Parker & Brody

Part 1: Private Insurrection

A story about the weight of men who have seen how the gears of the world grind people to dust.

A formation of a Military Alliance of two; a Mutual Defense Pact against the rotten world. Two grown men on a frequency the world can’t hear.

---

The whole cavernous Joint Operations Center at Al Udeid was too small for the amount of ego it contained. The room was dimly lit by the blue screens and low-frequency humming of server racks. The air-conditioning was fighting a battle against the Qatari heat and the collective respiration of the men who had spent the last seventy-two hours watching a geopolitically high-stakes operation disintegrate into a series of expensive and bloody mistakes.

Massive LED arrays dominated the front wall, displaying flickering satellite feeds and drone telemetry of the Khuzestan border. Beneath the screens, the atmosphere was thick with the smell of stale coffee, sweat and the specific, metallic scent of high-level panic.

If the situation at hand was not solved decisively, heads would certainly roll.

At the front of the room, a Brigadier General was halfway through an autopsy of the failure. The congregation present wasn’t big, maybe two dozen men and women who were at the center of the mess. Among them one person who wasn’t part of it—yet—and certainly wasn’t sure he wanted to be.

Parker, 40, stood at the edge of the central command dais, his presence a jarring contrast to the crisp uniforms of the staff officers. He was calm on the surface but highly annoyed inside, he knew where this AAR (After Action Review) was heading.

He had spent the last twenty hours in the jump seat of a C-17, constantly vibrating with the roar of four engines as he was rushed right in the middle of the evolving situation. He had torn through the intel packets on the plane instead of sleeping. His eyes were bloodshot, rimmed with the red salt of exhaustion and jet-lag. He hadn't showered in two days. His charcoal shirt was wrinkled and stained with oil from the plane, and his jaw was shadowed by a heavy beard. He looked less like a high-priced consultant and more like a wild man who had just climbed out of a jungle on the other side of the planet.

Not that he was complaining, this was his life now. He had just hoped he could talk with the general before they started the AAR. 15 minutes would have been enough to gain alignment. But you can’t always get what you want. Instead, this inquisition had started right at the same minute Parker walked in. He had been whisked into the room directly from the plane, coming in hot like a cruise missile. That was about 90 minutes ago, soon it would be time to detonate the payload.

He had been out for a few years. But a tiger can’t shed its stripes. Just when he was out, they pulled him back in. The classic story. An officer turned contractor by an offer one really should refuse, but can’t. Being an outside consultant had its perks, like the independence to roam and the liberty to operate more freely. The consultancy, AHB, could invoice quite exorbitant sums for his specialization - high risk geopolitical tension, also known as glamorized cleanup. In reality it’s cooking with what you have to fix the setup and narrative. The value of his work was usually in the outside perspective he could provide.

At the back of the JOC where the light dimmed low, huddled near the server and equipment racks, was the ground element. Five men who had led the teams. They were a collective of shadows, slumped against the steel bulkheads in sweat-crusted tan gear. They were covered in the fine, gray silt of the Iranian plateau, their faces smeared with the ghosts of dirt mixed with sweat and blood.

To Parker, they were almost irrelevant—a highly capable team that had been cornered and beaten because of bad choices. Now these men had the honor to be picked to serve as the scapegoat. Always a safe, handy choice for the top brass; the DoD never discussed any details of Special Operations. So internally it made the group an ideal “Get out of jail free” card in times like these. He recognized the silhouette of their kits, but he didn't look closely enough to find a specific face among the grime.

Brigadier General Miller paced in front of the primary display. He stopped, his shadow stretching across the topographic map of the failed exfil site.

“To conclude, the assessment is clear," Miller said, his voice tight with the need for a fast solution. "The delay at the secondary LZ was the catastrophic variable. If the lead element had pushed through the initial contact instead of stalling for casualty collection, the window wouldn't have closed. The mission failed because the ground team hesitated."

The room was silent. It was the kind of silence that precedes a court-martial.

Parker waited for the beat to land. He didn't interrupt; he simply stepped into the vacuum Miller left behind. He moved forward until the blue light of the screens caught the sharp, assessing angles of his face.

"General, neither the delay nor the presumed hesitation at the LZ was the variable,” Parker said. His voice was raspy from the dry air of the transport plane, but it carried the absolute authority of a man who had navigated these waters from the inside. "It was the inevitable result."

Miller turned, his eyes narrowing. "Parker, you were brought here to fix the shitstorm, prevent the fallout, not to second-guess the operation.” Parker turned to face the general and the room. The top brass from the colonels to majors stood defensive. 

“The failure,” the General barked, slamming a pointer against the screen, “lies in the execution. The lead element was ten minutes behind the window. If you have an assessment on the tactical—”

“I have an assessment on the premise,” Parker replied calmly, stepping closer to the screens. He pointed a steady finger at a cluster of icons representing local guerrilla forces. "You sent your men to support a local uprising—freedom fighters seeking democracy. You told everybody we were there to help. To win their revolution with them."

Parker looked around the room, his gaze resting briefly on the huddle of SOF guys in the back before returning to the brass.

"But that wasn't the motive, now was it.” A pause. “The motive was to use the guerrillas as a kinetic distraction while Langley and the State Department wiggled in a puppet ruler and cabinet. Our mission was to play our way into power. We weren't there to help the uprising, we were there just for our own gain. We were there to use their bodies to create a power vacuum for a regime we’ve already decided, bought and paid for."

Parker leaned his weight onto the command console, looking Miller in the eye.

"The local forces figured out the lie. Simple as that. That’s what failed. That’s why the 'friendly' shield vanished. That’s why your op turned into hasty retreat and a potential career-ending nightmare. The LZ becoming a kill zone is just a cherry on top of this steaming shit pile… You are fully aware that tactics can’t save a mission rooted in strategic dishonesty. These men didn't stall for casualty collection because they were soft; they stalled because you sent them into a civil war where both sides had a reason to shoot at them the second they realized we were the ones holding the leash and playing games."

He straightened up, the exhaustion finally starting to pull at the corners of his mouth.

"If you want me to spin this, I can. But don't call it a tactical failure inside these walls. Call it what it is: a strategic bankruptcy. Until we admit that our motive was the rot in the room, the next op will end exactly like this one—with good men bleeding for a lie.”

The leading officers were steaming. Every single one from the general to the last major in the room were ready to explode. General Miller’s jaw worked silently. A Colonel to his left crossed his arms, crushing his pen in his fist, knuckles white. “It’s a fact that the real reason is not in this room but in the premise and we should move from the blame game to clarity,” Parker added, softening his delivery. “Based on the current looks on your faces, you might need some time to think this over.”

Parker picked up his ruggedized secure tablet, his movements economical and weary. “The real solution starts with honesty and clarity among us in this room. And in case you are not ready for being honest, I’m the guy who is the easiest to get rid of, just get me back on the plane.” He raised his eyebrows for emphasis while looking the general dead in the eyes.

He didn't wait for a rebuttal. He knew the general wouldn't speak—not with the ground team sitting right there, listening to the truth of how they’d been used. The top brass needed a few hours to stew and then it was a time to redo the conversation and see if there had been any progress.

In the back of the room, Brody, 41, sat perfectly still. His muscular shoulder hunched, hands, massive and scarred, were locked between his knees. He was the center of the team’s huddle, his heavy brow casting a shadow over eyes that were currently tracking Parker with a sudden, violent clarity. He had spent his career waiting for a man like Parker to exist—someone who could look at a general and speak the truth without blinking. He certainly didn’t expect to find that kind of spine in an outside contractor. Those guys were always running after big money... and this guy looked like he’d crawled out of the same mud they had.

Soon after their extraction last night, they’d heard that some dipshit consultant was already called and on his way in. They’d expected some fancy ex-diplomat or maybe a lawyer, not a scruffy beast dressed like he was some paramilitary hotshot. But that Parker guy had just delivered a show unheard of.

To Brody, it was clear the guy was ex-military, carried himself just like the rest who were mass manufactured at the academies. But the stunt he just pulled, who does that? He watched the back of the consultant’s head as he exited, his gaze heavy and assessing. He saw the way the man moved—no performance, no posturing, just the weight of a man who knew exactly what he was doing.

The brass began to rumble again, the sound of men trying to reclaim their dignity, but Brody didn't hear them. He was still focused on the door where the man in the charcoal shirt had vanished. He huddled in the back, didn’t move. He didn’t smile. But for the first time in weeks, his eyes weren’t flat.

Parker walked out of the JOC and through the hallways, the heavy sound of his boots echoing on the flooring. His head was buzzing, his mind already planning the next three moves in detail—along with a desperate need for a cup of coffee that tasted like something other than jet fuel. You could think the USAF budget would get a decent coffee, but you’d be dead wrong. He had a few hours to kill, maybe he could get some food and a shower before he was likely back in the plane.

He pushed through the heavy doors and stepped out into the hot Qatar morning, the heat hitting his unwashed skin like a physical weight.

Parker didn't know the name of the man in the back of the room yet. He just knew that people in that room had been carrying the weight of the lies, and it had nearly killed them.

He headed toward the chow hall, unaware that the axis of his world was about to tilt by a massive collision.

- - -

The chow hall at Al Udeid was an assault that Parker wasn't ready for. After the blue-lit hush of the JOC and the oppressive heat of the walk over, the DFAC was a jarring explosion of noise. It was the sound of a thousand people eating quickly—the clatter of plastic trays, the screech of chairs on linoleum, and the low, rolling roar of conversations in a dozen different dialects.

Parker moved through the line like a ghost. He grabbed a tray, pointed at a pile of mashed potatoes and something that resembled sausage, and took the first bottle of water he could find. He felt porous, as if his skin had been thinned by the twenty-hour flight and the confrontation with the general. He found a small, empty table near a structural pillar, putting his back against it—a habit he hadn’t been able to shake since his service days.

Sure he could find his way to the officers’ tables and they’d likely let him sit there, if not as a contractor, but as a former member of that club. But he didn’t need the posturing that came with it. He needed fuel and then the biggest coffee he could find that was hopefully at least somewhat drinkable. After it would be time to head back to the hornet’s nest he just so eloquently smashed with a big heavy bat. Let them go through and process their emotions for now.

