The 2nd Mission
Part I: Signal Interference
From vulnerability to the friction of a secret deployment, two men discover that silence is the only thing that can jam their frequency.
- - -
The ‘One-Man Armored Column’ had suffered a catastrophic system failure.
It wasn’t a gunshot wound, a high-altitude jump gone wrong, or an enemy ambush. It was a rhinovirus—a common, mundane pathogen that had managed to breach Brody’s elite defenses and reduce the ‘Standard’ of Alpha Squadron to a mountain of shivering, congested misery.
Brody was currently buried under a three-layered cake of wool blankets and a heavy duvet, looking like a discarded fortress. His dark eyes were bloodshot and fever-bright, peering out from above the edge of a blanket with a look of authentic, soul-deep despair.
"This is it," Brody croaked, his voice sounding like a cement mixer full of wet gravel. “I’m done. I can feel the lights going out."
Parker stood in the kitchen, calmly mixing hydration salts into a glass of water. He was wearing his reading glasses and a clean charcoal hoodie, looking entirely too composed for a man witnessing a tragedy.
"It’s a sinus infection and a fever," Parker noted, checking the time on his watch. "You’ve been through Syria, Yemen, and both Iraq and Iran. You have been hit by literal ordnance. You are not done."
"That was different," Brody moaned, a deep, wet sound that vibrated through the mattress as he shifted his weight. "That was... external. This is biological warfare from the inside. My tactical awareness is zero. My pride is gone. I think..." he paused for a dramatic, congested sniffle, "...I think my balls have officially retracted into my abdomen. I’m hollowed out."
“I think you might have dropped and lost them,” Parker said as he walked into the bedroom, leaning against the doorframe with the glass of water. He let his gaze rake over the 250-pound miserable cinnamon bun huddled in the center of the bed. He felt that familiar tug of affection, the one that always bypassed his cynicism.
Brody grunted but continued his whining. “Not funny—they are gone!”
“Sure sounds like it. But is that a fact?" Parker asked, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Because you certainly had them thirty hours ago.”
"I was a man then," Brody whispered, closing his eyes as if the light were an interrogation lamp. "Now I am just... a dying meat sack."
Parker walked to the side of the bed and sat on the edge. The air in the bedroom was a thick cocktail of mentholated vapor and Brody’s heavy, fevered musk—a scent status report that the 'Standard' was currently under internal siege. He placed a cool hand on Brody’s forehead. The heat was real—the fever was definitely there—but the drama was 100% voluntary. The second Parker touched him, the ‘Wolf’ leaned into the contact with a submissive, desperate need, his eyes fluttering shut.
"You're burning up, you giant toddler," Parker said softly, his voice shifting from dry to grounding.
"Leave me," Brody murmured, though his hand reached out from under the blankets to snag the hem of Parker’s hoodie, anchoring him in place. "Save yourself. Tell the boys I went down fighting."
Parker let out a soft huff of a laugh and pressed the water glass into Brody’s damp hand.
"Drink. And take the Tylenol."
Brody sat up just enough to take a sip, looking authentically tragic. He looked down at himself—at the massive chest heaving and the powerful arms that currently felt like lead.
"I feel weak. It’s wrong. I’m not supposed to... whine."
Parker reached down, his fingers brushing the waistband of Brody’s silkies under the covers.
"Well, if you're worried about your manhood, I’ll do a search to ensure they haven’t gone AWOL,” Parker teased with a wink, leaning in close until his beard scraped Brody’s hot ear. “Do you want me to check you still have them hanging in place? Or do I need to conduct a full audit of the hardware to see if everything still works?"
Brody froze, the ‘Man Flu’ momentarily overridden by a surge of heat that had nothing to do with the virus. He looked at Parker, a flash of his usual ‘Beast’ returning to his eyes. He let out a low, gravelly groan that was half-annoyance and half-arousal. Brody’s hand—a scarred, heavy mitten that could crush bone—felt damp and noticeably shaky as it snagged the hem of Parker’s hoodie, anchoring him in place with a desperate, feverish strength.
"You're an asshole," Brody rumbled, though his grip on Parker’s hoodie didn't loosen.
"I'm your asshole," Parker corrected, pushing Brody back down into the pillows. "Now, stay under the wool. I’m putting on a documentary about engineering failures. You can obsess over bridge collapses while I keep watch."
"I like the one about the Tacoma Narrows Bridge," Brody muttered, his voice already starting to drift as the medicine kicked in.
"I know you do," Parker whispered, settling in next to the mountain of heat.
He stayed there, a cool anchor in a fever-warm room, watching the elite ‘Standard' finally succumb to the only enemies he couldn't defeat with a rifle: a common virus and his own need to be held.
By Friday evening, the ‘biological warfare’ had been declared a victory.
The fever had broken a few days prior, and Brody was back to ninety percent capacity. His voice was still a gravelly ruin, and a stray cough occasionally rattled his massive chest, but his ‘Harvester’ appetite had returned with a vengeance. He had spent the evening inhaling a triple portion of the casserole Parker had prepped, and for the first time in a week, his skin didn't feel like an alarm system.
They were propped up against the headboard of the massive bed, the cabin quiet around them. It was their geek hour—a specific window before lights-out where the mutual curiosity took point.
Parker was immersed in a dense book, his reading glasses perched on his nose. He wasn't working—he’d finished his D.C. briefing hours ago—he was simply feeding the machine.
Brody was on his tablet, scrolling through a scientific newsletter he had subscribed to for years with a focused, heavy-browed intensity. He broke the silence with a low, thoughtful, "Huh."
Parker didn't look up from his page. "What’s the find?"
"A study on chemosignals," Brody rumbled, his voice vibrating through the mattress. "Specifically, the neurological impact of smell in high-stress environments."
Parker closed his book, marking his place with a finger, and looked over his glasses. “Go on… In plain English."
"It’s about body odor," Brody explained, geeking out as he scrolled through the article. "Apparently, in high-stakes situations and occupations, like pro-athletics, men find a significant drop in cortisol and an increase in emotional balance when they’re exposed to the natural scent of a trusted male.” He drew a breath after his lecture. “It optimizes the endocrine system.”
He looked at Parker, his expression entirely serious. “They’re calling it a grounding mechanism.” His face lit up with a grin.
