse into humanity’s dark side had been in the body of a little girl left in a pool of her own blood, next to her mother, father, brothers.
And it had nearly ruined him for good, in a single moment.
“I ‘popped,’ as you put it,” he said.
“You popped,” Aanga agreed. “Head in the toilet for a good half-hour. We all handle our first times different ways.” He lifted his chin toward Malcolm. “So go easy on him when the hangover hits in the morning.”
“Ah,” Seong-Jae answered. “As you say.”
Carefully, he began to turn—guiding Malcolm one step at a time, when Malcolm grew heavier and heavier with each second and Seong-Jae was fairly certain that he would pass out long before Seong-Jae got him upstairs, into bed, and—even if he had to prop Malcolm up against the headboard and pour water down his throat—properly hydrated before letting him sleep it off.
But he had barely made it a few more steps before Aanga’s voice drifted after him, soft, curious.
“Hey. Seong-Jae.”
Seong-Jae stopped, glancing over his shoulder; he could barely see Aanga past the mess of Malcolm’s wild mane, but what he saw was enough to give him pause.
When Aanga had taken his glasses off, the shield he always seemed to hide behind as Division Chief, the mask of his authority.
When without that authority, he was simply a man.
Tired, and watching Seong-Jae with a frank, exhausted starkness drawing lines in his angular brown face.
“Are you happy?” Aanga asked. “With him.”
Seong-Jae tensed. “Is that your business?”
“Indulge me,” Aanga asked with a faint, wistful smile. “With the truth, for once.”
How well Aanga knew him, then.
How well indeed.
Seong-Jae let his gaze drift to Malcolm; to the mess of a man with his head nuzzled into Seong-Jae’s neck and shoulder, his profile just a hint of sooty-dark eyelashes against weathered skin, the scruff of his beard, the corner of his mouth.