Parker & Brody

Part IV: The Home Front

An episodic epilogue on the friction of peace, where two stubborn men discover the hardest mission isn't the war, but the life after—turning a safe house into a home, and the terror of being happy.

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The Perimeter Check

The sun was dipping below the tree line, painting the sky in bruises of purple and deep orange, as the GMC Sierra turned off the paved county road. It was a AT4X—a truck built for off-road utility, not pavement posturing. The suspension swallowed the ruts of the gravel track with a heavy, dampened thud that Parker felt in his gut.

Parker sat in the passenger seat, his go-bag at his feet. He had dropped the rental Tahoe at the agency an hour ago, canceling his flight with a single, curt phone call to his dispatch. He wasn't flying back to the silence of the brownstone. He was heading deeper into the woods.

He watched Brody drive. The big man’s left hand rested easily on the wheel, his right hand resting on the center console, close enough that Parker could feel the heat radiating from it. Brody drove the way he did everything else: with a relaxed, high-functioning competence. He didn't fight the wheel; he guided the heavy machine with minute, precise adjustments.

They had been driving in comfortable silence for twenty minutes, leaving the noise of the base and the town far behind. The trees here were older, thicker—a wall of black pines that seemed to swallow the light.

"We're close," Brody rumbled, his voice low over the steady rumble of the all-terrain tires.

"Good," Parker replied, shifting in his seat. He wasn't nervous, but the anticipation was a tight coil in his chest. He was about to breach the final layer of Brody’s defense. He had seen the man naked, he had seen him fight, but seeing where a man lived—that was a different level of intimacy.

The truck crested a small ridge and descended into a secluded clearing.

The cabin sat against a backdrop of rising granite and heavy timber. It wasn't a sprawling manor, and it certainly wasn't a suburban cookie-cutter. It was a rough-hewn structure of dark stained wood and river stone, compact and solid. It looked like it had grown out of the ground rather than been built on it. An attached garage sat to the left, practical and sturdy.

Brody killed the engine. The silence of the woods rushed in, heavy and absolute, broken only by the tink-tink of the car’s cooling.

"Home sweet home," Brody muttered, a trace of self-conscious grit in his voice.

They stepped out. The air here was cooler than on the base, smelling of pine resin, damp earth, and the coming night.

Parker walked to the edge of the clearing, his boots crunching softly on the packed dirt. He scanned the property with an automatic, professional eye. The sightlines were clear to the road. The ridge offered natural cover from the rear. The windows were old and narrow on the single floor structure.

Brody was waiting on the front porch. He stood still, a static, monumental figure framed by the rough timber beams. He had changed into a fresh black T-shirt and jeans back at the base, but he still looked like he was wearing the day’s armor. His hands were deep in his pockets, his shoulders pulled high in a subconscious defensive posture.

He was waiting for the verdict. He was scared that Parker—the man with the brownstone in the city—would look at this isolation and see only loneliness.

Parker walked up the wooden steps. He didn't look at the door; he looked at the construction.

“This is amazing. Good bones," Parker noted, kicking the heavy timber post of the porch lightly with his boot. "Private. You have great taste, Brian."

Brody let out a breath he’d clearly been holding. His shoulders dropped an inch. "It’s... quiet. It’s not much, but it keeps the world out."

"It’s solid, sturdy,” Parker said, his face smiling openly, stepping into Brody’s personal space, his eyes locking onto the man’s face. "It suits you. Uncompromising."

Brody swallowed hard, the Adam's apple bobbing in his thick throat. He gestured vaguely toward the heavy oak front door, looking suddenly unsure of himself—a 250-pound wolf who didn't know if he was allowed to invite the guest in.

"Do you... uh... do you want the tour?" Brody asked, his voice rough. "Kitchen, living room... it’s not big, but—"

Parker cut him off. He didn't use words. He moved.

He stepped forward and shoved Brody backward.

It was a solid, two-handed push against the center of Brody’s chest. The big man stumbled back a few steps, hitting the solid wood of his own front door with a heavy thud.

Parker followed the momentum, closing the distance instantly. He pinned Brody against the wood, his body pressing tight against the wall of muscle, his hands sliding to grip the front of Brody’s shirt seeking skin.

"I want the tour," Parker growled, his voice dropping into that dark, command register that made Brody’s pupils blow wide. "But we are skipping the kitchen."

Brody stared at him, his breath hitching, his hands coming up to grip Parker’s waist instinctively. "Yeah?"

“Yeah," Parker rasped, his eyes burning with intent. “I’ve been achingly hard since we left the base. You are going to show me exactly how private and sturdy this place really is.”

"You are going to take me straight to your bedroom.”

“And you’ll do that right now.”

The kiss wasn't a question; it was an attack.

Brody didn't yield against the door; he pushed back, meeting Parker’s force with equal pressure. Their mouths ground together, open and wet, stubble scraping against stubble with a friction that sparked immediate fire.

For Parker, the sensation was intoxicating. He didn't have to lean down; he didn't have to hold back. He was kissing a man who met him eye-to-eye, exactly at his level. There was no fragility here, just two heavy engines revving in sync. He groaned into Brody’s mouth, his hands gripping the thick trap muscles and shoulders, marveling at the sheer capacity of the man who could take everything Parker had to give and still demand more.

Brody broke the kiss only to drag Parker inside, kicking the heavy door shut with his heel. He didn't bother with the lights. He navigated the darkening cabin by instinct, pulling Parker through the shadows of the living room and straight into the bedroom.

Parker didn't just cross the threshold; he breached the private perimeter. He was dismantling Brody’s solitude with the same precision he used to dismantle the dishonesty of the system, only this time, the objective wasn’t total surrender.

Brody stripped with the speed of a man under fire. By the time Parker had toed off his boots and dropped his pants, Brody was already naked, a towering silhouette of muscle and need. He fell back onto the massive bed.

He lay on his back, his eyes dark and dilated, watching Parker. Then, he lifted his heavy legs, pulling his knees toward his chest and holding them. He spread wide.

Parker froze for a split second. The view was arresting. The ‘magnificent’ ass was on full display—a perfect, muscular invitation. The thick thighs framed the prize; the inviting tight hole, the heavy sack hanging low, and hard cock resting against Brody’s stomach. It was a display of total trust and raw, unfiltered want.

Brody's breath hitched as he held the position, his cock twitching against his abs, pre-cum smearing a glistening trail across his skin. Parker's eyes raked over him like a predator sizing up prey, his own erection jutting out, proudly announcing his appreciation.

“Look at you,” Parker growled low, stepping closer, one hand trailing up Brody's inner thigh, nails scraping just enough to make the muscle jump. “All mine.”

Brody's response was a shuddering nod, his grip tightening on his knees as he arched slightly, offering more.

Parker dropped to the floor on the soft rug at the edge of the bed. He didn't need to speak; he dined.

He dove in mouth first, burying his face in the heat between Brody’s legs. Brody howled, his back bucking off the mattress as Parker’s tongue found its mark. It was a feast. Parker tasted the salt of the day, the sweat of the drive, and the musk of the man. He licked and nuzzled, devouring the taste.

Parker's hands gripped Brody's glutes hard, spreading them wider as his tongue circled the puckered entrance, dipping in shallow thrusts that had Brody grinding down against his face. The stubble on Parker's jaw rasped against sensitive skin, sending sparks up Brody's spine. He sucked at the rim, then pulled back to blow cool air over the wet flesh, watching Brody's hole clench in desperation.

“Want more?” Parker murmured against the heat, his fingers digging bruises into the firm globes of Brody's ass.

Brody's hips jerked, a whine escaping him. “Please, eat me deeper,” and Parker obliged, plunging in with relentless laps that matched the pounding of Brody's heart.

Parker’s finger slid inside him to bend Brody’s body to his will, stretching and prepping the tight heat. He tasted the sweaty skin, running his tongue from the crack up to the heavy swell of Brody’s balls and all the way to the leaking tip.

"God... Paul..." Brody’s voice was a wrecked, babbling litany of pleasure. "Don't stop... fuck..."

Parker pulled back, breathless, his face slick, and pushed second finger in. He found their favorite spot inside his muscle stud.

A loud gasp that turned into a moan and something close to “Oh, god…”

"Lube," Parker demanded, his voice a jagged rasp. "Where?"

"Nightstand," Brody moaned, tossing his head back. "Drawer."

Parker found it blindly.

He slicked his fingers generously before returning to his feast. He pressed two digits inside Brody's clenching heat, curling them immediately to stroke that swollen gland with firm, circling pressure.

Brody's back bowed off the bed, baritone moans filling the room. His cock leaking steadily now, balls drawing up tight as waves of electric pleasure ripped through him.

“That's it, I got you,” Parker rasped, scissoring wider, his free hand wrapping around Brody's throbbing shaft to pump in time with his thrusts. Brody's moans turned incoherent, his body trembling on the edge, sweat-slicked muscles quivering under Parker's control.

He coated himself, his eyes never leaving Brody’s face. He stood up, stepping between the spread legs. He gripped Brody’s ankles, pinning them wider and lined up his thick head against the prepped entrance.

He slid in.

