Parker & Brody

The 2nd Mission

Part IV: Transfer of Authority

The shift from assets of the system to partners who can secure the only chain of custody that is truly unbreakable.

---

Even on the ship, the day had begun at 0400, synchronized to their shared habits.

Parker had woken up exactly where he belonged: pinned under the two-hundred-and-fifty-pound heating element that was Brody. The sleep had been deep and foundational—the kind of rest only possible when the grounding is total, physically attached to skin. The sailor in him had always slept well onboard; the low, vibrating sound of the engines, the roll of the sea, and the heavy hull around him had provided a peace he craved. That morning, the thorough release, the re-established alliance, and the slowly breathing weighted blanket had provided an extra level of comfort that wasn’t usual in a naval patrol.

Brody had woken up a few minutes later, his system transitioning from deep sleep to alert in a heartbeat. He hadn't jumped; he had simply raised his head from Parker’s chest—his favorite pillow. And had tightened his grip on Parker, his massive arms locking the man into his body as if he were securing a load for transport. He’d buried his face in Parker's shoulder, inhaling the scent of his mate, letting the steady heat sweep in. For the first time in his deployments, he hadn't woken up in a cage; it had felt familiar and free as his own bed.

They hadn't wasted time on domestic pleasantries. Release had come fast and functional—a quick oral reset in the dim light of the cabin that served as their morning coffee and early nutrition. It was unrefined and urgent, a masculine exchange of sweet and salty fluids that bypassed the need for words. Both had tasted their mate, while they’d consumed the only grounding rod that worked on their frequency—a system alignment that left them both steady and ready for the watch.

Afterward, they’d slipped onto the weather deck for half an hour, the transition from the chill of the hull to the humid morning had enveloped them like a wet wool. They’d leaned against the cold steel railing in silence, shoulders brushing as they’d watched the sun ignite the horizon, turning the sapphire sea into a field of hammered gold. For those few minutes, there were no POWs, no DC suits, and no gunshot wounds. There had been just the rhythm of the wake and the shared knowledge that the signal was finally, perfectly clean.

It was now 1200 and the humidity of the day was seeping inside the hull.

Parker walked into the Crew Mess. He ignored the ladderwell leading to the Wardroom and headed straight for the long, bolted-down metal tables where Alpha-Alpha was currently engaged in the high-speed consumption of beef stew and mystery mash.

The volume of the room was a physical pressure—clattering trays, the roar of the ventilation, and a hundred sailors talking. As Parker approached the Alpha table, the rowdy chatter dipped for a split second. Then, Mills slid down the bench.

"Make a hole," Mills ordered the junior operators. "The Navy is here."

Parker sat down between Mills and Brody, setting his tray onto the metal surface with a practiced clack. He looked at his guy, who was focused on his meal with the mechanical intensity of a breacher clearing a room—fast, methodical, and purely about the objective. Brody didn’t look up, but his shoulder relaxed a fraction of an inch; the signal acknowledging the arrival of his partner.

“Why the hell, Parker?" Mack asked across the table, wiping a smear of gravy from his chin on his sleeve. "Don't they have, like, mahogany tables and a string quartet up there?"

“They do,” Parker stated, picking up a piece of dry bread. "The air smells like lavender, the stewards iron the morning papers, and the chairs are custom-molded to each officer’s ass to ensure maximum comfort while we make the hard choices."

Mack snorted. "Sounds like a cult."

"It's a lifestyle," Parker corrected dryly. "And the coffee doesn't taste like it was siphoned out of a Humvee. It’s a travesty I’m missing it."

"Then why eat with the Seaweed?" Mills asked, gesturing to the unwashed MultiCams at the table.

"Logistics," Parker said, his gaze flicking to Brody. "Plus, I like the soft serve. The Navy runs on three things, gents: Caffeine, Diesel, and Chocolate-Vanilla Swirl."

He watched as Mills shoveled a mound of stew into his mouth using only a spoon.

"Fascinating," Parker noted. "Do you boys even know how to use a fork, or is the Army still teaching you how to swallow the tray whole?"

"Forks have too many moving parts, Parker. High failure rate,” Mack countered without missing a beat. "A spoon is mission-reliable.”

“Right… I suppose that also explains why you prefer your own sleeves over napkins," Parker said.

Brody finally looked up. He didn't speak, but his dark eyes were filled with a quiet, possessive pride. He watched Parker navigate the team’s banter with smooth authority. To Brody, the man wasn't just capable—he was a force multiplier.

A junior operator, emboldened by the soft-serve, leaned forward. "Sir? We heard you got a medal for the—“

“Let’s not go there. And you can drop the sir,” Parker cut him off.

The table went quiet.

Parker set his knife and fork down and looked the youngest operator in the eye. "It wasn't any hero run. It was a failure of intel and a success of physics. An IED doesn't care about your rank. I didn't get a medal for winning; I got it for being the one who survived."

Parker didn't offer a smile to ease the tension; he offered the reality. Mack and Mills exchanged a glance—a silent acknowledgment that the ‘Squid’ had earned his seat.

Parker reached onto his own tray, picked up two peaches, and moved them onto Brody’s tray.

Brody gave him a sharp, annoyed stink-eye. "I was about to get those after."

“Uh-huh," Parker countered.

Brody grumbled, a low vibration in his chest, but he took one and started eating the fruit.

Mills smirked, watching the exchange. “The Navy is taming the Boss," he teased, "I think we've finally met the guy who can manage it without a court order.”

“Or the MPs,” Mack chimed in.

Brody grunted, but his face remained content. "Shut up and eat your grub."

The ship took a big wave directly to the bow; it lifted up fast and then dipped low. The operators huddled instantly grasping anything that was bolted to the hull for balance. Their drinks mixed with their stew and soiled their trays.

Parker didn’t even notice the impact, his center of gravity shifting automatically as he clamped his tray to the metal table and raised his glass to keep the liquid steady—pure muscle memory. He leaned in to steady Brody as the man tried to adjust his position, his face tightening as the GSW protested the sudden pitch of the hull.

"I can do it, Nanny," Brody muttered, though he leaned into Parker’s mass.

"I know you can," Parker whispered back, his voice dropping into that private baritone. "But you’re making the whole hull vibrate with your struggle. Just sit still and let the Navy handle the balance."

Brody let out a pained, rich huff of a laugh—the sound vibrating against Parker’s own shoulder. For a moment, the roar of the lunch on the Mess Deck faded into their shared silence. Two hunters fueling in a steel cave

.

- - -

Nearly two weeks in a steel box had taken a toll. The Alpha Squadron’s all natural musk had shifted from manly to very masculine to full biohazard, and the ship’s Master Chief had finally issued a cease-and-desist order on their gear. Sure, they had access to showers on board, but the single set of clothing was the problem. So the annoyed hosts had booked a separate scrub duty for the Army.

The ship’s self-service laundry was a humid, windowless compartment on the 03 level, vibrating with the collective spin-cycles of six industrial machines. It smelled of bleach, scorched lint, and the aggressive, floral sweetness of detergent—a sharp contrast to the usual scent of the Pack.

Parker, who had his own washing to do, found them there. He opened the door and stopped dead.

The room was filled with the ground element of Alpha Squadron. And they were all nearly naked.

Twelve of the most dangerous men on the planet were leaning against bulkheads or sitting on folding tables, wearing nothing but their boxers. Their MultiCams were tumbling in the washers, turning the water a dark, muddy brown.

The operators were observing Machine Number 4 like they were witnessing a religious apparition.

"This is a new look," Parker noted, leaning against the doorframe, his face fighting a smirk. "Is this a team-building exercise, or did you lose a bet?"

Mack, wearing olive-drab boxers and looking surprisingly dignified despite his sling, pointed a finger at the spinning machines. "CBRN decontamination, Parker. The landlords got touchy. Apparently, we were 'compromising the ship's capacity to operate.' The Master Chief threatened to hose us down on the flight deck if we didn't boil our gear."

"We didn’t exactly bring spare kits," Mills chimed in from atop a dryer, swinging his legs. “It was supposed to be a 48-hour raid, not a two-week cruise."

Parker looked at the washers. "You know standard detergent ruins the thermal-masking on those uniforms, right?"

"I don't care," Mack said with profound seriousness. "I'd trade my stealth for the feeling of clean fabric. If I have to glow in the dark to not smell like a dead goat, so be it."

"We tested it," Davis, the junior operator, piped up. He was hugging a warm bundle of laundry to his chest like it was gold bullion. "I washed my kit first. Just to see if the machines would eat it. It’s safe. It’s... it’s sorcery, Sir. Everything came out warm."

"Sorcery," Mills agreed, his eyes distant and dreamy. "Black magic. It smells like a meadow. I could live in here."

The door opened behind Parker, and a Supply Petty Officer squeezed past, carrying a large clear bag. He looked at the room full of half-naked special forces operators, didn't even blink—he’d seen everything—and dumped the bag on the table.

"Compliments of Supply," the sailor said. "You boys might need some extra cover. Don't get used to it."

He walked out.

Mack ripped the bag open. It was filled with standard-issue Navy PT gear: bright yellow t-shirts and dark blue shorts with NAVY printed in reflective silver letters.

The room went silent. The operators looked at the gear with deep, tribal suspicion.

“Blue and yellow,” Mack whispered, lifting a pair of shorts with two fingers as if they were dangerous. "They want us to wear... Squid Blue."

“It's a PsyOp," Mills muttered. "They're trying to assimilate us. Next thing you know, we'll be wearing the full Donald Duck outfit."

“Careful, you’ll start wanting a pillowcase next," Parker cut in, enjoying the show. "But frankly, compared to what you’re currently wearing—or not wearing—it’s an upgrade. Put the pants on before you scare the sailors. I can see absolutely everything.”

Mack sighed, the slow sigh of a man surrendering his dignity for comfort. He grabbed a gold yellow shirt. "Fine. But if anyone takes a picture, there will be casualties."

Minutes later, Parker watched as the Alpha team stood in front of the dryers, dressed in ill-fitting Navy gold and blue, waiting for the buzz of the cycle. They looked ridiculous. They looked comfortable.

