Parker & Brody

Part III: Joint Ops

The ultimate joint operation: two apex predators dismantling their masks to claim the only honest ground left in their world.

---

The rental Tahoe ran with a quiet, generic efficiency as Parker navigated the winding two-lane roads. It was 0530 on a Monday. The world outside the tinted windows was a wall of black pines and humidity.

He had flown in late Sunday night, checking into the on-base hotel—another sterile, beige box that felt less like a room and more like a storage unit for government assets. He hadn't unpacked. He hadn't slept well. The silence of his brownstone had followed him here, but now it was mixed with a new, sharper anxiety.

Parker tightened his grip on the steering wheel. He wasn't nervous about the work; in fact, he had already planned some key elements in his mind. His task this week was relatively easy: observe. He had to get to know the SOP and routines of the unit to locate their points of exposure. He was nervous about the variable.

He was terrified that Qatar had been an anomaly.

He ran the data in his head, over and over. In Al Udeid, the stakes had been existential. The heat, the exhaustion, the threat of a career-ending scandal—it created a pressure cooker where emotions boiled over faster. It was a ‘War Zone’ reaction. The adrenaline of the exfil, the raw physical need of two men in the middle of a crisis... what if that was all it was?

What if the ‘Frequency’ they shared was just a byproduct of the chaos?

Here, in the damp, quiet woods, there was no crisis. There was just a Monday. Just routine. Just the cold, fluorescent reality of the daily grind. Parker feared that when he saw Brody in the daylight of his home station, the magnetic pull would be gone, replaced by the awkward, polite distance of two strangers who had collided for convenience—shared a mistake.

He turned off the main road, approaching the heavy fencing of the compound. He pulled into the visitor lot just outside the inner perimeter—rental cars didn't go past this point.

He killed the engine. The silence of the pines rushed back in, heavy with the scent of resin and damp earth.

In front of him sat a massive, brutalist structure, a sprawling expanse of concrete that looked like it had been dropped into the dirt by an architect who clearly hated windows. It was a fortress designed to keep the world out and the secrets in. This was the lair —a concrete cave where the packs were shielded from daylight and waited for the dark. Somewhere in there was the man Parker wanted and the connection he feared might be lost. Sitting in his car and observing the compound, the reality was clear: the man was a gear in a machine that didn't care for his full name, couldn’t give him everything he really needed.

He pulled out his phone. The screen seemed too bright in the dark cab. He hesitated for a fraction of a second, his thumb hovering. He knew Brody was likely already inside, pacing, his skin too tight.

Parker typed three words: On the target.

He hit send. Signal discipline broken. The operation was live.

He grabbed his kit and stepped out of the truck. The humidity hit him instantly, clinging to his clothes—the faded dark jacket and the functional pants. He took a breath, centering himself, pulling the ‘Officer’ mask down over the internal anxiety.

He walked to the pedestrian gate. He swiped his badge. The scanner beeped, a camera pivoted to verify his biometrics, and the heavy steel turnstile unlocked with a loud, industrial thud.

Parker stepped inside.

The smell hit him first—a sharp transition from the organic pine forest to the reality of the Tier-1 world. It smelled of floor wax, ozone, and the faint, underlying copper tang of gun oil. It was the smell of Brody’s life.

Parker started down the long, linoleum hallway. He kept his eyes forward, his stride purposeful, but his heart was hammering a traitorous rhythm against his ribs. He was hunting for a ghost, hoping to find a man.

- - -

Parker waited in the security airlock, a glass-and-steel purgatory between the free world and the classified one. He stood at ease, his posture a relic of the Academy—spine straight, hands loose but ready. He was the ‘Conductor’ now. He had his mask on tight.

The inner door buzzed and swung open. A Major, his escort, was waiting for him on the secure side—a lean, wired man in his prime and wearing the standard MultiCam of the unit’s support staff.

"Mr. Parker? Major Ellis, Executive Officer for the Squadron."

"Lead the way, Major," Parker said, his voice finding that smooth, detached register he used for billable hours.

They moved into the labyrinth. The interior of the Monolith was a hive of activity, but it was disturbingly quiet. The floors were rubberized to dampen sound; the walls were thick enough to stop a 7.62 round. Men moved with purposeful silent speed, carrying heavy Pelican cases or other gear. It was an elite, specialized machine in motion, efficient and cold.

"We’ve got you set up in the annex," Ellis was saying, gesturing vaguely down a branching corridor. "We’re mid-cycle right now, so the tempo is high. Colonel Rogers wants you to get eyes on the Shoothouse drills later this week, but for now—"

Parker stopped listening.

They had rounded a corner into the Alpha Squadron sector. The air was different here. It was heavier, smelling less of floor wax and more of the primal cocktail Parker remembered from Qatar: CLP and sweat.

Parker felt the pressure change. Then the current spiking.

Then he saw him.

Brody was leaning against a doorframe, holding a plastic gallon jug of water like it was a teacup. He was talking to another operator, his posture relaxed but dominant.

Parker’s stride didn't break, but his ‘Circuit Breaker’ slammed hard against the red line. The reading didn’t register; the voltage had been accumulating for weeks. It all hit him at once.

Brody wasn't in uniform. He was in his ‘house kit.’ A gray T-shirt that looked like it had been through a war. And. The. Legendary. Tormentors. The Black Panties.

To anyone else, it was just gym gear. To Parker, it was a tactical assault. The shorts were non-existent, a scrap of nylon fighting a losing battle against the physics of Brody’s thighs. They exposed a staggering amount of skin—scarred, tan, and dense with muscle. It wasn’t the garment itself; it was all the negative space—exposed skin—that hit Parker the hardest; the visible capacity of the legs that had pinned him to a mattress, the sheer, unveiled power of the ‘One-Man Armored Column.’

A piece of art in physics and capacity.

It wasn't a relief to see him. It was an act of torture. It was a reminder of the ‘Scent Pact’ and the ‘Foundational Silence’ that was currently forbidden in this hallway.

Brody looked up.

Their eyes met. The frequency spiked so hard Parker felt a vibration in his chest. He saw Brody’s eyes widen, saw the puppy of a man panic inside, a flare behind the Tier-1 discipline.

“Brody. Mack.” Ellis nodded as they passed.

"Sir," Brody rumbled. The voice was a gravelly wreck, a sound that dragged along Parker’s spine.

Parker offered a sharp, non-committal nod, keeping his eyes strictly above the neck. If he looked down at those legs again, he was going to lose his composure. He was going to stop walking. He was going to do something that would get them both fired.

They passed. The moment—a collision of two months of longing packed into three seconds—was over.

It was acutely clear that at least his attraction had indeed traveled with him from the sandbox. Brody was, very much, still the only thing capable of threatening Parker’s sanity and overloading every system.

"...and the Colonel is looking for a revised assessment," Major Ellis continued, completely unaware that the man walking next to him had just mentally stripped the Team Lead naked.

"Understood," Parker replied automatically. His voice sounded calm, but his mind was reeling, trying to re-stack the deck. The Major’s words were just static fading into the background. All Parker could process was the image of that exposed skin, tiny panties that left nothing hidden, and the terrified look in Brian’s eyes.

They reached the heavy steel door at the end of the hall. Ellis swiped his badge and ushered Parker in.

One set of stairs and a few badge swipes later, the playground and frat house for elite destruction machines gave way to an area resembling offices.

Colonel Rogers was waiting behind his massive desk, the ‘Block of Granite’ looking exactly as he had in the JOC.

"Parker," Rogers said, standing up. "Welcome to the home station."

Parker stepped forward to shake the hand, forcing the ‘Officer' back into the pilot's seat. "Good to be here, Colonel. Let’s talk about your insurance policy.”

- - -

The Monolith was his real house; it was where he spent most of his waking hours. Usually, the windowless nature suited Brody just fine. He didn't need to see the pines to know they were there; he could smell them on his own skin, mixed with the acrid scent of the flat-range.

But today, the lack of windows felt like a trap.

He was standing in the main artery of Alpha Squadron’s section, leaning his right shoulder against the cinderblock frame of the team room door. He was in his ‘house uniform’—a T-shirt and shorts, his favorite silkies, that had seen too many wash cycles. His quads were still screaming from a three-hour morning session of heavy sandbag carries, but that wasn't why his skin felt too tight.

He had been vibrating for weeks. A low-level, background panic that he couldn't run off or lift away.

It felt… unfair. That was the word his brain kept supplying. It was unfair that the other guys in the Pack could leave their spouses at home, keeping their private lives safely behind a picket fence while they went to work. It had been apparent for a few weeks now that the luxury didn’t involve Brody. His potential mate—the man who had rewired his entire nervous system in less than 48 hours—was about to breach the perimeter of his sanctuary.

Brody shifted his weight, his fingers tightening around the handle of his gallon water jug. He felt protective. Possessive. He was the kind of man who wanted his private treasures to be his to guard, not exposed to the fluorescent lights of the hallway for the boys to play with.

He thought back to the text message Parker had sent when the contract was offered. They want me for a fallout playbook. You okay with that?

Brody had said Yes immediately. Too immediately. He’d been uncharacteristically talkative over texts ever since, his excitement overriding his usual silence. His phone had burned a hole in his pocket. Now, in the cold light of Monday morning, he worried he’d been too hasty. What if the distance had warped his memory? What if Parker walked in here and saw just another grunt in a hallway? What if his daily life wasn’t interesting enough?

His phone buzzed in his pocket. He checked it, shielding the screen from Mack.

On the target.

Brody swallowed hard. The air in his lungs suddenly felt thin. He shoved the phone back into his pocket, but the reaction was already cascading through his system. He wondered, in a mix of half panic and half hope, when their paths might cross.

Unfair—the guys get to leave their hearts at the door. Mine just walked through it.

"You alright, Boss?" Mack asked, leaning against the opposite wall. "You look like you’re waiting for a mortar impact."

