Filling The Frame

Note:

The plot of this story is as important as its erotic aspects, so I don't think it's a 'quick fix' type of read! I hope the backdrop of the characters' struggles and hopes is engaging and even serves to ramp up the sexy time.

This is my first time posting on this site. Ratings and constructive criticism will really help. Thanks for dropping by and enjoy :)

Disclaimer:

All characters involved in sexual activities are over 18 years old.

~~~~~~~~~~

Brandon locked the screen of his phone and looked up. "Where the hell is this guy?"

At his desk, his partner, DC, sat back, his roller chair giving a squeak of protest. He looked at the large clock on the wall. "Late by ten minutes. He text you or anything?"

"Nothing." Bran jabbed the spacebar on his computer to wake it up. "Reschedules two times and making me waste hours when I could be doing something other than being at his beck and call. Like his friend wasn't almost fatally injured in the armed robbery, either. Good fucking friend."

He dithered around in his emails before pulling up some literature about first responders and trauma, but the content went straight through his head. His phone was dead and still in his pocket. Bran went back to his emails. Some officers from the next shift were moving out in the hallway or just entering the office. The aroma of coffee began to permeate the room.

"Hall tryna play mariachi with his keyboard or what?" Medina asked DC as he swanned past.

"Glad you could tell, Medina," Bran cut in without looking up. "Kinda had a hard time at that Christmas party, personally."

"Gee-zus, man. Give him more credit than that." Torres punched his partner in the back. "He's been practising so hard he's got 'Amazing Grace'

and

'Happy Birthday' down pat too."

Medina scowled. Months on and still being clowned for messing up on the guitar.

"Nice routine, man. Versatile. Ever need a Plan B, you know you've got five solid gigs to get started out." Bran counted on his fingers. "Your wife and your four kids. Sorry, can't vouch for the station this year. It's based on precedence." He shrugged and dropped his hands. "Anyway, wanna try the new tune on me today?"

Torres looked up from adjusting his duty belt. "Oh shit, man. Today your birthday? Really?"

"Just so happens, huh?" Medina said as his back was turned, shuffling some paper on his desk. "No, I totally understand. Anything to string out a good joke, right?"

DC's chair squeaked again as he crossed his arms, eyebrows twitching.

Torres was already around Bran's table and squeezing his shoulders from the back. "Maaan, happy birthday, Brandon! Another year safe for you."

It was a heartfelt comment. In their line of work, the notion was the baseline of every working relationship. It didn't matter what conflicts of differences they had or were having with each other; living to see another day was something to be celebrated. Medina turned around, poker face on, and managed a sluggish but sincere "happy birthday, man."

"Aw. No song?" Bran sighed. "No, I totally understand. Practise makes better, right? It's all good. Add me to your gig list next year, alright? Now you got six events."

Medina turned back to his paperwork. Bran felt someone cuff the back of his head and almost let fly an expletive. Torres came back into sight, shaking his head at him, perturbed. Bran knew he'd gone too far.

He heard DC get up. "Imma take a smoke."

DC didn't usually announce he needed a cigarette break; he just did. Bran grabbed his jacket off the back of his chair and joined him outside.

*****

The day was grey, making the orange brick exterior of the station a colour closer to blood. The sky was overhung with clouds pregnant with the assurance of a storm. A near-autumn wind nipped up the nose with the same sharp intent.

Past the fence and across the street, the an auto shop winched out the rain cover over a black Jeep Cherokee. A kid chased some flyaway papers down the sidewalk. Blue smoke from DC's cigarette blew into Bran's face.

"Alright. Talk to me, brother." DC leaned again the wall, tucking his free hand into a pocket of his sports coat. "It can't be just your truant witness that's making you an asshole."

His first instinct was to buck it. Deny that anything was out of the ordinary. Medina could take a fucking joke, what was the big deal? But the officer in him made him shut his mouth and think first.

Actually, who was he kidding? It was DC who created that effect. Bran had seen him in action himself, in field interviews, jail interrogations, even over the phone. He made you believe that it was all you, but everything from his demeanor, turn of words, and body language was intentional, subliminal, and very effective. He had the highest rate of confessions in their unit, and possibly in the entire division. There was some talk that he was up for the detective route.