"You look good in gold, it’s clearly your color, Mack," Parker teased, turning to leave.

"Walk away, Parker," Mack warned, though he was already burying his face in a warm, freshly dried combat shirt. "Just walk away and let me have my moment with the fabric softener.”

- - -

The ship’s gym was a repurposed compartment deep in the hull with the permanent smell of rubber, cold iron, and the paint coated in the perspiration of hundreds of sailors who had used it. It was the only place on the ‘boat’ where the operators felt like they could breathe, even if the deck was way too unstable for their liking.

Brody was resting against a bolted-down bench press, his arms holding onto the bar to keep him upright. He was supposed to be taking it light but watching Mack do one-armed kettlebell swings while Mills practiced balance drills with his single crutch was making his skin itch. He felt like a decommissioned tank watching the guys have all the fun.

Then, he felt the low itch in his skin change. It wasn’t the high-voltage need for Parker; it was a sudden, jagged spike of internal heat.

The world tilted ten degrees to port, but the ship hadn't moved. Brody’s knees didn't buckle so much as they simply ceased to be part of his functional hardware.

"Boss?" Mack caught him before his head hit the iron plates.

"Fine," Brody grunted, though his vision was a grainy mess. "Just… system reset."

“Reset my ass… it’s crashing, Boss. You’re running hot like a radiator," Mills said, dropping his crutch and swinging Brody’s dense arm over his shoulder.

It was a logistical nightmare. Mack, stubbornly using his one good arm like a forklift, and Mills, hobbling on his good leg, hauled two-hundred-and-fifty pounds of ‘Battered Hercules’ through the narrow, twisting labyrinth of the P-ways. Every knee-knocker was a tactical obstacle. Sailors pressed themselves against the bulkheads to make a hole for the struggling trio, their eyes wide at the sight of the Alpha lead being carried like a downed asset.

By the time they hit the Medbay, Brody was radiating with a fever that made the antiseptic air feel like ice. They tossed him onto a rack, the metal frame groaning under the impact.

“Fever spiking," Mack barked at the duty Corpsman. "He’s red-lining."

Brody lay back, his teeth chattering. He was conscious, his ‘Operator’ brain trying to log the room, but his focus was fractured. He watched the Corpsmen start to strip his shirt, the Velcro of his brace ripping.

Then, the ruckus started at the doorway.

"Sir, you cannot enter the treatment area during an active intake!" a junior Corpsman yelled.

“Watch it! I’m not a civilian guest! And I’m entering," a familiar, raspy baritone cut through the ward. Parker’s voice was a jagged edge of authority. "Get your hand off my shoulder unless you want to spend your next shore leave in a brig."

"Sir, the Senior Medical Officer is—"

"I don't care if the Surgeon General is in there. Move. Aside."

The barricade of corpsmen didn't just surrender and open; it was deleted. Parker bulldozed into the small space, his Officer composure completely gone, replaced by a level of frantic nannying that Brody had rarely seen.

Parker stopped at the foot of the bed, his eyes locking onto the red, angry inflammation around the stitches. His face went hard as flint.

"Titration," Parker snapped at the SMO who had just arrived. "What’s the payload on that IV? Are we doing 500mg or 1000mg?"

The SMO blinked, confused by the scruffy man in the charcoal Navy hoodie who was currently reading the EKG monitor like it was a satellite photo. "Who are you?”

“I’m—,” Parker snapped, but was cut short.

“The angry mama bear,” Mack provided helpfully.

“Shut up!” Parker barked, not looking back.

Mack snorted. The SMO looked very confused. Parker turned back to him, eyes blazing. "I'm the nightmare scenario if his heart rate doesn't stabilize in the next ten mikes." He reached over, his fingers moving with a neurotic, unpracticed speed as he checked the flow regulator on the IV bag himself. "The drainage is excessive. Why isn't he on a cooling blanket?”

Brody watched from the pillow, his dark eyes dazed and filled with a pained, dopey sort of awe. He’d seen Parker stand down generals, but seeing him fuss over the hardware of Brody's own body was a different kind of hot intake. Parker was completely out of his element, a Navigator trying to play Doctor, and the intensity of it was intoxicating. Or it might have been his meds, he hoped he could keep the thoughts in his head.

Mills stepped forward, trying to be the voice of reason. He put a hand on Parker’s forearm. "Hey, Parker. Easy. The Squids have it under control. Let them—"

Parker turned. He didn't growl; he barked. A sharp Officer snap that echoed off the steel bulkheads and made every sailor in the ward go static. "Stand down, Mills! I’ve got the watch. Back off!"

The Pack reacted instantly. Mack and Mills raised their hands in a synchronized surrender and backed into a tactical retreat against the cabinets.

"Is he always this... dialed-in, Boss?" Mack said, leaning toward the bed.

Brody didn't answer. He was staring at Parker’s profile—at the way the man was currently arguing with the SMO about the treatment of the infection. He felt a surge of warmth that had nothing to do with the fever.

"Boss?" Mack repeated, nudging Brody’s shoulder. "I asked if he’s always that intense."

Brody let out a long, pained groan that sounded suspiciously too satisfied. "He’s… doing his thing, Mack. Just let him…”

The SMO eventually managed to steer Parker to a chair three feet away, but Parker didn't sit. He hovered like a shark near a reef.

The tension in the room began to diffuse as the antibiotics hit Brody's system. Mack and Mills, seeing the crisis pass, reverted to their natural state: the locker room banter.

"Look at him, the Boss has heart eyes,” Mills noted, gesturing to Brody. "He’s just a groaning cinnamon bun who could kill you. It’s actually kind of cute."

"Fucking 'A'," Mack muttered to Mills loud enough for the whole ward to hear. “But can you imagine the AAR after their night in the rack?” He looked directly at Parker, unblinking. “He probably has to do a BDA on the Boss after.”

Parker and Brody both groaned.

"I'm surprised the Boss can still sit down on his buns," Mills chimed in, grinning at the junior operator. “I mean, just imagine the attack with all that force. Must be Sweaty.”

“I don't know how the Boss's chassis is still holding together,” Mack continued.

Parker and Brody had both changed into a deep, violent shade of beet-red. Parker’s gaze and Brody’s stare converged on the team with a shared ‘Frequency of Murder.’

"Look at that," Mills snickered, nudging Mack. "They even blush in sync. Like two peas in a pod. So cute."

"SHUT THE FUCK UP!" Parker and Brody barked at the exact same time, their voices joining in a single roar.

The team roared with laughter, the sound of the ‘Viking Horde’ filling the Medbay.

By that point, the Corpsmen had realized the Medbay was no longer under their control. They had lost the ground and decided to execute a strategic retreat to the passageway.

Brody closed his eyes, the pained warmth returning to his chest. He might have been a ‘groaning cinnamon bun’ and his mate definitely was a ‘neurotic nanny,’ but as the ship rolled on the swells, he knew the signal was perfectly, embarrassingly clean.

- - -

By the next day, the Medbay staff had officially reached their limit with the Wounded Hercules. After all the stunts Brody had pulled to escape, the Senior Medical Officer had threatened to use plastic zip-ties to keep him in the rack.

Parker had audited the threat, found it viable, and decided to leave the Operator to his fate while he went to seek a reprieve from the calm air of the ward.

He was navigating the 02 Level passageway, his mind running through the final legal phrasing for the kid’s status, when he encountered the Alpha-duo. Mack and Mills were on the P-way against a bulkhead near the heavy joiner door that led to the Officers’ Country and Wardroom.

"No way, it’s happening!” Mack said, nudging Mills as Parker approached the door they were clearly conducting a stakeout for. "Someone is actually using that hatch. I thought it was just a high-status decoy and not real."

"It’s a door, Mack. Even you have seen one before," Parker deadpanned, slowing his stride.

"We’ve been surveilling here for ten mikes," Mills added, leaning on his crutch. “To see if it is even a real thing. Haven’t seen a single soul enter or exit. We were starting to think the Navy just kept their starched aristocrats in cryostats until they were needed for a parade."

Parker offered a dry, razor-sharp smirk. “That's the Holy Land, boys. You wouldn't understand.” Then he continued face serious, “If you even tried to cross that threshold, you’d probably burst into flames from the sheer lack of dirt. Your systems aren't calibrated for clean air and actual manners."

Double snort. ”Is it true what you said?" Mack asked, gesturing to the door. "About the ironed papers and the ass-molded chairs?"

"And then some," Parker countered, reaching for the handle. “I'd invite you in, but I’m not sure you know how to behave in a room with actual furniture. I don't want to explain to the Captain why his guests are trying to eat the tablecloths or using the salad forks to clean their fingernails. Stay in the P-way; the linoleum is more your speed. You’re never getting in."

"Squid," Mills muttered with a grin.

Parker ducked inside, the sturdy door clicking shut and effectively deleting the noise of the ship.

The Wardroom was all about traditional naval luxury from deck to overhead. It smelled of lemon oil, high-grade coffee, and the faint, crisp scent of laundered linen. The chairs were dark wood and blue leather, bolted to a deck covered in a deep-pile rug that swallowed the sounds of Parker’s boots and the ship. In the center was the main table, set with silver-plated water pitchers and real ceramic plates.

It was the environment of his first life—the surrounding where he had been forged.

He took his seat at a small side table and a Steward appeared instantly with a pot of the dark roast.

“Good day, Sir. What would you like to have today?"

“I’ll have the salad with a double ration of the chicken, Chief," Parker ordered. "And I need a second tray prepared and delivered to the Medbay. Double portions on everything, including the dessert."

The Steward nodded, scribbling on a pad. "For the Army guest, Sir?"

"You'll know who it's for when you get there," Parker noted dryly. "Just look for the big guy who’s trying to dismantle the bed frame.”

By 1830, the ship had shifted to the night mode and it was time for the dinner service.

Parker had checked on his guy briefly after lunch, then spent the afternoon successfully laundering identities through three different NGOs. His head was buzzing with the effort, and he was looking forward to a quiet meal before heading back to the Medbay to discharge the tension.