"Just thinking about the training schedule," Brody lied, his voice a rough grate.

“U-huh," Mack drawled. "You’ve been staring at that security door for ten minutes. You expecting pizza or the apocalypse?"

Brody opened his mouth to tell Mack to shut up, but the words died in his throat.

He felt it.

The hair on his forearms stood up. A shiver ran violently down his spine, bypassing his brain and hitting his solar plexus. He felt the spike before the door even cycled open. He knew, with the certainty of a predator sensing a shift in the wind, that he didn't need to wonder about their encounter anymore.

The heavy steel doors at the end of the hall opened.

Major Ellis walked through first. But Brody didn't see him. His world, which usually encompassed a 360-degree tactical awareness, shrank down to the size of a single man.

Parker.

The sight hit Brody like a physical blow. The man looked incredible. The scruffy, worn figure was right here, prowling in Brody’s own quarters; he looked like a razor-sharp strategic weapon. Parker was wearing technical pants and a polo that fit him with dangerous precision. He had his stubble, his hair swept back, but under that exterior, his rigid posture was radiating the high-altitude ‘Eagle-like’ confidence of an officer who had outgrown the need for medals. He had a spine that made every other man in the hallway look like they were slouching.

Brody’s capacity flatlined; he malfunctioned. His ‘Operator’ brain—the part of him that could calculate ballistics under fire—short-circuited. All he could think was: Mine. It was a physical ache.

He watched Parker walk. He saw the man’s gaze sweeping the hallway, sharp and assessing. Brody braced himself.

Then, Parker’s eyes landed on him.

The connection was immediate. Violent. It wasn't a polite nod; it was a high-mass collision. Brody felt the burning gaze travel down his body. He saw Parker’s eyes lock onto his legs—onto the silkies. He felt the heat of that look as if Parker had run a hand up his thigh.

Brody stopped breathing. He was paralyzed by the sheer voltage of the moment. He wanted to grab the man. He wanted to drag him into the team room and lock the door. He wanted him in his own space, in the privacy of his home. Now.

"Brody. Mack," Ellis said as they passed.

Parker didn't stop. He barely nodded.

"Sir," Brody forced out. It was a wreck of a word, a gravelly rumble that sounded more like a growl than a greeting.

They passed. The scent of the man—his soap, his laundry, and his skin—washed over Brody, washing over the usual mix he hardly noticed.

Brody could have been drowning in a vat of the gun oil and floor wax, and he still would have smelled the man. The skin. The whisper of sweat.

Brody swallowed hard. Frozen in place. He had to force himself to move.

Something easy first: eyes. He blinked. His eyes seemed to still work. Then the ringing in his ears, slowly fading.

He hadn’t experienced an assault like this ever in his life.

Mack let out a low whistle.

Brody didn't wait for the commentary. He spun around, moving faster than a man of his size should be able to, and ducked into the team room. The man who could navigate a minefield in total darkness, nearly tripped over his own feet as he turned away from the hallway. He practically threw himself into a chair at the communal table, sliding his legs deep underneath the heavy wood to hide the raging evidence of what just happened—his own very heavy wood.

Mack followed him in, the door clicking shut. The younger operator leaned back against it, a slow, knowing grin spreading across his face.

"So," Mack said, his voice dripping with amusement. "The contractor is back.”

Brody grunted. Already mortified by what was certainly coming.

“I’m pretty sure your friend just did an assessment on your quads and glutes, Boss.”

Brody didn't look up. "Not a word, Mack."

“I’m just saying. The way he looked at you? I’m pretty sure you handed him Top Secret clearance.”

Brody groaned into his hands. "Shut up, Mack."

“And judging by the way you just tried to merge with that chair…”

Oh, no, no, no. All hopes of his raging boner going unnoticed vanished.

“Let’s cut the shit, Boss. That was an inspection,” Mack stated. “And you look like you took a round to the vest.”

Brody put his head deeper in his hands. He was a respected team lead. He was somewhat of a legend. And he was currently hiding a boner under a table because a consultant had looked at his legs.

“That's him. The 'Alien' who abducted you in Qatar.”

"It wasn't an abduction.”

"Could have fooled me," Mack grinned. "Because I’ve seen you stare down a group of Jihadists, but I’ve never seen you run from a civilian in a polo shirt.”

This absolutely shouldn't have happened. His life was so utterly unfair, his brain supplied. “Can you please just shut up already.”

“I’m happy to fill in the SHARP form for you. That’s gotta be at least some sorta HR violation.”

“No. Don’t.”

A beat. Welcomed pause in Brody’s mind.

“Hey, Boss. I’m happy for you. It’s about damn time you’d get some,” Mack added, his tone shifting from playful to something more earnest.

“Shut up.”

"I didn't say a word. But the boys? They’re gonna love this shit."

Brody groaned. This week was going to be the end of him.

Parker was going to be the end of his sanity. Secretly, he loved it.

- - -

By 1000, Parker was established in his own private sector of the Monolith. It was a small SCIF in the administrative wing—a steel box filled with high-side servers, encrypted terminals, and the familiar, dry scent of recycled air. It was a vacuum, designed to keep the world out. The silence didn't feel like a weight; it felt like a workshop.

Colonel Rogers had spent the morning walking him through the four Squadrons—Alpha through Delta. Parker had met the Squadron Commanders, mostly Lieutenant Colonels who looked at him with the same mix of curiosity and wariness he’d seen in Rogers.

"The logic is simple, gentlemen," Parker told them during a brief stand-up meeting in the command center. "What I’m building isn't about telling you how to fight. It’s about establishing a secondary line of defense for when the fighting is done. To manage the possible ‘Fallout' strategically, I need to understand the tactical intent. I need to see how you move, how you breathe, and how you report. I’m tagging along this week to see where your reality and the expectations of the outside world might have a gap. I'm here to find the holes in your armor before someone in DC tries to exploit them."

It was a good pitch. It reframed his ‘Contractor’ presence as an ‘Insurance Policy.’

The rest of his Monday was a blur of high-tempo integration. He missed lunch entirely, his ‘Flow State’ taking over the moment he sat down at a terminal. A junior Major eventually noticed and brought him a lukewarm tray of cafeteria food, which Parker ate while a Troop Sergeant—a man who wasn't Brody—walked him through the SOPs for civilian observers.

"Rule one: You stay where we put you. Rule two: You don't touch anything unless it's on fire. Rule three: You wear your PPE at all times," the Sergeant recited, his voice bored but firm.

"Copy that," Parker replied, his Navy soul appreciating the rigid safety protocols.

By 1200, he had rolled up his sleeves, literally and figuratively. He dived into the unit’s mission archives, cross-referencing years of after-action reports. As a former Intelligence Commander, he wasn't looking at the successes; he was looking for the shadows. He was hunting for what wasn't said—the tactical details that were too messy for a memo. He was looking for the gaps in the black ink—the truths that had been redacted out of existence. He was assessing for the waterline breaches in their narrative structure.

He lost himself in the data. In the SCIF, time was an abstract concept. He didn't have his phone; ‘signal discipline’ was enforced by the very walls of the room. He was just a brain in a box, deconstructing the machine he was sitting inside of.

It was nearly 2100 when a light tap on the heavy door snapped him back to reality.

Major Ellis stood in the doorway, leaning against the frame. "Colonel told me you were a workhorse, Parker, but the night shift is coming in. You need an escort out before the building locks you in for the night."

Parker blinked, his eyes stinging from the glare of the monitors. "Is it that late?"

"The sun's been down for hours," Ellis noted with a small, tired smile. "Go get some sleep. We’ll still be here tomorrow."

Parker nodded, clearing his station with mechanical efficiency. He felt the familiar ache in his knees and the slow creep of exhaustion, but the ‘Drowning’ was absent.

He was escorted back through the security tiers and the turnstiles, emerging into the cool, pine-scented night. The transition back to the organic world was jarring.

He drove back to the base hotel—a generic, beige container that smelled of industrial lemon. He was starving, but there wasn’t anyone around him to think his ‘Hangry’ was cute this time; it was just a physical requirement. He found a bag of almonds, a sandwich, and a lukewarm bottle of water in his kit, fueling himself in the silence of the room.

Finally, he reached for his phone. It had been in the locker for fifteen hours.

There was one message. Sent at 1930.

Thu evening. The boys are planning a release valve. Don't be a stranger.

Parker stared at the screen, a small smirk tugging at his mouth. He looked at the clock: 2215. Too late to respond. Brody would be in his rack, or what passed for it, resting for his daily 0500 PT.

Parker lay back on the scratchy hotel sheets, the phone resting on his chest.

- - -

Brody remained in his chair for exactly sixty seconds. He practiced his own version of 'Strategic Fallout Management,' forcing his heart rate back into its cage and willing the blood back to where it belonged.

He was mortified. He was a Team Lead, a man who had survived two decades of the world’s worst ideas, and he had been reduced to a physical glitch by a man in a polo shirt.

"You done merging with the table, Boss?" Mack asked quietly. The usual biting sarcasm was gone, replaced by a tone that was disturbingly earnest.

Brody stood up, his legs finally steady. He didn't look at Mack. He walked to the gear locker and began a methodical inspection of the team’s breaching kits. He was the professional—the ‘Operator’ back at the wheel. He moved with a cold, practiced efficiency that usually signaled the end of any conversation.

The rest of the team drifted in, and they went on about their day as usual. It was their second week of a grueling rotation. The whole day Brody waited for the other shoe to drop—for Mack to spill the beans and the jokes to resume.

But the other shoe didn't drop.

Brody waited for the first jab. He expected a comment about the encounter in silkies, or the contractor, or the 12-hour walk in Qatar.

It never came.

Instead, there was a heavy, supportive kind of quiet. They talked shop. They discussed the training rotation for Tuesday. They treated Brody with their usual respect—a level that felt almost protective.

"He's staying at the IHG, right?" Mills asked, leaning against the workbench.

Brody didn't stop checking the lead-line. "I assume so."