Parker wasn’t really tasting what he was eating, his mind racing through the tactics. First thing was to establish some honesty, or rather clarity that came with it. Then, if he still had this gig, it was time to put out the fire, buy time. After that came the real work, establish a timeline and a narrative that could save faces, asses, and heads.

He knew he had stepped over the line. But in all honesty it felt refreshing, liberating. 20 years in the Navy, 15 years involving high-stakes spin-doctoring with the top brass, the State Department, the intelligence alphabet soup, etc.

All that had taught the man how the gears of the system ground individuals and how far too often, when the shit really hit the fan, everyone ran for the easiest exit. The true sustainable solutions came only from rigor and candor. He knew the stakes, the fallout from this specific op was at least an international incident, or a global storm of sensation at worst. Most likely someone would end up in front of the Senate. Fixing a solid solution required total honesty inside the house, an air-tight plan based on that and a ton of calls to coordinate… then the public could hear some nice and simple heroic version of what happened. Everyone could keep their faces.

He was halfway through the eggs when one set of the double doors slammed open near him.

It wasn't just an entrance; it was an announcement or something like a breach charge.

A group of about a dozen men walked in. They were still in their field gear, caked in the dust, their weapons gone but their specialized gear still signalling exactly what unit they were. They moved with the loose, kinetic swagger of men who cheated death for a living. The noise in the immediate vicinity dropped as heads turned. The teams usually had that effect around them, everybody knew who they were.

Parker stopped chewing. He recognized the silhouettes immediately. The shadows from the back of the JOC with the rest of their crew.

Then he saw him. It hit Parker like a change in air pressure. He froze.

In the center of the group was the man Parker had only glimpsed as a shape among the other shadows. In the harsh light of the chow hall, the man was a physical shock. He wasn't just tall; he was wide in a way that seemed impossible. His neck was a thick column of muscle that flowed seamlessly into traps so dense they looked almost fictional. It made him look like a man who could move mountains for a living. He was wearing a filthy, tight tan t-shirt that strained across pectorals deep enough to stop small arms fire. Deltoids like boulders framed deep, focused hunter’s eyes set under dark brows. He had short dark brown hair and heavy field stubble.

Even among the hyper-masculine crew—a pack, really—he stood out as the epitome of an operator. A man who moved lightly despite his size with the economic prowl of an apex predator. A wolf.

Parker watched, transfixed, as the man laughed at something one of his teammates said. It wasn't a loud laugh, but the shift in his face—from a heavy-browed, stone-faced soldier to something open and boyish—hit Parker with the force of a physical blow.

Then, as if sensing the gaze, the man looked up.

His eyes locked onto Parker’s across the ten or twenty-something yards of crowded tables. The laughter died instantly. The man slowed his pace. His face settled back into that heavy, brooding expression, staring with a sudden, unnerving intensity.

Parker felt his own breathing becoming ragged. The circuit breaker in his head, usually so reliable, gave a warning spark. It wasn’t just the size of the man that roared dedication; it was the contradiction—a beast with eyes that shifted from deadly to startlingly open, and the sudden, boyish smile on that handsome face. This was too much input. Too much gravity, pull, and capacity.

He looked away, forcing himself to focus on his tray. Eat. Move.

The stampede of the team moved toward the food lines, but Parker could feel the weight of that gaze still on him. He abandoned the rest of his eggs. He stood up, grabbed his tray, and walked toward the drop-off window, keeping his eyes strictly forward, trying to engage the ‘Officer’ protocol: Task, Condition, Standard. Deposit tray. Get coffee. Egress.

He dumped the tray, the plastic clatter lost in the noise of the chow hall. He turned toward the coffee station to fill a to-go cup and vanish back to his work. Suddenly, he was in a rush for no reason. Intellectually he knew the schedule and the mechanics of his work inside out, there was zero point to rush the needed clarity. But he also knew that one certain soldier was too much. One certain look had been too much.

He turned the corner of the beverage island, picked the biggest cup he could find and poured the coffee. Then he heard it. The deep low murmur of a hushed baritone behind him. Parker started to lose it, the freezing creeping in. The words were targeted to him, probably something friendly like, “hey, buddy,” but it didn’t really register.

He turned around ready to bolt and nearly crashed into a wall. It wasn't a wall. It was muscle radiating heat. It was the wolf of a man.

Brody was standing there looming over Parker, blocking the path. Not particularly a hard feat for a man his size. Up close, the scale of him was absurd. He was built like a tank, lean muscle for utility, not for vanity. Having some of his tactical gear still on he looked even bigger. Parker, who stood six-foot-one and 210 pounds of muscle and held his own in any room, felt suddenly, vividly smaller, even when they were about the same height. The man smelled of dust, sweat, and gunpowder—a sharp mix of cordite tang and earthy tones that cut through the smell of food like a knife. The scents of the very physical job.

Parker stopped dead. His brain didn't just pause; it seized. The 'Officer' software crashed, stripping him down to raw biological hardware. He wasn't just staring at a handsome man. His world had just shrunk to contain only the Tier-1 predator that had suddenly decided to be gentle and speak softly to him. It was a mix of cognitive dissonance and intoxicating level of raw power to execute that short-circuited his ability to speak.

His brain did that sometimes, very rarely, but it wasn’t lost on him why. He was staring up at a face that was covered in grit, with a cut over the eyebrow and eyes that were dark, tired, and currently searching Parker’s face with a desperate kind of curiosity, seeking any kind of friendly signal.

"You left the room fast," the low baritone said. Hushed and gravelly, like tires rolling over crushed rock. It wasn't aggressive. It was surprisingly gentle, almost nervous, soft. Private, meant only for him to hear. All the inputs registered in Parker’s mind in slow motion.

He just stared. The dark eyes, the browns, the stubbled jaw, the heavy set of his mouth, the full bottom lip slightly slack in hesitation. The soothing low and silent voice. Parker was blinking, trying to reboot his language centers. Speak. You are a former Naval Officer. You can fix any crisis no matter how FUBAR. You just scolded a general.

"I..." Parker started, but the word died. He was just looking at the width of the man's shoulders, the way his arms hung heavy at his sides, the biceps stretching the sleeves, the fidgeting of calloused fingers tapping against powerful thighs that strained the seams of his tactical pants. To fill the baggy tac-pants like he did was a feat that required serious devotion at the squat rack. 

Brody shifted his weight, looking suddenly sheepish under Parker's silent gaze. The wolfish stud of a man shrank down into something restless. “Hey. Look… I just... I wanted to say... back there. Nobody… I mean, I have never… talks to Miller like that. We heard about you… thought you were just another suit, but then you... well." He rubbed the back of his massive neck, looking away, then back at Parker. "I didn't mean to corner you. I just wanted to catch you before you flew out… Um, Sir?”

The rambling. The hushed tone. The fidgeting. The ‘Sir.’

It clicked. Parker watched the massive man blush beneath the layer of dirt. He’s terrified. He thinks I’m judging him.

The realization reset the breaker. Parker took a deep breath, cleared his throat, and physically pulled his shoulders back and straightened his spine. He forced himself out of the self-inflicted state of paralyzing awe and back into the ‘Officer.’

Matching the intimate, private tone he finally found something to say. “Hey, all good buddy… Sir… Big Guy…” It wasn’t going great. A beat, a breath to think. “Apparently, I can't promise that I'd be able to talk much," Parker said, his voice finding its own confident, dry rhythm again. He met Brody’s eyes, holding the gaze this time. "Especially when about 250lbs of prime meat is blocking my exit. You’re a hard target to ignore, bud.” He gave a weak smile, a smirk with a wink.

Brody’s eyes widened. He instantly stopped fidgeting. Drew a quick ragged breath.

"But," Parker continued, leaning in slightly, lowering his voice to really match Brody’s intimate pitch. “Would you…” He cleared his throat again. “Do you want to take a cup of coffee and sit with me? I’d like to hear your story. I’m not really in any particular hurry... given you guys created such a concoction that I’ll be stuck here for a few weeks… If I still have the job after that tantrum, that is.” He gave his slow winning smile, finally back in the saddle.

A slow grin spread across Brody’s face. It wasn't the polite smile of a subordinate; it was the relieved, knowing grin of a man who realized the door was open.

"Yeah," Brody breathed out silently. Like someone who just found unexpected kindness. "Yeah, I'd like that."

Parker nodded, gesturing to the coffee pot. "After you."

As they walked side by side toward a distant, empty table, Parker noticed the silence that fell over the nearby tables. He glanced over. The ‘Wolf Pack’—the other operators—were sitting with their trays, staring openly. They weren't scowling or judging. They were grinning like idiots.

Parker looked back to his side at Brody, who was walking with the careful, lumbering grace of a giant trying not to knock over the furniture. He noticed how they had transitioned smoothly into the same pace. Parker felt a sudden, strange sense of peace settle over his exhaustion. The buzzing in his head had stopped. It had been replaced by the heavy, silent gravity of the man walking next to him.

- - -

They sat at the far end of the DFAC, the most privacy they could find in the space. A scarred table between them felt like an ocean; in reality, it wasn’t big enough for guys their size, the standard-issue tables never were. You could easily bump your knees with the guy sitting in front of you. 

Parker watched Brody sit—a slow, controlled collapse of massive weight onto a chair that looked too small for him. The heat from Brody’s body caught Parker, but the surroundings made the distance impossible to cross.   

Brody didn't eat. He just stared at his coffee in the cardboard cup he held in his hands as if it contained a classified brief.

"You smell perfect," Brody blurted out.

The words hit the table with the flat gravity of a tactical fact. Like somebody stating the sky is blue or ‘perimeter secured’. Brody froze, his face immediately darkening with a deep, dusty blush. "I... Christ, I'm sorry. I didn't... that was out of line. I’m just coming off the op and my brain is—"

"I could say the same, big guy,” Parker interrupted. His voice was low, devoid of judgment. He didn't smile; he just held Brody’s eyes, letting the ‘Circuit Breaker’ in his own head hum. "It's not the gunpowder, buddy. It’s you."