It was a slow, heavy invasion. One inexorable push breached him, inch by inch. Parker watched Brody’s face as he filled him—saw the eyes roll back, the jaw slacken, the expression fracture into pure, overwhelmed sensation. Until he bottomed out with a shared groan—Brody's walls gripping like a warm vice, Parker's hips finally flush against that perfect ass.

They locked eyes. In the dim light, the look wasn't just lust; it was a terrifying amount of feeling.

It was the realization that this was home. Parker was inside him, claiming the space, approving the man, filling the void.

He waited seated to the hilt and letting Brody get familiar with his girth.

Parker began to drive.

He stood at the edge of the bed, using the leverage to piston into Brody with punishing force. They were both sweating now, a slick sheen covering their bodies.

They moved together in a brutal rhythm, Parker's thrusts deep and claiming, slapping skin on skin.

Brody was a mess. He was babbling incoherent praise, his head thrashing on the bed. His chest—massive slabs of pectoral muscle—bounced with the force of Parker’s thrusts, his nipples hard, his body flushed. He reached down, stroking himself in time with Parker’s rhythm, completely lost in the sensations.

Parker held Brody’s legs up, almost bending the big guy in half.

"I’m close," Brody gasped, his hips stuttering. "Paul, I’m..."

Parker pulled out abruptly and brushed Brody’s hand away from his cock.

Brody let out a noise of pure frustration, his eyes snapping open. "I was so close!"

"I know, I felt it,” Parker said, climbing onto the bed, his eyes burning. He lay back, pulling Brody with him. "Now ride me stud. Finish it."

Brody didn't hesitate. He scrambled up, straddling Parker’s hips. He lined himself up and sank down, impaling himself on Parker with a long, guttural groan of satisfaction. He didn't do anything by halves; he moved like a champion.

The view from below was fantastic. Brody’s massive thighs framed Parker’s torso like oak trees. His broad shoulders blocked out the ceiling. He began to ride, snapping his hips with a powerful, relentless rhythm.

Parker reached up, his hands roaming over the sweating, heaving landscape of Brody’s chest and abs. Finally finding Brody’s hard nipples to play with. A loud growl escaped Brody.

Parker felt the tremors running through his mate when his cock rubbed against Brody’s walls and prostate. His fingers playing with the sensitive nipples.

Brody leaned forward, bracing his hands on Parker’s shoulders. His face was open, vulnerable, shattered by pleasure. Brody panted, the words tumbling out between thrusts. "God... I feel so safe with you."

The admission hit Parker harder than the physical sensation. Safe. The Wolf felt safe. With him.

Parker groaned, his hips bucking up to meet Brody’s drive. Parker took Brody’s leaking cock in his rough hand and jerked him. He felt his own control snapping. "I've got you," he managed to choke out. "I've got you, Brian.”

Parker came first. He erupted with a shout, his body bowing off the mattress, pouring everything he had into the man above him.

Brody felt the pulse inside him. His mate filling him rope after rope with his hot creamy cum.

Parker howled under Brody’s relentless pace. “Come for me, Brian,” a rasped command in the midst of his orgasm. Their eyes locked in their shared, deep lust.

The happiness, the pride, and the sheer physical overload pushed him over the edge. He threw his head back and roared. Brody shattered, cum spurting hot across Parker’s chest in thick ropes, his ass still milking Parker as he rode out the aftershocks, squeezing every last drop of the safety he had finally found.

Brody collapsed onto Parker, his massive weight pressing Parker into the mattress. They lay entwined, breaths mingling, the aftershocks binding them closer in the dim room.

Under any other circumstance, having two-hundred-and-fifty pounds of dead weight on his chest would have been suffocating. Right now, it felt like a weighted blanket—a physical confirmation.

The silence of the deep woods rushed back in, reclaiming the room from the echoes of their release. To Brody, it wasn't an empty silence anymore; it was heavy, satisfied, and shared.

They lay there for a long time, Paul still inside Brian, their breathing slowly syncing up, the sweat on their skin cooling in the evening air. The room smelled of them—the sharp tang of sex mixing with the pine resin drifting in from outside. It was the satisfying scent of a territory claimed.

Parker reached up, his hand drifting idly over the landscape of Brody’s back. His fingers traced the valley of the spine, feeling the thick, roped muscles that were finally, miraculously, slack. He realized with a jolt of pride that he was likely the only person on earth who got to see the ‘Beast’ powered down.

"You alive, buddy?" Parker murmured, his voice a low vibration in his chest.

Brody made a sound that was half-grunt, half-purr. He shifted slightly, burying his face into the crook of Parker’s neck, his stubble scratching the sensitive skin. "Barely. You fight dirty."

"I fight to win," Parker corrected, turning his head to kiss the sweat-damp hair at Brody’s temple. "And I think we both won.”

Brody grunted.

Parker started to pull out, but Brody groaned, “No, don’t.” So Parker didn’t; instead he pulled his legs and fixed his hips to keep them joined. He was getting soft already and eventually he had to, but that time was not yet. 

Brody lifted his head. His hair was a mess, his eyes heavy-lidded and dark, stripped of all the usual awareness to reveal just the man—Brian. He looked at Parker with a raw, unguarded wonder.

"I haven’t cleaned the bedroom," Brody admitted, his voice rough. “I didn’t have the time… or the energy… the week was pretty heavy.”

Parker hummed; he knew what the man meant.

“There’s probably dust. The sheets are just... standard issue."

Parker smirked, running his thumb over Brody’s cheekbone. "Brian, I just wrecked you on this bed. Do you really think I care about any of that?"

Brody huffed a laugh, the sound rumbling through their connected chests. "Fair point."

"Your house is great," Parker said, his tone turning serious. He looked past Brody, scanning the dark timber beams of the ceiling. "It’s got integrity. It’s not trying to be something it isn't. I like it."

Brody pressed his mass tighter to Parker.

"It’s far from everything. Sometimes... sometimes it gets too quiet."

“It doesn’t have to be," Parker said firmly.

Brody nodded, accepting the new reality. He kissed Parker and squeezed his hole around the soft tool still connecting them together. Then pulled himself up and rolled off Parker, settling onto his side but keeping an arm draped heavily across Parker’s waist—a relentless anchor. Brody felt his man’s juice drip from his wrecked hole and closed his eyes savoring the sensation—he swallowed hard.

He looked at the ceiling, then back at Parker.

"I got steaks," Brody said suddenly. "In the fridge. Ribeyes. Thick ones."

Parker laughed, the sound bright and genuine. "Of course you do. It’s your version of romantic planning. Red meat.”

"It’s protein," Brody defended, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. "And I figured... well, I figured if you actually showed up, we’d need the fuel."

"You figured right." He looked at Brody—the sprawled, magnificent ruin of a man lying in the mess they’d made.

"Showers?" Brody asked, though he didn't move.

Parker looked down at himself, then at Brody. They were sticky, smelling of cum and sweat.

"Eventually," Parker said. "But not yet. I’m starving, and I’m not scrubbing this off until I’ve had those steaks."

Brody sat up, the mattress groaning. He looked at Parker’s naked body, seeing the faint red marks where his own hands had gripped too tight in the shoulders. A surge of possessive pride hit him.

"Copy that," Brody rumbled, getting out of the bed and standing up to his full height. He pulled Parker up and out as well, invading his space one last time before the other domestic tasks began. He pressed a hard, brief kiss to Parker’s shoulder. "Kitchen is this way. Try not to judge the lack of... everything."

“I won’t. We’ll survive." Parker said. “You already carry around all the equipment I need.”

Brody shook his head, smiling. "You’re a piece of work."

"I'm your piece of work," Parker corrected. "Now lead the way. Let’s feed the machines so we can continue."

They walked out of the bedroom and into the quiet cabin, two naked predators moving toward the kitchen, leaving their armor behind.

- - -

Improvised Field Craft

It was Saturday evening and the world outside the cabin had ceased to exist a long time ago.

They hadn’t had the patience to cook.

Instead, they had spent the last twenty-four hours in a state of primal needs—a cycle of heavy sleep tangled together, fast fueling, and the kind of deep claiming that could only happen when the time didn’t matter. They had existed entirely skin-to-skin—naked—the boundaries between the two men blurring into a single, high-voltage pleasure.

But eventually, they required more than fast fueling, bodily fluids and shared heat.

“How about the steaks?” Brody rumbled, his voice a gravelly wreck from all the unfiltered, raw sounds of pleasure. He was sprawled across the bed, his massive limbs pinning Parker to the mattress.

Parker laughed, the sound muffled by Brody’s chest. “Yeah… But we need to put clothes on for that… I’ve seen what happens when you sear meat in a cast-iron skillet. I’m not tolerating second-degree grease burns on your essential hardware."

Brody huffed his deep laugh but conceded the point. He rolled off the bed with a slow, heavy grace, rummaging through a discarded pile of clothes on the floor. He pulled on a pair of the black nylon silkies, the fabric snapping against his thighs with a sharp thwack.

Parker sat up, leaning against the headboard as he watched Brody, a smirk playing on his lips.

"The panties are back," Parker noted dryly.

Brody paused, looking back with a mock-serious frown. "Silkies. They’re standard-issue physical training gear.”

“I salute the panties. They are a gift to the mankind.”