He pushed open the Wardroom door, expecting the usual hushed, disciplined atmosphere of the evening watch officers.

He stopped dead at the threshold.

The ‘Holy Land’ had been breached.

Mack and Mills were sitting at the head of the long mahogany table, looking like two predators who had successfully infiltrated high society. They had both shaved, their jawlines sharp and clean, and they were wearing crisp, short-sleeved button-downs they had clearly liberated from the ship’s store or laundry.

Mack was currently holding a silver-plated knife and fork with an exaggerated, pinky-out precision, while Mills was staring at a white linen napkin as if it were a piece of alien technology.

"Parker!" Mack called out. Both illegals grinning and waving at him. "You’re late for the briefing. We were just discussing the texture of the prime rib. We heard it grazed free in the plains of Montana.”

“Her name was Daisy… or Bella,” Mills provided like it was actually vital intel.

Parker remained frozen, his ‘Officer’ brain struggling to calculate the security failure. "How... why are you in here?"

“An absolute operational necessity," Mills said, grinning as he patted his mouth with the corner of his napkin. "Turns out the Captain is a fan of our combined efforts.”

“Our combined efforts?” Parker repeated, his brow lifting.

“He figured since we were nannying his favorite contractor, we deserved a taste of the Wardroom,” Mills winked. "He even offered us the Sunday roster for dinner."

"I've never seen one of these before," Mack admitted, holding up his napkin. "It’s like a tiny, soft towel just for your face. Why are we living in the mud, Parker? I feel elegant. It’s disgusting.”

"You look like two circus bears who found a tuxedo and are trying not to rip the seams," Parker retorted, finally finding his stride and walking to the table. He leaned down, his eyes narrowing at their plates. "Are you actually using the forks correctly?"

"The outer hardware for the greenery, the bigger tools are for the heavy ordnance called the main course," Mills recited, pointing to his cutlery with a wink. “And these tiny things are for the dessert. We’re quick learners, Parker."

Parker felt a rich, genuine laugh bubble up in his chest. He looked at the two Tier-1 killers dabbing their mouths with linen in a room full of dazed Navy Ensigns and Lieutenants. He realized then that the ‘Mutiny’ was complete, not particularly dangerous but very irresponsible in terms of morale.

"Don't get used to it," Parker smirked, taking a chair. "You'll be back to eating mystery rations over a dirt hole in no time."

"Maybe," Mack said, signaling a Steward for more water. "But tonight? Tonight, the Army is enjoying the Holy Land.”

“And did you know the butter is real, Parker. It’s Fucking real,” Mills gushed.

“Please watch the language, dear Sir,” Parker deadpanned without missing a beat.

- - -

Parker tracked the Captain from the bridge down to the tactical heart of the ship. The Executive Officer, a sharp-eyed Lieutenant Commander, had pointed him toward the Combat Information Center (CIC) with a warning that the ‘Old Man was deep in the weeds.’

Parker descended the ladderwell into the ship’s darkened core. The air here was colder, super-cooled to protect the banks of servers and radar consoles. The lighting shifted from the fluorescent white of the passageways to a low-level tactical blue.

He stopped at the soundproofed steel door of the CIC. He didn't open it. He knew what was inside: the glowing screens, the hushed urgent whispers of fire-control, and the real-time picture of the battle space; a room where the sailors knew everything within and beyond the horizon, and where decisions were measured in seconds and lives.

Parker knocked twice—a solid, rhythmic rap on the steel.

A moment later, the heavy door cracked open. A junior Operations Specialist poked his head out, bathed in the blue glow. He recognized Parker instantly.

"Mr. Parker. You’re cleared to enter. Come on in."

Parker didn't move. He stayed firmly in the passageway, his boots planted on the linoleum. "Negative. I’m a civilian. The CIC is for warfighters, and I’m just the guy who mops up the spills. I’d be dead weight in there. Tell the Captain I’ll wait for a lull."

The specialist blinked, surprised, then nodded and closed the door.

Two minutes later, the door opened again. Captain Garret stepped out, rubbing his eyes. He looked like he was carrying the weight of the entire destroyer—the 9,500 tons—on his shoulders.

"You know you have the clearance," Garret said, his voice rough. "You could have come in."

"Respect the deck, Nate," Parker said simply. "I’m not in the chain of command anymore. I don't cross that threshold unless I really need to."

Garret gave a tired, appreciative smile. "Fair enough. Sea Cabin?"

"Sea Cabin."

They moved a few doors down to the Commanding Officer’s second sanctuary—a tiny, austere room used for sleeping and working while the ship was at battle stations. It was the size of a closet, containing a rack, a desk, and a secure terminal.

Parker took the chair; Garret sat on the edge of the bunk.

"I have the solution," Parker stated, skipping the pleasantries. "The AHB has aligned the assets."

Garret leaned forward, his attention sharpening. "Give it to me."

"Here is the dilemma," Parker began, his voice dropping into the clinical, lecture-hall tone of the Conductor. "You have a live grenade in your Medbay. If you keep the kid, the press finds out and you’re running a floating Guantanamo for minors. If you release him back to the beach, the local insurgency grabs him. They parade him around as a hero who survived the American devils, they radicalize him further, and in a few years, he’s planting IEDs that kill your sailors."

Parker paused, letting the reality sink in.

"Both options are a strategic loss. We create a disaster either way.”

Garret nodded slowly. "So what’s the third option?"

"Laundering," Parker said. "We don't release him to the country of origin. We release him to the refugee system."

He pulled a folded piece of paper from his pocket—not a document, just a handwritten timeline.

“The company has leverage with a medical NGO operating out of Oman. They handle high-risk pediatric trauma in conflict zones. We frame this as a 'Humanitarian Medical Evacuation.' The Navy stabilized him, realized the local infrastructure couldn't handle the recovery, and transferred him to a neutral third party for specialized care."

"And the actual target?" Garret asked.

Parker’s face went cold. “Not part of the package. He’s a bad one, Nate. The intel confirms he’s part of the cell. He doesn't get a lifeboat. He goes into the standard rendition pipeline. He’s done. I’m not here to fix the foreign policy; I’m just here to make sure we don't punish the kid for his father’s sins."

Garret let out a long breath, the tension leaving his shoulders. "Refugee status for the boy?"

"Essentially. The NGO gets him out of the theater. He gets a life, and the Navy gets sweet silence or a press release about saving a child’s life if needed."

"It’s clean," Garret admitted, looking at Parker with genuine admiration. "It’s brilliant."

"It’s expensive," Parker corrected. "But that’s why you called. We pay the bills the DoD can't sign."

"Timeline?"

"That’s the catch," Parker said. "Moving this kind of money and forging the 'Medical Necessity' papers takes time. We’re looking at seven days, maybe up to fourteen, before we can move the assets. We’re stuck here until the transfer is bulletproof."

"I can keep you on board for two weeks if needed," Garret said, nodding. "The Admiral will be happy to have this problem disappear. The Navy owes you big time for this, Paul. This saves a lot of stars from falling."

“That’s usually reflected in the invoice, Nate. That covers the Navy's debt," Parker said, standing up.

He paused at the door, his hand on the latch. He looked back at his old rowing partner.

"But you owe me, Nate."

Garret smirked. "I figured. What do you need? A case of scotch?"

Parker’s expression softened, the 'Conductor' mask slipping just enough to show the man underneath. He leaned in and made his request—a list of items that had nothing to do with national security and everything to do with a specific 250-pound soulful beast.

Garret stared at him for a second, then shook his head, laughing. "You’re planning something. Something that’s definitely against regulations."

"Strategic morale improvement," Parker said with a wink.

"You got it," Garret said.

- - -

The launch was a source of pure joy for everyone involved. The boat davit whined as it lowered two 22-foot Rigid Inflatable Boats (RIBs) into the swells of the sea.

“Keep your hands and legs inside the ride at all times,” Parker announced before he slammed the gas.

Parker was at the helm of the lead boat, his hand resting on the throttle with the casual confidence of a man who had spent his twenties driving these exact platforms. He had claimed Alpha-Alpha as his cargo: Brody, Mack, Mills, and the junior operator named Davis. The second RIB, piloted by a ship’s Boatswain's Mate, carried the rest of the squad, Alpha-Bravo, creating a two-boat formation cutting away from the gray steel wall of the destroyer.

The Paul in him absolutely loved this. Fast, nimble boat cutting through the water with a low profile close to the surface. The water spray in the air, the scent of the ocean hitting him with speed and pushing his hair back. He gave way to his temptations cutting a few waves directly, sending the small craft airborne. His cargo gripped the safety rails, knuckles white.

"Now this is a boat," Parker shouted over the roar of the outboard engine and the wind. "See the difference? No showers, no mess hall, no missiles. Just fiberglass and air."

"Copy that, Captain," Mack yelled back, grinning into the spray.

They ran for twenty minutes, putting nautical miles of deep blue water between them and the Navy regulation. Parker navigated them toward a shallow reef system he’d spotted on the charts—a tactical waypoint for local fish.

When he cut the engines, the silence was immediate and profound. The boat bobbed gently in the swell.

"Free fire zone," Parker announced. "Sun’s out, guns out. Let’s see if you boys can catch something other than a cold."

The operators didn't need to be told twice. In a flurry of movement, the PFDs and T-shirts came off.

For Parker, it was a visual assault of the best kind. The RIB was suddenly filled with an excessive amount of prime, sun-starved beef. It was a display of functional, lethal muscle—torsos scarred by shrapnel and defined by thousands of hours of carrying heavy loads.

But his eyes naturally locked on his beast. Brody sat on the rubberized pontoon, shirtless, his face turned toward the sun. The bandage on his gut was stark white against his skin, but the rest of him was a landscape of defined power—the broad, hairy chest, the boulder-like deltoids, and the thick arms resting on his knees. He looked like a king on vacation.

Parker watched him adjust his sunglasses, the mirrored lenses reflecting the endless blue.