“So you’re saying you aren't actually a perv; you’re just plugging yourself into a charger?”
“Look who’s talking. Pot-kettle,” Brody deadpanned.
“Happy to be your charging pod,” Parker countered.
“More like a walking hug pillow, or my badass Care Bear,” Brody grinned.
Parker snorted. “You’re a disaster… And I’m not hairy enough to qualify as a bear.”
“According to this, the science is solid," Brody defended, a boyish smirk fighting its way through his stubble. "I'm not a dork; I'm neurologically optimizing."
Parker shifted, leaning his shoulder against Brody’s. “You’re totally a dork. But you’re a smart one… I guess it makes sense if you look at it from an evolutionary point. It fits the Hunting Pack theory."
"Go on. Bring in the counter-battery fire," Brody teased, putting the tablet down.
"In high-order predators—lions, wolves, certain primates—non-reproductive sexual bonding is an evolutionary requirement. It’s the glue for the pack,” Parker said, his voice taking on that rhythmic, analytical quality he used when he was truly intrigued.
He looked at Brody, his gaze sharp. "It ensures unit coherence during a hunt. If you’re bonded through sex, you’re less likely to abandon your partner in the dirt when things get kinetic.” Parker had his crooked smirk on his face. “The pack traits are literally enforced by the physical connection. It’s in our DNA. We didn't choose it; we were born to operate on it.”
“Huh.”
“Yup, it’s why the majority of people are in fact capable of and benefit from same-sex encounters.”
“Okay, Mr. Darwin. But I’m not exactly looking to ‘encounter’ Mack or Mills that way, no matter how useful it could be,” Brody muttered, mostly to himself.
Parker let out a rich, genuine laugh, the sound warm in the dim room. “Well, lucky me.”
They sat there for a moment, two very lethal geeks who had spent years protecting their curiosity, realizing that their connection wasn't just an anomaly or a romance. It was also a biological imperative.
Brody didn't say anything. He simply reached out, hooked a massive arm around Parker’s chest, and hauled him down into the pillows. He rolled onto his side, claiming his usual ‘big koala’ position, and buried his face in the crook of Parker’s neck.
He inhaled deep, letting the scent do its work.
"Systems balanced," Brody whispered into Parker’s skin, his voice muffled and content.
Parker smiled, lacing his fingers through Brian’s scarred hand.
The weight of Brody’s arm was a familiar pressure—a literal grounding wire that made the quiet of the pines feel absolute.
Brody stayed like that for a long minute, his breath hot against the column of Parker’s throat. The silence wasn’t just a lack of noise; it was the ‘Foundational Silence’ they had built together. But then, the quality of the stillness changed. The frequency clearly shifted from balanced to active.
“You are thinking again,” Parker stated.
Brody pulled back just enough to look Parker in the eye with his dark, focused intensity.
"The glue," Brody said, the word a heavy vibration against Parker’s chest.
Parker looked over, his analytical brain already tracking the shift in Brody’s heart rate. "The glue?"
"The Hunting Pack theory," Brody said, his hand moving from Parker's shoulder to his jaw, his calloused thumb tracing the line of Parker’s bottom lip. "If bonding is what ensures unit coherence—if it's what keeps us from abandoning each other in the dirt—then I think we’re overdue for some maintenance."
Parker smirked, closing his book and setting it on the nightstand. He slid his glasses off, his gaze locking onto Brody. "Is that so? You’re barely forty-eight hours post-shutdown."
"My system is back online," Brody countered, his voice dropping into that rough growl. He shifted, his muscled frame looming over Parker, pinning his man to the pillows with 250 pounds of recovered capacity. "You spent the week holding the watch. You managed the fallout. You grounded me even when I was useless."
Brody leaned in, his forehead pressing against Parker’s, his pupils entirely black. “Let me show you I’m a reliable partner in the hunt. I want to calibrate every single instinct we have.” He pushed his hard erection against Parker’s.
Parker felt a surge of heat that made the fever of the past man flu seem like a minor technical glitch. He reached up, his fingers lacing through the hair at the base of Brody’s neck, pulling the Wolf down into his space.
“Go for it," Parker whispered.
The collision was high-mass and honest. There were no gentle nursing tones left in the room. Brody attacked Parker’s mouth with a raw, needy hunger—a physical thank-you that tasted of the last week’s starvation.
They moved with a synced, heavy-duty utility. Brody didn't just want pleasure; he wanted to provide, to re-establish his utility. He used his strength to please and claim Parker, his hands checking every inch of Parker’s body as if he were verifying the integrity of his own armor.
"I've got you," Brody growled against Parker’s skin, his weight a crushing comfort. "You’re not holding the line alone tonight."
The sex was their ‘Mutual Defense Pact’ in action. It was loud, unrestricted, and focused on the release they both needed to purge the residue of the week. Brody was a force of nature, his movements certain, proving with every thrust that he was no longer the dying meat sack.
He was the shield. He was the Wolf. And he was providing for his mate—the only man who got through all his internal locks.
As they finally collapsed into each other, sweat-slicked and grounded, the science from earlier wasn't just a theory anymore. It was a proven fact—a biological certainty. They lay there in the dark, the signal clean and unshakeable, two hunters resting in the same bed.
- - -
The Sunday peace at the cabin was a warm weight, the kind where time moved slowly. It was late afternoon. The fire was dying down in the hearth, and the only sound was the turning of a page in Parker’s book and the rhythmic, low-frequency snoring of Brody, who was currently napping on the other end of the couch. Their legs were tangled in the middle.
Then, the phone rang.
It wasn't a text ping; it was the harsh, insistent trill of the secure line Parker kept for specific clients. He usually had all his devices fully silenced, but the caller knew his second number that always rang on full blast.
Brody woke up instantly, his eyes snapping open with zero transition time.
Parker picked up the phone. “Yeah?"
Brody watched him. He saw the shift immediately. The relaxed Paul vanished, replaced by the sharp, analytical ‘Conductor.’ Parker’s spine straightened.
"Timeline?" Parker asked. A pause. "Copy. I can be wheels up in two hours. Send the briefing packet to the secure server."
He listened for another moment, his brow furrowing. "Understood. The USMC usually handles their own laundry, but if…” A pause. “Fine. I’m on it."
He hung up. The silence that rushed back into the room wasn't peaceful anymore; it was fractured.