"You should invite him," Mack said, his voice level. "Thursday evening. When we’re hitting the Nail. Tell the contractor he's got a seat."

Brody finally looked up. He searched Mack’s face for a smirk, a tell, anything that signaled a trap. There was nothing but the steady gaze of a brother who had watched Brody be alone for too long, taking the watch by himself.

"I'll think about it," Brody rumbled.

He left the Monolith at 1900. He drove his truck back to his 'Maintenance Facility' in the pines, the rumble of the engine filling the silence.

Inside, he went about his evening as usual. He fueled his body mechanically—six scrambled eggs, a pound of ground beef, and a liter of milk—standing over the sink because sitting at the table felt too heavy.

Then came the hard part.

He sat on his sofa, the black silkies a scrap of nylon against the heavy upholstery. He picked up his phone. He opened the thread.

He typed: It was good to see you today.
Delete. Too soft.

He typed: I made a fool out of myself in the hall.
Delete. Too weak.

He typed: You looked good. That shirt fits you.
He stared at that one for three minutes, his thumb hovering over the send button. His heart rate started to climb again.
Delete. Too honest.

He let out a frustrated growl, the sound echoing off the bare walls. He wasn't a poet. He was an operator. He needed to stick to the mission.

He finally settled for the only truth that felt safe:
Thu evening. The boys are planning a release valve. Don't be a stranger.

He hit send before he could talk himself out of it. He sat there for another hour, staring at the screen, waiting for the little bubbles that never came. He knew the man was in the SCIF or the hotel.

Brody eventually moved to his bedroom. He lay down on the massive orthopedic mattress, the phone gripped in his hand. He didn't put it on the charger. He didn't turn the ringer off.

He fell asleep with his hand gripping the device, maintaining the watch over a signal that, despite his stormy morning, felt weak.

- - -

Tuesday was an unexpected lesson in emotional control—mainly longing, resentment, and frustration.

In the unit, the schedule was the only god anyone worshipped. By 0530, Brody had already smoked his quads on the deadlift platform. By 0800, his Troop was staged at the motor pool, ready to move out to the remote training grounds for a day of vehicle interdiction drills.

He had checked his phone exactly eighteen times before the final ‘comms out’ order. But who was counting.

Parker had replied at 0615.

Thanks for the invite. I’d like to be there, but Rogers has me on a short leash. Stay safe today.

It was the right answer. It was the professional answer. It was the answer of an officer who understood the stakes at play, the masks of their lives. But to Brody, it felt like a cold splash of water on a high-voltage circuit. He wanted a "Yes." He wanted a coordinate. He wanted a promise.

"Move it out!" Brody barked, his voice carrying a jagged edge that made a few junior operators jump.

"Easy, Boss," Mack murmured as they climbed into the heavy GMV. "The dirt is the enemy today, not the guys.”

Brody didn't answer. He just stared out at the pine trees, his jaw working.

They spent the morning in the ‘hills,’ the humid air thick with the smell of diesel and dry dust. Around noon, Brody’s Troop had to transit past the primary shoothouse complex. As the convoy slowed near the perimeter fence, Brody saw the guys training—a Troop from Bravo Squadron.

Then he saw the officer.

Parker was standing on the observation catwalk, leaning his elbows on the rail. He was in his field kit—the worn Carhartt jacket, tactical trousers, and a ball cap pulled low. He looked scruffy, dangerous, and perfectly composed.

But he wasn't alone.

He was talking to the Bravo Squadron Lead—a man named Jones, a Tier-1 prick who thought he was the smartest man in the Monolith. Jones was laughing, gesturing toward the shoothouse, and Parker was nodding, a small, polite smirk on his face.

Brody didn't just growl; the wolf in him bared its teeth.

The sight sent a fresh surge of jealousy through him that made his hands ache around the grip of his rifle. This was his home turf. His sanctuary. And here was Parker, being hosted by Bravo.

Brody watched in a state of high-mass agitation. He wanted to jump out of the moving vehicle. He wanted to storm the catwalk, put a hand on Parker’s shoulder, and remind every man on that range exactly who that contractor belonged to. He wanted to show the man who had called him ‘my guy’ the full difference between a "Bravo Prick" and the "Alpha Legend.”

He wanted to be the Operator who showed Parker his world. Teach him the ropes. Train with him.

But he was in his harness.

There were no ‘Insurrections’ allowed during the work-up cycle. There was no ‘Private’ here—only the Troop, the Major, and the rigid requirement of his position. He had to sit there, a 250-pound beast roaring silently in his cage, and watch his man disappear in the dust that seemed to block the signal as well. The convoy moved on.

"You're doing it again," Mack said from the driver's seat.

"Doing what?" Brody snapped.

"Vibrating. I can feel the floorboard shaking. If you grip that 416 any harder, you're gonna snap the lower receiver."

Brody forced his fingers to loosen. He leaned his head back against the seat, closing his eyes against the clinical white of the afternoon sun.

"He's with Bravo," Brody rumbled, the word tasting like poison.

"He's a consultant on a gig. He’s looking at the whole machine," Mack said, his voice actually sympathetic. "He's gotta see how the other half lives to know why we’re the better half. Relax. Thursday is coming.”

“Yeah. Though I don’t think he’s coming, Rogers has him on a tight schedule,” that sour admission certainly didn’t lighten his mood.

Despite Mack’s reasonable advice Brody didn't relax. He couldn’t relax. His skin felt way too tight and he was under heavy weight that screamed defeat.

He spent the rest of the day in a dark, brooding sulk, executing his drills with a level of aggression that bordered on punitive. He was the ‘Beast’ at full throttle. He knew he was being stupid, but he couldn't help himself. He led the drill with the cold, terrifying efficiency of a master of his craft, but inside, he felt like an overgrown pouting toddler who had seen someone else playing with his favorite person. He knew his temper was getting the best of him and he needed to stop.

His expectations for the week had been through the roof. He should have kept everything on a more grounded level.

The frustrating realization that they, him and his guy, couldn't just ‘go at it’ whenever they wanted—that the system was working like a physical barrier—was the most unfair deployment he had ever faced. This was not included in his training.

He got home at 2100, covered in red clay and rage. He didn't text. He didn't call. He just stood in the shower until the water went cold, his forehead pressed against the tile, refusing to think of the caring hands he’d once felt. Wondering instead if the Contractor on the catwalk had even noticed the Operator in the dust.

- - -

Wednesday arrived with the same heavy, humid weight as the days before. Parker didn't wait for an alarm; he was up at 0430, his internal clock having already synced to the high-tempo regime of the host unit.

He didn’t bother looking for the base gym or navigating the labyrinthine security protocols required to access the gym at the Monolith. He wasn’t here for the social friction of an escort or the curious stares of operators who didn't know his name. Instead, he did his PT in the cramped space of his hotel room. It was a solitary, high-intensity routine—push-ups, planks, and mobility drills designed to lubricate his screaming knees without putting too much torque on the scar tissue from the IED.

He moved with a mechanical, joyless precision. He was maintaining the machine.

By 0600 sharp, he was back in the Monolith.

He spent the first hours of the morning locked in his SCIF. He dived back into the data. On Tuesday, he had done the same—SCIF in the morning, field observation when the teams were active, back to the SCIF for his evening shift until the building locked down.

He was pushing himself with a relentless, quiet ferocity. It wasn’t an attempt to impress the unit. It was a tactical calculation. Parker was trying to buy himself a window. If he could front-load the analytical heavy lifting now, he might be able to clear a few hours for himself on Thursday evening.

He was aiming for Brody.

It was a gamble. He didn’t master his own schedule here; he was subject to the whims of the ‘Gears.’ Rogers could decide on a moment’s notice that Parker needed to observe a midnight HALO jump or a deep-woods navigation exercise on Thursday. His effort might be for nothing, but Parker had spent twenty years learning that you don't wait for an opening—you create one.

At 0900, a notification blinked on his terminal.

1000. LZ 4. Air-Insertion drill. Alpha SQN, POC SSG Grant.

He closed his laptop and stood up, his joints popping in the silent room. He had one hour to transition from the ‘Conductor’ of data to the ‘Observer’ of high-performance violence. He didn’t know what to expect at the LZ. He grabbed his jacket and headed for the door.

The tarmac was a shimmering basin of heat by 1000. The scent of JP-8 aviation fuel was so thick it was nearly a taste—bitter, oily, and sharp. Parker reversed the Tahoe into the row of idling trucks with a single, smooth motion—a relic of his first life that he didn’t even have to think about. He grabbed his sunglasses, ANR set, and cap, jumped out, and was immediately met by SSG Grant, the POC for the drill.

The flight line was a chaos of synchronized motion. Several MH-60 Black Hawks were idling on the pad, their rotors creating a rhythmic, chest-thumping wop-wop-wop that vibrated through the soles of Parker’s boots.

Parker was escorted to the first bird in the line. He ducked under the spinning blades, the hot, swirling air battering his skin, and climbed into the cabin. He adjusted his ANR headset, the electronic silence creating a vacuum that only made the vibration of the helo feel more closed in.

He took his seat and looked up.

He found the Beast staring right at him in the tight space.

Brody was sitting directly across from his seat, a massive figure that seemed to displace the air in the cabin. The man was encased in his full battle rattle.

The heavy plates of his carrier added a staggering depth to his chest; his shoulders were even wider than before; the man took up two full seats. The sleeves of his uniform jacket were visibly straining, threatening to fail across the explosive volume of his biceps, and his tactical pants were molded to his quads like paint.

The ballistic helmet and thick comms-headset erased the last of his humanity, framing his face in matte-black polymer, the dual tubes of his night-vision goggles flipped up like a crown. Across his chest, the suppressed rifle sat ready—the final, lethal punctuation mark to the wolf of a man.