Brody huffed. “They’re comfortable. Designed for maximum range of motion.”

“Uh-huh… To you and the rest of your unit, maybe," Parker countered, standing up and invading Brody’s space. He hooked a thumb into the waistband of the shorts, snapping them gently. "To the insiders, like you, they're silkies. To the outsiders—specifically the one who gets to look at your ass in them—they’re the eighth wonder of the world.”

Brody’s eyes darkened with a flash of that boyish, unshielded adoration. He leaned in, giving Parker a hard, brief kiss that tasted of the last twenty-four hours. “Funny.”

“Though, they seriously compromise my ability to function. And my sanity.”

Brody laughed, the deep sound wrapping Parker, making his toes curl.

Parker pulled his jeans on.

The kitchen was soon filled with the business it rarely saw. There was no awkwardness in their shared space; they moved around each other with the practiced ease of two men used to working in tight quarters.

Parker took point on the potatoes and the salad, his hands moving with a rhythmic, analytical precision as he sliced and seasoned. Brody handled the heavy ordnance, standing over the stove with the cast-iron skillet. Despite all the fucking, sucking, and release of the past 24 hours, he had enough of working brain cells left to put on his apron.

Parker watched him. Brody was a master of close combat, a man who could navigate a jungle in total darkness, yet there he was, standing over a stove in a black apron that looked like it had been salvaged from a mess hall. It was stretched tight across those armor-plate pectorals and powerful torso. From behind, the silkies highlighted the sheer, unveiled power of his thighs and the buns of steel.

Oh lord have mercy, Parker thought, grinning.

It was a ridiculous visual but Parker felt a sudden, sharp tug in his chest that had little to do with the view. He realized the intention. The domestic PPE—apron—wasn't just a guard against grease; it was a sign of effort. This colossus, who was built to execute elite levels of destruction, was standing in a quiet kitchen trying his level best to nourish someone. Brody was offering the only version of a ‘nice dinner’ he knew how to give, and to Parker, that felt more valuable than any five-star reservation in the city.

The silence between them wasn't the aggressive, hollow silence Parker had fled. It was a dense, meaningful quiet.

Parker paused, his knife hovering over a cucumber, as the weight of the moment hit him. He wasn't alone. He was in a kitchen that smelled of woodsmoke and searing beef, standing next to a man who filled the room with so much gravity that Parker felt like he had finally found the earth.

He glanced at Brody. The big man was focused on the steaks, his heavy brow lowered, but his expression was peaceful. Brody was thinking the same thing—he didn't have to eat over the sink to avoid the ghosts of his own solitude. He had a partner to share his table with.

Both were looking forward to having dinner. Not entirely a new sensation, but something neither of them had believed they’d encounter again.

"You okay?" Brody asked, not looking up from the skillet, but sensing the shift in Parker’s energy.

"Yeah," Parker said, his voice a bit thicker than he intended. "Just... clearing the old mothballs and letting in fresh air.” He swallowed hard. “Just… the mission has changed.”

“Yeah,” a whisper carrying heavy weight.

Brody handled the task of setting the table with the same grim focus he used to prep a breaching charge. He moved between the cabinets and the solid wooden table, his brow furrowed as he looked at the mismatched collection of ceramic plates and heavy, industrial-looking silverware. He felt a strange, rising pressure in his chest—a mix of pride and a nagging sense of inadequacy.

It was a logistical mess—plates that didn't match, heavy silverware that looked like it belonged in a chow hall. He was offering MRE-level hospitality to a man used to diplomatic banquets, and for a second, he wanted to abort the mission.

He stared at the two place settings like trying to destroy it with his gaze. It was definitely sparse. Practical. It looked like his lunch at work, not a date.

"I'm sorry," Brody muttered, his voice rough with an insecurity he couldn't quite mask. "I don't have... nice things. It’s all just gear. Practical stuff. I didn't think I’d be doing this."

Parker stopped stirring the potatoes and looked over to Brody. He took in the bare wood, the mismatched plates, and the absolute Adonis of a man standing there in nothing but black silkies and a look of genuine worry.

"Brian, look," Parker said, his voice soft. Brody looked up. "I spent over ten years surrounded by 'nice things' that were just wrappers for lies. I’m done with all of it. This? This is honest. It’s perfect."

Brody relaxed slightly, but his eyes scanned the table again. "It needs... something."

"Candles?" Parker suggested with a smirk.

Brody blinked, his face going entirely deadpan. "What are candles?"

Parker huffed, shaking his head. "You’re full of it."

"No, I’m serious," Brody continued, a teasing glint entering his eyes. "Did you have a lot of candlelight dinners in the Navy?"

"Haha, buddy," Parker retorted, points for the hit. "We used chem-lights and flickering monitors. It was very nice and atmospheric."

"Wait," Brody said, his index finger snapping up as an idea hit him. "I have an idea. Stay there."

He vanished into the attached garage, the door creaking on its hinges. Parker heard the sound of metal bins being moved and the distinct clink of gear. A minute later, Brody returned, carrying a battered, brass-and-aluminum Trangia camp stove and a small bottle of spirits.

"Mood lighting," Brody announced, assembling it in the center of the table. He filled the burner with a measured splash of liquid and struck a match.

A pale, beautiful blue-and-gold flame bloomed in the center of the wooden table. It worked just like a lantern; the light flickered through the small air holes and danced on the walls. The scent of burning alcohol—a smell synonymous with high-altitude camps and cold nights in the dirt—drifted through the kitchen. It was industrial, sharp, and, to both of them, perfectly romantic.

"Improvised field craft," Parker whispered, looking at the flickering flame. "You’re a genius, Brian.”

The bigger man felt proud; a simple act, yet it felt so profoundly meaningful.

They sat down, the steaks steaming on their plates, the potatoes gold and crisp. For a moment, neither of them ate. The gravity of the room had shifted again. They weren't in Qatar, and they weren't in the city. They were in the center of their own world.

Parker reached across the table. He didn't offer a delicate touch; he laid his hand flat on the wood, palm up. Brody didn't hesitate. He reached out and locked his fingers through Parker’s, his grip heavy and unyielding—a physical anchor.

They sat there in the silence, holding hands next to a camp stove, feeling the weight of the domestic life they had both spent too much time avoiding.

"I've never done this," Brody admitted, his voice a gravelly whisper. "Sitting at this table.”

Parker looked at Brody, who was suddenly looking at his lap.

“I didn't even know if the chairs were sturdy enough for me.”

Parker swallowed and gripped Brody’s hand harder. That got the beautiful, soulful eyes looking back to his.

“Yeah, I know the feeling," Parker said, still squeezing his hand. "But I think I could get used to the view."

Brody smiled, the boyish one that reached his eyes, and they began to eat, fueled by the meal and the absolute certainty that the mission was on the right track.

- - -

Structural Integrity

Sunday evening brought a cold front through the pines, the kind of sharp drop in temperature that called for fireplace. Parker leaned against the doorframe, watching Brody kneel before the hearth. The big man was loading the fireplace with seasoned oak, his movements deliberate. He was still, or rather again, just in his silkies, his back a map of shifting muscle in the amber light of the growing flames.

"You're going to melt that rug," Parker teased, walking over to the couch.

"It’s wool. It can take it," Brody rumbled. He stood up, the firelight catching the sheen of sweat on his shoulders, and collapsed onto the sofa next to Parker.

The couch was massive—a deep, overbuilt barricade of dark fabric that looked like it could support a tank. Brody sank into it, his shoulders finding enough room to relax.

“This, and the bed, are the only pieces of furniture I own where I don't feel like I’m oversized; it feels sturdy enough,” Brody admitted, staring at the fire. "In the city, in hotels... I always feel like I’m sitting on toothpicks."

Parker looked at the way Brody’s thighs—dense and thick with utility—strained the nylon of his shorts—panties. "I imagine the mundane world isn't built for your specs. I bet finding jeans for those legs is a nightmare."

Brody let out a frustrated huff. "It’s a pain in the ass. Everything that fits the waist stops at the quads. Everything that fits the quads looks like a tent at the waist. I usually just give up and live in tactical gear."

"Well, for the record," Parker said, his voice dropping into that private, gravelly frequency, "The way you fill out a pair of ACU pants? It’s art. That doesn't happen by accident. I recognize the effort when I see it.”

Parker ran his hand over the quads, petting the hairs and skin.

Brody went still, his breathing got heavy. He turned his head, his dark eyes searching Parker’s face. He wasn't used to thinking of his body as something more than a tool. Sure, he felt the drooling gazes of civilians, it was all noise. But coming from his mate this praise was important. Hearing Parker validate the effort—the thousands of hours at the rack—hit him with a surge of heat that had nothing to do with the fireplace.

Parker didn't wait for a response.

He slid off the cushions and knelt between Brody’s spread knees. His beard tickled the sensitive skin of Brody’s inner thigh as he leaned in, inhaling the scent of woodsmoke and the man’s natural musk, the earthy tones.

He began to venerate the work. He kissed and licked the dense muscle, his tongue tracing the lines of his partner’s strength. Brody’s head hit the back of the couch, a long, low growl vibrating through his chest as Parker’s beard scraped against him.