His partner certainly looked innocuous. On the shorter side and very lean. A nerdy-looking black kid who hadn't changed much from high school, based on family photos on his desk; just cut off the cornrows, grew some facial hair, and put on a uniform. Dark eyes, slightly protuberant, blinked slowly behind silver-framed glasses.

Bran himself was over six feet and fair-skinned; clean-shaven and sported a crew cut. Weight training since senior year had layered muscle proportionately on his body, combining strength with natural agility. People seemed to find the need time and again to tell him to go pro in the NBA. He would have to say he was pushing thirty. To which the standard answer was that he was a liar. He'd once almost decked a complainant's mother when she tried to pinch the 'baby fat' in his cheeks.

There had been a running joke when he'd been partnered with DC. Big white male working alongside skinny black teenager. The guys at Organized Crime said they were welcome to join them as a solicitation decoy: Bran being a client or pimp. It was only when they were both married that the invitations petered out.

"One of Medina's kids is sick," DC said. "Hospital sick."

Bran was rocketed back to reality; it took him a few seconds. The banter earlier had a whole new weight to it now. "Fucking...

Shit

."

"I take it you didn't know." DC tapped his cigarette. It was his only vice. The ashes made a mini cyclone in the draft. "Torres was really tryna deflect there. I reckon he should've crowned you."

He didn't know Medina on a pillow-talk basis. So what. Happened to be fucking unfortunate today.

"God

damn

it." Bran tucked his thumbs into his belt loops, forced himself to stop fidgeting. Guilt couldn't bring him to look any higher than his partner's waist.

"Brandon. Your witness walked through the front entrance ten seconds ago."

That made him snap his head up. About fucking time. DC didn't shift, not even worried that Bran would run without his permission. He waited until Bran reluctantly met his gaze.

"I'm not gonna let you back inside the building until I know what's going on. Right now I'm not sure you're in the state of mind to be taking a statement, let alone interacting with a witness. I'll take it off your hands if I have to."

Bran shook his head immediately. "No go."

"In any case, you know we're not leaving until you talk about what's on your mind." DC switched the hand holding the cigarette and tucked the other one under the opposite armpit. He had so little fat on him he chilled easily.

A sudden gust grabbed Bran's open jacket and flapped it violently as he pulled out his phone. There was a new text from the witness, apologizing and giving some excuse. Okay. He clicked over to the next most recent thread and passed the device to his partner.

DC read the text: "'Can we talk when you get back tonight?'"

"We've been... having problems, Aretha and I."

Saying it aloud made it a lot worse. Bran was grateful for the wind that shaved some of the bite off the statement.

"What do you mean?" DC took another drag.

What

did

he mean? He hadn't told anyone about this. But if he had to... this man here was second to none. DC had been married a couple years longer than him, and they had a beautiful ten-month-old daughter. It probably wasn't something that DC hadn't experienced himself. In some sense. Maybe.

"She's been acting... different from usual. A lot busier with work, and spending four or five evenings a week going out with friends. It's like setting an appointment with a fucking GP to have dinner with her, or something. She's also less affectionate. Distant. Distracted."

The word 'estranged' suddenly blindsided him. It was a verb that popped up in reports they wrote on domestics. Using it to describe his marriage was...

Bran ploughed on. "I asked the friends she allegedly went out with. They couldn't account for more than twenty-five percent of her outings. And for whatever reason, she began locking some of her drawers." Bran looked at his friend. "You can imagine, my mind's been running all over the place with this."

DC had finished his cigarette, binned it carefully. "And your conclusion?"

"I think there's someone else in the picture." Bran realised he was pulling so hard on his belt loops that his pants were sagging. He crossed his arms instead, swallowed. "I think she may be thinking about divorce."

DC's face was as smooth as glass, he couldn't pin anything to it. "When did you notice her behaviour begin to change?"

"About two months ago, I'd say." Bran added, "At the tail end of the McDowell saga."

The McDowell case had been the beginning of a mother lode of negative publicity for their division. It began with the improper handling of evidence in a case involving drugs and sexual assault on a property on McDowell Street, located in an area known for gangs and drug use. Charges escalated against officers they had worked with, who were currently on probation.