Even sitting down, he looked like he could run through a brick wall without even blinking. Parker had seen the man naked, had venerated every inch of that skin, but seeing the ‘Weapon System’ in its final form was a different kind of strike to his system. It was the physical manifestation of the twenty years Brody had spent in the dirt.

Parker felt his throat go dry. He flashed a quick, private grin and mouthed, “Hey, buddy.” Shouting over the noise was useless and his ANR was not connected to the comms. 

Brody didn’t smile. He didn’t even blink. He offered a single, stone-faced nod of acknowledgment—the mask of the Team Lead was at one hundred percent.

Parker felt his ache for the man rush in, running hot. As the helo throttled up and lifted, he began to wonder if the man in front of him was just restraining himself, or if their ‘Frequency’ had indeed died. Left in the desert sand.

That started a spiral. The muffled noise of the rotors wasn't just sound anymore; it was enveloping him in the worst possible way. It was the sensory ghost of his ‘first life’—field work, the briefing rooms, the strategic dishonesty, the pressure that had made him drown.

His throat began to close. The air felt thin and insufficient. Parker felt the familiar, cold finger of the drowning sensation creeping up his throat. He looked at the floor, his jaw tightening as he fought to keep the ‘Officer’ mask from shattering. The walls of the Black Hawk felt like they were shrinking, pinning him into the system he had fought so hard to leave. The ‘Abyss of Drowning’ was back, clinical and suffocating.

Suddenly, Brody slammed his massive, Nomex-gloved hand down on Parker’s knee and pressed hard with his fingers.

It wasn't a gentle touch. It was a grounding bolt.

His hand was heavy, unyielding, and carried the entire weight of his armored frame. It was a physical command to return to the earth.

Parker looked up from the floor.

Brody leaned forward, his massive body closing the distance between their benches. His legs moved, his knees pressing firmly against Parker’s, bone against bone. Parker could draw a breath again.

Brody didn't let go. He clamped his fingers tight, his thumb pressing into the fabric of Parker’s trousers, the pressure bordering on painful—a brutal, necessary reminder that Brody was solid, and the abyss was a lie. It was an act of total possession and protection. He was building a wall between him and the machine.

The effect was better than any drug Parker had ever taken. The catatonic anxiety in his head reset instantly. The spiral snapped. The air returned.

Parker forced a smile, his eyes locking onto Brody’s behind the ballistic glasses. The face was still stone, but behind the dark lenses, the eyes—the deep, soulful eyes Parker remembered from the dark—were filled to the brim with two months of longing, unspoken worry, and shared hurt.

The eye contact was relentless—a high-mass transmission of shared truth that ignored the four other operators sitting just feet away.

The act was entirely technical, a physical shielding maneuver. Except, Brody’s gaze was dark, a silent roar that said: I’ve got the watch. You’re mine.

The contact was so loud it made the hydraulic whine of the helo feel like silence. They stayed locked together like that, hand to knee, eye to eye, all the way to the remote training grounds.

Then, the helo hovered. The door gunner kicked out the ropes. The transition was instantaneous. Brody stood, the ‘Man’ vanishing back into the ‘Weapon.’ He was the first one to the rope.

Parker watched every single move the man made—the fluid, terrifying grace of a predator in his element. Brody gripped the line and vanished into the dust below with a surge of raw kinetic power.

Parker stayed in the helo, his skin still burning where the glove had been. He had seen the Beast descend, but he had felt the Man hold him.

- - -

The Black Hawk banked away in a violent swirl of dust and kerosene-scented air, leaving Parker on the edge of the training grounds. SSG Grant escorted him to the shoothouse, a windowless cinderblock labyrinth designed for one purpose: the perfection of close combat.

Parker climbed the steel stairs to the observation catwalk, his boots echoing on the metal grate. He found his perch in the rafters, looking down into the open-roofed rooms. He was stationary and sharp, his scruffy face a mask of analytical focus.

Below him, the Troop was staged at the primary breach point. He looked for his Beast.

Brody stood at the front of the four-man stack. Even through the heavy plate carrier and the helmet, his energy was a physical pressure in the air. He was vibrating, a high-voltage circuit, waiting for the switch to flip.

Don’t look up, Brody told himself, his fingers ghosting over the familiar controls of his HK416. He’s seen the very best the whole US military has to offer. Don't let him see just a grunt. Show him the master.

Deep inside the operator, Brian was terrified. Not of the live rounds or the house, but of the assessment. He was afraid that without the ‘Confidential Dark,’ Paul would see him as too intense—a blunt tool in a world of sharp minds. Or worse, a weapon that was starting to rust.

The buzzer screamed.

Parker didn't see a soldier; he saw Poetry of Force.

The breach was a masterclass. The door didn't just open; it vanished under the explosive volume of Brody’s entry. The stack flowed inside like a single, multi-headed organism, but Brody was the unmistakable engine. Parker watched from above, his eyes tracking the fluidity and geometry of their movement. It was a staggering display of physics—three hundred pounds of kinetic mass, including the extra sixty pounds of tactical gear strapped to his torso, moving with the silence and precision of a scalpel.

Parker had a front-row seat to witness the full extent of the dedication.

Brody didn't just move and aim; he claimed every space he entered. The suppressed pops of the rifles were rhythmic, clinical. He moved with a terrifying, intuitive grace, his massive frame shifting weight with entirely economical moves. It was graceful. It was the PhD in Violence in its purest form—a man who had internalized the chaos of the kill zone until it was boiled down to a serene, silent act of execution.

He wasn't just clearing a room; he was offering up his skills as a silent plea for permanence. He was performing the only poetry he knew, yet terrified that his man would find his verses lacking.

You’re magnificent, Parker thought, his heart rate red-lining as he watched the beast work. He admired the competence, the raw capacity of the man below. He watched the way Brody’s quads—framed by those painted-on tactical pants—drove him through the rooms. He watched the absolute stillness of Brody’s head while his body was a blur of motion.

This was the courtship of the unyielding—a calibration of speed and mass that only an equal could translate. Every double-tap was a heartbeat; every transition was a sentence.

But then, as the team transitioned to the final room, Parker’s eyes caught the personal waterline breach.

Brody pivoted hard on a patch of concrete to clear a blind corner. For a fraction of a second—less than a heartbeat—his right knee buckled. It was a micro-flex of agony, a technical failure in the biological hardware. He recovered instantly, his rifle never wavering, his team never noticing.

But Parker saw it.

He felt a cold spike of clarity. He saw the cost of the performance. He saw the twenty years of utility manifesting as a ticking clock.

To Parker, it wasn't just a drill; it was Brian’s soul. He was built to be the shield, to take the hit so someone else could breathe.

Brody called the room "clear," his voice a gravelly bark that echoed up to the rafters. He ripped his helmet off, his face a landscape of sweat and red clay, and looked directly up at the catwalk.

His eyes found Parker’s. The ‘Wolf’ was looking for the affirmation of his mate. He was panting, his chest a massive, rising wall of ceramic plates, his biceps looking ready to burst through his sleeves. He looked like a god of war, but behind the ballistic glasses, his eyes were a mix of hope and plea.

Am I enough for you? the look asked. Am I ‘too much’?

Parker didn't smile. He didn't nod. He simply held the gaze, his own eyes burning with a depth of respect and admiration for all the resolute devotion Brian was pouring into his own disciplined genius. He wasn't looking at the ‘Operator.’ He was looking at Brian. The gaze made Brody’s breath hitch.

The wooing and courtship were over. For these men, their capacity was the ultimate truth and clarity.

Parker had seen the heart behind the iron, and Brody had found the only man strong enough to hold his gaze without flinching.

The Beast had shown his full power, and his man had witnessed the price.

- - -

The dust from the Black Hawk’s departure hadn't even settled before the de-loading began. The Troop moved with the mechanical efficiency of a machine that had just finished a perfect cycle.

Mills and Mack stood watching Brody. Their Team Lead was standing twenty yards away, still in his full battle rattle, staring at the vehicle line.

Brody looked like a man who had just seen the devil, or a god, and wasn't sure which was more terrifying.

"You seeing what I'm seeing?" Mills asked.

Mack didn't look up from his gear. "I've been seeing it all week. You can see it by just being in the same zip code as those two. It’s intense."

"Intense? It’s a goddamn nuclear strike," Mills muttered. He looked toward the Tahoe where Parker was currently speaking with Major Ellis. The sun hit the sharp angles of Parker’s face, catching the sweep of his hair and the rugged, scruffy stubble. "I mean, look at the guy. He looks like some fucking film star in tac pants. He’s handsome. And thick. Like, built thick.”

Mack snorted, holstering his weapon. “Don’t drool, Mills."

"Screw you. The guy is a specimen,” Mills countered.

“What is it with this team and that contractor? Does everyone have to have the hots for him?”

“Nah, you know I don’t play for that team. But I have eyes. That guy is a catch. And Boss is completely compromised. He’s flatlining."

"He's not flatlining," Mack corrected, his voice dropping into a more serious, protective tone. "He's calibrating. The only thing he’s had to focus on is the trigger. Now, he’s found something else. And he’s just left-footed as hell about it."

They watched as Brody finally turned away, moving toward them with a heavy, brooding gait. He looked powerful, lethal, and utterly miserable.

"He's going to blow it," Mills whispered.

Mack’s eyes narrowed. He looked from Brody to the retreating Tahoe, then back to his team. A slow, tactical grin began to spread across his face—the kind of look he usually reserved for a complex breach.

"No, he's not," Mack said.

"Yeah? What's the plan?"

"The 'Contractor' is here to evaluate, right?" Mack asked. "To see where we are exposed? To identify the gaps in our armor?"

"That's the pitch I’ve heard."

"Well," Mack said. "I think we absolutely need that man to evaluate our team dynamics.”

Mills caught on instantly, a wide, predatory grin matching Mack's.

“We need to run a little unsanctioned covert-op,” Mack said, a new kind of objective in his mind.

“That’s fucking perfect. Operation Hot Ass for the Boss is live.”