"Marines?" Brody asked, his voice a low rumble from the other end. He sat up, the lazy Sunday energy evaporating.
“Yup, but you didn’t hear that," Parker confirmed, standing up. "Some sort of inter-agency clusterfuck. They need me on the ground by 0800 tomorrow. Not that you know that either.”
“Didn’t hear a word,” Brody confirmed solemnly, but Parker was already heading for the bedroom.
Brody followed him, filling the doorway as Parker dragged his slate-gray duffel from under the bed. “How long?”
“Can’t tell—don’t know.”
"Where?"
"They didn't say," Parker said, opening the closet. "Coast, maybe. Or Okinawa. I won't know until I get my hands on the briefing."
Brody leaned against the doorframe, his arms crossed. The ‘Wolf’ was pacing behind his eyes. "You're going blind? With Marines?"
"It’s a consult, not a beach landing," Parker said, grabbing a stack of shirts.
"Marines break things," Brody grumbled, the inter-service rivalry mixing with genuine territorial anxiety. "They’re chaos elements. They run high-voltage, and they don't know how to switch off."
Parker stopped, looking at Brody with a smirk. "Sound like anyone we might know?"
Brody didn't smile. He pushed off the doorframe and walked to the bed. "Move."
"Excuse me?"
"You're packing light. It’s a mistake," Brody stated, grabbing Parker’s carefully folded stack of cotton socks and tossing them aside. He went to the dresser and pulled out thick, merino wool hiking socks.
"I am not rucking, Brian," Parker protested, trying to snatch the cotton socks back. "I am going to a meeting."
"You don't know the terrain," Brody argued, stuffing the wool socks into the bag with aggressive efficiency. "If you end up on a tarmac in windy conditions or some damp hole in Washington state, you’ll want the wool. Cotton kills."
“Ok, now stop touching my gear."
"I'm securing your loadout," Brody countered. He dumped the contents of Parker’s kit onto the mattress. He scanned the items: toothbrush, meds, deodorant. He looked up, triumphant. "Where’s the juice?"
Parker blinked. "The what?"
"The portable power bank. The brick," Brody said, holding up his hand. "You didn't pack it."
"I have a charger. There are outlets. They have electricity in the Marines. They are not that underfunded.”
"Amateur hour," Brody muttered, marching to his own nightstand. He retrieved a heavy-duty, military-grade power bank and shoved it into Parker’s bag. "If you get rerouted to a C-130, there are no outlets. Comms check is vital. You were planning on going dark."
Parker gritted his teeth. He hated it when the big lug was right. "Fine. Good catch."
Brody wasn't done. He picked up Parker’s Sigg water bottle from the nightstand. He swirled it, frowned, and then marched into the bathroom. Parker heard the sound of water being dumped down the drain.
"Hey!" Parker yelled, following him. "That was full!"
Brody was already refilling it from the tap, staring intensely at the water flow. "I don't know…” A frustrated groan. “Could be stagnant."
"It was from this morning!"
"Now it's fresh," Brody declared, marching back to the bedroom and screwing the lid back on tight. He handed it back to Parker and added darkly, "Unless I decide to pee in it. That would mark you as mine."
Parker stared at him, the absurdity of the moment cutting through the totally unnecessary stress. He looked at the man who was currently vibrating with the need to protect him from bad water and horrors of cotton socks.
"You are a neurotic disaster," Parker said affectionately.
"I'm thorough," Brody corrected.
They stood there in the bedroom, the clock ticking. Parker had to leave. The realization hit them both at the same time.
Parker grabbed the front of Brody’s shirt and yanked him to close the gap. The kiss was hot, frustrated, and deep. It wasn't a goodbye; it was a desperate attempt to bank enough heat to last the distance. Brody’s hands roamed over Parker’s back, grinding his silkies-covered cock against Parker’s, his hips snapping forward with a need that begged to be satisfied.
"I need to go," Parker gasped, pulling back. “Before I do something that’ll make me miss the flight.”
"I know," Brody growled, his forehead resting against Parker’s. "Watch your six with the leathernecks. Don't let them recruit you."
Parker laughed. ”I'm good, big guy. I still have standards," Parker teased, breathless, and brushed his finger over Brody’s left nipple through the tight T-shirt.
Brody swallowed and exhaled.
They walked out to the driveway. The sun was low, the air crisp and getting cold.
Parked next to Brody’s huge, modern Sierra was Parker’s pride and joy: a 1985 Ford Bronco. It was gunmetal grey, boxy, and unapologetically mechanical. It had no software, no bluetooth, and a suspension that told you exactly what kind of rock you just drove over. It smelled of old leather and gasoline. It was a truck that could be fixed with a hammer, and Parker loved it because its looks reminded him of his own name—something from the forestry service, something sturdy.
Parker threw his twice-packed bag into the passenger seat. He climbed in, the door shutting with a solid, metallic clunk. He turned the key, and the V8 roared to life, a raw, unmuffled sound that echoed off the trees.
He rolled down the window. Brody was standing on the porch barefoot. The big man looked bereft but stoic, his arms crossed, holding the line.
"Don't wait up," Parker shouted over the engine.
"Maintain the signal," Brody called back.
Parker shifted the stick into first gear, the transmission engaging with a mechanical thud. He drove down the gravel track, watching the rearview mirror until the silhouette of the man vanished into the pines.
The mission was on. And for the first time in a long time, Parker hated leaving the base.
- - -
Brody stood on the porch until the rumble of the Bronco’s engine faded into the ambient noise of the forest. The quiet that followed wasn't the peaceful kind; it was the loaded, pressurized quiet of a base that had just lost its primary asset.
He turned and walked back inside, locking the oak door with a solid thud.
He was annoyed with himself. He knew he had overstepped in the bedroom. Dumping out the water? Repacking the socks? It was behavior that bordered on mother hen, and for a man who built his career on being a lethal, autonomous instrument, it was embarrassing. He had let his nesting instinct override his discipline.
"Get a grip," he muttered to the empty room.
He moved to the bedroom to clean up the chaos of the packing battle. He knew he was being a hypocrite. He had left his house behind a dozen times for missions with zero timeline and zero intel. If Parker had tried to repack Brody’s ruck, Brody probably would have snapped his hand off. But Parker had just smirked and called him a neurotic disaster.