In a bid to combat media fire, those above had fingered university graduates among the officers to draft institutional changes 'from the ground up' with precinct crime prevention specialists. Bran and DC, among others, had 'brought their expertise in more than twenty different fields including criminal justice, sociology, and international relations' to a city-wide effort to address the government's executive arm and open up avenues of open communication between law enforcers, educators, and the public.

"That was a piece of work," DC said. "We were walking asleep they worked us so hard."

On top of normal patrol duties, it had been a day in, day out circus of organization, talks, one out-of-state conference, and hosting politicians, academics, and students by the busload. Even now, Bran was liaising between PR and an old criminology lecturer of his who was keen on researching 'dialectics of power' within their organization. But it was only a fraction of what had been demanded of him when the frenzy had been at its peak.

"That they did," Bran said.

"You and your wife been tryna have a baby, if I recall." Change of tact.

"Supposedly still are." Bran detected the bitterness souring his own voice.

"Me and the missus didn't have near enough time alone during McDowell, y'know, with me coming home dead on my feet and all," DC said.

Bran was already shaking his head. "We have a schedule the specialist gave us to follow. Aretha had some issues and needed to take some drugs to remedy that. So we had to follow the plan. Have been following."

DC pushed off the wall and brushed off the seat of his pants. "Could do with some enthusiasm, Bran."

"How can I—" Bran caught himself, clenched his fists with his arms still crossed.

"So far, all I've heard you say is 'I think' this and 'I think' that. What about what your wife thinks? Did you ask her?" DC's eyes were inquisitive. "Did you do or say anything that she could bring against you in defense?"

The wind had died, leaving the air unusually still. The softly spoken questions rang in his ears, combating his own excuses. There was a flash in the sky behind the car mechanic's, followed by a rolling peal of thunder.

"Around the time her behaviour changed. There must've been something," DC said gently.

Bran closed his eyes. The basics of gathering information were to establish the situation from multiple points of view, then determine points of corroboration or divergence. But this was so personal that

he

had chosen to estrange himself from it instead, without realizing his own error before now.

"There was a fight." An uncontrolled chuckle escaped him, and it felt good when DC laughed too. This was how a lot of domestic cases began.

There was a fight.

"And then what happened?" His partner was playing along.

"I said, 'Sex sucks when you happen to be the reason for my limp penis.'"

When Bran opened his eyes, it had begun to drizzle. Drops so light that they feathered down from the sky, decreasing visibility in increments. DC's glasses were dewed with rain. He was smiling. "Do you comprehend how hurtful it's gotta be to hear that from someone you love?"

Bran nodded.

"You deserve something for being a bigger asshole than I thought you were."

"Go ahead."

Bran went loose with the impact, absorbing the momentum by giving ground and turning with the swing. It still fucking hurt. Some field trainees hurrying through the rain gave them looks but knew to mind their own business.

"Thanks, DC. Cleared my head." Bran held back from rubbing his jaw. The pain really did make the world brighter. Or maybe it was the streetlamps that had just turned on.

"I know for a fact that it's not just you in the picture, brother." DC pushed his glasses up his nose, watched him for a few more moments as the rain began to fall in earnest. Bran schooled his expression, going for calm.

"Your wife," DC continued, "she's in there too. So talk to her tonight before your damned imagination takes you both where you don't wanna be. You understand?"

"Yep."

"'Bout time to get the whole picture, Brandon." He pulled the door open for him. "Don't keep your witness waiting."

*****

A message pinged to his phone as he came up on the side of the street across the house. Bran let the car roll to a stop with the lights and engine off before cranking the e-brake.

He opened it up. It was from Aretha:

Let me know when you'll be home, ok?

Another text appeared on the screen then.

Be safe on the roads.

He felt a twinge of annoyance; it was reflexive. The second message seemed like an afterthought. Did she only have that one phrase to say? Couldn't she type out something other than what she told him whenever he left the house?

And what did it matter if she knew when he came home? She certainly hadn't been reciprocating that information.

She's in the picture too.