Brody let out a breath that sounded like a tire losing air. He looked down, then back up, searching Parker’s face with a desperate, quiet intensity. He tried to straighten his shoulders, reaching for the professional mask.

"So," Brody cleared his throat. "You said you wanted to hear my side of the story. I don't know how much I can share here... the surroundings, your clearance... I don't really know who you are in the system."

"Not your side of that story," Parker said, leaning forward, his own exhaustion making his movements heavy. "I said I want to hear your story."

Brody stared, his brows flying up. "Oh. Wow. I mean... I'm not that interesting. Not like you… I'm just a guy who…” He paused, his eyes narrowing and brows turning low in genuine confusion. "Why'd you ask?"

"Because I'm interested," Parker said simply. "Mighty intrigued and interested… Aren't you?"

"I’m so… violently intrigued," Brody said, the honesty coming out like a growl. "You're a soldier I didn't know was allowed to exist."

Parker looked away for a second, a ghost of a coy smirk on his bearded face. That man was absolutely too much for him to handle, the honest, expressive face and the unfiltered directness were turning Parker’s insides upside down. ”Nah. Just a man who’s made a career out of polishing steaming shit piles for the government."

"No," Brody said, his voice dropping an octave, becoming a hard, hushed baritone. "Don't talk down like that. I don't stand for it when people I like do that. I know what I saw. That wasn't a 'tantrum.' It was brutal. It was the most amazing debrief of my whole career.” In Brody’s mind, it was a fact set in stone. Parker was the only one in that situation who wasn’t acting like a coward, someone who wasn’t running for the lifeboats.

Parker felt a lump form in his throat. He reached for his coffee to hide the flicker of emotion. "You make it sound like something…” He looked up at Brody. “It’s just choosing to be honest. I’m literally being paid to set up lies.” The other man nodded, but internally, Brody’s mind was screaming in admiration.

“Well, I mean, the result is usually a lie," Parker continued, "and people like me cook it up to save asses."

"You saved my team back there," Brody said, his eyes locking onto Parker's. "And my ass."

Parker’s smirk returned, sharper this time. He looked Brody up and down making sure the man noticed his interest. ”That ass happens to be so magnificent, I’d save it anytime. And then some."

Brody barked out a sharp, genuine laugh—a sound so unexpected and rich that Parker had to bite his lips to keep from losing his own composure. The emotion crashed inside him so suddenly he was fighting a tear. He didn’t even know how desperately he needed something real and un-cynical in his life until that sound filled his world. How deep he had buried that human craving. All the hurt of the past fears was at risk of spilling over in an instant. He wanted, needed, to make that sound happen for the rest of his life.

"You like it?" Brody asked, his voice a gravelly whisper.

"Yeah," Parker breathed, the ‘Officer’ software completely offline. “I really do.”

"And what would ‘then some' entail?"

Parker didn't blink. He looked directly into Brody’s soul, their own little ‘Secret Society of two’ sealing its first charter. "Cherish it. Like I would the rest of the man. Every moment I could."

The silence that followed was thick enough to touch. They knew the doors were open, that clarity changed their objective. They scanned each other, two soldiers memorizing the map of a new territory. The terrain of their next mission. The possibility of the highest-stakes deployment of their lives.

"It’s weird," Brody said finally still deep in his thoughts. "Almost scary. I’ve been on my own for so long and..."

"Then you just crashed in," Parker finished for him. "Breached everything in a terrifying snap."

Brody nodded. Parker continued "I don't even know your full name…”

“But I feel you,” Brody finished for the man with a husked admission.

Parker nodded.

“You.. Your assault… you just hit with efficiency I couldn't prepare for,” Brody muttered.

“Yeah, exactly.”

They returned to their new maps. There really wasn’t much need to break the silence. No words that could hold the sufficient meaning.

The new territory looked amazing. The prospect filled them with mix of contradicting anxious calm. Both needed more. The pull of the battle was unmistakable.

Parker was acutely aware of the heat radiating from the big muscled body in front of him. To him Brody seemed calm on the surface but his eyes still held the hyper awareness needed on the field.

Parker moved his leg under the table and pressed their calves together tentatively. Brody released a breath nobody was aware he had been holding. Parker pressed their legs more firmly together. That did the trick, both of them grounding to lower voltage. Brody’s eyes lost the need to notice everything; what was in front of him was enough and plenty at the same time. Even through the pants Brody’s body was like a furnace. The tiny touch was nowhere near enough, but it was the only way they could.

“Do you always run this hot?” Parker asked in low tone, almost like a whisper.

“It’s hard to shake. The energy. From the field I mean.”

“I know.”

Then Parker was back at it: “And here I thought it’s just your insides matching the very hot outside.” Punctuating the flirt with a smirk.

“Jsus, that’s cheesy,” Brody said with fake disgust.

“Hey, you can’t blame the man for trying.”

Both men smiling in that small way that is meant for just one person to see. Brody felt his head spinning a little from the compliments, he didn’t know they could feel so good. He got his share of attention, but none of it had felt this important.

A heavy hand clapped Brody’s shoulder. It was one of the operators from the pack—a man with a jagged scar on his jaw.

"Hey," the man said, casting a knowing, smirking glance at Parker. "The guys are heading out to clean up and get some shuteye. We’ll be at the barracks."

Brody lowered his brows, expression from muscle memory, an automatic response for a man who could think fast while listening. He nodded distractedly. "Copy. See you there."

The operator wiggled his eyebrows at Parker with a massive grin and headed for the doors. Parker looked around. The DFAC had gone quiet. The lunch rush was over. A staff member was mopping the floors fifty yards away. They were alone in the hangar-sized room.

"Hey, bud," Parker said softly.

Brody looked up, his face lighting up like a kid’s.

Parker got immediately distracted, whatever was important on his mind was gone. ”You’re really too much," Parker said, shaking his head. This man should be illegal, he thought. How is it even possible to change from terminator to hopeful that fast?

"Don't go," Brody said abruptly.

"Not planning to, but it’s not really up to me."

"No, I know. I mean just yet. You looked like you were about to leave."

"Time to face my music," Parker said. Then the lingering thought registered. ”Wait…” He gestured toward the coffee island. “Did you say that you wanted to catch me before I flew out? Did they decide to get rid of me already?"

“Oh, no, no, nothing like that…” Brody said quickly. "They were steaming for sure, but I didn't hear anything about a flight. I just meant... I didn't want to miss you. Just…Now that I’ve found you.”

That punched Parker hard, the absolute safety in clarity. He glowed brighter than the sun outside, biting his lip and fighting his internal demons of his loneliness.

They sat in the comfort of that knowledge for a minute. Parker finally sighed. "Okay, big guy. Let’s go. A man’s gotta face the music."

Brody didn't move. He sat there like a statue.

"I can't move you," Parker joked, "so you can stay there, but I have some wrinkles to smooth out with Miller."

"You could leave tomorrow, right?" Brody asked, his voice sounding younger, hopeful. "Whatever they decide, you'll leave tomorrow and we still have time.” It was a statement.

Parker looked at the massive man, the fortress with the wide-open door. "Yeah. I could do that.”

Brody nodded, it was settled. 

"Would you have time... would you like... maybe we could hit the gym later?"

Parker smiled knowingly. "Yeah, I'd like that.”

Brody continued: “I gotta crash first, but evening? Before the late chow?”

Parker nodded with a smirk.

"1730," Brody said, the wolf returning to his eyes.

“Sure, but I'll be in the kids' section," Parker joked. "Probably no weights for you in that part of the house."

"I don't care," Brody said, giving him a slow wink. "I can always bench press you."

Parker laughed, feeling the heat rise in his chest.

“That’ll come after,” Parker said in a low tone without blinking, looking Brody dead in the eyes with no smile, then letting the smirk creep in.

Brody looked at him with a sudden, hungry intensity that made Parker’s heart stop. "I wanna press every single button you have,” it came out of his mouth as a low rumble, like a growl. A sound Parker felt in his own chest more than he heard it. It certainly wasn’t a question. Parker stared openly at Brody’s full lips that had just breathed out such heated words.

"Oh boy," Parker whispered. "You already do. And then some.”

The frustration of the public space was a physical weight now. They both burned to close the distance, but the ‘Officer’ and the ‘Operator’ knew the rules. The heat was unmistakable. The restraints of their roles holding both men like physical chains.

Parker knew if he stayed at the base he’d have private room. Suddenly the thought about the keypad lock on his transient quarters and the small luxury of a private shower felt like an earth shattering need.

In that moment everything was crystal clear to both of them. It provided calm neither of them hardly knew in their lives. Their world contained just two men negotiating a peace treaty while their bodies were unmistakably trying to start a war.

Two men who were indestructible to the world, on the outside, finally ready to quit the searching on the inside.

Two men quietly settling into new orbits around each other.

The silence was peaceful.

Snapping himself out of the trance, Parker said with a smirk, "Hey, himbo. Time to move."

"What did you just call me?" Brody asked, visually baffled but grinning.

Parker winked, stood up and started toward the door. Brody stood up as well, looming again, his scale returning. The man stalled. Parker paused. “Just teasing, stud. Let’s go.” He waited, but his body was starting to fidget at Brody’s silence. “I didn’t mean to…” 

"Can I..." Brody stopped, looking at Parker’s eyes with a raw, pleading hesitancy. "Please don't shower.”

The few feet between them was suddenly like a high-voltage power line.

Parker swallowed hard. The gravity of it—the desire for the real, unwashed man—hit him like a strike. He nodded. "Yeah. I can do that,” the voice was gravelly whisper.

"1730 at the gym," Brody said, his face shifting back into the decisive leader. "Late grub after."

"Copy. You got yourself a Delta, Alpha, Tango, Echo, buddy."

Brody groaned and rolled his eyes at the cheesiness of this man but his smile betrayed him, the man-puppy returning for one last flash.

They walked out in perfect sync, their cardboard cups hitting the trash cans at the same moment.

Outside the double doors, the Qatari heat hit them like a furnace. Parker stopped and turned, his eyes searching the big man’s face.