The nylon was at its absolute limit, the heavy tool underneath straining for release.

"These panties are truly a miracle," Parker murmured, his hands gripping the heavy muscle of Brody’s quads and hamstrings, his eyes locked at the bulge.

“Silkie…” the word dissolved into a sharp moan. Parker nibbled the man’s inner thigh and scraped the sensitive skin with his stubble.   

"The way they can contain all this... capacity. It’s a marvel."

"Paul," Brody gasped, his hands lacing into Parker’s hair.

"I've got you," Parker whispered, looking up with a predatory smirk. "But we’re going to test the structural integrity of every surface in this house.”

Parker pushed his nose to Brody’s lap, mouthing the hard manhood through the fabric. He pulled the waistband lower releasing the big guy from the cage and inhaled the sweat. The scent was a mix of fresh from making the firewood and deep from the long day.

He took Brody’s cock in his mouth savoring the taste, looked up under his brows to the man and swirled his tongue around the head. Brody was hardly conscious, looking back at Parker with dilated pupils, mouth open.

Parker took it agonizingly slowly, being deliberate and very thorough. He had all the time in the world to pleasure his man with his mouth.

The raw kinetic activities that followed were a high-energy expansion of their playground. The unbridled deployment of their bodies tested the durability of every surface in sight.

Paul entered Brian right there on the couch, basking in the warmth of the man under him and the fireplace—testing if Brody’s assessment on the heavy-duty utility was correct.

As he pounded hard, the weight of Parker on top of Brody wasn't just physical; it blocked out the rest of the world. Under that mass, Brody could only think about the man currently rearranging his guts and rewriting his nervous system.

Then Brian took Paul against and on top of the heavy wooden dining table, and eventually partially on the woolen rug and cold stone of the hearth.

The two of them proved that the house was built to handle exactly this kind of impact.

- - -

Public Outing

The GMC Sierra hummed as Brody navigated the winding backroads toward town. It was early Saturday morning, and the humid, pine-scented air of the week was giving way to a crisp, clear light.

Parker leaned his head against the headrest, watching the trees blur past and enjoying the calm.

For two men who had spent their lives operating within the rigid constraints of a chain of command, cohabiting a shared space had been disturbingly easy. It could have felt like a tactical challenge but it didn’t, their lives had just slotted together. They had slipped into a rhythm as if they were two pieces of a system finally being assembled into a single platform.

The week had been mostly about shared logistics. It had been the first time their lives together hadn't been dictated by a crisis or the daily rules of military conduct. The big thing had been the reality of the work grind arriving with an unexpected emotional blitz.

Parker had spent the week using the kitchen table as his primary station, tearing through the OSINT research he’d usually do at his ‘Black Site’ or at the ABH offices, diving into public-source intelligence that would feed the playbook. He hadn’t been playing the role of a house-husband—they’d both laughed at that particular mental image over a shared protein shake on Tuesday morning—but he had been efficient as usual.

He’d taken point on the kitchen, batch-cooking a massive mountain of protein and carbs for the whole week on Monday. Brody had demolished it by Wednesday evening. Apparently “it was so good,” or so the man had reasoned. "We're going to need an industrial kitchen meant for a full platoon if you keep this up," Parker had joked, watching Brody scrape the last of the beef and potatoes from a bowl after his workday. All this had pulled Parker’s heartstrings with unexpected force.

The rhythm had been set by Brody’s unit’s clock. Every morning at 0400, the alarm would trigger a synchronized movement in the dark. Parker, whose internal clock was still set to his Navy years, had found himself rolling out of bed alongside Brody.

The physical synchronization of their morning routine had been the easy part; it was the quiet, unscripted rituals that had carried the real weight. The first time it happened—Parker handing Brody a travel mug of black coffee while the sun was still a theory—it had hit them both with a wave of domestic gravity. It wasn't a tactical briefing; it was just a man going to work and his partner holding the line at home.

Parker had spent the days crushing his research in the quiet of the pines, finishing by the time Brody would return, usually between 1700 and 1900. They’d fuel up, trade a few dry jokes about the unit’s drama, and then descend into the high-friction release that had become their private language.

By 2100, the lights would be out; 250 pounds of elite operator curled as the little spoon, grounded by Parker’s unyielding weight.

But Parker was a man built for high-tempo momentum. By Thursday mid-morning, he’d done everything he planned for the week, his research phase was complete. He’d spent his Thursday and Friday getting bored—sharpening every knife in the kitchen, cleaning the kitchen unnecessarily, and exploring the pine forest.

Brody had been the one hit hardest by the shift. The Monday morning departure at 0430 had been a revelation. For years, Brody had just walked out of his house. This time, as he’d grabbed his gear, he’d looked back to see Parker standing at the counter, a travel mug of coffee waiting and a silent, sharp-eyed nod of acknowledgement following him out.

At the unit, that first morning of the week had been a tactical disaster of the best kind. He had driven to the Monolith gripping the travel mug Parker had pressed into his hand like it was evidence. He hadn't left a vacuum behind him; he had left a man who knew how he took his coffee.

The problem: he hadn't been able to wipe the evidence off his face.

He had walked into the team room at 0615 after his morning PT, thinking he was wearing his usual mask of stone-faced lethality. Apparently, he hadn't.

"Jesus, Boss," Mack had said, leaning against his locker and squinting as if blinded. "Turn it down, will you? You’re glowing. The sun is practically shining out of your ass."

Brody had tried to scowl. "Gear check, Mack. Focus."

"I am focused," Mack had drawled, looking around at the rest of the team who were snickering into their kits. "I’m focused on the fact that you reek of a 'satisfying weekend.' And you’ve got this... annoyingly calm 'den energy’ going on. It freaks us out. You’re supposed to be scary."

Brody had grunted, burying his head in his locker behind the small door to hide the heat rising in his neck. He had been horrified; he was supposed to be the ‘The Standard,’ not a man radiating domestic contentment. He had realized then that he needed to retrain his mask; his private joys had been leaking through the current armor plates.

Coming back that evening at 1800 had made everything even worse—or better. The bruises his dignity had taken during the day had healed the second he pulled the Sierra back into his own driveway that evening. The cabin lights had been on. The chimney had been smoking. The air had smelled of food and Parker. The silence of his life had been filled by their own private signal, the hum of shared existence, and finally after such a long time, Brody hadn't just walked into a house; he had come home to a life.

"I was thinking… I probably should hit D.C. on Monday," Parker said, his voice hesitant over the rumble of the all-terrain tires. “I need the right networks... and do some meetings. I should also probably fly back to my stuff… check on my place. Make sure the city hasn't declared it a historical ruin.”

Parker looked at his guy behind the wheel, seeing the ‘Wolf’ start to pace internally. It hit him then that Brody might already be hooked on the integration. To Brody, being useful at the house meant having a mate to provide for, to come home to. The domesticity wasn't a trap for him; it was the first time he’d felt human in years.

Brody’s grip on the steering wheel tightened, his knuckles turning a shade whiter. The peaceful, content ‘den’ energy he’d been radiating evaporated.

"How long?" Brody asked. It wasn't a casual question; it was a demand for a timeline.

"Just a few days? You tell me, Brian," Parker said.

“So you're going back to that… what did you call it? At least it wasn’t your home base,” Brody muttered, his voice a rough rumble of disapproval. "To the delivery food."

"I have to… I can't live out of a go-bag indefinitely."

Brody was silent for a mile, his mind clearly mapping out the implications. "Don't go back for good. Go do your work, but then... take the essentials. Bring what you need."

Parker felt a sharp, warm surge in his chest. It was his ‘Stubborn Mule’ version of a romantic invitation. "You want me to decommission the Black Site?"

"I want you here," Brody admitted, looking straight ahead at the road. "I’m not doing the distance thing again. It makes me jumpy.”

Parker smirked, reaching over to grip the back of Brody’s massive neck, squeezing the tension out of the muscle. "Copy that. I’ll bring what I need. And some time later we can make an extraction mission. But first..." he gestured to the approaching town limits. "We need to hit the market."

Brody’s mood shifted instantly, the sulk replaced by the focus of a new task at hand.

They arrived at the town square just as the sun began to burn through the morning mist. Being early risers wasn't a choice; it was a biological setting they couldn't override. They had beaten the Saturday crowds, securing a spot for the truck near the edge of the market before the minivan brigade arrived.

They moved through the rows of tents with a rhythmic, unhurried precision. They didn’t hold hands, and they didn’t offer any overt displays of affection—they weren't built for the performance of it or advertising themselves. Instead, they shared a functional closeness. They stood at close distance, shoulders occasionally brushing as they navigated the narrow gaps between stalls. They were two sturdy, broad-shouldered men in flannels and denim, looking like a security detail for a lumberjack convention.

But despite their lack of advertising, they radiated a high-voltage energy that pulled attention like a magnet; it was in their easy gait, relaxed posture, and obvious happiness on their faces. 

Parker, approaching life with his usual sharp ‘naval eagle’ gaze, was the easy target that invited curiosity. He had a way of looking at people that made them feel seen, a trait that had made him the golden boy of diplomatic spin.