"It’s amazing," Parker noted dryly, leaning against the center console. "The Army doesn't issue brains, but they make sure every operator is born with a pair of Oakleys attached to their skull. It’s like a genetic marker."

"It’s called eye protection, Parker," Mills shot back, adjusting his own pair. "And it makes us look cool. Unlike your... whatever those are."

"Persol," Parker corrected. "It’s called classic style. You wouldn't understand."

"Hey, Admiral Parker," Mack called out.

Parker snorted at the dry joke, “Yes, General.”

Mack dug a waterproofed phone from his gear. "Since you're so worried about naval tradition and protocol, I thought you'd appreciate this tactical maneuver we executed on the bow yesterday."

He shoved the screen in Parker’s face with a grin.

It was a photo taken on the forecastle of the destroyer. Mills was standing on the very edge of the prow, arms spread wide in a theatrical embrace of the wind. Mack was standing behind him, arms wrapped around Mills’ waist, chin resting tenderly on his shoulder. It was a perfect, high-definition recreation of the movie pose, performed by two killers in MultiCam.

Parker stared at the image. He looked at Mack, then at Mills, who was currently preening with a shit-eating grin.

"You two are idiots," Parker stated flatly. "Absolute, unmitigated disasters. If the Captain sees that, he’s going to keelhaul you for defacing a warship with that level of cheese."

"It’s sweet," Brody rumbled from the pontoon, a grin cracking his face. "Shows unit cohesion."

"It shows a need for a psych eval," Parker corrected, pushing the phone away. “I bet you were singing Celine Dion as well.”

Mack and Mills grinned wide, but had the courtesy of looking at least a bit sheepish. “Maybe,” Mack admitted.

“You do know that everyone on the bridge saw that?” Parker teased.

That got the duo to freeze momentarily before they burst out laughing.

They fished for an hour. Parker had scavenged the rods from the Chiefs’ Mess, trading favors for gear. To his surprise, the operators weren't just thrashing the water; they were patient.

"You know," Mack said, casting his line with a fluid motion. "This was a solid call, Parker. The Boss loves this shit."

Parker looked over at Brody. The big man was holding his rod with a relaxed grip, staring at the horizon with a look of total, serene peace. The ‘Current’ in his skin was gone.

"He does?" Parker asked.

"Oh yeah," Mills chimed in. "Give him a stick and some water, and he’s happy. The man would try to fish in a puddle if he thought there was a bite. Best birthday present he could have asked for."

Parker froze. He kept his face neutral, the 'Conductor' mask slipping into place to hide his surprise. He knew some of Brody’s file—he knew the date of birth—but he hadn't realized today was the actual day. He had planned the trip as a morale boost, to get the guys out of the steel hull, but the timing was accidental perfection.

"Calculated," Parker lied smoothly. "I aim to please."

Brody looked over his shoulder, a slow, grateful smile spreading across his face. "You did good, Paul. Real good."

The peace lasted another hour. The sun climbed higher, baking the salt into their skin. Parker, in his ‘Neurotic Nanny’ mode, had spent the morning forcing water bottles on everyone and applying high-SPF sunscreen to Brody’s shoulders to protect the man.

But as the sun hit its zenith, Parker’s stomach gave a hollow, angry growl.

He opened the cooler.

Water. Ice. More water. Sunscreen.

No sandwiches. No protein bars.

Parker stared into the cooler, his brow furrowing. He had been so focused on the logistics of the boat, the gear, and the medical safety of his partner that he had forgotten the one thing he preached: Fuel.

He slammed the lid shut.

"Everything okay, Skipper?" Mack asked, reeling in a small grouper.

"Fine," Parker snapped.

Ten minutes later, Parker was pacing the small deck space behind the console. He was frowning at the ocean.

"You're vibrating," Brody noted from his spot on the pontoon.

"I'm not vibrating," Parker growled. "I'm assessing the drift."

"You're hangry," Brody corrected, a smirk playing on his lips. "I know that face. That’s the 'I’m about to invade a sovereign nation for a snack' face."

"I forgot the lunch," Parker admitted, the words tasting like failure. "I packed enough water to hydrate a camel, but I forgot the food."

The team burst out laughing.

"The fixer fails!" Mills crowed. "The Navy starves!"

"Shut up," Parker snapped, crossing his arms. "You guys ate a breakfast heavy enough to sink this boat. I had coffee."

"Here," Brody said. He reached into his cargo shorts and pulled out a slightly squashed, foil-wrapped bar. "Emergency ration. Squirrelled it away from the mess deck."

He tossed it to Parker.

Parker caught it. It was a dry, military-grade protein brick. He looked at it, then at Brody.

"Eat it," Brody ordered, his voice warm but firm. "Before you start a mutiny against your own vessel… or decide to invade Somalia."

Parker tore the wrapper open and took a bite. It tasted like chalk and chemicals, but it stopped the growling. He looked at the boat full of laughing, shirtless operators, and the big man smiling at him from the edge.

"Happy birthday, you giant pain in the ass," Parker muttered, chewing the dry bar.

"Best one yet," Brody replied, turning back to the sea.

- - -

The sun was a dying ember on the horizon, bleeding deep crimson and bruised purple across the Arabian Sea. At the aft of DDG-81, the world was defined by the relentless, churning white of the wake—a violent, foaming trail that stretched back toward the life they had nearly abandoned.

Watching the swirling water behind was a dizzying view. Yet, as powerful it was, it was also profoundly calming—the way open, flowing water always was.

Unlike the theatrical flying pose Mack and Mills had executed on the prow, there was no audience here. No cameras. No performance.

Parker leaned against the steel safety rail of the fantail, his elbows hooked over the top. He wasn't looking at the horizon; he was watching Brody. The big man was standing a few feet away, his crutches abandoned against the railing, his weight braced against the rail. He was in a blue Navy T-shirt, the fabric stretching wide over his pecs, the humid evening air clinging to the salt on his skin. Earlier, Parker had teased the Army guy over the man’s clothing choices but he’d secretly liked how the man wore the shirt with easy confidence.

They were deep in the ‘Confidential Dark’ on the deserted deck, even if the sun hadn't quite vanished.

"I thought about the silence," Brody said, his voice a low, gravelly vibration that barely cleared the distance, the wake. "When I hit the dirt in that compound. When the lights started to flicker. When I almost died.”

Parker went still, his gaze locking onto Brody’s face.

"I didn't think about the mission," Brody continued, his voice a jagged rasp that felt like it was tearing through his own chest. "I didn't think about the team or the medevac. I just thought about how you’d find out. Not even a generic notification from the DoD.” He paused to swallow. “I just thought about the last thing I said to you. And the generic comms-checks we shared. My lie. I know… silence is a terminal error. It’s the mistake I can’t recover from.”

Parker nodded.

“I realized… My silence wasn't a shield, Paul—it was your burial. I almost died in the dirt holding onto a lie, and the thought of you not even finding out... it was the only thing that actually terrified me.” He exhaled slowly. “I’m done with the compartments. I need you to be the one who knows where I’ve fallen."

Brody looked up, his dark eyes raw. "I spent twenty years thinking that being the shield meant keeping the noise away from the people I care about. But I was wrong… With you, the silence didn't protect the home; it just left me alone in the dirt and abandoned you. I want you to get the ground truth. All of it. Always."

Parker exhaled—a long, shaky release of pressure. He stepped away from the rail, closing the gap until he was standing in Brody’s heat.

"I have my own BDA to report," Parker said, his voice in the smooth, private register of their secret society. “As I told you… I know the choice I made was a strategic failure. I treated our alliance like a botched contract I could just walk away from. I told myself I was defending my integrity, but I was just a coward refusing to hold the line and be honest."

Parker reached out, his hand resting flat against Brody’s chest, feeling the rhythmic thrum of the man’s heart.

"But there's a larger vulnerability under it all," Parker noted, his eyes narrowing as he analyzed the wreckage of the last weeks. “In all this… I’m a ghost, Brian. Seeing you on this deck, being driftwood fished out by the Navy, not knowing anything, forced to operate in the dark,… it made our status clear. To the System, I’m an outside asset. I’m nothing. If you go down again, I have zero standing. I have no access to you. No seat. No rights to the outcome.”

Brody swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple working around a permanent lump.

“I can’t hold you while they cut you open. I have no place in your life."

He gripped the fabric of Brody's MultiCam trousers at the hip, his knuckles white with a sudden, desperate possessiveness.

“I've spent years making the truth disappear. …and I almost did it to us. I refuse to be on the outside ever again. I want to be the one they have to call. I want to be yours, if you’ll have me."

Brody’s hand landed on the one holding him, covering Parker’s, his thumb tracing the line of Parker’s wrist. He understood the math. They were two independent weapons being moved by the same system; they needed a joint structure that the Machine couldn't override.

"We need to game the system," Brody rumbled, a slow, predatory grin finally breaking through the emotion. "We need a legal mandate that forces the door open."

"Chain of Custody," Parker agreed, his smirk returning—dry, wicked, and entirely in sync. "A tactical acquisition of status."

"You want to merge the commands?" Brody asked, a husked breath, his eyes dilating with the weight of the realization.

"I want you. I want the System to recognize that we belong to the same unit—that what we have is unbreakable. I want to be yours, if you’ll have me."

Brody let out a short, rich huff of a laugh, leaning his forehead against Parker’s. A groan followed, but the joy behind it was absolute. “I’ll always have you, I’m yours. I'm in for the deployment.”

“You’re sure?” Parker checked. “And it’s not just you going crazy, getting cabin fever, trapped inside the steel?”

“Nah, your tin can is tight, but I’ve found a mighty good travel companion on this cruise.” Brody husked. “The DoD was kind enough to ship my fancy pants on board. I’m not going anywhere.”

Parker let out a huff, something close to a laugh. "Good," he whispered. "We just need to find the hardware.”

“This is so mushy. You are a sappy man, Paul,” Brody husked with a low rumble, a wide, boyish grin splitting his stubble.

“Shut it,” Parker whispered, though the heat in his neck betrayed him.

“But you owe me,” Brody teased, leaning his weight into Parker’s. “You have to do it properly someday. I want the whole show.”