That was DC's voice. Bran whipped his phone into the passenger seat and put his hands on the steering wheel. Had he asked her where she was going on her outings, and what time she'd come home? Sure. Initially. But after displaying reticence or only providing cursory recounts, he'd stopped trying to probe. It seemed like she was happier that way, quickly shifting conversation off the subject.

Did you convey to her that you were displeased with her evasion?

And what? What good would come from anything Aretha was trying to conceal from him? She obviously wanted to get away from him, spending less and less time at the house. When they did have sex, it was clinical. She languished and finished quickly, unwilling to dwell on it.

You stated very clearly during a verbal altercation that your wife was to blame for your inability to become erect.

He'd been exhausted that night, after a string of days with little sleep in order to fulfil the collateral spin-off after McDowell. Aretha had been adamant about sticking to the obstetrician's plan, shaking the calendar page in his face like a court warrant. When he'd been unable to get it up, she had questioned if she was the only one who really wanted to start a family.

The allegations were infuriating. The planning they had done in savings and endowment plans, the circus of fertility consultations, the deep desire to create life from his own blood—she had implied that his effort and actions towards their goal thus far were bankrupt. He was immoral, full of empty promises.

That handful of words undercut the value he had as a man and a husband. He had allowed himself to believe that was so and lashed out reflexively.

They were just words. In the heat of the moment.

Did you apologize to her?

It wouldn't have been enough.

Eluding the issue. Seems to be working well for you so far.

Their schedules hadn't aligned the following day, Bran leaving for the graveyard shift while Aretha was still on one of her outings of the week. And then the incident had formed a skin over itself over time, eventually becoming a barrier.

Bran's discomfort increased. It sounded exactly like a dirty wound, hidden but deadly with bacteria that could poison and kill a man through sepsis.

Can I repeat what you said? 'Just words.'

Impermanent as a spoken word, thin as a piece of paper. But words hurt: they had the power to incite, to spawn violence, destruction, and death. And here he was, stuck over the memory of some things his wife had said to him when they had been incensed by each other's vulnerability. His heart felt sore all of a sudden.

Worse, there was the self-pity at what he was: an asshole, a fool. He'd had the opportunity to change his course of action. For two fucking months he'd had the time. He knew he still loved her. If she had someone else, it would hurt like hell

because

he loved her. If he just remembered that he had the authority to stand his ground as her husband—the one person she had promised to spend her life with—he might have the conviction to make things right.

What'd I say about that imagination getting away from you?

Bran pried his fingers off the steering wheel and exhaled long and hard. What the fuck was he doing presuming guilt? Even arrested felons had the benefit of the doubt each time they were taken into custody.

Aretha had had to deal with this paranoia, his ego and willfulness behind it. What a shitty plate to be handed.

Bran stared at the rain spattering across the windshield. The suburban view streaked into a watery landscape of rivulets, ridges, dots. He had a sudden, crazy thought that it was the transient fingerprint that a god had left on his car. Some huge force that could take his life away in an instant, but had chosen not to. If he died right here, what would he regret? So much... it stole the breath right out of his lungs.

Bran pocketed his phone and reached for the door handle. Paused for a few moments, but no more internal voices returned. That felt about right. Some things he had to do for himself.

*****

Whatever had happened in the car, Bran hadn't been prepared to see the house laid out for someone else. Shutting the door softly behind him, he slowly wiped his soles on the doormat.

Ahead on the left, a marble slab flecked with silver formed a narrow bar counter. The recessed shelves behind it displayed glasses, carafes, and temperature-stable drinks. A full-sized wine chiller purred almost inaudibly in one nook. This neat drinking corner had been his father-in-law's gift to them. It was almost of no use to them on an ordinary basis, other than being a place to organize mail and leave notes for each other. At the moment, the countertop had been completely cleared: no bills, envelopes, or keys left on it.

From the entryway, cream carpeting covered a square-shaped living room. The ceiling rose to eighteen feet, and a quadrant of leather couches evoked the sense of inhabiting a plush lobby. A large bouquet of flowers sat canted on one of the seats. The room's light fixture hung down like a stalactite of angled chrome and glass shards, warming the teak finishings on the walls and furniture. He had made it for this space with the metalworking skills he had picked up doing odd jobs.