Parker was too patient with him.
Brody grabbed the discarded cotton socks and threw them in the hamper. The timeline was the problem. Parker could be on his way to the moon for all Brody knew, but at least a moon mission would have a flight plan. This was a void.
And the void was populated by Marines.
Brody walked into the bathroom and braced his hands against the sink, staring at his reflection. The stone-faced operator stared back—heavy brow, scarred skin, eyes dark with a specific kind of agitation.
He wasn't jealous in the civilian sense. He didn't think Parker was looking for an exit. But he knew the terrain.
He knew about Marines.
He knew of the Leathernecks, who liked the taste of cock, operated with a terrifying, ravenous intensity. He had encountered them before in overseas joint bases—guys who treated sex like hand-to-hand combat. They were voracious, high-stamina power bottoms who didn't know the meaning of the words easy, slow, soft—nor did they yield or flinch. They were chaos elements.
Brody looked at his own reflection. He was forty-one, soon forty-two. He was ‘The Standard.’ He was heavy, deliberate, and precise. He was a grounding rod.
Marines were live wires.
"They run high-voltage," Brody whispered to the mirror, repeating his own warning. "And they don't know how to switch off."
His fear wasn't infidelity; it was obsolescence. He worried that Parker, who worked with his own intellectual intensity, might find that the chaotic energy of a Marine matched his own frequency better than Brody’s silence.
He knew then that they had never actually had ‘The Talk.’ They were living together, sleeping together, and eating together. Their socks and underwear were mixed in the same drawer. He was wearing Parker’s boxers, but they hadn't defined the Rules of Engagement. Were they exclusive? Were they boyfriends? Partners?
If Parker decided to test-drive a Marine to blow off steam during the consult, would it be a betrayal, or just... recreational logistics?
Brody felt a spike of hot, ugly possessiveness in his gut. It would be a betrayal. He would be hurt. To him, the ‘Chain of Custody’ was absolute. But they didn’t have the clarity, so did he have any right?
He walked back to the bedroom and sat on the edge of the mattress. It felt too big without Parker’s heat radiating from the other side.
He picked up his phone. He needed to clear the air, but he also needed to mark the territory one last time.
Brody: Sorry. Shouldn't have overstepped with the gear.
He paused, his thumb hovering. He needed to be clear.
Brody: Don't get attached to any tight hole.
He hit send. It was crude, direct, and exactly the kind of communication Parker understood.
He tossed the phone onto the nightstand and lay back, staring at the ceiling. He wondered, idly, what it was about that branch of service. Was it the basic training? The water at Parris Island? Or did they just feed them something that removed the 'off' switch?
He closed his eyes, willing himself to calm down, knowing the bed was going to feel cold until the Bronco rolled back into the driveway.
- - -
The Monolith didn’t care about the domestic bliss of a secluded cabin. It didn’t care about hand-forged wooden bowls or the scent of espresso. As Brody walked through the security locks at 0500, the building greeted him with its usual clinical coldness—the sharp, ozone-and-oil smells he didn’t pay attention to anymore.
Yet, it was the smell of his first life. Usually, it acted as a trigger in the background, something not to be recognized but snapping his brain into a state of singular, lethal focus. Today, it just felt like noise.
He moved through the hallways with a heavier, more intentional gait, consciously scrubbing Brian from his expression before he hit the Alpha Squadron sector. He had spent the last week being a dying meat sack in a bed of wool blankets, being grounded by a man who used phonetics to tell him he was loved. He was soft around the edges, and in this building, softness was a vulnerability, a tactical error.
He needed to re-establish the boundaries, his mask.
"Well, look who’s back," Mack drawled as Brody entered the team room. The younger operator was already geared up for their drill session, but he paused to squint at Brody. "You look alive and not a zombie… so the virus didn’t turn you into a mushroom.”
Brody didn't blink. He moved to his locker, his movements economical and cold. "I had a week of sleep and a surplus of calories, Mack. Unless you want to spend the morning on the burpee mat, I suggest you focus on your kit."
The room went quiet. The ‘Standard’ was back. The dark, brooding authority Brody used to command the unit settled back into place like a well-fitted harness, but internally, his head was spinning.
He could feel the counter-signal. Every time he reached for gear from his locker, his mind was on the red flannel shirt in their closet. Every time he checked his watch, he calculated what Parker was doing—if he was already at the target, if he was already surrounded by the ‘High-Voltage’ energy of the Marines. Hungry, sexy, willing—dumb as fuck—Marines.
By noon, he noticed how the atmosphere in the Squadron was different.
Brody felt it before he heard it—he noticed it first in his team. Something he had clearly missed last week while lying in his bed.
It was the familiar low-frequency buzz that always preceded a deployment order. Higher-ups moved with more purpose; the analysts in the SCIFs were staying past their shift change.
He heard the first whispers over coffee. Something fast. Something sovereign. High-stakes and black.
For ten years, that chatter had been his drug. It sharpened his vision, tightened his nerves, and gave his life a razor-edge purpose. He felt the familiar surge of the predator—the ancestral pull of the hunt. It was a physical heat in his marrow.
But then, the other feeling hit him. The ‘Domestic Gravity.’
For the first time in his career, the prospect of a mission felt like an interruption rather than a culmination.
For twenty years, the mission had always been his life.
He’d had partners before, lived the suburban dream with a perfect setup, but it had always felt distant—something of an elaborate cover story. He had never felt this before. He was a Wolf who had finally found a den worth guarding, and the system was already trying to pull him back into the light. He wanted to dictate when he left his peace and headed into the woods.
The official WARNO (Warning Order) dropped on Wednesday morning.
Brody stood in the Operations Center, staring at the secure terminal. He saw the manifest. He saw his name at the top. A four-month deployment cycle, starting in less than seven days. One mission to execute.
The weight of it was staggering. He felt a sudden, sharp spike of the old ‘bad current' in his skin—the jumpiness that only his man could ground. He wanted to get back to his phone, to transmit the signal to his compass and hear that calm, analytical baritone tell him they would navigate it.
But he didn’t. He couldn’t.
He stared at the screen, his jaw working silently. Parker was on the other side of the country—or planet—embedded with Marines. Parker was already dealing with an ‘inter-agency clusterfuck.’ Brody’s stubborn logic took over, fueled by a misguided sense of guardianship.