Mack snorted. Why was everybody in his team into that contractor?

Brody reached them then, his face a mask of stone. "Gear check done?"

"Done, Boss," Mack said, his voice perfectly level.

- - -

Thursday moved with the viscosity of cold syrup.

Parker was running on fumes, caffeine, and a very specific kind of anticipation. He had pushed himself to the limit during his Wednesday evening shift in ‘The Tank’—his affectionate nickname for the windowless SCIF—grinding through the data to ensure his Friday morning presentation for Colonel Rogers was bulletproof, and Thursday evening was free.

The meeting was set for 0800, which meant his window with Brody tonight would be tight. He’d have to cut it short to be sharp for the Colonel, but he had every intention of making those few hours count.

He hadn't slept much. The ache for Brody was like a withdrawal symptom he hadn't anticipated. Seeing the man in his element and not being able to appreciate the man properly was a pain his heart was not trained for.

He found himself hating the late evenings and early mornings—a new sensation for a man who usually prided himself on beating the sun. 0500 start meant while he was awake after his evening shift, Brody was likely deep asleep already, meaning the lines of communication were dead.

He’d spent the day with Charlie Squadron. They were competent, elite, and utterly boring compared to the ‘Poetry of Force’ he had witnessed the day before. He took notes, he nodded at the right times, but his compass was spinning, trying to lock onto a target that wasn't there.

By 1700, he was now back in The Tank for his evening shift.

He sat down at his terminal, cracking his knuckles, ready to polish the final slides for the morning before slipping to see Brody.

A notification blinked on his secure screen.

FROM: MAJ ELLIS
SUBJ: SCHEDULE CHANGE
Col. Rogers pushed Friday 0800 brief to 1300. Adjust accordingly.

Parker stared at the screen, a wave of relief washing over him. 1300. That was a gift. It meant he didn't have to leave Brody’s bed—if he was lucky enough to end up there—until the sun was up. It meant the ‘Release Valve’ didn't have to be a quick one.

The team night out meant that Brody’s Troop had ended their drill cycle and their Friday wouldn’t start until 0900.

He was just allowing himself a small, private smile when a second notification pinged.

FROM: OPS SCHEDULING
SUBJ: MANDATORY TRAINING
2000. Alpha Squadron Team Drill. POC SFC Mack.

Parker’s smile died.

"Team Drill?" he muttered to the empty room. "What the hell is a Team Drill at 2000 on a Thursday?"

He checked the logs. There were no night ops scheduled. No range time. He didn't recognize the name ‘SFC Mack,’ but the rank—Sergeant First Class—meant he was a senior NCO. A Team Sergeant or an Assistant Team Lead.

The realization hit him like a gut punch: There goes the evening.

He slumped in his chair. The system had won again. He couldn't skip a mandatory observation, especially one flagged by Ops. He was going to be stuck watching some night-vision refresher or a comms check while Brody was waiting for him at the bar.

He looked back at the terminal. He needed details. He found the contact number for SFC Mack in the directory.

Then, with a heavy heart, he exited ‘The Tank’ to get to his phone. What is… How should I prepare? He pulled out his phone. He hated this.

Sorry, big guy. Something came up. Work.

He sent the text, feeling the bitterness, he was letting the machine get in the way.

Then he dialed the number he’d found for his POC.

No answer. Just a generic voicemail.

Frustrated, Parker typed out a text to the number.

SFC Mack, this is Parker (Consultant), received notification for 2000 drill. Requesting loc and equipment reqs.

The reply came back almost instantly. Too instantly.

2000. The Nail. Wear civilian.

Parker stared at the phone.

The Nail.

He re-read the message. The Nail. The bar Brody had invited him to. Wear civilian.

The gears in Parker’s ‘Officer’ brain ground to a halt, then spun in reverse. The previous notification from Major Ellis moving the meeting. He looked at the text from Mack.

SFC Mack. That had to be Brody’s second. The guy in the hallway.

The realization hit him with the force of a flashbang.

"Oh my fuck," Parker whispered.

He had been made. This wasn't a coincidence. He was being played. The team—Brody’s team—had rigged the schedule. They had moved the Colonel. They had summoned the Consultant to their bar night. Sneaky fuckers.

He thought back to the Shoothouse. To his episode in the helicopter. To the way he had stared at Brody’s legs in the hallway on Monday.

He thought he was being the subtle ‘Ghost Observer.’ Apparently, he had been about as subtle as a bright emergency beacon. By now, probably the entire Alpha Squadron knew.

He looked at the text again. Wear civilian.

A laugh bubbled up in his chest, shaking loose the tension of the week. He hadn't been caught by the brass; he’d been captured by the teams. The ‘Officer’ had been outplayed, and for the first time in his life, he was absolutely delighted to lose.

- - -

The bar was called The Nail. It was a dive in the truest sense of the word—sticky floors, neon beer signs that buzzed with an ominous electrical hum, and air that smelled of decades of spilled lager and bad decisions.

By 1930, it belonged to the Troop.

They hadn't rented it; they had annexed it.

The previous patrons—a mix of local bikers and college kids—had been ‘escorted’ to the parking lot with the efficiency of a baggage handling crew. One biker had tried to argue; Mack had simply lifted the man by his belt and collar, carried him outside like a misbehaving kid, and set him down gently next to his Harley.

Their Troop Sergeant slapped a wad of cash on the bar counter that would cover the night’s revenue and other damages twice over. The bartender took one look at the twenty men who looked like they ate barbed wire for breakfast, took the money, and wisely decided that self-service was the policy for the night.

Now, the room was a chaotic sanctuary of cheap hops, testosterone, and loud laughter.

Brody sat at the biggest table in the center of the room, a pitcher of cheap domestic beer in front of him. To an outsider, he looked like a warlord holding court—a massive, brooding figure in a black T-shirt and jeans.

Inside, he was a nervous wreck.

The last two hours had been a rollercoaster that his cardiac system wasn't designed for. When he’d received Parker’s text—Sorry, big guy. Something came up. Work.—Brody had nearly punched his fist through a locker in the team room. It had felt like a physical rejection, a confirmation that the ‘system’ would always win.

Then Parker’s follow-up text—Disregard last. I’ll be there.—had sent Brody soaring so high he felt lightheaded.

The team had snickered as they watched their Team Lead go from ‘Murderous’ to a floating ‘Man-Puppy’ in the span of a few minutes.

But now, the reality was setting in.

"Alright, listen up!" Mack yelled, standing on a chair near the karaoke machine. "Rules of engagement! The pool is open. Twenty bucks buy-in. Cheesy pop-songs only. Bonus points if it’s from your dark teenage years. If you try to sing anything cool, you’re buying the next round for the house!"

The crew roared their approval. Money slammed onto the table.

Brody didn't move. He stared at the door. He checked his watch: 1935.

He realized with a sinking feeling that he had no idea what he was doing. He knew how to breach a door. He knew how to lead a stack. He knew how to hold Parker in the dark, and how to comfort him when the ‘drowning’ started. But this?

He didn't know Parker as a civilian. He didn't know if Parker liked beer or wine. He didn't know how to greet him in front of twenty guys without either saluting him or kissing him.

Life was hard without an SOP, Brody thought, his stomach twisting. He felt like a clumsy fool, a giant trying to navigate a china shop. He glanced at the empty chair he was physically guarding right in front of him. He was terrified that Parker would walk in, take one look at the rowdy, unrefined chaos of the ‘Horde,’ and realize he didn't belong here.

"Relax, Boss," Mills said, sliding a shot of whiskey toward him. "You look like you're waiting for extraction. Drink."

Brody took the shot and downed it. It burned, but it didn't settle the nerves.

"He's coming," Brody muttered, more to himself than Mills.

"Yeah, he's coming," Mills laughed. "And you’re gonna be fine. Just... try not to look at him like you want to eat him alive. At least until we get a few songs in."

Brody grunted, his eyes snapping back to the door. The perimeter was secure, the team was primed, but Brian was shaking in his boots.

The Uber dropped him off a half block away. Parker could hear the noise before he even saw the sign of The Nail.

He paused on the sidewalk, smoothing the front of his red flannel shirt. He was nervous. It was a sensation he hadn't felt since his first week at the Academy—the specific anxiety of walking into a room where the social terrain was unmapped.

He knew how to handle these men when he was wearing rank; the ‘Officer’ mask could navigate any wardroom or briefing. But he wasn't in the service. He was here as... what? A Contractor? A friend? A secret? A partner?

He didn't know the Rules of Engagement for this. He just knew he was ecstatic to see the man.

He had cleaned up. He’d shaved his beard down to a heavy shadow and swapped the tactical pants for dark denim jeans and a fitted white T-shirt under the flannel. It was a classic, simple, and intentionally devoid of any government-issue fabric. He preferred dive bars for their simplicity and directness—he hoped he fit the part.

He stepped up to the door. Two junior operators—massive young men who looked like they’d been fed nothing but creatine and aggression since birth—stepped into his path.

"Private party, slick," one of them rumbled, crossing arms the size of tree trunks. "Bar's closed."

Parker felt a flash of frustration. He leaned into his assignment, his voice dropping into a lower register. "I’m supposed to be here.” He felt his ‘Officer’ impatience rising, a hard habit to get rid of.

"Yeah? Who vouched for you? The Pope?"

"I did," a voice cut in from the smoky interior.

Mills appeared in the doorway, a bottle of beer in his hand and a grin on his face. "Stand down, boys. That’s the Fixer. He’s with us."

The wall of muscle parted instantly. Parker nodded his thanks to Mills and stepped inside.

The place was absolute mayhem.

The air was hot, thick with the smell of spilled lager and sweat. This ‘Viking Horde’ had clearly been here for a while. They had decorated their new FOB to their liking; tables were pushed together, chairs were overturned, and the noise level set to roar.

Then, the singing registered.

Parker looked at the ‘stage’—a cleared corner of sticky floor near what seemed to be a karaoke machine.