They stood together side by side at the edge of the world, watching the wake disappear into the dark that was starting to creep in. Their fingers tangled on the rail,

They stood together side by side at the edge of the world, watching the wake disappear into the dark that was starting to creep in.

Their fingers tangled on the rail. Their faces open and bright—a mix of boyish mischief and pure joy.

They were two soldiers who had stopped fighting the inevitable and were finally ready to take on the Machine as a single, unyielding unit. A phalanx of two that the System recognized, and on a frequency the world couldn't jam.

- - -

The traverse from the humid salt air of the fantail to the cooled hull and then down to the furnace-like gut of the ship was a rapid transition of elements. Parker led the way, his boots finding the vertical ladder rungs with the unconscious rhythm of a native, while Brody followed with a series of pained, metallic clangs as his crutches fought the narrow descent into the heat.

They were dropping deep, past the berthing decks and the armory, down into the snakepit—the industrial heart where the snipes and engineers lived in a world of high-pressure steam and permanent grease.

"You're getting all soft on me, Paul," Brody rumbled, his voice echoing in the tight steel well. "First the fishing trip, then the sunset speech. Now you’re taking me shopping?"

Parker paused on a landing, looking up at the Wolf. "It’s a tactical acquisition. We need the components."

Brody let out a short, jagged huff of a laugh, navigating the last three rungs. "Sure. Components. Just admit it, you’re a closet romantic. What’s next? You want a white dress and a carriage? Do you really want to be treated like a princess?"

Parker laughed, the sound ringing in Brody’s ears. Yet, right after the man’s brow lowered into a deadly, unimpressed stare. "If you call me a princess again, Bambi, I’ll have you walk the plank."

“I know the plank is not a real thing. Empty threats, princess Paul," Brody teased, leaning on his crutches with a crooked, devastating smirk. “It has a nice ring to it."

"Move your ass, Army," Parker snapped, though the smirk tugged at his own lips.

They pushed through a watertight door and into the Machine Shop. The air here was thick with the smell of cutting oil and grinding metal. It was a cavern of lathes, drill presses, and workbenches where the ship’s literal nuts and bolts were forged.

A grizzled Chief Petty Officer with grease-stained forearms and a face that looked like it was carved from a cinderblock looked up from a milling machine. He squinted through his safety glasses, then froze.

"Parker?" the Chief croaked, wiping his hands on a rag. "Jesus H. Christ. Is that you under all that scruff?"

"Chief Sully," Parker said, stepping into the shop. A genuine, warm light hit his eyes. "I didn’t know you were still locked down here breaking things."

Sully let out a rich, booming laugh and stepped forward, ignoring the grease as he gripped Parker’s forearm. "I’m the only one who knows how to treat her right, sir. What the hell are you doing back on 81? I heard you went to the Swamp to manage the Suits.”

"I got better," Parker noted dryly.

Sully’s gaze shifted to Brody, taking in the MultiCams, the crutches, and the sheer scale of the man. The Chief’s eyes narrowed in professional appreciation. "This the trouble I heard we fished out of the drink?"

“The very same," Parker confirmed. "High maintenance."

"I can see that," Sully grinned at Brody. "You’re a big one, soldier. Glad we had the crane for the extraction."

Brody nodded, feeling the shift in tempo and the more relaxed focus. He saw the way Sully looked at Parker—not with the starched deference of an officer, but with the bone-deep loyalty of a man who had worked in the dirt with him.

"I need something, Sully," Parker said, leaning against a workbench. "Something from the high-tensile inventory. Small diameter. Corrosion-resistant."

Sully didn't ask why. He just nodded and walked to a cabinet labeled Fittings. He rummaged through a drawer of precision-machined components and pulled out a handful of O-rings—silver-gray circles of aerospace-grade titanium.

“Something like these? These are for the fuel injectors on the turbines," Sully explained, dropping them into Parker’s palm. "They can handle 10,000 PSI and enough heat to melt a car. They don't break, they don't rust, and they don't yield."

Parker picked out two of the rings, testing the weight and the size. They were cold, heavy, and unapologetically industrial—the only hardware worthy of the mission.

Parker handed one to Brody. The engine noise was loud, their eyes locked. They nodded.

Brody took the titanium circle, rolling it between his thumb and forefinger. It was a piece of the ship. A piece of the machine. It was more honest than anything traditional could ever be.

“I like the specs and tolerances," Brody rumbled, looking at Parker.

"Yeah," Parker said, nodding to Sully. "Put it on my tab, Chief."

"On the house, sir," Sully said.

Parker nodded with a smile that reached his eyes.

"Come on," Parker said to his man, turning back toward the P-way. "We have a date. I reserved a table and all that.” He turned to wink at Brody.

Brody snorted and tucked the titanium into his pocket, his dark eyes dilated. “Aww. Aren’t you pampering me, princ—”

"You're still a dead man," Parker retorted, but he stayed close enough for Brody to lean on him as they began their ascent back up.

The long climb to the 02 Level was a slow, rhythmic labor of steel and friction. Parker maintained a steady pace, his hand hovering near the small of Brody’s back—not touching, but ready to provide the secondary brace if the crutches slipped.

Brody was huffing, but it wasn't just the physical exertion of the ladders. His heavy brow was lowered, his jaw set in a dark, brooding sulk that Parker had been tracking since they’d left the Machine Shop.

“You’re radiating enough irritation to jam the ship’s radar,” Parker noted as they reached the carpeted quiet of Officers' Country.

“I hope I’m guessing where we are heading. How come Mack and Mills got in? Before me?” Brody grumbled, the words a low-frequency vibration.

Parker barked a laugh. His guy was ridiculous.

“They haven’t shut up about the napkins. Or the butter. Mills actually described the bread as ethereal… the guy actually rambled about the texture… And I’ve spent days in a Medbay rack, while my team is running a culinary reconnaissance before I even get a look at it.”

Parker let out a rich, genuine laugh, his eyes bright with mischief. “You’re jealous. That’s a new low for you, buddy.”

“Shut up,” Brody muttered, though the tips of his ears turned red. “I just don’t like being the last man through the door.”

“Well, consider the perimeter breached,” Parker said, reaching for the wooden handle of the Wardroom. “And for the record, the butter and the bread… they really are that good.”

They stepped inside. The transition from the gray, industrial P-way to the Wardroom was always a sensory recalibration. The low industrial roar of the ship was replaced by the hushed clink of silver-plated cutlery and the low murmur of professional conversation. The air of the dinner service smelled of expensive roast beef and the crisp, clean scent of the white linens.

Brody went static for a second, his massive frame feeling absurdly misplaced against the blue leather and mahogany. He looked like a wolf that had been invited to a high-society gala and was currently deciding whether to sit at the table or turn around and leave.

“Table in the corner,” Parker guided, keeping his voice a low, smooth baritone. “Secluded. Good lines of sight.”

They sat. A Steward appeared instantly, placing real cloth napkins in front of them. Brody stared at the white fabric as if it were a delicate explosive device.

“Just put it on your lap, big guy,” Parker teased. “Your MultiCams will appreciate the shield.”

They ordered and for a few minutes, the silence between them was foundational. They absorbed the proximity across the table, the heat grounding them into the shared orbit they had reclaimed in the cabin.

“You were right,” Brody whispered, leaning his thick elbows on the table, looking at the silver water pitcher. “About the quiet. It’s… focused.”

“It’s a performance of order,” Parker said, his expression turning serious. “A mask the Navy wears to pretend the world isn't chaotic. But tonight, it’s just a room with good fuel and quiet we’ve earned.”

The sturdy door of the Wardroom swung open, and the room’s ambient noise dipped by a crucial notch. Captain Nate Garret walked in, his khakis crisp. He observed the room briefly and didn't head directly for the Captain’s table; he banked toward the corner.

Parker and Brody both began to shift, the instinct to rise for the CO overriding the exhaustion.

“As you were,” Garret said, raising a hand to keep them seated. He stopped at the edge of their table, his wolfish grin appearing as he raked his eyes over the duo.

He looked at Brody—at the clean Navy T-shirt and the way the man was currently holding a silver fork like a combat knife. “Nice shirt, Army,” Garret noted, his voice dripping with amused condescension. “I didn't realize we were accepting transfers from the infantry. The Blue-side look is a significant upgrade from the mud; it almost makes you look civilized.”

Brody shifted, his jaw tightening in a genuine smirk. “Just auditing the inventory, Sir. I heard the Navy had a surplus of soft laundry and decent soap. I’m just conducting a feasibility study.”

Garret let out a short bark of a laugh, then looked at Parker, noticing the faint smudge of grease on Parker’s thumb from Engineering.

“You’ve been busy,” Garret noted, his voice low.

Parker met his classmate's eye, his spine finding that Annapolis steel. He nodded. 

Garret nodded back once—a sharp, professional acknowledgement. “Good. Let’s not talk shop, but just to let you know. The Admiral has signed off. You’ve done the Navy a solid.”

He turned his focus back to Brody, his expression softening into a look of genuine respect. “And you. I’m glad you two found a stable point to anchor to.”

“Thank you, Sir,” Brody managed, his voice sounding more like the Operator he was than the patient.

“Enjoy the steak,” Garret said, giving Parker’s shoulder a final squeeze.

As the Captain took his table, the room returned to its hushed rhythm.

Brody looked at Parker, his dark eyes dilated. He reached out under the table, his hand finding Parker’s knee and gripping it with a strength that would have been painful if it weren't so honest.

“He knows,” Brody whispered.

“He’s a sailor, Brian,” Parker said, his smirk returning—warm and settled. “He knows a clean signal when he sees one.”

Brody let out a long, shuddering breath and picked up his fork, finally attacking the steak with his usual mechanical efficiency. “This butter... it really is fucking real, Paul.”

“Told you,” Parker smiled, reaching for his own tool. “Now eat. We have a long watch to celebrate.” He glanced around quickly, leaned in and whispered, “You better stuff yourself, I’m gonna edge you the whole night.”

Brody choked on his drink.