“It used to be just Parker everywhere I went. But you already knew that,” he said softly, "to you it's Paul. Just so you know who you’re talking to." He offered his hand.

Brody looked at the hand, then up at the man. He took it. The handshake was firm—two calloused, scarred palms locking together. It had nothing to prove, just a firm, grounding weight. The sparks sent a jolt up Parker’s spine he hadn't felt in years. It made the Qatari heat feel cold by comparison.

"Brian," the big man forced out, his voice a low, solemn rumble. He didn't let go. His grip tightening just enough to be felt.

"Suits you, bud," Parker said, his voice thick with the weight of the moment. “Brian."

Brody’s eyes darkened. Hearing his name—his real name—spoken by the most important voice of his world filled him with stillness he hadn’t felt. It made him want to submit totally, unconditionally. It should have been scary, but it wasn’t. The realization didn't just rattle him; it anchored him. For the first time in his life, the buzzing was gone, replaced by a stillness that felt foundational. His stare was loaded with a forty-year-old hunger.

Parker felt the heat of the gaze. He felt lightheaded. But they were out in the open, this was neither the time nor the place. So he continued playfully. "If it even is your name. You guys with your aliases and shit?"

"I would never lie to a pretty face like yours," Brody said solemnly. His thumb brushing over Parker's knuckles, not wanting to let go of the moment despite the risks. The stare remained loaded; both of them felt the heavy need.

"God, I really want..." Brody started.

"Yeah," Parker said and swallowed the burning feeling. “Later."

“At 1730,” Brody confirmed.

Parker threw a sloppy salute. Brody nodded, his eyes tracking Parker until the heat-haze blurred the lines. They went separate ways, both of them walking a little lighter, the axis of their world permanently tilted.

- - -

Parker marched back to the JOC through the midday heat, the furnace around him doing nothing to dry the dampness of his shirt where Brody’s heat had seeped into his own. His world hadn’t changed per se; it had locked into a new, steady rotation. The buzzing in his head was gone, replaced by a quiet, rhythmic countdown.

1730.

He got to the lobby of the Operations Center and walked briskly past the wall of secure storage lockers. He knew his personal phone was in there, likely vibrating with messages from AHB. News of his performance in the morning debrief would have reached the company partners before he’d even hit the chow hall. Usually, the itch to check—to stay ahead—was an obsession. Today, it was noise. He didn't even look at the locker. He didn't need the distraction. He knew exactly where he stood.

Inside the hum of the JOC, the atmosphere was glacial. The staff officers and data analysts watched him with a mix of wariness and reluctant awe. He was the man who had just detonated a career-ending bomb in the middle of their command, and yet he walked back into the room as if he owned the crater and the debris of his own making.

He didn't beg for Miller’s forgiveness. He didn't apologize to the colonels. Parker wasn't a beggar; he was a builder. He had created the crater specifically to humble them, to clear the air of all the anxious lies so they could finally start on a foundation of truth.

For the next four hours, he moved like a conductor. He began with the team already managing the "firefighting"—absorbing the frantic, reactive tasks already in motion and folding them into a singular, coherent path. He collected the cold, hard facts of the Khuzestan failure, labeling the usable pieces and discarding the institutional lies. He didn't fight the direction they were already moving; he simply gripped the wheel and forced the vehicle back onto the road.

He presented the initial framework to a closed group of three: Miller and two key colonels. He didn't use slides. He used a dry, raspy voice and the absolute clarity of a man who could see five moves ahead. He watched their defensiveness melt into a grudging, desperate reliance. They realized what the system already knew: Parker wasn't just a consultant. He was the line of credit. His clout didn't come from his titles, but from his piercing capacity for clarity. Plus all the direct lines his company held to the Senate, the DoD, and the West Wing helped. Parker wasn’t oblivious to this. He was just a single pair of boots on the ground, a single cog in a giant machine. But he happened to be the one who could get everyone to agree to a mutual story and make it happen fast, simply because he knew how to cook up a narrative to perfection—also known as ‘mutually beneficial’.

Usually, this was the part where Parker lost himself. He was almost famous for his "Flow State," a trancelike devotion to the work where hours vanished and he had to be reminded to breathe.

But today, the flow felt different. It was cleaner. He wasn't using the work to drown out the silence of his life; for the first time in fifteen years, the mission wasn't the work; the work was just the obstacle between him and the real prize. He didn't need to look at the clock to know what time it was. He felt the time passing in his blood. He had a milestone to reach, a deadline to meet, and it had nothing to do with a winning narrative.

At 1700 sharp, he saved the master file to the secure server and shot a secure message to all the stakeholders to notify them of the draft version. Then, he closed his tablet, stood up and marched out. He had achieved more coherence in about five hours than the entire JOC staff had accomplished in two days. It wasn’t about the staff’s competence or lack of trying; he knew it was simply the value an outside perspective could bring into a situation like this. He walked out without a word, leaving the colonels staring at his empty chair.

In the lobby, he finally opened his storage locker. He grabbed his phone and scrolled. There it was: a single encrypted message from the AHB partner he was working with, arrived at 1110, precisely thirty minutes after he’d stormed out of the JOC.

“Heard about the debrief. Classic. Let me know when we have a plan.”

No demand for explanations. No reprimand. The company knew how he operated; they knew that sometimes you have to break the glass to save the building. Parker typed a three-word response: “Draft on SIPR.”

He marched to the transient quarters, a sprawling complex of pre-fab containers that smelled of industrial floor cleaner.

Once he’d secured his room and rack for the next few days, he shoveled a dry protein bar into his mouth, tasting nothing but the urgency of the hour. He stripped off the wrinkled charcoal shirt and pulled on a thin, gray moisture-wicking T-shirt, black athletic shorts and running shoes.

He entered his bathroom to take a leak but was stopped in his tracks by the sight of the shower. He looked at the shower handle. It would be so easy to wash off the grime, the jet fuel, the stink of the last two days. But he remembered the plea in Brody's eyes. The scents of the morning—the gunpowder, the grease, and the faint, earthy ghost of Brody’s skin—rushed into his mind. He was instantly wrapped in the heat. The fresh memory of the man pleading, asking for primal honesty, overpowering the air conditioning of his quarters. He wasn’t going to let the Army’s industrial soap wash away the only thing that had felt real in years. He turned away from the water, leaving the grit exactly where it was.

He checked his reflection in the small, scratched mirror. His eyes were still red-rimmed, his beard still a tangle of scruff. He brushed his teeth and splashed cold water on his face, trying to look at least like a human and not a mess. It didn’t do much. The man in the mirror didn’t look ready for a date; he looked like a soldier. For the battle ahead, that would have to do. At least they were starting on neutral ground.

He grabbed his gym bag and stepped out into the early evening at 1715, his heart finding a heavy, expectant beat.

- - -

Brody stood in the shadow of the chow hall long after Parker’s roguish salute had vanished into the heat-haze. He was rooted to the spot, a two-hundred-and-fifty-pound statue of grit and muscle, processing the sheer kinetic impact of the last hour. The sun beat down on the asphalt, radiating a staggering heat that usually made men curse, but Brody didn’t feel it. He was focused on the cooling sensation in his own marrow—the stillness that had arrived the moment Parker had said his name.

Brian.

He eventually turned and began the stomp back to the team’s unit. He moved with a heavy, purposeful gait, his mind operating on a frequency that was entirely new. Usually, coming off an op meant a slow, agonizing slide into a dark adrenaline crash—a period of hyper-vigilance and jagged nerves. But this felt different. The "buzzing" that usually plagued him had been grounded.

At their unit most of the team was already collapsed on their racks, the "survival high" finally giving way to bone-deep exhaustion.

"Well, well," one of the team’s snipers, Mills, chirped as Brody walked past. He was cleaning his gear, a smirk on his face. "Who’s the new boy? He certainly knows how to clear a room."

Brody didn't stop. He didn't even look over. His voice came out like a low roll of thunder, vibrating through the space.

"Shut up. He’s not a boy."

It wasn't a threat, just a fact so firm it ended the conversation instantly. Mills’ smile widened, but he dropped the subject. Shrugged, recognizing the tone, Parker was off-limits for locker-room talk.

Brody realized he hadn't actually eaten. His system was screaming for fuel, but he didn't want to go back out to look for food. He went to his gear and began pulling out protein bars and energy gels, tearing into them with the mechanical, efficient hunger of a brute. He shoveled five bars down in quick succession, the dry, chocolatey grit barely registering as he swallowed.

His mind was elsewhere. He was thinking about the word "cherish." He was thinking about the way Parker had looked him dead in the eyes and promised to hold the rest of him.

Brody looked down at his own hands—massive, calloused, scarred by ropes and steel. He looked at the powerful, thick thighs that filled his tactical pants to the point of structural failure. For twenty years, his body had been a utility, a piece of government property. A weapon. A forklift. A shield. It was something he used to accomplish a task. It wasn't really something to be loved; it was something to be maintained.

Until now.

He knew he was big, among the biggest in his team. He didn’t care about it, to him it was utility for the job. Until Parker had called him “big guy,” that memory filled him with quiet warm pride. It had nothing to do with vanity, that part of human programming was never installed in his system, instead it had everything to do with the simple pleasure of providing.

He secretly liked how Parker called him buddy. Instantly. The way Parker had thrown the word around should have felt dismissive. Instead, it felt like an invitation. It was the language of equals, a sign that Parker wasn't looking up at a giant or down at a soldier. It carried something deep, a clear admission that Parker wasn’t afraid of him or his capacity, very unlike everyone else outside the teams. His massive size—which usually intimidated others and isolated him—was exactly what Parker was looking for. Everyone treated Brody like a loaded gun; Parker treated him like a man. That fact felt incredible; he felt light.   

Parker had seen the beauty in his build. Parker had called his ass magnificent. That still made him grin like an idiot. He knew he could squat a lot. He wanted to surrender all of that to Parker. Willingly. Provide. And receive. The safety in equality. 

The thought sent a heavy, persistent pulse through his system, a physical heat that had nothing to do with the desert. He noticed that he was achingly hard. And not for the first time that day. Previously, he had to remain seated for the sake of decency.