Brody was there. He was standing next to Mack, holding a microphone that looked like a toy in his massive hand. His black T-shirt was clinging to him like a second skin, his face flushed with alcohol and adrenaline.

And he was singing. Uh-huh.

"I trade my soul for a wish... Pennies and dimes for a kiss... I wasn't lookin' for this... But now you're in my way..."

Parker froze. The sight was absurd and magnificent. Brody wasn't a singer—he was a blunt baritone instrument—but he was singing with a joyful, unselfconscious enthusiasm that Parker had never seen. The ‘Operator’ was gone; the ‘Man’ was having the time of his life.

Brody had spent two decades earning the right to be exactly this ridiculous. In the Monolith, he was the standard, and outside of it, he was untouchable. He clearly didn't need the 'Operator' mask to command the room, and that certainty gave him a rare, unpolished freedom.

Parker felt a wave of affection so strong it almost knocked the wind out of him.

Brody turned, scanning the crowd as he hit the chorus. Then, he saw Parker standing by the door.

To Parker, the change in the bar was instantaneous. To the rest of the Troop, the song was just a rowdy joke. Some of them were singing along. But to Parker, the air suddenly felt as pressurized as the cabin of the Black Hawk. The signal was so clean and high-voltage that it drowned out the cacophony of shouting and singing.

The song didn't stop. Brody locked eyes with him. He didn't look away. He sang the next lines directly to Parker, his voice dropping into a rough, intimate growl that cut through the pop melody.

"It's hard to look right at you, baby... But here's my number, so call me maybe…"

The line hit Parker like a physical impact. Brody was admitting it, right there in the middle of a dive bar: You’re too bright. And I can’t stop looking.

“I beg and borrow and steal… At first sight, and it's real… I didn't know I would feel it… But it's in my way…”

Parker felt his ‘Circuit Breaker’ fail. The ‘Officer’ software evaporated. He was just a man in a red flannel shirt, standing in a crowd, listening to the raw honesty of the performance. The lack of shame, the boyish joy, the utter devotion in those dark, dilated eyes.

“Before you came into my life, I missed you so bad… I missed you so bad… I missed you so, so bad…”

Parker’s throat tightened. He was looking at a man who was willing to be a dork.

The intensity of the stare was a physical tether. Mack kept singing, oblivious, but after the chorus Brody simply handed him the mic and walked off mid-song. He ignored the cheers of his squad. He beelined for Parker, parting the sea of operators like an icebreaker.

Brody stopped two feet away. He was radiating heat. His eyes were wide, dilated, and shining. The wolf in him smelled the hint of Parker, his Paul.

"Hey, big guy," Parker said, his voice barely audible over the music.

"Hey, smart guy," Brody breathed.

Then, silence. They just stared at each other, the paralysis returning. They wanted to touch. They wanted to close the gap. But the room was watching.

Mills saved them again. He appeared out of the crushing mob, shoving a plastic cup of beer into Parker’s hand and a fresh pitcher into Brody’s.

"Drink," Mills ordered, his grin barely hidden behind his bottle. "Before you two melt the floorboards."

Brody blinked, snapping back to reality. He looked at the cup in Parker’s hand, sudden insecurity flashing across his face.

"It’s just basic domestic," Brody muttered, looking apologetic. "Swill, really. I hope it’s..."

"It’s great," Parker interrupted, taking a long pull of the cheap beer. He smiled, genuine and warm. "It’s cold. It’s simple. It suits me well."

Brody let out a breath he’d been holding. His shoulders dropped an inch. "Good. Good."

"Come on," Parker said, nodding toward the main table. "Show me your world, Brian.”

Brody smiled. This was the moment he’d waited for weeks in full body vibration mode. Inside him Brian was turned upside down.

They moved through the crowd, shoulder to shoulder, finally allowed to step into the same orbit.

They reached the main table—three tables shoved together to form a wooden island in the middle of the chaos. Money, beer pitchers, and half-empty shot glasses littered the surface.

The crew fell silent for a heartbeat as they approached, sets of eyes—sharp, assessing, and currently full of mischief—locking onto the scruffy man in the red flannel.

"Room for one more?" Parker asked, his voice projecting that easy, unforced authority.

"Always for a guest,” Mack said, stepping up and extending a hand. He was still grinning, the adrenaline of the performance still humming in his voice. "SFC Mack. I believe we have an appointment at 2000?"

Parker took the hand, his grip firm. He didn't miss the way Mack’s eyes flicked to Brody, then back. "SFC Mack. This is certainly the first time my Point of Contact has been singing karaoke when an assignment started."

Brody, who was mid-swallow of his beer, nearly choked. He set the cup down with a heavy thud. "Assignment? What the hell are you talking about?"

"I got a notification from Ops Scheduling at 1700. Mandatory Team Drill. 2000. POC: SFC Mack."

Brody stared at Parker. Then he looked at Mack. His heavy brow lowered, the ‘Operator’ started to put the pieces together. "Mack. What did you do?"

"I conducted an outreach program, Boss," Mack said with a grin, leaning back with a look of pure, tactical triumph. He looked at Parker. "The message was a bit unclear on purpose. I figured you would want to call for clarification."

"I did," Parker noted dryly. “Once. Plus one text.”

"And now," Mack said, raising his own phone. "I have your number.”

Brody’s face went through a rapid-fire sequence of emotions: confusion, realization, and finally, absolute mortification. He looked at the rest of the table. Mills was snickering into his whiskey. The junior operators were buried in their cups, failing to hide their grins.

“Oh, no-no-no-nope, unfair! I don’t have your spouses’ numbers,” Brody whined like a kid.

“Oh yes. Operational necessity,” Mack retorted.

The team grinned wolfishly; Brody had blurted ‘it’ out, the underlying double meaning definitely not lost to them. Their little operation was starting to look like a success.

Brody didn’t notice; his gears were still spinning, mapping the implications in his head.

"You guys..." Brody's voice was a low, dangerous rumble. "You knew what time he was arriving. You timed the song."

"It was a coordinated breach at 2000 sharp," Mack laughed, finally dropping the 'Boss' act. "You were the only one who didn't know the hit-time."

Brody dropped his head into his hands, his ears turning a deep shade of red. He was the most feared operator in the Troop, and he had just been ‘set up’ by his own family. The ‘Neon Sign’ he apparently had carried around wasn't just on his back; his team had plugged it into a generator and turned it to strobe.

"Sneaky fuckers," Brody muttered, but he was now smiling. Parker was sitting in the chair Brody had been guarding; the coast was clear. He moved his leg against Brody’s. The contact was a solid, grounding weight.

Brody looked up, his eyes meeting Parker’s. He felt exposed, stripped of his cool, but when he saw the genuine amusement and affection in the man’s face, the mortification began to melt.

"I'm sorry," Brody whispered, leaning toward Parker. "I didn't know they were... this involved."

"Don't apologize," Parker whispered back, his voice dropping into that private frequency. "I like that they look out for you. It means you’re worth the trouble."

"He's worth a lot more than that!" Mills yelled from across the table, having clearly eavesdropped. "But enough with the mushy shit. The new guy owes the pool a buy-in. What are you singing, Contractor? Only cheesy pop allowed!”

The table erupted into chanting. Parker looked at the karaoke machine, then back at Brody who was grinning wide. The fucker. What am I getting into? These are a pack of wild wolves.

"I think I can find something appropriate," Parker said. He caught Brody's eye—a silent promise. "But I'm going to need a Gin and Tonic first.”

A beat.

"A Gin and Tonic?" Mack repeated slowly, the words sounding foreign in his mouth.

The table went silent in a heartbeat. The word Gin hung over the pitchers of cheap lager and whiskey shots like a foreign enemy at the perimeter.

All eyes were on Parker now.

"The Gin and what?" Mills asked through the silence, squinting as if trying to translate a dead language.

"What is a Gin and Tonic?" one of the junior operators asked, looking genuinely concerned.

"What the hell is gin?" another chimed in.

“Just the drink or do you want a whole yacht club with it?”

Parker looked at Brody. The man's brows couldn't physically go any higher. His eyes were like saucers, his jaw slack. He looked like he was watching a highly controlled demolition of his own dignity.

"The guy drinks clear booze," Mack noted, pointing a finger at Parker as if identifying a new species. "He doesn't drink liquid bread like humans. He drinks... clear... booze.”

"Oh my god," Mills whispered, a slow, predatory grin spreading across his face. "The hair. The posture. The clean fingernails."

The silence broke into a chaotic realization. The pieces clicked for twenty operators at once.

"Squid!" someone yelled from the end of the table.

"You're Navy!" Mack barked, slamming his hand on the wood. "The man is a Navy agent! We've been breached by the Department of the freaking Navy!"

The table erupted. A chorus of "Go Army, Beat Navy" began to rise, mixed with insults about boats, starch, and yacht clubs.

Parker just sat there, taking the verbal bombardment with a calm, amused smirk, his leg still pressed firmly against Brody’s.

"He's a squid," Mills chanted.

“Someone check the parking lot for a sailboat!”

The mockery was cut abruptly by a long, low groan that vibrated through the table.

Brody had his face buried in his hands—again—his massive shoulders shaking. He let out a sound that was half-laugh and half-despair, then looked up at the ceiling, his face flushed a deep, embarrassed red.

"Oh my fucking god," Brody groaned loud enough to be heard over the jukebox. "I have fallen for a naval officer."

The Troop went ballistic. The roar of laughter was loud enough to rattle the pitchers.

"Our Boss is fraternizing with the enemy!”

“This is treason!”

“This is a violation!”

“AN. OFFICER. OF. THE. NAVY.” Mack yelled, his voice reaching a pitch of pure joy. ”You're done. You're gonna be wearing a little white hat and eating crustless sandwiches by Christmas.”

“I bet he needs you to rock him back and forth and throw salt water at the windows to get a nap,” Mills provided.