He’s already under load, Brody reasoned. If I tell him now, it’ll just be more noise. I’ll wait. I’ll keep the bubble secure until he gets home. We’ll have our few days of peace, and I’ll tell him when the window closes. It was a wishful thought; he didn’t know when Parker would return.
It’s for him. It’s for the integrity of the home.
He told himself he was protecting his mate. It was a classic piece of strategic dishonesty.
He closed the terminal and walked out, the Operator mask firmly in place, while the secret burned a hole in his chest.
- - -
Brody sat at the heavy wooden table; it was Thursday evening. The hand-carved oak bowl sat in the center as a silent reminder of the market trip. He had spent the last two hours trying to focus on a technical manual for a new thermal optic, but the words were just gray noise on the page. His skin was humming with the wrong kind of current—the jagged, high-frequency agitation that made his skin feel tight.
He needed to discharge the voltage. He needed his grounding rod.
He pulled out his phone, the screen bright in the dim kitchen. He wanted to call, to hear the voice and anchor himself to that baritone. But he hesitated. He didn’t know the time zone. He didn’t know if his guy was in a meeting, in a SCIF, or halfway to the moon. And he knew, with the iron-clad discipline of a twenty-year career, that he couldn't say a word about the manifest he’d received at the Monolith.
He opened their thread. He typed: I’m feeling like I’m spinning here. I need you home.
He stared at it for thirty seconds. Then he deleted it with an aggressive jab of his thumb.
Don’t be a baby, he told himself. He had just spent a week being a dead weight in wool blankets, taking everything Parker had to give. He was a Team Lead. He wasn’t supposed to whimper through a screen just because the house felt too big.
He tried again. Comms check. How’re the Marines?
He paused. The word Marines sent a fresh spike of irritation through his chest. It wasn't that he didn't trust his man; loyalty wasn't the variable. The variable was the energy. The nagging in him worried—not that his guy would leave him—but that his mate would be impressed by them. It presented an annoying challenge to his utility.
He felt the fear of obsolescence creeping in again, cold and sharp.
Brody deleted the last part he wasn't supposed to know. He hit send on a generic comms check, referencing ‘a business trip’ instead of the branch Parker wasn't supposed to have mentioned. It was a tactical compromise—a signal that the line was open without admitting that the operator was currently losing his ground.
He didn't wait for a reply. He knew Parker was likely dark. He tossed the phone onto the counter, walked to the sofa, and collapsed into the fabric, burying his face in the pillow at Parker's end—closer to the window that provided a natural backlight. The corner where Parker preferred to lie and read still held a ghost of the man's scent. It was a pathetic move for a Team Lead, and he hated himself for it even as he let it ground him. He fell into a restless, hyper-vigilant sleep, his brain still calculating the days until the window closed.
The reply came at 0300, the vibration of the phone on the counter barely registering in his dreams.
Parker: Loud. Chaotic. The coffee is a war crime. Standards are being maintained, Brian. Get some sleep.
When Brody woke at 0400 for his morning PT, he saw the message. He didn't smile—he wasn't there yet—but the spinning in his head slowed down. The signal was thin, generic, and carried zero intel on the timeline, but for now, it was enough. The line was still holding.
- - -
The Bronco’s engine echoed through the pines, a raw, mechanical announcement of Parker’s return. It was early Sunday morning, the light cutting through the trees in sharp, cold needles of gold. Parker shifted into neutral and killed the ignition, the sudden silence of the forest feeling like a blanket after the hectic noise of the Marine base.
He didn't head for the front door. He followed the sound—the rhythmic, metallic clang and the heavy thud of weight hitting rubber mats.
The garage doors were wide open, exposing the gut of the ‘Maintenance Facility’ to the morning air. Parker stopped at the threshold, leaning his shoulder against the frame, dropping his go-bag from shoulder to ground. He didn't say a word. He didn't want to break the concentration; he wanted to audit the view.
Brody was in the rack, and he was hyper-focused.
The big man was deep into a set of deadlifts, 600 pounds of iron bowing the bar across his hips. He was shirtless, his skin a roadmap of exertion, slick with an honest sheen of sweat that caught the low morning sun. He was wearing nothing but the black nylon silkies, the fabric currently doing a tactical retreat against the muscles of his lower body.
The scent of the garage was a thick, heady cocktail of cold iron, rubber, and Brody’s high-testosterone musk—a baseline that told Parker the Wolf had been pacing in agitation for days.
Parker’s gaze moved with a slow, predatory greed. He watched the way Brody’s quads and hamstrings—dense and corded—strained and separated with every inch of the descent. From this angle, the view was the perfect kind of a visual assault. The sweat had turned the thin nylon damp in the heat, the fabric clinging to the deep valley of Brody’s crack. The ‘swass’ was evident—a dark, wet stain of effort that highlighted the absolute power of those ‘magnificent’ glutes. Every time Brody drove upward, the muscle groups shifted like tectonic plates, the panties fighting a losing battle to contain the ‘One-Man Armored Column.’
Parker felt his own pulse jump, his travel fatigue incinerated by the heat radiating from the garage. He didn't hide his interest; he leaned into it, his eyes raking over the scarred, salty landscape of his man’s back.
Brody didn't turn around. He had heard the Bronco pull in, and the crunch of Parker’s boots on the gravel, but he didn't break his form. He hit the top of the rep, back straight and full height. The beast held the weight for a punishing three seconds of pure isometric tension, and then lowered slowly.
He dropped the weight. The plates slammed into the rubber mats with a thunderous crash that shook the concrete floor.
He stood there for a moment, head down, hands gripping the steel of the lifting rack, his chest heaving as he forced air into his lungs. Steam literally rose from his shoulders, the cold morning air hitting his furnace-hot skin.
Then, without turning his head, Brody’s voice rumbled through the space—a low, gravelly vibration that was missing all the warmth and holding steady at ‘Operator’ level.
"Like what you see, contractor?"
Parker smirked, his eyes still locked on the dark, sweat-soaked nylon of Brody’s muscular ass. "Assessment is ongoing. Checking the structural integrity of the rear armor. It seems... resilient.”
"Stop the surveillance and move, Parker. This isn't some meat display."