He felt a sudden, sharp gratitude for the fact that he was almost alone. His second-in-command was already snoring in the bunk next to him. He lay back on his rack, his boots still on, staring at the corrugated metal ceiling of the CHU.

He thought about the word again. Paul.

The meaning of it all wasn’t lost on him. The swap from the standard military code to the personal. He was fixated, hooked.

He didn't fight the sleep. He wasn't nervous or agitated; he was simply waiting for the clock to turn. Eventually, the peace won out, and he drifted into a heavy slumber.

He woke up at 1630 without an alarm. He sat up, the silence of the room punctuated only by the rhythmic breathing of his sleeping team. He felt clear.

Brody went to the communal latrine, splashing cold water on his face and scrubbing the worst of the silt from his eyes but leaving the ghost of the morning on his skin. He didn't shower. His instruction applied to himself as well. It had been a plea, a raw admission of need that Parker had guarded with the grace of a brother in arms who shared that same silent, high-stakes hunger. It was a silent oath they hadn't been forced to take. An oath born of shared, illicit need in a world that had no room for it. An oath they were determined to keep.

He stood at the sink, staring at himself in the polished metal mirror. He smelled of the mission, but underneath, he was looking for the scent of the coffee island. He was relieved—intensely so—that Parker had agreed to stay unwashed. It felt like a pact. A secret they were both carrying.

He brushed his teeth with efficiency, then went back to his gear to change. He pulled on a black sleeveless shirt that was far too tight, his deltoids and traps looking like they were carved from stone. He laced up his lifting sneakers, checked the time—1710—and headed out.

He reached the gym early. He needed to be the one waiting. He needed to be the anchor that was already set when the compass arrived.

He didn't start his workout, but did some light warm-up while waiting in position. He stood near the squat racks, his eyes fixed on the entrance. He watched the door with the same lethal focus he used when scanning a target.

He was the first one there. He would always be the first one there for Parker.

At 1725, he saw the door swing open, and finally the right man entered. The deadly focus of his eyes softened into something else entirely. He saw the lean, wire-strong silhouette, the swept-back hair, longer than regulation, and the dark gray T-shirt stretched across a powerful torso.

Brody’s heart didn't race. It simply dropped into a lower, heavier gear. He didn't move. He just watched Parker walk into the room, waiting for the moment their eyes would lock and the real foreplay would finally begin.

- - -

Parker felt it, the shift in air, before the sound followed. It was still a new sensation, something to get used to—the heavy displacement of air that only one man on the base seemed to command.

"On your six, soldier."

The voice was a low, vibrating murmur that seemed to bypass Parker’s ears and go straight to the base of his skull. He didn't jump; he just exhaled, the tension in his shoulders coiling tighter. He turned his head slightly, seeing the wall of muscle covered in black standing just inches away.

"You really like to ambush people, don't you?" Parker said, his own voice sounding dry and slightly wrecked.

Brody leaned in, the movement predatory and slow. He didn't look at the other soldiers scattered around the weight piles. His world was currently about eighteen inches wide. "Only the ones I’m hunting," he whispered.

Parker fought the shiver that threatened to break his ‘Officer’ posture. The ‘Circuit Breaker’ was humming at a dangerous frequency, vision shrinking. He looked Brody in the eye, seeing the dark, dilated pupils and the lack of any tactical mask. The game was on, and he was relieved to find that this 250-pound wolf didn't have any ‘safe and coy’ setting.

"Let’s see what you’ve got," Brody said, his voice returning to a normal—though still gravelly—volume. He didn't wait for an answer. He sauntered toward a vacant power rack with a prowl that made Parker’s mouth go dry.

In the bright gym lighting, Brody’s whole physical form was on display. He was built like a Hellenic statue carved from iron. The black sleeveless shirt was at least one or maybe two sizes too small. It was an exercise in structural tension, every shape and curve prominently displayed. It was borderline indecent, the fabric straining against pectorals ready to bust out at any moment. His uncovered deltoids resembled weathered boulders. He wasn't "bulky" like you’d find on the defensive lines; he was dense. Parker let out a low groan, hoping he’d kept the sound contained in his head. He realized then that his "prime meat" assessment from the chow hall hadn't even been close. This was something else. This was a one-man armored column.

Brody glanced back and saw the gaze. It was dizzying. The effect he had on the man. He felt proud of the simple act, he could give that to his partner. It felt like a more important accomplishment than hitting the top scores in his evaluations.

Parker followed him into the heavy-lifting section. He knew the stats: Tier-1 guys were levels above everyone else. Whether they were the compact 5'5" scouts or the 6'9" breachers, they were all forged in the same fire. Parker knew he was about to get smoked. He also knew he was going to enjoy every grueling second of it. The training. The Adonis show called Brody. The foreplay this was really about.

He wasn't a slouch—he was six-foot-one and two-ten of functional Navy steel—but he’d never had the professional requirement to carry a 100-pound ruck and a machine gun while dragging a wounded teammate through a kill zone. His strength was solitary, quiet.

"You're the boss," Parker said, stepping up to the adjacent rack. "Lead the way."

Brody didn't go easy. He started them on a rotation of heavy squats and burpees. No rest. No talking. Just the sound of heavy plates sliding onto iron bars and the rhythmic thud of bodies hitting the rubber mats.

Parker was immediately impressed by the Wolf’s flexibility. For a man that size, Brody moved with a fluid, terrifying grace. They fell into a grim, synchronized rhythm. Brody was loading more and more weight, his face a mask of focus, the veins in his neck standing out like cables. Parker stayed in his lane, lifting less but maintaining the pace, his own strength proving to be deceptively durable. He could feel Brody watching him through the mirrors—not judging, but calibrating.

By the last set of squats, Parker was red-faced and panting, the air in the gym feeling like liquid lead. He stepped under the bar, his legs vibrating.

Suddenly, Brody was there. He was behind Parker, so close that the heat radiating from his chest soaked through Parker’s thin gray shirt.

"I can spot you if you need," Brody whispered, his breath hot against the shell of Parker's ear.

Parker swallowed hard, his hands gripping the knurling of the bar. "Yeah. Sure. That’d be good."

They did the set in tandem. Every time Parker descended, Brody’s massive hands hovered inches from his ribs, the proximity making Parker’s heart hammer harder than the weights ever could. The scent was overwhelming now—the sharp, fresh, heavy musk of high-testosterone exertion.

It was a pheromonal assault. Parker felt his body react with a sudden, violent surge of blood that made his gym shorts a very dangerous place to be. He hit the last rep, racked the bar with a shaky thud, and stayed there, head down, breathing like a wounded animal.

Brody didn't move away. He took one half-step back, inhaling deep and slow, his chest nearly brushing Parker's spine. Parker started to turn, but Brody’s voice stopped him.

"Don't move. Cover me."

Parker froze. He knew exactly what the cover was for. They stood there in the middle of a loud, crowded gym, two unwashed men shielding each other from the world. It was a silent, absurdly risky act of intimacy that felt more honest than anything Parker had experienced in years.

"Your turn," Parker finally managed, his voice a jagged edge.

They switched. Parker stepped behind the larger man, and the view nearly wrecked him. Up close, Brody’s upper back was a landscape of straining muscle—traps that flowed into a neck caked with salt and grit. Parker wanted to bury his face in the hairline and breathe in the absolute truth of him.

Brody was fighting a losing battle. He was too aware of Parker’s heat on his back. His form was still perfect, but his breathing was ragged. Parker ended up having to put his hands on Brody’s waist for the final rep, the contact sending a jolt through both of them that almost brought the session to a crashing halt.

Once the bar hit the rack, Brody spun around instantly. He was panting, his face flushed, eyes dark with a hungry, desperate intensity. He glanced down at Parker’s predicament, then back up. The man looked like he was about to salivate.

"I think that's enough for this," Brody rasped. "For now."

"Yeah," Parker smirked, his ‘Officer’ brain struggling to stay in control while his pulse was screaming. "You shouldn't jump burpees with that gun, bud. Might hit someone."

Brody gave a short, guttural grunt. "Give me a second.”

They stood face to face in a tactical huddle that had nothing to do with combat and everything to do with survival.

They backed off, moving to a quieter corner just to be safe and agreeing to take it down a notch. Parker felt drunk, high on the effect he was having on a man of Brody’s capacity. They ran through some pull-ups and rope pulls, the conversation staying in the safe zone of their pasts. Brody talked about collegiate wrestling and the grind of team sports. Parker mentioned his solitary preferences like mountain biking, swimming, and hiking with his scouting team as a teen.

"I tried baseball," Parker grunted, pulling himself up the bar. "Couldn't stand the advice from the sidelines. People who weren't in the dirt telling me how to swing."

Brody watched him, his eyes tracking the way Parker's back muscles shifted—not as massive as his own, but lean, hard, and incredibly efficient. It began to dawn on Brody that Parker was likely strong enough to actually manhandle him if he wanted to.

The thought floored him; he nearly whimpered out loud. The wolf felt the urge to submit pull at his gut like a heavy weight. For a man who had been the tip of the spear for years, the sudden, violent urge to finally let someone else lead was a physical relief. He watched the dark sweat soak through Parker’s gray shirt, watched the focus in those intelligent eyes, and he felt himself salivating again.

This equal force had just walked into his life. It was immensely satisfying to Brody's hidden urge to lay down his arms and let someone else be in control for once.

While doing back rows, Parker couldn’t stop his stare. Brody’s back was arched, the ‘magnificent’ glutes pushed backwards. The whole perfect bubble was on full display. It hit him like a truck when he noticed the faint line of Brody’s jockstrap under the fabric. In between the two round globes the cotton gym shorts had lost their battle against all the perspiration. Right in front of him was the ultimate display of the sweat-soaked, salt-stained reality of the man's exertion. He simply couldn’t look away. Parker swallowed hard. Brody dropped the weight, turned, and scanned the room. Came closer and husked right at Parker’s ear, “I like how much it affects you.”

The air between them was a thick cocktail of steel, rubber, and the heavy musk of the pact they formed.