“Wait, what? So you’re saying you had no idea?” Mack interrogated their victim.

“No! I mean… No, it just never came up.” Brody had to confess.

Brody looked at Parker, his eyes filled with a mix of puppy misery and absolute, unshielded adoration. He reached out under the table and gripped Parker's knee, hard.

"Navy," Brody whispered, his voice a gravelly wreck. "Of all the branches... I mean, there’s the leathernecks, and even the Chair Force… why did it have to be the one with the boats?"

Parker leaned in with a smirk, his eyes bright with the mischief. "Because, Brian, someone has to be the adult in the room. Now, are you going to get the Navy a drink, or do I have to teach you some proper manners?”

Brody groaned, a loud whiny sound.

Then he started to push back from the table to get the drink, but Parker beat him to it.

"Stay put, big guy. I’m teasing," Parker said, his voice smooth and carrying that undercurrent of command. "I have my own legs."

Parker didn't just rise; he uncoiled. He stood to his full height, his spine finding that unyielding Annapolis straightness, his shoulders broad and square under the red flannel. It didn’t go unnoticed. The rowdy chatter at the table dipped for a second as twenty operators realized that the ‘Scruffy Contractor’ had the posture that could make them all look like a bunch of slouches.

He walked to the bar with a fast, measured stride. He reached over, grabbed the gin, and fixed his own drink. Before he took a sip, he turned back to the room and raised the glass.

"To the deep end," Parker said, a sharp Navy toast delivered with a wink.

Groans.

“My ears! They are burning!”

“I’m gonna vomit.”

He slammed the entire glass in one go—the clear botanical defiance. He set the glass down with a sharp clack, grabbed his cup of beer, and walked back to the table.

“Sir, can you even sit in a chair that isn't made of mahogany?” Mack jabbed.

He leaned down to Mack. ”So, SFC Mack, cheesy pop, you said?” Parker ignored the joke, maintaining his full ‘Officer’ mode.

Mack just nodded like he just got scolded.

Parker took the beer with him and headed for the stage.

He took the corner with the seasoned, effortless moves of a man who had spent his youth in smoke-filled joints and dive bars. He didn't stand; he grabbed a high bar stool and hooked his boots on the rungs.

He unbuttoned the flannel, revealing a tight white T-shirt that clung to his frame, and rolled his sleeves to the elbows—exposing the thick, corded forearms. He was transforming from his previous naval show to his life before the academy. Life before the weight of the world had set in. 

The room went silent. The ‘Viking Horde’ was waiting for a train wreck.

Parker leaned into the mic stand and began.

He started slow, his voice a rich, Elvis-style baritone that rumbled through the floorboards. It was smooth, dark, and dangerously intimate.

It grew and grew. The rhythm snapped. Parker didn't sing the chorus; he launched it. He transitioned from the smooth croon to a raw, gravelly rock yell that resembled Dave Grohl at his loudest. It was a vocal bombardment.

"Shame on me... to need release... un-un-uncontrollably..."

Parker shifted his focus. The room vanished. The twenty operators became static. He locked onto the only man who mattered.

"I, I, I wanna go-o-o all the way-ay-ay! Taking out my freak tonight! I, I, I wanna show-o-ow all the dir-irt-irt I got running through my mind! Whoa, oh, oh…”

The crew heard the rock cover. But for the two men in the bar, the whole room dissolved into white noise; the only signal left was the one connecting Paul to Brian.

“Sh-sh-sh-sh-sh-shame on me… To need release… Un-un-un-uncontrollably…”

He wasn't just singing. He was confessing to Brian. He was taking the masks and the ‘bunker’ he’d built and tearing them down with every note. He was claiming his territory and telling the man exactly what was going to happen when they were finally alone. While enjoying every second of it.

The final "Whoa-oh" was a primal scream that rattled the pitchers on the tables. “That’s Britney for you bitches.”

Parker let the mic drop into the floor, the feedback a sharp punctuation mark, and stepped off the stool.

The crew erupted.

"Holy shit!" Mills yelled, slamming his fist on the table.

"That was fucking amazing!"

"That was fucking hot!" someone roared.

In the span of three minutes, Parker had been transformed. He wasn't the ‘Squid’ who had infiltrated them anymore; he was a Rock Star who had just conquered the territory.

The ‘horde’ was back at it. The sins washed away like a heavy ocean wave cleaning the deck.

The mayhem resumed like it hadn’t been interrupted at all.

Parker moved back to the table, his face slightly flushed, his gaze burning. He looked for his mate.

Brody was frozen. He hadn't moved a muscle since the first chorus. His jaw was tight, his dark eyes dilated to the point of blackness. To the rest of the Troop, he just looked like his usual brooding self. But Parker saw the truth. He saw the way Brody’s chest was heaving, the way his knuckles were white, his hands gripped in fists.

Brody had a problem. A very physical, very urgent problem. The ‘Voltage’ from the stage had traveled straight into his lap, and his manhood had reacted with a terminal intensity that he couldn't hide. It was extremely clear that his cock liked the Navy. Very much.

Parker sat down, his leg immediately finding Brody's.

"You okay?" Parker whispered.

Brody didn't look at him. He couldn’t. Until he couldn’t do that either. His eyes snapped to Parker’s, pupils dilated and filled with need. "My... has a serious problem with you."

Parker smirked, his hand dropping under the table to find the thick muscled leg for a split second. "Good. Because the Navy isn't finished with you yet.”

The next two hours were a blur of high-volume integration and low-frequency confessions. The ‘Viking Horde’ had shifted from a suspicious pack of predators to a rowdy, protective circle. Parker was no longer the outside-suit; he was the ‘Officer-Squid’ who had a serious rock growl, and that was a currency the Troop respected.

Brody had moved to Parker’s side and planted himself there. He was nursing a fresh beer, his body still radiating the heat of a man who had been through a spiritual and physical over-voltage.

“Where the hell did that come from?” Brody asked, his voice a low, gravelly whisper that barely carried over the noise of Mills arguing with a junior operator about ballistics. “The voice. The… everything.”

Parker leaned back, his shoulder resting against Brody’s, his red flannel open to the white T-shirt. “Started in high school,” he said with a small, self-deprecating smile. “I spent my dark teenage years in a garage. Grunge and rock were the only things that made sense. We had a band. One of the guys actually made it—he’s a published artist now. I still show up on his albums every once in a while, singing second vocals.”

Brody stared at him, mesmerized. “To me you could be a lead.”

Parker smiled—a private smile for the earnest words with a meaning.

“I’m good at blending, Brian. At least I used to be,” Parker noted.

“And the Naval Academy?”

“I was a swimmer and a rower at Annapolis. You don’t exactly bring a distorted guitar and a need for release into that world. It was all about starch and tradition. I kept the music as a hobby—a private valve. I didn’t think anyone here would ever hear it.”

“I’m glad I did,” Brody rumbled, his eyes dilating again.

The squad didn’t leave them alone for long. Mack and Mills kept the conversation flowing, pulling stories out of Parker about his time with the Navy operators and his ‘murky' days in DC. They were vetting him, but it was the vetting of brothers, not interrogators. They liked his edge. They liked that he didn’t flinch at their crudeness.

As the night wore on, Parker shifted from performer to observer, a role that felt as natural as breathing. He listened as the men around him traded stories, their voices thick with the kind of pride that wasn’t bought, but earned in the dirt.

He realized that Brody wasn't just a Team Lead; he was the center of gravity for the whole Alpha Squadron. To the younger operators, he was a peak of their highest ideals—a legend who had survived the impossible so often it had become routine. Brody was the source of deep, unspoken envy for every other troop and squadron in the Monolith, the 'Block of Granite' that every Bravo, Charlie, and Delta lead tried, and failed, to emulate.

Sitting there, Parker understood the true depth of their shared 'Foundational Silence.’ In the everyday grind, Brody wasn't just guarding himself, he was carrying the weight of his unit. He was their balance point, and for the first time, he was allowing himself to really be held by someone outside the pack.

Later, in the shadows near the pool table, Mack and Mills were having a different conversation. They were watching the way Brody looked at Parker—like a man who had finally found the North Star.

“He’s still too stiff,” Mills whispered, chalking a cue. “He’s waiting for permission. He’s looking at Parker like he’s some holy relic.”

“He needs one more push,” Mack agreed, his eyes fixed on the karaoke screen.

“Operation Hot Ass needs a finale,” Mills grinned.

“Yup,” Mack nodded. “And I know just the song.”

By 2300, the bar was a rank haze of beer, whiskey, sweat, and the kind of camaraderie that only exists on the edge of the world. Brody felt more grounded than he had in years, but the ‘current’ under his skin was reaching a terminal state. He was ready to leave.

But Mack was already pushing forward like a truck.

Another round of whiskey hit the table, the glasses clinking with a festive authority. Mack, who had brought them, downed one as if the team needed an example or leading from the front. Then he looked at Brody, wiping a stray drop of bourbon from his chin.

"Alright. Enough hiding in the shadows. Everyone has done a solo tonight except the Boss. Get your ass up there."

Parker leaned in, his shoulder a hot brand against Brody’s. "He’s right, big guy. You were good earlier."

Brody looked at Parker, a pleading look flickering in his eyes before the ‘Wolf' took over, fueled by the fresh whiskey and the sheer, intoxicating heat of his man’s approval. He let out a low, huffed laugh. “Any ideas on the song?” He had fallen into the trap.

“Don’t you worry about that, I’ve picked it already," Mack grinned. He sauntered to the machine, punched in the track, and returned with a microphone, shoving it into Brody’s massive hand.

Brody stood up, his 250-pound frame towering over the table. He didn't move like a soldier this time; he moved like a man who was ready to let his inner dork out for a run. He stepped onto the cleared floor, the ‘Horde’ cheering and slamming their cups as the first riff notes filled the room.

They recognized the song instantly and yelled.