- - -

The heavy steel door hadn't even fully latched before they were devouring each other. The manual deadbolt slammed home with a frantic thud-click, sealing them into the only air they wanted to breathe.

Brody moved with a sudden, predatory agility that ignored the protest of his stitches. He crowded Parker against the locker, his rough, big hands cupping Parker’s face, thumbs digging into the scruff as their mouths collided. It was a high-voltage impact, a desperate reclamation of territory.

Brody broke the kiss only to dive into the worship of the man before him. He worked with a focused, reverent intensity, his mouth seeking the taste of his mate under the salt and the faint scent of Navy soap on Parker’s skin. He licked and tasted the broad, rowing-built shoulders and the thick plates of Parker’s chest, venerating the grace and the determination written into the muscle.

As Brody’s tongue traced the sensitive line of Parker’s ribs, a short, sharp snigger escaped the Officer’s throat. Parker tried to twist away, his spine hitting the locker with a hollow clang.

“I like that you're ticklish," Brody rumbled, his voice a gravelly vibration against Parker’s skin. He looked up, his dark eyes shining with a boyish, wicked delight. The ‘Standard’ of Alpha Squadron was gone; there was only Brian, mesmerized by the human glitch in his partner’s armor. "I love that. You have a weak spot."

"Shut up," Parker gasped, his face flushing. "It’s totally normal."

"It's perfect," Brody corrected, before Parker flipped the orientation.

Parker claimed Brody’s heat, his hands roaming over the imposing slabs of pectoral muscle—the ‘man tits’ he had been ogling all day on the RIB. He tasted the clean skin beneath the salt, his beard scraping against the sensitive nipples until Brody was groaning towards the overhead. Parker was thorough, cleaning the Wolf’s pits and licking the explosive volume of his biceps, validating every pound of muscle Brian had forged in the dirt.

Brody grabbed Parker’s hand, pulling his fingers into his mouth to lick them clean, his eyes locking onto Paul’s with a hungry, dilated intensity.

"You have no idea how fucking hot you looked on that boat," Brody rasped, his breath hot against Parker’s palm. "I was rock hard for three hours just watching you jump those waves. I’m beating my record tonight. I’m going to make you come until your systems crash."

Brody didn't wait for a rebuttal. He pushed Parker against the bulkhead and dropped to his knees, his massive shoulders providing stability for the man above. He took Parker into his mouth with a single, expert inhale, his tongue working with a rhythmic, ruthless focus. Parker’s head hit the metal, his breath leaving him in a shattered moan.

Brody worked with the relentless efficiency of a machine designed for intake. He engulfed Parker, the heat of his mouth a shocking contrast to the cool air of the cabin. There was no hesitation, no pause for breath—just the tight, rhythmic suction of a man intent on breaking his personal best.

Parker’s knees buckled, his hands scrabbling against the metal and Brody’s hair for purchase as the friction overwhelmed his system. The release hit him like a physical blow, a sudden, blinding white-out that emptied his spine in seconds. He groaned in his aftershocks, half satisfied and half annoyed by the efficiency of his partner.

Brody enjoyed the taste, the warm, thick liquid filling his mouth and traveling down his throat. The essence of his man that told him he’d done well. Brody nuzzled and lapped the balls rumbling against the softening wood, "That's number one.” Looking up with a predatory smirk before Parker hauled him back up.

"My turn to manage the watch," Parker whispered, his voice a jagged edge of intent.

He maneuvered Brody to the bunk, forcing the big man to sit back against the bulkhead. Parker went to work with an agonizing precision.

He made good on his promise and edged Brody, his mouth and fingers alternating between the heavy, pulsing cock and the sensitive nipples until Brody was a leaking, babbling mess. He took his time, brought the man to the cusp of his orgasm and then stopping. Repeating the cycle one after another. Brody’s cock was thick, veiny and throbbing in rage, pleading for release. His sensitive nipples almost in pain from the beard burn, lips and nibbling.

Parker moved lower, his nose brushing the thick musk of Brody’s lap, tongue cleaning the man’s heavy balls, before he pushed the huge legs up and dove into the heat between his mate’s glutes. He tasted the clean skin, the rich, earthy tang of the Wolf. Brody howled, his back bucking off the mattress as Parker’s tongue found its mark.

Parker wondered, with a flash of curiosity, if he could push the beast over the edge with the rim alone. Brody was thrashing, his hands gripping the metal frame of the bed for dear life, his breath coming in ragged, high huffs that echoed slightly through the small cabin.

"Quiet," Parker demanded, his voice a low, dark warning. "OpSec."

Brody tried to stifle a roar, his jaw working as he fought for silence. Parker reached for the desk, grabbing the pair of dark blue boxers—the peace treaty. He shoved the soft fabric into Brody’s mouth, creating a makeshift gag.

Brody bit down on his favorites, his dark eyes widening as Parker returned to the objective. Parker’s tongue was wide, wet, and warm on the entrance, then pointed and firm as he circled the hole before pushing in and fucking the sensitive pucker. A loud moan was muffled by the fabric in Brody's mouth. Parker smirked.

Parker slicked his fingers with a glob of spit and forced his way inside, his knuckles brushing the rim as he targeted the prostate with a firm, circling pressure. At the same time, his other hand gripped Brody’s heavy cock, lips licking the head with slow, worshipful laps but always stopping just before the release.

Brody was a symphony of gagged, raw sounds—the boxers catching the desperate, animalistic whimpers of a man being dismantled from the inside out.

Parker watched the dilation of Brody’s pupils, the way the elite soldier was dissolving into pure sensation. He didn't give the man any mercy. He increased the pressure on the prostate pushing a third finger in the hot, wet hole. His fingers hammering the target until he felt the internal pulse reach terminal level.

Brody came hands-free—a violent, high-mass explosion that rocked his entire 250-pound frame. He let out a muffled, thundering roar into the blue fabric, his body bowing off the bed, his head thudding against the bulkhead.

Parker hovered over him, his eyes locked onto Brody’s as the payload hit. He was amazed by the sheer endurance of the release—the way Brody continued to shoot and thrash long after his balls were dry, his system discharging starvation in a single, messy honest surrender.

Rope after rope of his hot cum hit the chin, pecs and navel and the beast pushed his juice out in a state of absolute bliss.

When the aftershocks finally slowed to a rhythmic tremor, Parker reached in and pulled the damp boxers from Brody’s mouth.

They collided in a hungry kiss, their tongues wrestling for the last scrap of truth in the room. Two predators, finally synced, resting in the quiet aftermath of a perfect storm.

Parker didn't reach for a towel. He leaned down, his tongue cleaning the salt and the remnants of the payload from Brody’s skin with slow, worshipful laps. He shared the taste with a big, sloppy kiss that forced Brody’s eyes to roll back again as he tasted himself on Parker’s tongue. They swapped and shared the spoils of their battle as well as the air around them, their breaths mingling in a hot, humid loop.

“I think I made a discovery,” Parker whispered, his voice a jagged rasp as he hovered over his mate. “I’m pretty sure I could get you to cross the finish line just by playing with that magnificent ass of yours. You’re built for the intake.”

Brody let out a pained chuckle that warped into a needy whimper. He looked at Parker, his dark eyes raw. “You’re… finding every lock I have. Opening them like it’s your day job.”

“Ever been fisted?” Parker asked, his gaze burning.

Brody shook his head, his throat working. “No. Never.”

“We could try it if you want? I’m pretty sure you’d like it…” Parker asked, his voice low.

“Yeah?” A breathless sound mixing with a low, rumbling whimper.

“Yeah. Big guys like you often find that level of pressure soothing. I promise to be worthy of that trust, Brian.”

“I trust you… Always… With everything, Paul,” Brody whispered, the words hanging between them before they sealed it with a fierce kiss.

“Total access like that is a gift, not a right…” His gaze locked at Brody’s. “You are so perfect when you are open. We could try it when we’re back in the pines so you can be as loud as you like,” Parker promised, his thumb tracing the line of Brody’s jaw.

Brody shivered. Current hot like lava filled him. He nodded and released his breath.

The safety of it all with the mention of the pines hit Brody harder than any physical strike. It was the first time Parker had said it out loud—the acknowledgment of a future, the return to their den. It filled Brody with a surge of belonging so intense he felt like he might actually burst. The trust of a shared watch, the certainty of the meaningful peace in his house—he realized then that Parker was the ultimate breacher. The man didn't use explosives; he used honesty and a level of care that Brody hadn't been calibrated to handle.

He wanted his man to have it all; his body, his keys, and his limits.

“Paul,” Brody gasped, his hands lacing into Parker’s hair, pulling him down. “Need you inside me. Now. I need the fullness. I need your hard heat in me.”

Parker chuckled, a low vibration in his chest. “Someone’s impatient.”

He reached for the nightstand, grabbing a bottle of standard-issue Navy lotion they’d ‘liberated’ from the ship’s inventory. It was clinical, unscented, and functional—the perfect lubricant for a maritime ops, having proved its usefulness in the naval field tests many times over.

Parker prepped his tool and the target, his fingers working with a steady, rhythmic pressure that forced Brody’s walls to yield. Once the friction was neutralized, Parker guided himself in. It was a slow, solid invasion—a Foundational Grounding that connected their systems skin-to-skin.

They were connected, Parker’s leaking cock inside the warm, silky hole of his lover.

Parker fucked him deep and good, his hips hitting the cheeks on the muscle stud. His glans rubbing the target with the rhythmic pendulum of the ship.

He watched Brody’s face, feeling a surge of profound devotion. He was the only one who got to see this side of the beast—the vulnerable, babbling man beneath the Tier-1 armor. It made Parker want to serve him even harder, to take every ounce of the weight Brody had carried for twenty years and claim it as his own. He was in total awe how he got to be the one servicing and penetrating all this capacity.

Brody was a mess, his head thrashing on the pillow, his cock hard again and leaking. Parker wondered, with a flash, how the man’s hardware kept producing so much fluid. He thought he’d emptied his guy just minutes ago, yet the Wolf was still running at full throttle.