At a stall overflowing with produce, a woman in a sun hat who clearly couldn’t read the room was leaning over the crates, flirting with Parker with a level of enthusiasm that was bordering on an ambush. Parker turned her down with a polite, practiced smirk, but her co-worker—a younger man with a confident grin—decided to press the advantage.

"If the lady isn't your speed, I’m free for a drink after this," the guy said, leaning against a stack of apple crates. Apparently everyone at this stall was hungry.

Parker didn't look annoyed. He didn't even stop moving. He just jerked a thumb backward toward the 250-pound mountain of muscle standing five feet behind him, currently inspecting a crate of peaches.

“The spot is already taken, buddy," Parker said dryly.

The vendor’s gaze shifted to Brody. He took in the scale of the man, the shoulders, and the heavy, silent intensity of the stare Brody leveled at him over a peach. The final deterrent worked. The vendor backed down instantly, returning to his apples with a sudden interest in inventory.

They kept moving, each carrying heavy bags. Brody stopped at a stall that didn't sell food or gear. It was filled with rough-hewn, handmade wooden bowls.

Parker watched him, curious. He expected Brody to walk past anything that wasn't a protein source, but the big man was tracing the grain of a heavy oak bowl with a calloused thumb. He wasn't looking for decor; he was admiring the quality of the piece. It was solid, honest work. It looked like it belonged in the cabin.

"You like it?" Parker asked softly.

"It’s well-made,” Brody rumbled, handing the artisan the cash and sliding the bowl into his bag. "Reminds me of the table.”

That impulse purchase launched the big guy into a small shopping spree.

He stopped at an antique stall that specialized in old instruments and hand tools. He reached out and picked up a heavy analog barometer and hygrometer. He turned it over in his hand, checking the weight and the clarity of the glass.

"Predictive care for the hardware," Brody rumbled, handing the seller a wad of cash. "If I can see the pressure drop coming, I can stay ahead of the knees. Yours too."

Parker smiled, leaning in to look at the polished brass and snorted. "Look at us. A couple of old geezers checking the weather to see how much our joints are going to scream."

"Speak for yourself," Brody said, giving Parker a slow, devastating wink. "I’m in my prime. I just happen to have a lot of miles on the chassis."

He tucked the barometer into his bag and stopped at a honey stall, but he wasn't looking at the jars. He picked up a solid, unrefined block of local beeswax, bringing it to his nose. It smelled like the cabin.

"Upkeep," Brody explained to Parker’s raised eyebrow. "Waterproofing the boots. Treating the tool handles. Lubricating the wooden drawer slides. It’s versatile stuff."

Parker watched him slide the wax into the bag, feeling that sharp tug in his chest again. Brody didn't buy ‘things’; he bought utility. Every item in that bag was a protective investment.

They stopped at a coffee cart near the fountain, leaning against a stone wall as they drank their black joe in a companionable silence. A nice-looking lady in her seventies stopped in front of them.

"I just had to say," she began, her eyes twinkling as she looked between them. "You two are just a wonderful unit. My husband and I used to move just like that—never a step out of sync. It’s lovely to see.”

"Thank you, ma'am," Parker said, his ‘Officer’ manners kicking in automatically.

As she walked away, they overheard her murmuring to a friend, "Look at them. Just the cutest couple in the state.”

Brody froze, his coffee halfway to his mouth. His heavy brow lowered as he watched her vanish into the crowd. "Cute?" he muttered, his voice a low, gravelly groan of pure mortification. “Did she just call us cute?”

Parker let out a rich, genuine laugh. He leaned in, bumping his shoulder against Brody’s massive arm. “Oh, you gotta face it, Brian. You’re a total cinnamon bun. It’s the end of your legend.”

Brody grunted, a low vibration in his chest.

Then he looked at Parker with a crooked, devastating smirk. "I know," he rumbled, his voice dropping into that gravelly register. "I'm very cute when I want to be. It’s a tactical advantage.” A small, boyish smile was fighting its way back on that face.

"Shut up," Parker laughed, feeling his heart do that flip again.

"She wasn't wrong, though," Parker teased, his eyes bright with mischief. "The way we move? We’re a tactical unit but a covert-ops disaster, buddy. We can't go undercover for shit."

Brody looked at him, the humor fading into a dark, settled warmth. He reached out, his hand hovering for a second before he simply squeezed Parker’s forearm—a quick, heavy anchor.

"Let them see it," Brody rumbled. "I’m done being a ghost."

Parker nodded, feeling the weight of the statement. He realized then that they were no longer two soldiers hiding in a container. They were two men standing in the light, and they didn’t need to care who was tracking their coordinates.

"Come on, big guy," Parker said, gesturing toward the street. "Let's go find some pasta. I have groceries to face.”

The store was the final objective.

Brody grabbed a shopping cart with the authority of a man commandeering a light armored vehicle. He checked the wheels—a quick shove to test the alignment—and nodded. "Rolling stock is good. Let’s move."

He drove the cart with aggressive precision, banking hard around an end-cap of soda displays. Parker fell into step beside him, observing the terrain.

For Brody, shopping had been a grim affair: bulk chicken breasts, rice, frozen vegetables, and eggs. Fuel for the engine. But today, the cart was filling up with the makings of actual meals.

For Parker, shopping had been non-existent.

They stopped in the coffee aisle, staring at the wall of options. This was the first negotiation of the deployment.

Brody reached for a massive, industrial-sized canister of pre-ground dark roast. "Volume," he stated, weighing it in his hand like a brick of C4. "We’re doing 0400 wake-ups, we need maximum caffeine delivery."

Parker reached past him, grabbing two bags of espresso roast. "Negative. Life is too short for sad bean water. Coffee should taste good, not a forward operating base."

Brody looked at the canister, then at the fancy bags in Parker’s hand. He tossed the canister into the cart. "Fine. But we’re getting the mud, too. For emergencies."

Parker dropped the espresso in next to the canister.

They moved to the dairy and then to the baking aisle. Parker started grabbing butter, whole milk, and a bag of flour.

"I thought we were doing lasagna," Brody said, leaning on the cart handle, watching Parker stack the items. "Don't we need the white jar stuff?"

"That’s offensive," Parker muttered, checking the expiration date on the milk. "We’re making bechamel from scratch. Flour, butter, milk, nutmeg. It’s about the process, big guy. You’ll enjoy it."

Brody watched him, a slow grin spreading across his face. He liked this—Parker taking command of the logistics, treating a sauce recipe like a precise process formula. It made the domestic act feel technical, skilled. “Oscar Kilo. We’ll do your chemistry class."

They rounded the corner toward Aisle 4.

Parker saw it first. The signage above the aisle read: PASTA / SAUCES.

Down the long corridor, shelves were stacked floor-to-ceiling with red jars and brown & blue boxes. It was the exact visual that had paralyzed him two years ago—the ‘Red on Red’ wall of infinite, meaningless choice. The old noise started to creep back in, a static hiss in his ears. His step faltered, just for a fraction of a second.

Parker tried not to freeze. He didn’t want to hyperventilate.

Brody missed nothing. He felt the shift in Parker—the sudden drop in voltage.

He didn't ask "Are you okay?" He didn't offer pity. He reacted to a threat.

Brody violently yanked the shopping cart to the left, crashing it into a defensive angle behind a massive display of potato chips. He grabbed the back of Parker’s flannel shirt and hauled him down into cover.

"Contact front!" Brody hissed, his voice dropping into a lethal, urgent whisper. "It’s the pasta aisle! Take cover!” He used tactical hand signals to emphasize his point. 

Parker blinked, his brain stuttering. He looked at Brody. The massive man was hiding behind the chips, eyes scanning the aisle with stone-cold seriousness, treating the rows of marinara like a dug-in enemy platoon.

"What..." Parker started, the panic in his chest dissolving into confusion.

"Red Force has dug in," Brody reported, peeking over the Cheetos. "They have the high ground on shelves. Do I need to lay down suppressing fire?"

Parker stared at him. Brody—this massive, lethal man shifting to operator in a snap in the middle of a grocery store, playing along with a memory that used to cripple him.

He realized what Brody was doing. He had sensed the freeze, identified the target, and engaged it with the only language that made sense to them. He was protecting Parker from the memories by turning them into a mission.

A laugh bubbled up in Parker’s chest—light, easy, and completely free of the old weight. He dropped into a tactical breach stance beside Brody, falling into the formation.

"Negative on suppressing fire," Parker whispered, fighting a grin. "The target is... lasagna sheets. And Rigatoni. But the enemy has deployed forty different shapes to confuse us."

"Poor concealment choice. Flashbangs out," Brody muttered, pantomiming pulling a pin and tossing it down the aisle. "Boom. Distraction deployed. Move, move, move."

Parker launched himself from behind the chips, Brody right on his six.

They moved like a breach stack. They caught the wide-eyed stare of a woman in the aisle. She had frozen, looking ready to bolt. Their battle of the pasta aisle was clearly a bit too much for the local population.

Parker and Brody exchanged a quick, sheepish glance, the realization of their ‘Lumberjack Security’ presence hitting them at once. They broke into a low, private laugh as they reached the lasagna sheets, the tension of their attack dissolving into the absurdity of being seen.