They ended the hour sitting on the floor, throwing a twenty-pound med-ball back and forth. They were in sync, the rhythm hypnotic. Every time the ball changed hands, their eyes locked. It was a conversation without words—the weight of the ball a proxy for the weight they’d been carrying. Every catch was a statement; every throw was a challenge. Their rhythm was the most honest conversation in the room.

The gym was starting to empty out for the late chow. The world was shrinking again. The ‘Secret Society’ was preparing for the next phase.

“1830. PT is over," Parker said, catching the ball and holding it against his chest. “Time to hit the showers,” he continued.

“Don’t you fucking dare,” the other man growled. 

Brody looked at him, his face a mix of exhaustion and raw, unmasked want. Their no cleanup pact had done its work. They were both covered in the mission, the workout, and each other.

"Time to do the private training,” Brody stated, his voice a low rumble.

Parker stood up, offering a hand to the 250-pound man. Brody took it, and for a second, the pull wasn't about getting up—it was about who was going to let go first.

Neither of them wanted to.

Their grip didn't loosen. Parker’s thumb brushed the back of Brody’s hand, a silent, desperate signal that the public show was over.

They were standing close, their breaths mingling in the small space between them. The late chow could wait; they had a very different feast in mind.

“My room,” Parker stated.

“Now.” Brody finished.

Parker nodded.

- - -

They rushed out of the gym side by side just short of running. Their feet hitting the pavement like someone had ordered a quick march in step. Neither of them noticed; they were a wall of sweaty meat on a mission pushing forward with determination.

Other soldiers and staff dodged them when they beelined for their target. They were like a two-man stack about to breach.

The trek was a silent, agonizing deployment. They moved in that same synchronized pace, two heavy engines humming at the same frequency, but the few feet of open air between them felt like a live wire. Every time a pair of headlights swept over them, or a patrol humvee rattled past, the restraints tightened.

Near Parker’s door, they instinctively slowed to a stalk, hyper-aware of observers. It was dark, but they’d need a hell of an explanation if anyone saw. Even Parker doubted he could spin a convincing excuse. Brody looked like he would tear apart anyone who dared to stand in his way.

The coast was clear.

Parker pushed the door open, stepped inside; Brody followed.

The door hadn't even latched before the world vanished.

Brody breached all Parker’s defenses with body slam against the wall. The 250-pound wall of hot iron pinning Parker against the corrugated steel wall of the unit. The sound of the impact—the dull thud of muscle against metal—echoed in the small space. Brody instantly cupped Parker’s jaw with his massive paw.

Parker’s breath left him in a ragged gasp; he didn't recoil. He reached up, his calloused hands tangling in Brody’s unwashed damp hair, pulling the hungry wolf down into his space.

The scent hit him with the force of a chemical burn. It was the mission, the grit, the salt of the gym, the arousal. Against the sterile, industrial smell of the pre-fab unit, Brody smelled like the earth itself—forest, rain, and soil. It was the heavy, intoxicating truth underneath all their masks, a musk of a man who didn’t hide from himself. It was primal. It was home.

Their kiss was hard. It was raw, it was violent with need, it was perfect. Both men pushing with all they got, knowing the other could take it.

The taste of Brody. The full lips against his. The two tongues wrestling. That finally did it. Parker’s mind went white. He was just feeling. Holding the perfect man in his arms. Exploring his neck, his soft hair with his fingers. Other hand holding the wide back, gripping all the meat his fingers could find.

The ‘Officer’ and the ‘Operator’ didn’t do gentle first. They were both built for impact.

"I’ve been... dying," Brody growled against Parker’s mouth, his voice a low, desperate rumble that vibrated through Parker’s entire chest. Hearing the confession sent Parker's pulse racing at levels he had rarely experienced.

Brody’s hands—huge, scarred, and trembling with the need—gripped Parker’s waist, the fingers digging into the thin gray t-shirt, threatening to tear the fabric. He pushed his weight forward, his massive thighs slotting between Parker’s, grounding him, claiming the space.

Parker felt the ‘Circuit Breaker’ in his head shatter. The ‘Officer’ was dead. There was only the biological hardware left, screaming for the weight. He shoved his hands under Brody’s shirt, his palms sliding over the furnace of Brody's abdomen, feeling the ridged muscle, the coarse hair, and the sheer, pulsing heat of the man.

Brody rutted against Parker. Their thick hard rods pushing together through the shorts.

The need burned like flames. It wasn’t like some casual hook-up. It was profound. A mix of raw need to claim, to protect, to serve.

Brody whimpered—a sound that shouldn't have come from a man that size, a low, submissive note that sent a jolt of pure electricity down Parker’s spine. The sentient fortress was offering up the keys.

"Paul," Brody rasped, the name a plea. “Please."

Parker didn't answer with words. He attacked the soft lips with his own. Brody grunted; Parker left a long heavy exhale.

Their big hands found their faces, cupping and caressing, when they pulled away. “I’m too close,” Brody stated the fact and held his forehead against Parker’s. Parker moved slightly to rub their noses together in an intimate kunik. “Yeah,” he rasped, unable to speak. He took a hold of Brody’s flanks and pushed them away from the wall. Brody’s head snapped up, eyes wide. He had been right, his partner could toss him around. Parker smirked back, whispering, “Too much clothing.”

Parker lifted Brody’s shirt up.

He stared for a second at the sheer scale of the man in the dim light of the quarters. The Hellenic Iron Statue was real, living and breathing. The deltoids were slabs of granite; the chest was like two armor plates of power. Parker’s hands moved over him with a frantic, assessing greed, memorizing the scars, the heat, the density.

Brody moved the hands away from his body signaling ‘my turn’ and tucked Parker’s shirt up. His hungry eyes scanned the smooth skin. “Shit, you can’t be real,” Brody breathed, lost in his own thought, his hands tracing the lines of Parker’s body. Their hungry mouths collided again.

Parker’s hands landed back on Brody’s chest, rubbing and petting the light short fur the man had. He broke the kiss and marveled the structure, the size, the two perfect darker nipples. He moved his thumbs over them, massaging the hard nubs. Brody couldn't fight it; the heat was too much, he whimpered again. Parker swallowed hard, the sound clearly audible. He continued his play in trance, Brody’s breath catching and raspy.

“They are sensitive,” a statement. Brody nodded his answer; he couldn't speak, he let out his breath that sounded like ‘yeah.’ “Perfect. You are perfect.” Brody’s brain crashed at that statement, he’d never imagined someone would mean it like that. The tiny massage and the huge praise he was getting was too much, he couldn't do anything but let out a slow growl, his head rolling back exposing the full length of his thick neck.

Parker saw the opening.

He leaned in, burying his face in the crook where throat and jaw met, inhaling the deep, unwashed truth of him. He gently kissed the most vulnerable part of this god of a man. He bit down on the thick cord of Brody’s trap muscle—not enough to break skin, but enough to mark him.

Brody’s reaction was violent. He let out a choked sound, his hands moving from Parker’s waist to his shoulder plates, pinning him harder against his own body. He was salivating, his breath hot and ragged against Parker’s ear. The kisses and bites turned nuzzling and licking. Under everything Brody tasted every bit as amazing as he smelled.

Parker moved lower, his beard scraping skin, finally biting and licking the right nipple. Brody collapsed against the dresser behind. Next target was his left nipple. Brody moaned. Parker smiled. Brody was holding Parker’s shoulders like they were his only lifeline.

Parker took his left arm and raised it, diving into the sweat covered pit licking it clean. The taste and smell so overwhelming he hardly registered Brody’s long groan from above. He continued to the left bicep. Kissing and licking the big muscle. He was intoxicated by Brody’s low baritone howls and tastes of his skin.

Parker took his time, taking it slow, enjoying every moment, patch of skin and drop of sweat. He knew he was washing the man clean with his mouth; it was about satisfying his own essential need to worship the dedication, the determination and the strength of his partner. Parker was filled with the raw want to show his appreciation to all the cost of Brody's strength. He kissed and licked the old wounds, scars, and one old bullet hole he found. “You are incredible,” a silent praise. “More,” a whispered plea left Brody’s lips.

He was venerating the labor Brody’s body had performed. He was validating every scar and every pound of muscle with his lips and tongue. He was washing away the tool of the state and claiming the Man. Parker held his partner firmly in place against the dresser with his hands on the huge flanks. Brody had never felt so exposed, so accepted and safe. Jolts of cold electric sparks and hot waves of pleasure ran through his body; it was the greatest state of turmoil.   

After the right pit and bicep, Parker got back to eye level, smiling. He was met with a pair of hooded dark eyes like Brody was just barely in this world. “Fuuuck… You really like…,” Brody hummed a breathless statement.

“I’m having a feast.”

Parker took Brody’s hand, looked directly into his eyes and sucked his middle and index finger into his mouth. Brody’s eyes widened and a moan escaped his mouth, jaw going slack. He couldn’t look away how his trigger finger disappeared in those sinful lips.

It wasn't just about licking skin; Parker was tasting the miles Brody had marched, the shots he’d fired, the battles he’d survived. He was washing away the labels and finding the man underneath.

“You don’t seem to be complaining.”

Parker took a firm hold of the other’s hips and yanked him from leaning the dresser to stand fully on his feet. Then in one smooth swing removed the gym shorts revealing Brody’s sweaty jockstrap, that couldn't really hold the man’s erection. The tip of the strained fabric was dark of the leaking slick. Parker rubbed the skin on the hipbones with his thumbs, lowered himself to kiss the navel, licking the slight fur on the abs, moving slowly down the happy trail. Brody’s breath hitched as Parker's mouth descended.

Parker was ready to vibrate out of his skin when he finally reached his destination. He nuzzled the jock covered heavy manhood, the musk was total. Brody’s essence filled his mind, it was the only thing in his world, it was everything. Brody watched, his jaw slacked open, he didn’t know if he was breathing anymore. His head was spinning from the arousal. 

Parker pulled the jock down and Brody’s hard cock sprang free, the head glistening in precum, heavy pair of balls hanging. To him that was the most beautiful, masculine tool he’d seen, the thought was clear as day.