Parker clamped his hand over Brody’s mouth, muffling the raw sounds as he drove harder, seeking the deepest point of impact.

Brody came first, his body spasming in a series of violent, high-mass tremors that Parker felt in his own marrow. The Wolf released everything from his core—the thick cock deep inside him and the hands holding him down were the only things keeping him from flying apart. Seconds later, Parker erupted, filling Brody with rope after rope of hot, thick truth, his body bowing as the signal finally reached total alignment.

They stayed joined for a long moment, Parker half-on-top, his weight careful to avoid the stitched side of Brody’s torso. The silence in the room was finally, perfectly clean.

But the beast wasn't done.

Ten minutes later, Brody maneuvered himself, his stubborn nature overriding the pain of the GSW. He needed to re-assert his ability to hold Parker down.

He flipped the orientation for Round 3, his wide frame looming over Parker in the narrow bunk. He took Parker with a rhythmic, punishing intensity, his teeth sinking into the meat of Parker’s neck as he hammered home—marking his territory, claiming the man in the heart of his own ship.

It wasn't about finesse; it was about mass and possession. Brody pinned Parker’s wrists to the mattress, his heavy chest crushing the air from Parker’s lungs in a rhythm and force that matched the destroyers' gas turbines. He drove into Parker with a relentless, claiming deep strokes that erased every last bit of the masks, leaving only Paul—breathless, wrecked, and held down by the only force in the world strong enough to keep him.

In the afterglow, they lay tangled, the 30-inch bunk feeling like a kingdom.

“We’re going to have to scrub this room before I leave,” Parker teased, his voice a hoarse whisper. “Not even the ‘spa section’ of the ship has seen this much male-on-male release since the last crossing of the line.”

Brody huffed his deep laugh, his face pressed against Parker’s shoulder. “Let them do their audit. I don’t care.”

He shifted, his thick limbs seeking the familiar ‘octopus’ position. “Paul? Can I… Can you be my blanket? Just… stay on top of me.”

“You’re going to be crushed, big guy,” Parker warned, but he was already moving.

“I’m sturdy,” Brody mumbled. “I need the weight.”

They maneuvered around, Brody on his back and Parker again half top of the big guy.

Parker obliged, resting his head on the wide slabs of Brody’s chest, his ear against the rhythmic thrum of the man’s heart and his hand petting the slight soft fur of the lower abdomen, navel and chest.

Parker savored how his tough elite warrior liked to be petted. How his hand could provide the simple pleasure. And how the low vibration in the chest told that he had found exceptionally good spot to rub.

They fell into a deep, honest sleep, two predators finally decommissioned and resting in each other’s arms.

Inside the Staff Cabin, the signal was perfectly, safely dark. The two titanium O-rings rested in the pockets of their discarded pants.

- - - 

The 0400 alarm didn't go off. They had disabled it the night before, granting themselves the luxury of a slow wake-up.

Parker was pulled from sleep not by a siren, but by a calloused hand digging relentlessly into his side. The big childish asshole was tickling him.

"Stop," Parker gasped between the involuntary sounds he tried hard to suppress. He wasn’t going to give the dork any gratification. The undignified laughs grew as he was twisting in the narrow bunk, trying to grab Brody’s wrist.

"Integrity check for that spine," Brody rumbled, his voice thick with sleep and mischief. He didn't stop. He dug his fingers into the sensitive skin between Parker’s ribs—the glitch in the armor. “Let’s see how much it can take before it yields.”

Parker kicked out, his foot connecting with Brody’s shin. "I will court-martial you. I will have you brigged."

Brody just chuckled, a deep vibration that shook the mattress. He knew exactly where the line was. He pushed Parker to the edge of genuine annoyance—breath hitched, dignity fracturing—and then stopped instantly, his hand flattening out to soothe the spot he’d just tormented.

"System functional," Brody diagnosed, pulling Parker back into the heat of his chest.

"You're a menace," Parker muttered, though he didn't pull away.

The morning ritual shifted from playful violence to biological needs. They shared a high-protein morning snack that involved no utensils and a lot of thick taste straight from the hard, silky tap—an almost silent exchange of heat in the semi-darkness. Milking their partner dry with gusto using lips, tongue, and throat locked in a tight 69 embrace.

Afterward, Parker lay back, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Better than a ginger shot."

"Better than coffee," Brody corrected, looking satisfied and lazy.

Parker paused, a shit-eating grin spreading across his face. "Let’s not get carried away, Brian. I mean, a truly great Naples roast? That’s a high bar to clear. You’re good and always generous, but your balls don’t produce caffeine."

Brody narrowed his eyes and bit Parker’s calf, hard enough to leave a mark.

They moved to the head. At this hour, the showers in Officers' Country were quiet. It was a utilitarian luxury—hot water, decent pressure, and enough room for two large men if they coordinated their movements. They washed each other with the efficiency of a pit crew, scrubbing away the night’s sweat and the lingering scent of sex, leaving only the clean smell of Navy soap and skin.

Back in the cabin, fully dressed—Brody in his washed and softened MultiCams, courtesy of the ship’s laundry, Parker in his daily ‘Conductor’ attire—Parker checked his watch.

"Go find your pack," Parker pressed, tossing Brody his cover. "Mack and Mills are currently unsupervised and, I suspect, trying to chew the interior or dismantle the gym equipment. Go expend some energy."

"You kicking me out?" Brody asked, catching the hat.

“I have a little solo mission," Parker said, turning to the mirror to adjust his collar. "I'll meet you at 1200. The Bridge Wing. Starboard side."

Brody paused at the door. “What’s Starboard side?” He didn't ask what the mission was and Parker didn’t dignify the question with an answer, only a huff. Brody knew the look on Parker’s face—it was the ‘Strategic Planning’ expression. He nodded once. "1200. Don't be late."

Once the cabin door clicked shut, he waited ten minutes to ensure the Alpha team was deep in the bowels of the ship, then headed for the Captain’s In-Port Cabin. He knocked—the rhythmic rap of a peer, not a subordinate.

"Enter!"

Parker poked his head through. Captain Garret was at his desk, reviewing a log. He looked up, saw Parker, and let out a theatrical groan.

"You have that look, Paul. The 'I need a helicopter' look. What is it now? You want to annex something?"

"Smaller scale," Parker said, stepping inside and closing the door. "But higher stakes. I need one last favor, Nate. Actually, two."

Garret rubbed his temples. "I authorized the food. I authorized the boat. I looked the other way when your Army friends invaded my Wardroom. What’s left?"

"I need you to use your Captain’s superpowers for one unsanctioned black-op,” Parker said, his voice dropping to a serious, hushed register. "International waters. Maritime law. The ancient right of a Captain to bind and loose… all that.”

Garret froze. He stared at Parker, his pen hovering over the logbook. The realization hit him, and his expression shifted from annoyance to a wide, incredulous grin.

"No shit," Garret whispered.

"No shit," Parker confirmed. "And I need to borrow your wardrobe. I didn't pack for a parade."

Garret stood up, walking to his wardrobe. "You crazy son of a bitch. You’re actually doing it."

"Strategic acquisition of status," Parker corrected with a smirk. “I need you to run the op; I’ll fix the papers later.”

Garret laughed and shook his head.

Minutes later, in the empty passageway, a lone figure moved swiftly toward the Staff Cabin, carrying a black garment bag over his shoulder like he was transporting a top-secret weapon.

The final operation of the deployment was a go.

- - -

At 1150 Brody led the Alpha stack through the steel door onto the Bridge.

Behind him, Mack, Mills, and Davis—the junior operator—were trying to maintain their ‘Tier-1 Cool,’ but Brody could hear the low whistles and the scuff of boots as they rubbernecked at the sheer scale of the nerve center. It was a cathedral of monitors, charts, and expansive glass that offered a panoramic view of the blue world they were floating on.

Brody was calm on the surface—the Operator locked in place—but inside, Brian was vibrating at a frequency that threatened to crack his ribs.

This wasn't anything like he’d imagined as a kid, or even the one he’d vaguely considered as an adult. There was nothing traditional in it by his landlubber standards. But it was infinitely better. It was exceptional. It was a ‘Joint Insurrection’—a big, fat middle finger to the System that didn’t grant proper rights any other way. He liked the rebellion of it. He liked that they were carving out a piece of certainty in the middle of a deployment, stealing clarity from the chaos. He liked the straight forward action of it.

He was absolutely certain, down to his marrow. He loved his man.

Better now than never.

"Look at the glass," Mills whispered, tapping the thick window. "That’s ballistic grade. You think it takes a fifty cal?"

"Don't test it," Mack warned, though he was busy eyeing the helm controls.

Brody scanned the deck. The Captain was waiting on the open-air wing on the far side. Starboard, Brody reminded himself with a mental growl. Why can't they just say the right-hand side? It would save everyone a headache.

The Ship’s XO, a brisk Lieutenant Commander, intercepted the wandering operators before they could start testing the buttons. He herded them toward the Starboard wing where Captain Garret stood waiting.

They moved out onto the Wing through the open door.

Garret was in his Service Khakis, looking sharp, starched, and amused as the small horde of Seaweed spilled out into the sunlight and salt air.

"Gentlemen," Garret said, nodding to the team. "Glad you could make it to the top of the house without breaking anything."

"We tried, Sir," Mack grinned. "But your XO is a good at shepherding."

Brody moved to the rail, leaning his weight on his good leg, and put the crutches away to lean against the railing. He checked his watch. 1200.

Then he saw through the open door how the interior door to the Bridge opened. The chatter of the dozen watch-standers died instantly. A silence swept across the deck that was heavier than any order.

Parker stepped onto the bridge.

Brody stopped breathing.

He had experienced some levels of this before. The violent intrigue in the JOC at Al Udeid, the nervous staring and approach at the Chow Hall. The absolute bombardment of Parker breaching his sanctuary—the Monolith. The thunderous relief when that man had stepped onboard this ship from the helo.

But now the shock was out of this world. Brody flatlined, every system in his body crashed.

The scruffy, flannel-wearing Contractor—the man who had forgotten the lunch sandwiches and giggled when tickled—was gone. In his place stood a blinding pillar of naval authority.