Brody’s voice didn’t carry warmth. It was a demand—the harsh, grating tone he usually reserved for his most punishing drills. It was meant to intimidate, to crack a subordinate’s focus, but Parker didn’t flinch. He didn’t even blink. He simply shifted his weight, his ‘Naval Eagle’ gaze narrowing as he analyzed the sudden pressure shift. He’d navigated war rooms full of screaming generals; the Beast’s roar was just another factual data point.
Brody turned around, and the scale of his agitation became visible. His chest was heaving, sweat dripping from his chin, the thick neck a column of veins covered in rivulets of his labor and deep, fresh musk. His entire frame still pumped and vibrating from the iron.
"Action. Now," Brody barked, stepping out of the rack.
Parker moved into the garage, his boots clicking on the hard floor. He wasn't in workout gear; he was still in his travel kit—faded denim and a charcoal shirt. He looked worn out by the week, but his spine remained an unyielding line of Navy steel. He was looking for absolute transparency, for the man he had been missing, who he had abandoned alone in their bed. Not a performance of hostility.
Brody’s jaw was tight. He saw the way Parker’s eyes were still raking over his sweat-slicked pectorals, shoulders, biceps, and the wet nylon of his silkies. Usually, the ogling was their shared currency, but today, with the secret of the deployment burning in his lungs, it felt like a distraction he couldn't afford.
"I'm not your toy, Parker," Brody snapped, his voice dropping into a dangerous, low rumble. "I'm not a piece of meat you get to drool over after a week of playing with leathernecks. If you're in my space, you engage. Or you get the fuck out."
He charged.
Brody didn’t tackle him, but he invaded Parker’s space with a sudden, high-velocity breach, a near-collision, pushing Parker’s chest with his big hands. The Officer got shoved a few steps back, but didn’t waver. Parker simply walked back to close the gap, challenging the Operator to show him the Man behind.
They stopped chest-to-chest.
It was two heavy pieces staring each other down, forcing the other to blink, refusing to join and snap together: their gazes locked on a dangerous horizon.
It was a moment of perfect symmetry.
Together they were one of absolute equality. They stood at the same height, their eyes locked on the same level, their mouths inches apart. Brody was a wall of steaming, pumped muscle, radiating enough heat to warp the morning air. Parker was the scruffy, analytical contrast—unblinking, silent, and inside his mask deeply puzzled by the erratic signals coming from his man.
Neither had to look up or down. Neither had to tilt their head to find the other’s level. It was the two pieces of the puzzle they were both most attached to: Parker’s unyielding posture and Brody’s massive, stone-cold capacity.
Brody made the first move. He shoved Parker backward again, a hard, two-handed strike to the chest that sent Parker stumbling three steps.
"What the fuck is your problem?" Brody voiced his frustration, his voice cracking with the strain of his internal turmoil.
“Now that’s the question I was wondering," Parker countered, his voice steady but laced with a sharp, rising irritation. "I just drove hours to get home to my man, and I find a stranger in the garage trying to start a brawl. What's the mission here?"
"Don't use that tone with me," Brody growled, his pupils blown wide. "Don't talk down to me! Engage, Parker! Fight me, fuck me, do something other than just watching!"
He charged again, his mass hitting Parker for the third time with the force of a breaching ram; Parker’s back hit the garage wall.
Parker stayed on his feet, his jaw tight enough to snap bone. He didn't lift his hands to strike. He didn't slip into a combat stance. He just stepped away from the wall and stood his ground, a block of ice against Brody’s fire.
"What the fuck is going on?" Parker demanded, his voice a cold, authoritative snap.
"I said don't use that tone!" Brody’s shout echoed off the garage walls.
Deep inside, Brian was screaming with relief that Paul was back—that the Marines hadn't kept him, that their 'frequency' was still there. But the beast was in control, fueled by the rage of the countdown. They had only days—maybe hours—before the WARNO turned into a launch, and he didn't know how to bridge the gap.
Mentally Parker had just stepped away from a partner's warmth to the clinical, absolute zero of an evaluator. And he didn’t care to hide it.
"I’m not fighting you," Parker said firmly, his eyes boring into Brian’s.
Brody let out a frustrated growl, his hands curling into fists at his sides. "Why? Afraid you'll get your shirt dirty?"
"No," Parker said, his voice dropping into a calm, brutal logic. "You're a Tier-1 operator. You’ve got about forty pounds of pure, explosive muscle over me. You learned to brawl in a hockey rink, and you’re a former college wrestler. Your baseline is among the most lethal human beings in this country.”
A cold, analytical slap right across the Wolf’s face.
Parker stepped back into Brody’s space. He wasn’t intimidated by the scale or capacity of the man.
"I don't engage in tactical suicide. If you want to fight something, go punch the pines. But we don't use the masks to hide from the truth. Now, I’m going inside to make coffee. You can join me inside whenever you see me instead of a target. Until then, you’re just noise.”
Brody flinched at the tone and word ‘noise.’ It was a breach in his heaving composure—a sudden, violent tremor in his jaw that signaled the end of his restraint. He saw red, the high-voltage agitation of the week arcing.
He was lightning fast, but he was fueled by his secret—the buried pain of the deployment—and the heat of missing his mate. His movements jerked with an unrefined fury. He was anything but the trained, calm, and elite weapon he was supposed to be.
He threw a fast punch, a strike aimed at Parker’s gut meant to punish the dismissal.
Parker didn’t back away. He moved into the strike, calculating the leverage in a millisecond. He caught the blow on his forearm and, in the same fluid motion, stepped deep into Brody’s guard, his boot hooking behind the big man’s ankle.
Parker swept his leg with the ruthless precision of a man who understood physics and force better than raw brute strikes. The towering Wolf went down.
Brody hit the floor with a heavy, air-snatching thud, but Parker didn't let up. He stood over him, eyes cold and lethal. "Stop," Parker barked, his voice a razor-edge of authority. "Your head is not in the room."
The command had the opposite effect. Brody scrambled back to his feet with a terrifying speed and launched himself forward. He didn't punch this time; he used his body as a breaching ram again, tackling Parker at the waist.
The impact carried them near the doors. They hit the cold, hard floor of the garage with a dull, bone-deep thud that vibrated through both of them.