He had admired enough, nibbled small bites, it was time to start consuming. Brody howled when Parker took him in his mouth. The taste of the man was better than Parker had ever hoped. The weight on his tongue just right. The silky smooth hardness made to be pleasured.

To Parker Brody truly was some mythical creature in flesh. Never to be tamed, never to be owned. Only cherished.

Parker looked up under his brows mids his ministration to catch the pair of piercing eyes that saw everything. Their eyes locked, Parker took Brody all the way in and down to his throat. The man standing shivered, his mouth open in silent awe, breathing ragged. Parker went into overdrive and gave his best shot. They held their eye contact the whole time while Parker sucked the manhood down his throat. Again, and again, and again.

Brody’s growls vibrated through Parker. His throat was working around the tip of the spear, saliva dripping from his lips to his cheeks. It wasn’t Parker’s first rodeo but he had every intention to make it his all time best.

Brody moaned. “I’m…” He didn’t get to finish, Parker knew what he was doing. He disengaged with a pop. “No you’re not. Not yet.” Brody sighed, which turned fast into a long moan, his sack was getting cleaned by Parker’s expert tongue.   

Brody’s strong arms yanked him back up and flipped them around. Parker found himself again pinned against the wall. ”I wanna know... everything you have," Brody rumbled, his hand reaching down, his massive palm cupping Parker through the black shorts, feeling the hard, urgent reality and need.

Parker’s head fell back against the steel wall with a sharp clack. His eyes were hunting Brody’s, his teeth bared. "Then take it, Brian. Take all of it."

The rest of the clothes were a distraction they didn't tolerate. They shed the rest of their clothes with the practiced efficiency of men disassembling their service weapons—fast, silent, and driven by a deep-seated muscle memory.

At last, they were skin to skin. The impact was a staggering relief; the high-voltage current present all day finally exploded.

Both growled as the sparks ripped through their systems.

They were a collision of sweat-glistening skin from head to toe. The contrast between Parker’s leaner efficiency and Brody’s mass was a perfect puzzle—two pieces locked together. Brody was like a mountain of heat, enveloping Parker, his skin rough and gritty from the day.

They fell toward the narrow, standard-issue rack, the metal frame groaning under their combined 460 pounds of weight.

Brody was on top, his heavy chest crushing the breath out of Parker, his massive hands pinning Parker’s wrists above his head. Parker's arms straining against the power. He looked down at Parker with a gaze that was entirely wolf—hungry, dark, and utterly focused.

"You're not... afraid of me,” a tentative whisper, a gravelly raw statement.

"Never," Parker breathed, his eyes locked onto Brody’s. He lifted his hips, meeting Brody’s weight with his own hard steel. "I’ve been looking for you my whole life, big guy. Do your worst. I can take it.”

Brody didn't do his worst. He did his most honest.

He lowered his head, his stubbled jaw scraping against Parker’s chest, his mouth seeking the buttons he had promised to press. Every touch was heavy, certain, and devoid of any performance. It was two operators finally operating on each other.

Brody finally got to his prize. The target was hard as steel, pulsing in his hand. Hot to the touch. He jerked it a few times. Enamored of how good it looked, how every stroke pushed new ooze of clear liquid out of the head.

He pushed his nose to the crotch, right next to the target; the sensitive skin at the base of Parker’s sack and shaft. He inhaled deeply. That smell, the one he had first whiffed at lunch, the one he had spent his whole life waiting for without knowing, so deep, so complete, so raw. He pushed his nose along the skin, knowing nothing would ever smell the same. Nothing would ever compare. He kissed and licked. He wanted more, he needed to drink it. Be completely enveloped by it.

He kissed the glistening head, licked the sweet taste of the man’s juice. Then took Parker in his mouth. He sucked as if it were the only mission that mattered. Put every trick he’d ever learned into test. He had never wanted to please anyone more than this man right now. Parker howled, the suction so perfect, so sublime. No coherent thought existed in his head, just the feel of warm mouth around him.

Brody kept at it like a champion he was. He knew his man was getting close. He couldn't wait, he wanted it all, he wanted to drink and swallow everything this man was willing to give him. He needed every drop of Parker’s essence.

The man below jerked, his hips buckling up from the bed. Brody's throat relaxed around the length, cheeks hollowing. He was awarded with a thick hot cream with a roar that rang in his ears like the sweetest symphony. He looked up to see how his man became undone, everything else faded away, just the purest pleasure washing over the handsome features. A pleasure he was able to give. He swallowed rope after rope of the juice feeling like he’d just conquered the world. There was no better place he’d be, no better person to devote himself to. That conviction was absolute certainty to him, natural like breathing.

Brody hummed around the softening cock, milking every drop, to prolong the aftershocks. He licked the head softly and kissed it. Praising the manhood with tiny acts.

Parker slowly came back from the cosmic levels he had been pushed. The intensity of it all would have been frightening if it didn’t feel so right. So comfortable. So safe. When the awareness came back, he noticed that he was wrapped in muscle. Brody was holding him, looking at his face with warm curiosity. The big guy was only half way on top of him, trying to cover Parker without crushing him.

“You know, you can lay fully on me if you want.”

“But i’m heavy.”

“I don’t break.”

That filled Brody with an unexpected wave of belonging. He gave a lazy nuzzle into Parker’s neck, inhaling the post-cum musk.

“Hey buddy, your turn,” Parker offered.

That seemed to do the trick and the sharpness returned to Brody’s eyes.

“Get up and let me get my mouth on your beautiful cock.”

The big man hummed. “Oh, it’s beautiful now. And my ass is magnificent. Aren’t I lucky.” He grinned at Parker.

“It is, they are. The most beautiful and most magnificent I’ve ever seen,” he said back with a similar grin.

“How soon can you go again?”

Parker laughed. “As soon as I get your meat back in my throat.”

“Jsus.”

“What, I happen to like sucking. Giving pleasure to my partner. And I just discovered it’s especially true if the cock is attached to you.”

Brody laughed again and Parker was dead sure, he’d never get used to anything so pure.

“Would you fuck me?”

Parker wasn’t sure what he was hearing.

“I need you inside me.”

Does this man have any single flaw he thought in his mind and said smiling, “Yeah, of course bud. Not the worst task I could think of.”

“Asshole.”

“Yup. That’s the target and we’ll get there,” Parker continued his dad joke.

Brody smiled with that wholesome open sunshine face at him. Parker couldn't look directly at it, it was so bright, and he couldn't look away from it, it was too honest.

So he leaned in and kissed the man with all he got.

“Would you return the favor later?” Parker asked when they broke the kiss. That got the wolf back in to the bed in an instant.

“Yes,” it was the only solemn statement he got before Brody sealed their lips.

They were right back at it. Fighting for pleasure and dominance with their lips and tongues, their stubbles brushing against each other.

Parker broke them apart, “Get up and fuck my mouth.”

That got Brody moving. He lifted up and placed his knees just under Parker’s armpits, the towering thighs framing the torso below, his erection poking proudly forward like a spear.

Parker looked up from the bed and wasn’t sure if anything this perfect should exist. Brody’s legs were like two oaks, his heavy balls hanging low, rock hard cock pushing precum, the narrow waist, the v-cut, the happy trail and just slightly hairy abs leading to pair of big nipples sitting on top of pecs that from this point of view might as well have been hairy mountains. The scars on the flanks, the gunshot wound. He was totally lost in this man.

Brody saw the gaze. An electric shiver ran through him, his breath hitching. He looked in disbelief at the man below him. How was it possible to worship him with such profound level of devotion, kindness, and appreciation? It was a level of care he’d never experienced before.

All that faded in an instant when Parker inhaled the full length of him in his mouth. He had found himself grade A+ cocksucker, that was certain. He let a deep moan when he felt fingers playing with his balls. A roar erupted from his throat when another set of fingers found his hole.

Parker took the beautiful erection in his hand and licked a long stripe on the underside. All the way from balls to the tip. He smacked the head on his tongue few times while he used his other hand to explore Brody’s hole.

“What are you waiting? Fuck my throat already.”

Brody did. He started with a slow roll of his hips. Watching how his cock vanished in Parkers hot mouth. Witnessing his mate’s lips wrapped around his veiny tool. He felt a finger to breach his hole, a gasp of joy, and he couldn't hold back anymore. He started hammering his meat down that tight silky throat.

Parker loved every second of it, his eyes were watery, but he could see the pure ecstasy on the face of his man.

He wasn't just pleasing a partner; he was thanking the man for surviving everything he’d been through, the gears of the world, long enough to find this room.

Brody was getting close. Another finger at his hole did it. Brody’s climax hit like an artillery barrage. An animalistic roar left him as the biggest wave crashed in. Parker didn’t need any warning, Brody’s cock in his mouth twitched and pulsed, he was quite certain another finger would finish the job. The wolf-man loaded his mouth with shots of the sweetest cum. Brody came like a firehose. Parker swallowed all he could, still drops of rich cum poured from his mouth. It was messy, it was perfect. It seemed Brody didn’t do anything halfway, like he was incapable of that. His glistening body convulsing in pure pleasure above him, his roaring low moans announcing his satisfaction.

Slowly Brody pulled out, and sat back on top of Parker, who petted softly the two trunks of thick thighs. Parker’s face was a mess. Streaks of sweet cum, thick saliva, fresh sweat, and clear tears mixed in his beard. He smiled wide and Brody smiled right back at him.

The labored deep breaths smoothened. Parker felt a big rough hand on his jaw and face, the touch was soft. Brody used his thumb to caress the face clean. He swiped his cum and Parker’s saliva streaks and fed the mouth that had just been, and clearly still was, very hungry for him.

Parker sucked the thumb enjoying the taste and shivers it delivered. Brody lowered his lips and kissed Parker’s forehead, nose, and lips.

Brody didn’t hold back for long, he reached behind his back to grab the hard cock and started jerking Parker. Suddenly jumping up, taking Parker’s hand and pulling him from the small bed with ease. They kissed hungrily. Both of their hands roaming around their bodies.