Parker was wearing the Choker Whites—the Service Dress uniform. The high, stiff collar framed his jaw, forcing his posture into a powerful, regal line. The fabric was pristine, cutting a stark silhouette against the gray steel of the ship. Golden buttons gleamed. Across his chest was a rack of ribbons that told a story of violence and survival Brody had only heard in fragments. On his shoulders, the hard boards bore the gold stripes of his rank.

He was clean-shaven. His hair was slicked back. He looked sharp enough to cut the horizon in half.

"Attention on deck!" the Officer of the Deck barked.

Every sailor on the bridge—from the helmsman to the XO—snapped to attention and rendered a salute. It wasn't a courtesy; it was a reflex.

Parker returned the salute, his hand slicing the air with a mechanical, practiced grace that sent a shiver straight down Brody’s spine.

The Alpha team stood there, mouths slightly open, witnessing the full, terrifying display of Naval tradition and discipline. They realized, perhaps for the first time, that the guy who ate ice cream with them wasn't just smart; he was royalty here in this floating palace of destruction.

Brody felt a surge of emotions so big it nearly knocked him off his feet. He stared at the man walking toward him, feeling a primal, possessive heat flood his veins. He’s mine, he thought, his brain short-circuiting. That high-altitude, starch-stiff, beautiful man is mine.

He had never seen Parker look this commanding. It was the ‘Eagle’ in full plumage. It made Brody feel underdressed in his clean MultiCams, but it also made him the luckiest bastard on sea, air, and land.

He couldn’t care less for not wearing his full dress greens. He was a creature of the dirt, and the combat uniform was his skin. So sue him; he was in his most honest attire.

Parker stepped onto the outside wing, the sunlight catching the gold on his shoulders. He stopped in front of Brody, his eyes—Paul’s eyes—softening as they locked onto Brian’s.

"Hey, buddy," Parker whispered, the informal greeting crashing beautifully against the formal uniform.

"Hey, buddy," Brody breathed back. He gestured vaguely at the shoulder boards. "That... That’s a lot of stripes…"

“Oh… Um, yeah, unfortunately, it is," Parker smirked, adjusting his cuffs.

“A lot of weight to carry,” Brody breathed.

“Um… well… The chest candy misses a few achievements, but otherwise, the hardware is accurate.” Parker winked at Garret to make sure the inside jab landed but the CO just rolled his eyes. “I hope it’s ok?” He whispered to his man.

Brody stared at the gold bars. “Ok? A way to make a guy feel overwhelmed.”

Parker barked a bright laugh, stepping closer. “You look perfectly overwhelming in those painted-on MultiCams,” he whispered back with a wink. “I know exactly what’s under them.”

From behind them, Mills leaned in, squinting at Parker’s shoulder boards.

"Luckily you can't read the rank, Boss," Mills muttered. "The Navy barcodes are so confusing. He could be an Admiral or a bartender for all we know."

Parker shot Mills a dry look and lowered his voice. "Careful, Mills. The Cap over there can still have you keelhauled."

"Understood, Sir," Mills grinned. "Nice costume. Fancy buttons.”

"It's a uniform," Parker corrected, turning back to Brody. "Ready to lock this down?"

Brody looked at the man in blinding white, then at the Captain waiting by the rail. "Ready."

The open-air steel platform jutted out over the sapphire abyss, suspended fifty feet above the white churn of the wake.

In the privacy of that small space, under the infinite blue sky, stood six men in their respective uniforms. 

The high noon sun, the faint white shadow of the moon, and the deep blue ocean below were their witness, as they had been for all who came before—an ancient jury for a modern alliance.

The wind was a steady, warm pressure, whipping Parker’s white trousers and tossing Brody’s hair, but both men stood as immovable as the hull beneath them.

Two uniformed men side-by-side, same height, each a peak of their respective mountains. One in pristine, starched Navy White, the other in functional, earthy MultiCam. Both uniforms crisp and moulded to their masculine frames. They looked forward to Captain Garret and over the bow the glimmering ocean in front of them. Shoulders brushing, two apex predators acknowledging the horizon they had conquered together.

Captain Garret stood at the rail, the Ship’s Log in his hands. He looked at the vastness of the sea, then turned to the two souls about to be united.

"We are sailing in international waters," Garret announced, his voice carrying clearly over the light wind. By the request of you two, we are here to join these two souls, devoted to and forged by the two branches of the military.”

Parker turned his eyes to Brody, his head unmoved, to find the kind soulful eyes already looking at him.

“You have agreed to synchronize two signals into a single, permanent one. And by the authority vested in me as the Captain, the Commanding Officer, of this vessel, and under the ancient laws of the high seas you two shall leave this bridge as united.”

Both men in front of the Captain nodded once.

Garret looked at Parker. "Vows."

The two warriors turned toward each other, exiting the world around and entering their own shared space. Parker looked into Brody’s dark eyes, his mind and expression reaching that depth of 'Foundational Silence.’ He took Brody’s wrist and brushed his thumb over the knuckles.

“I've spent my life navigating the noise, but I’ve finally found my home in you, Brian. I’ll respect and cherish you—my home—forever. You’ll never have to stand on the watch alone, I’m not going anywhere. You are my greatest privilege,” Parker said, his voice steady, calibrated to their own low-frequency.

Brody gripped Parker’s hand and continued in the same private tone others hardly heard. “I've spent my life as a weapon, Paul, but I found my calm and my home in you. I will forever protect and respect the peace—the grace—you give me. You’ll always have me on the watch with you. You are my greatest honor.”

Garret cleared his throat to begin the formal requirement. "Do you, Brian Brody, take Paul Parker to be your lawfully wedded—“

"I do," Brody interrupted, the words a raw, immediate discharge of certainty.

Garret shifted his gaze. "Paul Parker, do you take Brian Brody to be your lawfully wedded—"

"I do," Parker answered before the question could land, his smirk returning for a fleeting, boyish second.

Garret closed the logbook with a definitive thud and looked at Mack. "Hardware."

Mack stepped forward, his arm still in the sling, and pulled the two silver-gray titanium rings from his pocket. He handed them to Garret. The Captain held the O-rings for a moment, letting the sun catch the unyielding aerospace metal, before offering the first one to Brody.

Brody took the ring. It was cold, heavy, and built to withstand ten thousand PSI without yielding. He took Parker’s hand—the clean, steady hand of the Navigator—and slid the industrial metal onto his finger. It was a perfect, solid fit against the white fabric of the uniform.

Parker retrieved the second ring from Garret’s palm, his fingers steady as he pushed the titanium over Brody’s scarred, calloused knuckle. The metal looked right there—not like jewelry, but like a permanent reinforcement of the chassis.

"Then by the power of the deep and International Maritime Law," Garret announced, his voice steady over the wind, “I declare you both husbands. This alliance is now valid; the chain of command secured. Serve each other with loyalty and dignity. You are officially a Joint Unit.“

Garret leaned in, his voice dropping to a gravelly, private register. “Secure the asset. Fire at will.”

Brody didn't wait. He wrapped his thick arms around Parker, pulling the starched white uniform against his chest with a possessive strength. They kissed—hard, honest, and high-voltage—sealing the contract in front of the sea and four men on that wing deck.

From the signal bridge above, a lone trumpet note cut through the wind.

Brody pulled back, a wide, pained grin splitting his face. The other operators had the same joyful smile as they heard their service march echoing over the open ocean.

As the brassy notes of The Army Goes Rolling Along cut through the wind, Brody instinctively snapped to attention towards the sound, his hand slicing up into a crisp, regulation salute to his branch. Parker stood mirrored beside him, his spine a line of Annapolis steel. When the trumpet paused and transitioned into the bright, sharp melody of Anchors Aweigh, it was Parker’s turn to render honors to his branch. They stood side-by-side on the wing, two different histories saluting the same future, their signals finally merged into a single, synchronized frequency of respect.

As the music faded their private bubble returned. "Husband," Brian rumbled to Paul, the word sounding like a new designation he was eager to wear.

"Husband," Paul agreed, his eyes steady on his partner’s. "But I think 'forever battle buddy' has a nice ring to it."

Brody laughed, the rich sound vibrating through Parker’s chest. "Copy that. Locked in."

They turned and stepped back through the open steel door into the Bridge. The quiet efficiency of the watch-standers didn’t waver. They knew they weren’t privy to the latest info, they knew they had work to do and what had happened wasn’t a show.

The ship’s XO nodded his appreciation.

Garret walked to the center of the deck, his CO mask back in place.

"Attention on deck!" the XO called out, though he was smiling.

"Maintain the watch," Garret ordered, then looked at the clocks. “As tomorrow marks one hundred days of our current deployment and today we cross four thousand nautical miles since we left the Basin. To mark the milestone, we’ll have a steel-beach BBQ on the aft deck at 1700. All hands, Army guests included."

The bridge cheered, the operators at the back leading the roar.

Brody leaned into Parker’s space, his shoulder brushing the pristine white fabric. “Do me a favor, Paul,” Brody husked, his dark eyes dilated with a very specific, high-voltage heat. “Don’t lose the Whites for the BBQ. I can't decide if I want the whole ship to see you in them, or if I just want the gratification of ripping them off you myself.”

Parker smirked, a dangerous, predatory glint in his eyes. “Strategic compromise, Brian. I’ll stay in uniform. You just worry about maintaining your composure until we’re clear of the crowd.”

“Oh, the composure is already a lost cause. I’m hard as steel for the Navy,” Brody whispered back, his breath hitching as he felt the starch of Parker's whites against his knuckles.

That did the trick Brody was hoping for, pulling a low, dry laugh out of his mate. It was the sound he wanted to anchor to for the rest of his life.

“Don’t push me; I have zero room for error in these pants,” Parker smirked back, earning him the beautiful, deep laugh he wanted to anchor to for the rest of his life.

Parker and Brody shared a final, private look—the signal perfectly clean, the anchor set, and the mission finally complete. They were ready to embark on their forever voyage.

- - -

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

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

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