Brody was in his element now. The collegiate wrestler and hockey brawler took point. He used his weight to pin Parker, his large limbs caked with the gray grit of the garage floor. He was amazed by the resolve—Parker didn't yield, didn't soften; he fought like a man trying to survive a shipwreck.
Brody managed to catch Parker in a tight, crushing headlock, his bicep bulging as he squeezed. "Tenacious little fucker, aren't you?" His voice a gravelly rasp of adrenaline and reluctant respect.
"Maybe your fucker," Parker grunted, his face turning a dark, dangerous red. "But not little."
Parker rolled, using the friction of the concrete to find a pivot point. He drove a hard, sharp elbow into the soft dip of Brody’s gut behind him. The air left Brody in a sharp wheeze, his grip loosening just enough for Parker to flip the orientation.
Parker scrambled on top, his own arms wrapping around Brody’s thick neck in a mirroring headlock, pinning the Beast against his chest. "Do I need to squeeze the lights out?" Parker hissed into Brody’s ear. "Or are you ready to discharge?"
Brody didn't answer. He surged upward, a violent explosion of raw strength that rolled them both across the floor until he had Parker pinned on his back again. He drove his elbow into the soft dip of Parker’s throat—a deliberate, static pressure that cut off his airway. It was a kill-position, a tactical finality that signaled the end of the engagement.
"You're done," Brody roared, his face inches from Parker’s, sweat dripping from his nose onto Parker’s cheek. "One more inch and your neck snaps."
They stayed there for a beat, both of them panting hard, the only sound the ragged, synchronized gasping for air. Brody’s eyes were entirely black, the Operator mask fully engaged, holding the life of his man in the crook of his arm.
Parker didn't blink. He didn't struggle. He looked directly into the dark void of Brody’s eyes, his expression reaching fatalistic clarity.
“Well, are you gonna do it, big guy?” Parker rasped against the pressure of the elbow.
The words snapped in Brody’s head like another gut punch.
Brody’s eyes widened. He felt the soft, vulnerable pulse of Parker’s throat against his skin and realized the line he was treading. The stone-faced beast faltered, a glimpse of the man behind the mask that was so frantic it was painful.
For a split second, Paul saw Brian—wide-eyed, terrified of his own strength, and raw with a need that had nothing to do with violence.
Brody didn't pull away. He collapsed the final inch, his mouth colliding with Parker’s in a kiss that was a high-explosion of relief and desperation.
Parker was just as hungry. He met the impact with a violent need of his own, his hands moving frantically to the back of Brody’s head, lacing into the unwashed hair and pulling him closer. His nails scraped against the sweat-slicked skin of Brody’s shoulders, leaving raw, red trails of possession behind.
They didn’t move for the bedroom; the thirty feet of distance was a logistical impossibility. They didn't even move for the mats. They stayed right there on the cold, gritty concrete—two immovable wills finally finding the only honest ground left in their world. Their skin slick with a mix of sweat and the gray dust of the garage floor.
The transition was instantaneous and devoid of grace. They shed their clothes right there, the movements frantic and mechanical, like men stripping a jammed weapon in a firefight.
Parker’s charcoal shirt was discarded into the dust. Brody’s silkies were ripped off, yanked down his massive thighs, the fabric snagging on his heels before being kicked aside.
When they collided again, it was skin-to-grit. The cold of the garage floor was a sharp, biting contrast to the furnace-heat radiating from their bodies. Parker didn't wait for an invitation. He used the momentum of Brody’s own guilt to drive him down.
Brody went to his hands and knees on the bare floor, his wide shoulders hunched, his head bowed. The Alpha Squadron’s ‘Standard’ was gone. The Wolf was offering himself up for a hard reset. Parker moved behind him, his hands grabbing Brody’s hair to tilt his head back, exposing the thick column of his neck.
“You want to play the Operator?” Parker growled, his voice a low, jagged rasp. “You want to hide behind the mask? Then take the weight.”
Brody felt the firm grip of Parker’s hand pull his hair—a rough, possessive claim that forced him to realize he wasn't just losing the fight; he was finally allowed to lose all the tension and responsibilities.
Parker spit into his hand and slicked himself with a brutal, efficient speed and pushed in.
It wasn't lovemaking; it was a high-mass invasion. Parker breached him with a single, punishing thrust that forced the air from Brody’s lungs in a shattered bark of a roar. It burned a fuck-ton. It was the punishment Brody needed. The friction was raw, the lack of a mattress or a soft surface making the impact bone-deep.
Parker didn’t wait and began to drive instantly, his hips slamming against the perfect, sweat-slicked globes of Brody’s ass with a rhythmic slaps. Every slam carried the weight of the week’s frustration, the anger at the Marines, and the fury at the secret Brody was still carrying.
Parker didn't yield an inch, his jeans and boots providing an abrasive friction against Brody’s bare skin that reminded them both who was currently responsible for holding the line.
Brody was a mess. His forehead was pressed against the cold concrete, his big hands in tight fists, knuckles white. He wasn't the immovable object anymore; he was a conduit for Parker’s rage. He felt he needed every punishing thrust. Every electric jolt that Parker’s cock sent through his system was a gift Brody knew he didn’t deserve.
As Parker slammed home, the Operator dissolved into a series of broken, animalistic roars that washed away the disgrace of the faltered discipline.
The submission was total, unrefined, and loud. As Parker hammered into him, Brody’s grunts and the burn finally gave way. He began to babble—a frantic, broken litany of apologies that bled into the gray air of the garage.
“Fuck, Paul… I’m sorry… I’m so fucking sorry,” Brody chanted, his voice a gravelly ruin. He wasn't just talking about the fight; the secret mission was leaking out in the aftershocks of the impact. “I didn’t… I’m sorry… Nail me… Just fucking anchor me down hard.”
Brody’s incoherent apologies weren't really words; they were the sounds of a jammed connection finally breaking through—raw, desperate, and devoid of any polish. Honest.
Parker didn't soften his pace. If anything, the apologies fueled the fire. He reached around, his rough palm cupping Brody’s face and pulling it back so he could see the dilation of those dark eyes. Parker’s cock hit the target—that deep, sensitive grounding spot inside Brody—with a violence that made Brody’s entire 250-pound frame shudder.
“Quiet, Brian,” Parker commanded, his teeth baring. “I’ve got the watch. You just take the load… You are nothing but a cum dump now.”