Parker grabbed a couple of boxes of lasagna sheets and a few bags of rigatoni without hesitation, his partner at his six. He turned to Brody, holding the boxes up like trophies. "Target acquired," Parker announced. "Hostiles neutralized.”

Brody looked immensely pleased with himself. "Good work. All clear.”

Parker put the pasta into the cart and turned around to face his old nemesis again. He marched right at the red sauces, the old paralysis replaced by the joy of being a dork with someone, and rapidly picked five jars and retreated to the cart. “We take some POWs with us.” He grinned at his amused man. “Bechamel must be scratch-made, the tomato sauce can be store-bought, efficiency matters.”

They walked toward the checkout, the cart rattling with the weight of their combined appetites—the fancy coffee and the mud, the flour and the meat.

Parker looked at one of the tomato sauces in his hand. It wasn't a symbol of loneliness anymore. It was just dinner. He had someone to make it for.

Two years ago, this aisle had been a paralyzing wall of noise. Today, with a 250-pound siege weapon guarding his flank and treating rigatoni like a hostile threat, it was just... fun.

"You know," Parker said, tossing the jar into the cart as they reached the registers. "I think we’re going to be okay."

Brody looked at him, his dark eyes soft. "Yeah. We’re good."

- - -

Ghost Signal

The silence in the cabin wasn't the foundational kind they had shared for the previous ten days. It was the old kind—aggressive, hollow, and way too loud.

For years, Brody had honed and shaped the silence into a tactical asset—a sign that the perimeter was secure. Now, without the counter-rhythm of Parker’s breathing or the tapping of fingers on the counter, the silence felt less like safety and more like a vacuum waiting to suffocate him.

Brody stood in the center of the kitchen. It was 1930 on a Wednesday. Parker had been gone for fifty-six hours, currently at his place after being embedded in a series of meetings in D.C. He’d exited the swamp as fast as possible and flown to the brownstone to get some of his stuff.

For years, Brody had been a master of the quiet. He had lived in the gaps between missions, treating his home like a transition point, a place to maintain his gear and his body until the next call. He had never minded the empty rooms.

Now, the absence felt like a threat.

He looked at the kitchen table. The Trangia burner was gone, packed back into its bin, but the heavy oak bowl he’d bought at the market sat in the center. It looked lonely. He walked to the fridge and opened it. On the middle shelf sat a large glass container of the lasagna Parker had prepped on Sunday.

“Eat properly, Brian. Don’t revert just because I’m not there to watch you.”

Brody could almost hear the dry, no-nonsense rhythm of Parker’s voice. He pulled the container out, but he didn't feel like a ‘harvester’ tonight. He felt like a ghost again. He shoveled a cold piece of lasagna into his mouth, standing over the sink, but the victory of the rich taste was dampened by the lack of an audience.

The wrong kind of ‘current’ in his skin, the low-level buzzing that Parker always managed to ground, was back at full voltage. He felt jumpy. He felt... untethered.

He paced the living room, his steps sounding too loud on the wooden floorboards. He stopped near the dining table. The chair where Parker had spent the week crushing his research was empty, pushed in with characteristic Navy precision. Draped over the back was the red flannel shirt Parker had worn at The Nail and to the market on Saturday.

Brody picked it up, the fabric feeling deceptively light compared to the man who usually filled it. He brought the collar to his nose and inhaled deep, closing his eyes. It was all there: the faint, sharp bite of the espresso beans, the ‘standards’ of the fabric softener they’d joked about, and the deep, grounding musk of Paul himself. He was holding the shirt like a scented safety blanket.

The ‘current’ in Brody’s skin—the low-level buzzing that Parker always managed to discharge, stilled. He realized then that he wasn't just missing a partner; he was missing his orientation.

He knew that the high pace of his work wasn't enough to satisfy him. He needed the scent of his home.

He pulled out his phone. He wanted to call, to hear that smooth, analytical baritone, but he hesitated. He didn't want to be the clingy one. He didn't want to admit that the 250-pound ‘Standard’ of Alpha Squadron was currently vibrating like a lost kid because his Navy guy was hundreds of miles away.

He settled for a text. Minimalist. Tactical.

Brody: It’s quiet. Cabin feels too big.

The reply came back two minutes later.

Parker: Yeah. The brownstone feels like a tomb. I’m currently staring at a wall and missing a certain 250lb heating element. Did you eat the lasagna?

Brody felt his chest loosen, the pressure drop almost instantaneous. The signal was live.

Brody: Eating it now. Over the sink like a savage.

Parker: Of course you are. I’ll be back in less than 72 hours, Brian. Maintain the watch. I’m bringing the moka pot.

Brody: Copy that. I’ve got the watch. Just... hurry back. I’m under heavy fire, losing my ground here.

Brody tossed the phone onto the counter and actually sat down at the table to finish the meal. He still felt the distance, but the ‘jumpiness’ had receded. He looked at the wooden bowl and the empty chair across from him.

He was a Wolf who had finally been domesticated by the only man strong enough to lead alongside him, and as he sat in the quiet of his den, he realized he wouldn't have it any other way.

- - -

High-Voltage

The airport terminal was a mix of too-bright LED lights and the sterile, recycled scent of jet fuel and industrial cleaning supplies. It was the kind of high-traffic environment where Parker usually excelled at being a ghost, his ‘Officer’ mask tightened for the public terrain, but this evening, his focus was fractured.

Brody was leaning against a concrete pillar near the exit, his arms crossed over a black hoodie, looking like a storm waiting to break. He hadn't just waited in the cell phone lot; he’d rushed inside to set up his observation post.

Brody watched his guy emerge from the secure zone for exactly forty-eight seconds before their focus locked. From his position, Brody had the tactical advantage of overwatch. He saw the ‘Eagle’ before the man saw him. Parker looked every bit the high-level officer—spine straight, his largest duffel heavy on his shoulder and his guitar case gripped in his right hand. But it was his eyes that stopped Brody’s breath. They weren't scanning for exits or threats; they were sharp, predatory, and restlessly hunting. Parker’s gaze was moving through the crowd with a singular, hungry intent, searching for one specific coordinate.

Brody felt a surge of possessive heat hit his chest. He remembered his own silent wish—to be the only thing that man was looking. Watching it happen in real-time was a different kind of payload.

Parker had argued vehemently for a taxi. He’d cited the two-hour round trip and the fact that his flight landed late, trying to spare Brody the logistical ‘inefficiency.’ Brody had shut the argument down with a low, dangerous rumble over the phone that left no room for negotiation. He wasn't happy with a civilian stranger to extract his man; he needed to be the one to take care of that.

Then, Parker’s eyes hit the face next to the pillar.

The ‘mask’ didn’t just slip; it incinerated. Parker didn't care that he was a grown man or a former high-ranking officer. He didn't care about the businessmen or the families milling around them. He walked straight into Brody’s space, dropping the duffel and the guitar case maybe a bit too roughly. He heard the case thud against the floor, but he didn’t look back; his world had just shrunk to the black hoodie and the man inside it.

Brody didn't hesitate. He reached out, his massive hands grabbing Parker’s face and hair, pulling him in. Their mouths collided in a kiss that was less of a greeting and more of a desperate extraction. It was raw, needy, and entirely too much for a public space. It wasn’t family friendly by any stretch. Parker felt himself sink into the heat, the familiar scent of Brody—pine, earth, and unrefined truth—drowning out the sterile airport air.

"You're compromised," Brody rumbled against his lips, his voice a low, dangerous vibration.

"I really don't care," Parker breathed, his fingers digging into the fabric of Brody’s hoodie. “And I missed you too, buddy. Get me out of here. Now."

The ride home in the Sierra was an agonizing exercise in restraint. The interior of the truck felt like a pressurized container, the frequency between them ramped up until the air felt thick with static. The cab of the truck was filled with testosterone and the sweaty musk of raw sexual need. Brody drove with one hand, his other clamped onto Parker’s thigh, his thumb digging into the denim with a rhythmic, possessive pressure.

They were about halfway from the cabin when the voltage reached the red line.

"I'm not going to make it,” Parker rasped, his head falling back against the headrest, his eyes closed. "Pull over."

Brody didn't ask for clarification. He yanked the wheel, the all-terrain tires screaming as he swung the truck onto a narrow, unpaved timber road that cut deep into the darkening pines. He killed the lights and the engine, leaving them in the sudden, ringing silence of the woods.

They scrambled for the back seat first—a frantic, clumsy tangle of limbs and zippers. Both men were craving skin contact, release and the taste of their mate. Brody licked every inch of Parker’s exposed frame needing to have his fix of the essence of his home.

But the crew cab, as spacious as it was, couldn't contain them. Between Brody’s 250-pound mass and Parker’s two-ten of rigid muscle, the space was a tactical bottleneck.

"Out," Brody growled, shoving the door open.

He hauled Parker into the cool evening air. Parker leaned back against the rear seat, his breathing ragged, his shirt and jeans already discarded.

Brody dived into Parker’s hairy crack, tasting the strong manly tang of the long day. The sweat on the hidden, private crevices of Parker’s body was the second best thing, the first aid, he needed right now. His mate’s tight hole, big low-hanging sack and the clear juice on the tip of his meat were the closest thing to the creamy thick essence of the man.