Parker froze. He knew the lyrics. He looked down at his own dark jeans and the white T-shirt visible under his open red flannel. Sneaky fuckers.

Brody started. His voice was a heavy, rhythmic rumble, but the joy was overpowering. He was leaning into the cheesiness, his massive shoulders moving to the beat, a wide, unselfconscious grin on his face.

“Midnight… You come and pick me up, no headlights… Long drive… Could end in burning flames or paradise…”

The man hit the chorus, his enthusiasm rising.

"You got that James Dean daydream look in your eye..." Brody sang, his gaze snapping to Parker.

The room seemed to tilt. Parker felt his face flush as Brody pointed the mic at him.

The Troop roared in delight.

"And I got that red lip classic thing that you like..." Brody continued, his voice dropping into a gravelly, playful register that made the squad howl.

Brody didn’t stop. He was a weapon system singing a pop anthem, and he was doing it with a level of devotion that was terrifying. "And when we go crashing down, we come back every time. 'Cause we never go out of style..."

Suddenly, Parker felt a hand on his shoulder. Mills was there, shoving a second microphone into his chest and physically hauling him out of his chair.

"Get up there, Contractor!" Mills said over the roar. "Reinforce the line!"

Parker didn't fight it. He took the mic, left his flannel shirt behind, and stepped into his new role, closing the distance until he was standing next to his man.

Parker’s rock growl joined Brody’s baritone, the two frequencies finally, perfectly in sync.

"And when we go crashing down, we come back every time!" they sang together, their voices resonating through the small room. "'Cause we never go out of style! We never go out of style!”

“You got that long hair, slicked back, white T-shirt… And I got that good girl faith and a tight little skirt…”

The ‘horde’ was absolutely delighted by the show, yelling and whistling.

A barrage of 'Get a room already!,' 'Save it for the exfil!,' and 'Anchors Aweigh, Boss!' competed with the performance.

By the next chorus, the world had disappeared. The twenty operators, the cheap beer, the masks they wore daily—it was all white noise. Parker saw only Brian; Brody saw only Paul.

The bridge hit. The music swelled. They were inches apart now, almost chest-to-chest, the heat between them a physical force.

Their voices were raw and thick with need.

"Take me ho-ooo-ome,” Parker growled into the mic, his eyes locked on Brody’s.

"Just take me ho-ooo-ome,” Brody roared back, the words a desperate, honest plea.

"Yeah, just take me ho-ooo-ome” they finished together, their voices a jagged harmony.

The final chorus was starting, the music building for a big finish, but neither of them heard it.

The microphones hit the floor with a twin, thudding feedback-shriek. Brody launched himself at Parker, his hands tangling in Parker’s hair, and Parker caught him, his arms wrapping around Brody’s massive shoulders like iron bands.

They collided.

It wasn't a polite kiss. It was an explosion. It was raw, violent with need, and 100% honest. They were making out in the middle of a dive bar, in front of the family they had, and for the first time in forty years, they didn't care who saw the signal.

Their audience went ballistic. Pitchers, plastic cups, and beer went flying.

"Breach confirmed!" Mack roared, slamming his pitcher on the table.

"About damn time, Boss!"

But the two men were deaf to it. They continued their hungry kiss, clinging to each other for stability and leverage.

Their doubts were silenced; the signal they had hoped for was clear. The real joint operation was a go.

- - -

0700.

The light was different here. In Qatar, the morning sun was a threat. Now, here, filtering through the cheap hotel curtains, it was soft. Quiet.

Brody woke up tangled around Parker. He was instantly awake like usual, but for the first time since his career started, he wasn't moving. He lay on his side, propped up on one elbow, studying the man sleeping next to him.

The night before had been a blur of high-intensity bombardment. He had done things he never thought he could. It felt amazing. He was still glowing inside, basking in the glory of his triumphant conquest. 

They had launched themselves out of The Nail just seconds after the song ended, moving like two cruise missiles programmed for the same target. The Uber ride had been a test of restraint, and the moment the hotel door clicked shut, the explosion had happened. It had been frantic, desperate—a collision of two months of starvation. Release reaching them both way too soon. It was everything Brody needed, but it wasn't enough. It would never be enough.

He watched Parker breathe. His ‘Eagle’ was grounded. The sharp, analytical lines of his face were softened by sleep. His hair was messy, the ‘long hair, slicked back’ perfection ruined by Brody’s hands.

Brody felt a cold spike of terror in his chest. It wasn't the fear of combat; it was the fear of loss. He was silently terrified that he liked this—the Navy, the smart mouth, the capacity, the weight of the man—too much. Brian was a Wolf who had howled the moon, by some miracle got what he hoped for, and now he didn't know how to keep it. He just knew he never wanted to let go.

He had a new chain of command, and it started and ended with Paul.

"You’re staring," Parker mumbled, his eyes still closed. His voice was thick with sleep, a low rasp that made Brody’s toes curl. "See something you like, stud?"

Brody smiled. It was an easy, unguarded expression that felt strange on his face. He leaned down and kissed Parker’s temple. He was completely at ease.

"Yeah," Brody rumbled, his voice a factual statement of terrain. "I like looking at my Navy fancy pants."

One of Parker’s eyes cracked open. "Sorry to disappoint you, big guy, but my fancy days are long gone. And pants are definitely restricted on this deck."

Brody snorted, a deep sound in his chest. "Your dad jokes are terrible."

"They're highly tactical," Parker murmured, shifting to roll onto his back, exposing his throat to the Wolf. "They disarm the enemy.”

“Uh-huh,” Brody moved to kiss the exposed skin, biting gently, almost playfully. There was no raw need to assert his claim, just the easy morning bliss. Yet, the scrape of his teeth made them both shudder and small moans escaped them both.

The big man kissed his mate’s shoulders, neck, and forehead.   

Suddenly, Brody remembered something and that got the wolf thinking—a moment from last night. His brows lowered. Brian vanished. The brooding, serious, and stone-faced ‘Operator’ was back, staring Parker down as if he were an uncooperative source. “Now, why didn’t you mention you were Navy? A guy's gotta warn about these things.”

Parker blinked. “Oh, so you are already trying to use that face to intimidate me.” Brody’s growing smirk revealed the true intent. “That’s Psy-Ops against your own troops,” Parker smiled back.

“I don’t know, I guess it’s like you said—it just never came up. It didn’t feel important.”

Brody nodded once, accepting the answer as the truth.

They lay there for a moment, the silence heavy and comfortable. Parker reached up, his hand finding the back of Brody’s neck, his thumb tracing the hairline.

"I was thinking," Parker said, his voice turning serious, though his eyes stayed warm. "I don't really want to fly back to my staging ground this evening."

Brody went still. “Yeah?”

"Yeah," Parker said. He looked at Brody, his gaze steady and sharp. “It’s not really my home base… So, I was thinking... maybe I could stay. For the weekend. Or maybe... longer.”

Brody felt the impact of the words hit him harder than any round to the plate.

Longer.

He fought the burn in his eyes. He felt the overwhelming feelings rise up, desperate and overpowering. He wasn’t trained for this. His heart wasn’t used to this. He couldn't speak. He buried his face in the crook of Parker’s neck, hiding the mist in his eyes, and let out a long, shuddering breath that was half-sob, half-relief.

He inhaled the scent of his home.

"Yeah," Brody choked out against Parker’s skin. “Stay… Please.”

Brian held Paul in his arms in a tight embrace.

Parker just petted Brody’s hair, his hand stroking down the thick muscle of his neck. "I've got you, Brian. I'm not going anywhere."

The tenderness broke the last dam.

The morning activities that followed weren't frantic. They were slow, deliberate, and deep. Paul took Brian, claiming him with a reverence that shook the bed frame. Then, the dynamic flipped, the ‘Equality’ of the men reasserting itself as Brian took Paul, grounding his man with the heavy, rhythmic weight of his devotion.

It was perfect for the two of them, both able to give and receive. Both serving the other and being served.

By 0800, they needed to move.

They stumbled into the hotel bathroom. This wasn't the plastic coffin of Al Udeid; it was a tiled walk-in with actual water pressure and enough room for two apex predators.

This time, Brody took the lead. He grabbed the soap. He didn't just wash a body; he venerated the mind that had saved him.

Starting gently from the hair and face. His massive, calloused hands moved over Parker’s shoulders—the place where the ‘Conductor’ carried the weight of the strategy and his honest choices. He washed Parker’s back, scrubbing away the loneliness and the dust of the long solitary trek the man had travelled to get here. Brian was gently preparing Paul, his mate, for the road ahead.

"I've got you," Brody whispered, echoing Parker’s promise from before.

They dressed in silence.

Brody watched Parker pull on his work gear for the day. It felt domestic. Brian wanted this—perhaps even more than he had wanted his spot on the teams. That realization finally eased the last remaining tensions in his mind; with all that tenacity and devotion he had in himself, he’d find a way to make this work.

He looked at the man who had walked into the JOC and rewritten the story alongside him.

Parker stepped close, grabbing the lapels of Brody’s jacket. He planted a quick kiss on Brody’s full lips—a seal on the contract.

"Ready?" Parker asked.

"Ready," Brody said.

The ‘Signal Discipline’ was no longer needed. They were starting their personal Joint Operation.

They opened the door and stepped out of the hotel, walking side-by-side into the honest light of the sunny day. Their steps in sync.

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Author’s note: The aim was to create a realistic, character-driven story of men and their feelings in harsh environment. This series is a study of identity—humanizing two men in a system that often treats them as gear. While the work leans into military jargon and some fictional ‘disneyfication,’ the focus was to stay true to their internal reality. If you’d like to read more of their adventures, let me know below.

Note: This story is intended as a non-commercial work. Song lyric excerpts are the copyrighted property of their respective owners and are used here under fair use principles for transformative narrative context.

Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are used in a fictitious manner. While certain real-world entities are referenced, their depiction is entirely fictional and does not represent the actual policies, opinions, or personnel of those organizations.

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

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