Parker leaned over Brody’s back, his chest crushing against Brody’s spine, their sweat mingling into a single, slick lubricant.
The violent, punishing thrusts made Brody collapse under his guy. Parker gripped Brody’s biceps, pinning the big man against the cold floor of the garage. The scent was total: woodsmoke, cold iron, salty sweat, and the sharp tang of arousal.
Brody’s own manhood was crushed between his thighs and the concrete, leaking pre-cum that mixed with the grit of the floor. He was thrashing and trembling with a force that threatened to shake the garage apart, his breath coming in ragged, animalistic huffs. He felt the unyielding force of Parker’s leverage—the man using every muscle of his 210-pound frame to keep the Wolf pinned.
“More,” Brody begged, his hips bucking back into Parker’s drive, seeking the pain and the pressure. “Give me all of it. Don’t let me up.”
Parker obeyed. He shifted the angle, his thrusts becoming short, sharp, and clinical, targeting the very center of Brody’s nervous system. He watched the way Brody’s back muscles spasmed, the way his thick arms quivered against the floor.
He pinned Brody’s hands behind his back and fucked the hole with all he got.
The discharge was imminent. Parker felt it hit, his head finally snapping to the blissful highs of his orgasm.
Parker came with a low, silent grunts, his body bowing as he filled Brody with rope after rope of hot, thick essence. He held himself deep, collapsed on top, his forehead pressed into the sweat-damp space between Brody’s shoulder blades, his pulse hammering like a drum against Brody’s skin. Then he kept pounding, his hips driving hard, still chasing the high.
Brody felt his mate’s payload hit. It was the grounding he had been starving for. The ‘Bad Current’ of the week was incinerated by the heat of Parker’s release. His hole was being filled to the brim by his partner’s hot release. He let out a final, thundering roar that echoed off the walls, his own body convulsing as he came hard against the cold concrete, his seed splattering the gray floor in a messy, honest display of surrender.
They stayed there for a long time, draped over each other. The only sound was the deep, synchronized gasping for oxygen.
The predators in them were still and satisfied, heart rates finally dropping out of the red line. Parker was a heavy weight on top of his prey, his claws still buried deep into the muscular shoulders, his jeans and boots still on.
They were covered in grit, sweat, and the remnants of their shared explosion. They looked like two survivors of a high-velocity collision, which was exactly what they were.
The calibration was complete. But the air was still thick with the silence of the things that hadn't been said.
The moment that followed was no longer pressurized, but it wasn't clean and pure. It felt stagnant.
Parker was the first to shift. He didn't pull away, but he lifted his head from Brody’s shoulder, his eyes scanning the surrounding ‘maintenance facility’ with a clinical, post-op focus. The denim caked with a slurry of gray dust and sweat.
“Debrief,” Parker stated, his voice low and gravelly.
Brody didn’t move. He was still face-down on the concrete, his wide, hairy chest rising and falling in a slow, rhythmic labor. “Copy,” he muffled into his arm.
Parker pulled out from Brody’s body and rolled off him, the loss of contact making the cold morning air bite at his skin. He turned on his back against the cold floor, watching the ceiling. Brody slowly pushed himself up turning to lie on his back. The big man looked raw—his skin marked by the grit of the floor and the red trails of Parker’s fingers. The stony face was still there, but the operator had been thoroughly dismantled.
They lay on the floor side by side looking up.
“I get the agitation, Brian,” Parker said, his voice dropping into a smooth baritone, but it didn’t reach the usual level of warmth. “I know the distance was a load. I know we got jammed.” He paused, his gaze turning razor-sharp. “But I am not your punching bag. You don’t throw strikes at your partner because you’re having a crisis. That is a tactical error we don’t repeat.”
Brody winced, the Adam's apple bobbing in his thick throat. He looked at his scarred knuckles, then at the floor next to Parker’s head. “I know. I… I saw red. It was the fucking devil dogs.”
He finally looked up to Parker, his dark eyes filled with a frustrated, territorial heat. “They’re chaos, Paul. I spent the whole week thinking about them surrounding you, feeding you their bullshit while I was stuck here sleeping alone on your fucking pillow.”
Parker smirked, a genuine flash of warmth breaking through the cold. “They were a bunch of over-excited kids, Brian. They have zero gravity. You’re the only thing heavy enough to ground me. You know your own specs by now.”
Brody let out a long, shuddering breath. He wanted to tell him then. He wanted to blurt out the secret of the manifest, to admit that the window was closing and he was terrified of the upcoming silence. But Parker just got here and Brody just got his home back; the peace was fragile. He couldn't make himself to pop the bubble yet.
“We need a mechanism,” Parker continued, unaware of the burning in his man’s chest. “We’re both too stubborn for our own good. We both run hot. When the current gets too high and we start to spin, we need a way to bypass it all.”
Brody nodded, lacing his fingers through Parker’s. “A safety mechanism.”
“Yeah, a safeword. Not for the bed. For the head,” Parker reasoned. “If the noise gets too loud, or the agitation reaches the red line—we use it. Something that means: Stop talking. Stop fighting. Just hold me down.”
Brody squeezed Parker’s hand, the callouses grinding together. “What’s the word?”
“I don’t know… how about ‘Anchor’?”
“Anchor,” Brody repeated, the word sounding like a vow. “If I say it, you hold the watch. If you say it, I provide it.”
“Yeah, copy that,” Parker whispered.
He reached out, cupping Brody’s jaw and pulling him into a slow, deep kiss that tasted of salt and honesty.
It was a peace treaty signed in the dirt.
They stayed there on the floor for a few more minutes, two predators finally synced again. Brody felt the weight of the lie getting heavier, but for now, he let their ‘Anchor' system provide the temporary safety he needed.
“Let’s go inside,” Parker said, standing up and offering a hand to 250 pounds of naked man on the floor. His eyes raking over the mess of sweat, dust, and cum. “And this time, we’re definitely taking a shower. I’ll wash you.”
Brody took the hand, the strength of the pull reminding him that Parker could handle his full mass. “Roger that. Let’s get clean.”
They walked into the cabin looking like two survivors of a full artillery barrage. Their steps were in sync. The sun finally cleared the ridge, illuminating the perimeter they were both still struggling to define—but the light didn’t reach the secrets Brody was still holding behind the wire.
- - -
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