Parker moaned, as his beast of a man ate him out feverishly, cleaning the thick layer of moisture from his day. His cock throbbed almost painfully in Brody’s fist, leaking pre-cum that dripped to the ground, while Brody's grip tightened as if marking territory with his touch and tongue.

Brody's tongue plunged deep into Parker's hole, lapping at the salty masculine tang of sweat and travel grime, his rough beard scraping the sensitive skin and drawing out guttural low whimpers that echoed off the pines.

He expected Brody to take him there, pinned against the truck, but the big man stopped and spun him around. Parker's knees buckled slightly, his hole twitching from the sudden emptiness, slick with Brody's spit that dripped down his crack, cooling in the night air. The beast looked at Parker—at the sharp lines of his torso, the saliva-slick skin, and the raw, unpolished need in his eyes.

"I need to see you," Brody husked. He leaned in, his forehead against Parker’s, his breath hot. "I need to see your pretty face, Paul. Every inch of it.”

Parker's breathing hitched.

He didn't say handsome. The word pretty coming from a man like Brody—a man who spoke in ballistics and breaches—hit Parker harder than a physical blow. It was the ultimate honesty of his feelings.

Parker's lips parted on a shaky exhale, his chest heaving, nipples hard under the chill as Brody's callused hands roamed up his sides, thumbs circling the peaks of his defined chest with force.

Brody hoisted him up with a surge of raw strength, depositing him onto the flatbed of the truck. The cold hard plastic of the AT4X bed was a sharp contrast to the furnace of Brody’s skin as he climbed in after him. They were two steaming solid bodies running at redline in the cold dark, creating their own micro-climate of sweat and friction. If there were some other living beings in the darkness of the woods they wouldn’t be there for long—soon their joined roars would make sure of it.

Brody slicked his fingers and pushed one into Parker’s already wet hole. The breach of the big and thick finger was good but nowhere near enough. Parker gasped and growled when his man found his spot and assaulted it repeatedly. “Get. Your. Cock. In. Me.” Parker rasped.

Both of them knew it was going to burn, but neither of them cared. The hungry wolf spat a heavy glob of spit on his leaking erection and pushed slowly in. The wide head breached Parker, both of them howled in pleasure. “God you’re tight and warm around me. Better than any pussy or ass I've ever had,” Brody panted heavily while letting his man relax around him.

Then he pushed his meat into his partner slowly, feeling the tight warm walls caress his manhood.

Parker looked up to the wide shoulders, boulder like delts, heaving massive chest, and thick neck. Then to the need filled eyes of his lover. The beast was concentrating hard to restrain himself—to be gentle. Despite the burn, the sensation of getting filled by his man, being connected physically in the most primal way, and giving his hole to the mutual pleasures was overriding everything else. The thickness of the operator filling his hole, the big head brushing past his prostate.

Parker held the gaze, his hands around the bulging biceps, and rasped, “Go hard, I need to feel it.”

The sex was rough, unrefined, and fueled by five days of starvation. It was a collision of two stubborn warriors claiming their ground on the corrugated steel, surrounded by the silence of the pines. Every thrust was a statement, every groan a confession.

Brody's thick cock stretched Parker's rim wide on each slam, the wet squelch of spit filling the air, his balls drawing tight as prostate jolts shot fire through his core. Brody was dripping sweat onto Parker’s heaving torso while hammering his spasming entrance with relentless pistons, balls slapping against ass cheeks in a rhythmic smack.

Parker's pulse hammered in his veins, his ass clenching with need, the scent of his own arousal mixing with Brody's as beads of sweat trickled down his torso. He wasn’t in this world anymore, all he knew was the unbending force and capacity of his man. 

Parker came first with a low silent yell like a heavy breath, spilling all over himself hands free, the first time he’d ever achieved such a height. Brody gave everything he had in his massive body, fucking on relentless pace and holding Parker down through the orgasm. Brian would have been mesmerized by the volume of his mate’s release but his mind was boiled down to the most primal level. The sight of Paul covering himself with thick hot cum, convulsing under and around him was too much for his animal senses. Mine, mine—a chant of belonging—was the only thing in his head when he growled his release and filled Paul with his hot juice.

Parker felt the volume through his aftershocks. His guy was a true stud, pumping his seed until it leaked out. 

In the quiet aftershocks, Brian wiped Paul clean, enjoying the taste of his partner’s essence, savoring the cream on his tongue. His satisfied manhood still locked inside that perfect tight heat.

Brian knew he was finally using his strength not to destroy, but to hold—though Parker’s stretched hole would likely disagree. Paul knew he had found the one man who could handle his full sharpness without breaking.

As they lay tangled in the bed of the truck under the vast, honest canopy of stars, the silence was that very specific kind—peaceful, calm but heavy. It wasn't anything like the tactical silence of the unit or the hollow silence of the city.

It was thick with the big one. The four-letter word that neither of them had the courage to say out loud, yet it was written in the way Brody refused to let go of Parker’s hand, and the way Parker turned his face into Brody’s neck to breathe in the post-orgasm aroma.

They didn't dare to say it, but basked privately in the new signal.

- - -

Spooning Issues

The bathroom was a haze of lingering steam and the sharp, clean scent of mint. They moved around each other with the practiced coordination of two men used to narrow corridors and shared utility. It wasn't about speed or space; it was about the shared mirror.

Parker finished first, spitting into the sink and wiping his face with a towel. He leaned against the doorframe, watching Brody. Even in the mundane act of brushing his teeth, the man was a physical force—shoulders filling the space, jaw working with a concentrated intensity. To Parker his guy managed to make even the simplest daily act cute, it was a marvel.

“Be-eeed," Parker stated, drawing out the vowel with a grin.

Brody wiped his face, looking at Parker through the mirror with a slow, knowing smirk. “Impatient."

"Highly," Parker countered, not moving from the door.

They hit the mattress. Parker lay on his side, his back toward the room and his chest facing the center of the bed, leaving the vast acreage of the mattress open for the wolf. He waited for the familiar routine—for Brody to slot into the space in front of him and let the grounding begin.

Tonight, the routine broke.

Brody didn't slot in. He hovered, his heat a heavy pressure at Parker’s back.

Then, he maneuvered his massive frame, trying to wrap his arms around Parker from the outside, attempting to pull Parker into his chest while balancing on the tiny space left behind Parker.

"What are you doing?" Parker asked, his voice partly muffled by the pillow.

“Spooning you," Brody rumbled, stating the obvious, his voice thick with a stubborn, quiet devotion.

“You are in my foxhole, buddy,” Parker pointed out.

"I'm always the one taking the peace. I feel like a leech. Tonight, I’m providing the big spoon services. You get the weight."

Parker didn't budge. He stayed anchored to his spot, his mule-headed nature rising to the surface. “No-ope. You’re the one usually vibrating, Brian. And you sleep light, you’ll just be awake scanning the treeline. Besides you always end up on top of me anyways.”

"I can be still," Brody insisted, his forehead pressing hard against Parker’s shoulder. "I want to hold you. I want to be the one who takes the watch for once. Let me."

Parker sighed, but he could feel the sincerity in the request. Brody wasn't trying to take control; he was trying to offer a gift, a service. He wanted to feel like he was providing.

"One night," Parker grumbled, finally yielding and shifting his body towards the center to give Brody space behind him. "But one night only."

"Copy that," Brody said, his voice lifting with a sudden, boyish victory.

Parker moved to the center making space behind him, and felt the ‘Oh wow’ impact of the reversal. Brody was a formidable big spoon. His massive biceps felt like iron bands as he draped an arm over Parker’s body, and his hairy chest was a soft fur against Parker’s back. The sheer mass of the man made Parker feel small in bed—a sensation he hadn't experienced in years.

Parker felt the heavy, insistent thrum of Brody’s wood pressing against his glutes—a tactical ‘poke’ that was impossible to ignore.

"You're over-equipped for this mission, buddy," Parker teased, reaching back to squeeze Brody’s thigh. "You’re poking with your tool."

Brody let out his deep, rich laugh—the kind that vibrated through Parker’s entire body and made his chest ache with a sudden, overwhelming wave of affection. “Well, that’s a first; you certainly haven’t complained about that before," Brody whispered, his voice dropping into a gravelly, contented rasp.

He buried his nose in the back of Parker’s neck and hair, inhaling deep, and let out a small whimper of total contentment. It was the sound of a man who had been given permission to stop hunting.

Their legs slotted together, Brody’s heavy thighs pinning Parker’s to the sheets. Parker found he liked it—very much. The weight was different when it came from behind; it felt like having a mountain to shield his back.

Within minutes, the room was wrapped in a peaceful snuffle. A light, barely audible snore started to vibrate against Parker’s spine—the rhythmic drone of a man who felt safe.

Parker smiled in the dark, closing his eyes as he drifted off. He knew exactly how this would end. Sure enough, by 0400, the ‘Big Spoon’ would subconsciously migrate in his sleep. Parker would wake up to find the 250-pound puppy-man had rolled on top of him and was holding Parker like a sweating, very built and thick octopus, claiming every inch of the bed.