Parker could see the burning hunger all over his partner’s face when they separated. The operator looked at him with a challenge, the wolf raised one eyebrow, the man pleaded him. Brody stepped backwards turned around to the bed and lowered himself on his knees. He shoved his face into the pillow and spread his legs. Parker was mesmerized at the sight, the wolf adonis in his bed, ass up and spreading his cheeks open with his big hands exposing everything.

“Fill me up,” that low baritone hush was both a plea and a command. They shared a quick glance of affirmation. Like a soldier on a field, Parker nodded.

He looked at the perfect hole with his mouth dry. It was a sight to behold, the most capable soldier imaginable, spreading his cheeks wide, craving to bottom for him. He didn’t need to be told twice.

He jumped in, his mouth first. Brody howled in joy. Parker was nuzzling, licking and kissing everything and anything he could find in that crack. It smelled and tasted just like the true masculine ass it was; dark, tangy, rich, sweet from the gym and the heat of the day. Most of all it tasted like Brody, earthy. The man on the receiving end of the attack gave a constant flow of low moan, the pitch changing and hitching when Parker got his ass feast particularly on the spot.

Fuck but Parker liked when his man was vocal.

Brody's breath ragged as Parker's fingers breached his hole.

The man responsible for the intrusion licked and fingered the exposed hole like he meant it - with gusto. Forcing it to relax and bend to his will. 

He slipped second finger in, volume of the moans rising, and found what he was looking for. Brody’s head shot up with a howl and he arched his back his hole clenching. Parker was awarded with a deep roar. He’d just hit the jackpot and found his new favorite toy inside this beast.

Rubbing it again and again he observed how it made Brody shake all the way from the core. He added a third finger and got a low rumbling “fuuuuck that’s good” as his prize. Parker continued until the moaning snapped. “Get your dick in me, now! I need it in me!” A bark of a direct order he’d be happy to follow anytime.

He spat on his cock and pushed his head in.

“Yes! Yes!” Brody was panting in heat below him, moaning, “Give it to me deep.”

That brought a sudden flash of clarity through Parker’s hazy mind, he pulled his head out and slapped the ass.

“Turn around.”

He didn’t know someone could flip that fast. It was almost like Brody was on his back pulling his legs up before the last syllable had left his mouth.

He climbed to the bed. The burning want was all over Brody’s face, his neck had fresh coat of sweat. Knees drawn to his chest, legs spread wide. Parker knew what it meant, how absolute the surrender was. He claimed his man’s face in his hands, brushed the cheekbones with his thumbs and whispered, “I got you big guy.”

Parker kissed Brody hard.

He guided himself in, pushing agonisingly slow without stopping, all the way in one go. They didn’t break eye contact. Parker saw the most soulful man he’d ever encountered. Brody looked into the depths of his man’s honesty. They both breathed and moaned in sync, their combined voices resonating.

“God you are big.”

Parker watched closely for any signs of discomfort.

The Tier-1 ass was tight and warm around Parker. Brody felt so full, his man filled him so well, rubbing all the right places.

“I’m all the way in you.”

Brody nodded, face serious but hungry.

“Go hard. Give me all you got. I need you.”

Parker wrapped his hands around Brody, kissed deep and did just that. Pulling out and slamming back again.

Brody threw his hands and legs around Parker and went slack with the pleasure. Brody growled as Parker sinked in again and again. They were like a gig ball of sweat and muscles. Joined together in raw honesty.

“Harder,” Brody roared. Parker obeyed with his hips and sank his teeth in the thick meat of Brody’s neck. Brody’s eyes snapped wide, his nerves sending the most violent kind of shock through his body. He roared in pleasure. 

Wave after wave crashed and washed over them.

Parker was a sweating and grunting mess, pistoning in and out. Brody was reduced to sweating and babbling mess, variating between low purring moans, howling “mores” and “right theres.” They were two heavy engines running at full capacity.

All they knew was the blissful drag of Parker's cock against Brody's walls, hitting at the target—their mutual favorite spot. Brody's shaft was pulsing and throbbing as he leaked on his abs untouched.

Both pairs of hands were pinning and gripping tight for leverage.

The connection was the most confidential and devoted possible—locked inside each other. The ultimate privilege of being known.

They were boiled down to the bare basics, two animals mating. Claiming. Building an ancient bond—clarity like no other in this world.

Parker felt it in the way Brody didn’t yield; Brody felt it in the way Parker didn’t blink.

The air in the small container had grown thick; the oxygen had been consumed as they moved in a desperate, synchronized rhythm. It was their private insurrection against every lie they’d ever told, every mask they’d ever worn, every fear they’d ever buried, alone and in secret…

They both knew it in the most primal way. It wasn’t a thought; it was a bone-deep certainty, an all-encompassing realization: this was it. There was no going back.

It was the ending of their solitary nature.

Parker’s instincts, in some last corner of his mind, told him Brody was close.

The eyes of the wolf had glossed over and rolled back. The rising trembling of the body was a sure sign. The man held Parker tighter, closer. The jaw was slack and a rising war cry thundered out. Brody arched his back up from the bed and came all over his abs and chest untouched with a roaring; “Oh fuuuck, Paul!”

Parker's cock pumped in and out through it all, never stoping, hitting the best spots. Brody’s body clenched violently around him. Parker watched in a mixed state of cardinal pride and awe as his lover reach his peak. The expressions of pure bliss that washed over that handsome and rugged face. Witnessing all that secret pleasure was too much for him. He slammed deep one more time, all the way home, and finally came with a deceive; “Oh goood, Brian!”

They trembled together in the aftershocks. Their bodies holding each other tight. Never letting go. 

In the sacred silence of the night, the only sound was the heavy, unified breathing of two men who were finally, for the first time in their forty years of fighting, no longer alone.

- - - 

They lay tangled on the narrow, standard-issue rack, a metal frame that groaned every time one of them moved a muscle. There was no room for distance. Brody’s big frame was a literal mountain of heat, his heavy chest rising and falling against Parker’s side. They were both still covered in their mission, the gym, and the visceral reality of each other. Their ‘no shower’ pact had become a permanent layer of their shared history.

The shared silence was unlike anything either man had had before. It wasn't the usual empty silence of the lonely apartments their masked roles forced them to inhabit. The places they mechanically referred to as ‘home,’ where the rooms were just hollow containers for their secrets.

Nor the tense, expectant silence of a hide-site on the field.

It was a foundational silence. It was so comfortable it felt almost dizzying. The constant buzzing and planning in Parker’s brain had finally, mercifully, been dropped. He was able to just be. Breathe in the moment without thinking of the next.

Parker lay with his head on Brody’s shoulder and chest; it was the best pillow imaginable—firm. Soothing in so many ways, like it was made for an ex-military man who wasn’t used to overly soft things. His fingers tracing the jagged line of a scar on the big man's ribs. The air-conditioning in the container hummed a low lullaby, failing to strip the humid warmth from their skin.

Brody shifted, a slow, lumbering movement. Parker groaned, his pillow now gone. That ended with Brody hugging Parker like an octopus, draping his massive limbs over Parker, anchoring him down. The man buried his face in the crook of Parker’s neck. He inhaled deeply, a long, shuddering breath that felt like a surrender.

"You're still there," Brody rumbled, the sound vibrating through Parker’s bones.

"Not going anywhere, Brian. Not from your side,” Parker whispered.

The use of the name acted like a physical anchor. Brody’s hand—a scarred, heavy mitten—moved blindly across the skin until it found Parker’s. He locked their fingers together, his grip tight, as if he were holding onto a salvation.

"It’s too much," Brody husked into the dark. "I didn't think... I didn't know a man could feel this steady."

Parker turned his head, pressing his lips against Brody’s forehead. "You’ve been carrying all of that weight. You can put it down now."

Brody let out a short, wet sound—half-laugh, half-sob—and pressed closer. The sentient fortress Brody had built himself into was completely dismantled. The wolf was resting. In the dim light of the quarters, the Hellenic iron of his body looked softened, humanized by the exhaustion and the honesty of the last hours.

They lay in parallel silence for a long time.

They didn't need to discuss anything. They were busy reorienting. Memorizing the landscape of a new world.

Parker looked at the ceiling of the container. Normally, after an encounter like this, his mind would already be drifting toward the logistics—ushering his one time partner out of his room softly, schedules of the next day, the phone calls, the ‘mutually beneficial’ lies. But not now. Not this time. This hadn’t been anything like a normal quick release. For the first time, the work felt like a secondary mission. His primary deployment was right here, 250 pounds of prime meat and soulful beast’s heart.

"Paul," Brody whispered.

"Yeah, bud."

"I can't... I don't want to go back to being just 'Brody' tomorrow."

Parker squeezed his hand, the callouses of their palms grinding together. "You won't have to. The world will still see Brody. But if you allow, I’d be happy to be the one who gets Brian. How’s that?”

Brody nodded against his skin.

For Brody, the man next to him felt like a grounding rod. For years, his own skin had felt too tight, a constant current of hyper-vigilance forcing him to move, to run. But all that was cut off now, finally broken. It was peaceful.

Like sensing the silent thoughts in his partner’s mind, Parker turned to his side. Without much of a thought, Brody shifted, rolling onto his side to become the little spoon, his massive back pressed against Parker’s chest as he allowed himself to be held. 

Parker buried his nose in Brody’s hairline, his hand holding the man close and fingers petting the hairy chest. Brody let out a breath resembling a low sigh, his eyes finally fluttering shut. Within minutes, his breathing deepened into the heavy, rhythmic drone of a man who finally felt safe enough to sleep without a watch.

Parker stayed awake a little longer, watching the rise and fall of the mountain next to him. He felt the weight of Brody’s arm across his own—a heavy, grounding pressure that acted like a blanket for his soul.

He closed his eyes, inhaling the scent of gunpowder, sweat, and home.

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Author’s Note: This is my first story on this site and my first strike into this genre. I wanted to write a modern take on the classic Achilles and Patroclus theme, blended with a bit of "TOF-esque" directness & fun. Thank you to all the writers on this site who provided inspiration.

If you'd like to read more of Parker's and Brody’s adventures, let me know below!

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To get in touch with the author, send them an email.

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