- - -

Concert for one

Brody arrived back at the cabin an hour earlier than his work usually allowed. The unit had cut the range day short due to a localized storm, and he’d driven home with a low-level restlessness humming in his skin.

He entered through the garage, moving through the dim cabin with the habitual, heavy silence of a predator returning to his den. He stopped at the dark kitchen doorstep, the scent of the house hitting him instantly: seasoned wood, the lingering ghost of the morning’s espresso, the sharp, clean scent of the fabric softener Parker insisted on, and his man.

Then, the sound registered.

It was a low, rhythmic thrumming of a guitar coming from the living room, paired with a voice Brody had heard in this register only very briefly before. It wasn't the analytical ‘Conductor’ or the playful partner; it was a deep, Elvis-style baritone, rich with a private, gravelly intimacy.

Parker was in the middle of a CCR cover, the notes slow and soulful.

Brody stayed rooted to the spot, hidden behind the kitchen wall. He didn't want to breach the perimeter. He wanted to be a ghost, a witness to the version of Paul that had been locked in a guitar case for years.

His eyes drifted in the dim light, he looked at the counter. The moka pot sat on the stove, and their two mismatched coffee cups were drying in the rack, side-by-side. The visual hit him with a wave of domestic gravity that made his knees feel weak. This wasn't a maintenance facility anymore. It was a home.

The music shifted. Parker let the final chord of the first song fade into the crackle of the fireplace before starting a new rhythm.

"Hold on to love, that is what I do... Now that I've found you. And from above, everything's stinking... They're not around you."

Brody’s breathing hitched. The words were simple, but in that low, vibrating tone, they felt as much like an assessment of Brody’s own heart as they were a confession.

"And in the night, I could be helpless... I could be lonely sleepin' without you. And in the day, everything's complex... There's nothing simple when I'm not around you."

Brody felt his composure start to crack. He needed to see him. He moved with agonizing slowness, taking a peek around the corner. Parker was on the couch, his back to the kitchen, silhouetted by the orange glow of the fire enveloped in the dark. He was playing from memory, his head tilted down, his eyes likely closed.

"But I miss you when you're gone... That is what I do, bae, baby. And it's going to carry on... That is what I knew, bae, baby."

Brody moved to lean against the kitchen island, his massive frame feeling too large for the room. He felt ‘violently intrigued’ again, but the intrigue had turned into something overwhelming—a pressure in his chest.

"Hold on to my hands, I feel I'm sinking... Sinkin' without you."

Brody was rooted in place.

“But I miss you when you're gone... That is what I do, bae, baby. And it's going to carry on…"

Brody was capable of staying silent by focusing on his breathing, deep slow inhale and exhale.

Parker transitioned again, the new tempo slowing even further. He was now plucking the guitar fingerstyle for the new song.

"Go to sleep, may your sweet dreams come true. Just lay back in my arms for one more night. I've this crazy old notion that calls me sometimes... Saying this one's the love of our lives."

Brody reached his breaking point. The ‘Operator’ was gone; there was only Brian, a man who had spent forty years being ‘too much’ for the world, finally being told he was exactly enough.

"When you wake up the world may have changed... But trust in me, I'll never falter or fail. Just the smile in your eyes, it can light up the night... And your laughter's like wind in my sails."

The raw, unpolished devotion in Parker’s voice was too much weight for Brody to carry while standing. He slid down, his back against the island, crouching on the floor as his legs gave out. He buried his face in his hands, biting his lip to keep the silence secure.

"Lean on me, let our hearts beat in time... Feel strength from the hands that have held you so long. Who cares where we go on this rutted old road... In a world that may say that we're wrong."

Brody’s eyes went misty. He knew then, with a bone-deep certainty, what the big feeling burning in his chest was. It made him feel tiny and monumental at the same time. It was the frequency he had been hunting his whole life.

"‘Cuz I know a love that will never grow old... And I know a love that will never grow old."

Parker struck a final, haunting series of chords.

He took a small pause, a beat to collect himself. And then began again with a slightly higher tempo.

"We'll do it all... Everything... On our own. We don't need... Anything... Or anyone."

Brody broke silently, his shoulders shaking. Only the voice of his partner strong enough to anchor him.

"I don't quite know... How to say... How I feel. Those three words... Are said too much... They're not enough."

Brody pulled his knees up to his chest, tucking his head down, trying to hide himself from a world that had never offered him this kind of kindness.

"I need your grace... To remind me... To find my own.”

A silent beat. Parker swallowed hard.

“If I lay here... If I just lay here... Would you lie with me and just forget the world? Forget what we're told... Before we get too old…”

A sob tore through Brody’s chest, muffled by his jeans. He fought to be silent, to stay in the shadows, but the integrity of his mask was gone.

"All that I am... All that I ever was... Is here in your perfect eyes, they're all I can see. I don't know where... Confused about how, as well... Just know that these things will never change for us at all.”

Parker’s voice faltered.

“Would you lie with me and just forget the world?”

The last words were more of a direct question than a lyric. The last note vibrated through the floorboards and died. Parker set the guitar down on the cushion next to him, the soft thud of wood on fabric sounding like a period at the end of a long, honest sentence.

The final chord didn't just end; it decayed into the room, hanging in the air. Parker’s fingers lingered on the fretboard, the calluses against the strings the only sound left in a world that had suddenly gone very, very quiet.

For Brody, sitting on the kitchen floor in the dark, the foundations of his world were finally settling.

Parker let out a long breath in the silence. 

A beat.

He stood up and turned.

Brody was slumped against the island in a fetal position on the floor.

The air in the kitchen was still humming, the calm resonance of the last note clinging to the corners of the room like smoke. Parker didn't ask what was wrong. Parker had been playing to and for the shadows.

He saw only his partner.

He had felt his home had returned.

And he was burning with the same intense agony.

Parker walked into the kitchen with a steady, unhurried gait. His eyes were misty, the weight of the lyrics he’d just sung had been catching up to him as well. He stopped at the edge of the island, looking down at the man who was currently the center of his universe.

Brody’s massive frame was tucked small against the wooden cabinetry, his head buried in his hands, his shoulders still hitching with the emotions and the aftershocks of the music. He looked like a fallen god that had finally, mercifully, been decommissioned.

Parker didn't try to haul him up. He simply slid down onto the floor next to him, his back against the island, shoulder-to-shoulder. The coldness of the kitchen tiles was a sharp contrast to the heat radiating from Brody’s body.

Parker smelled the range day—gunpowder and dirt—still on Brody’s skin, contrasting with the home scent of the kitchen and his mate’s own earthy tones: soil, rain, pines. He adored his warrior as much as the man under it all.

Brody didn't pull away. He practically collapsed sideways, burying his face in the crook of Parker’s neck. He inhaled a long, shuddering breath, lacing his fingers through Parker’s and gripping them with a strength that would have been painful if Parker wasn't equally desperate for the contact.

Parker shifted, pulling Brody’s head down into his lap. He petted Brody’s short, coarse hair with a slow, hypnotic rhythm, providing the grounding for the internal storm. He could see the cost of the ‘Standard’ in the way Brody clung to him—the decades of singular focus on execution, the fear of being ‘too much,’ and the lonely silence of the den.

Brody tried to speak, his voice a gravelly croak that died in his throat before it could form a sentence. He looked up at Parker, his eyes dark, bloodshot, and raw with an honesty that was blinding.

“I…" He swallowed, “You… I am… with you, Paul,” Brian tried, but the words failed him. He couldn't bridge the gap.

He was working with a jammed signal. The words were there, heavy and absolute, but his throat had never been calibrated for this kind of admission.

Paul looked down at him, his own breath hitching. He understood it all. He understood that after forty years of silence, the ‘Three Words’ felt like a strategic vulnerability Brian didn't know how to defend. Paul nodded to his man.

"Lima Oscar Victor Echo?" Paul asked, his voice a hushed, gravelly whisper; a baritone that used the only alphabet they both trusted.

Brian went still and nodded once, a slow, solemn surrender.

Paul nodded back, eyes locked to the others. 

"I've been for a while," Paul whispered, leaning down until their foreheads pressed together. "I'm in love with you too, Brian."

The confession didn't feel like a weakness; it felt like a designator—a final coordinate that locked their orbits together.

Brian let out a sound that was half-sob and half-sigh of relief, turning his face into Paul’s palm. He didn't repeat the words, but he didn't have to. The way he leaned his 250-pound weight entirely into Paul’s lap, trusting his mate to hold him up was the only answer that mattered.

They rose up just enough to brush their noses together.

"The active phase... it's not forever," Brian whispered into the silence of the kitchen, finally looking toward a horizon that didn't include the heavy cost. It was still without clarity, shapeless, but they were staring in that direction together.

"I know," Paul said, kissing Brian’s forehead. "And when the noise finally stops, I'll still be standing watch. You’re not going to be obsolete, Brian. Not with me."

They stayed on the floor for a long time, two stubborn mules resting in the same foxhole. “I’m not going anywhere.”

The currents in their skin had completely discharged, replaced by the foundational silence they had discovered in the dark.

When they finally moved, they did so as a single synced unit, heading toward the rack for the quiet, honest sleep of men holding and knowing each other. Men who were finally, truly, home.

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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.

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

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