CHAPTER 20 THE PACIFIC DEPARTURE
Patrick stood by the window, a towering silhouette in his Service Dress Blues.
The gold buttons of his tunic caught the pale, pre-dawn light of the Yard.
He didn't look like the injured quarterback Alex had salvaged a year ago; he looked like the naval officer his father had spent thirty years engineering.
Alex sat on the edge of his rack, his Working Blue shirt crisp, though his fingers were locked in an uncoordinated tap against the metal frame.
The logic was failing. The "City of Two" was being physically severed by ten thousand miles of saltwater, and nothing could calculate the atmospheric loss of the coming months.
He crossed the three-foot void, violating the professional perimeter for the last time before the hemisphere divided them.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, heavy object wrapped in a piece of navy-blue chamois.
"I found this in an antique shop on Prince George Street," Alex whispered, his voice losing the monotone. He pressed a weathered, brass maritime compass into Patrick’s palm.
Patrick’s thumb caught the latch, and the lid swung open. Inside, the polished brass was engraved with a sequence of words that violated every regulation in the Yard: "My husband, my partner, my life."
Patrick stared at the inscription, his light blue eyes clouding.
"Alex... I didn't get you anything. I didn't think—"
"You already did," Alex interrupted, his voice cracking as he reached up to Patrick’s collar.
"You gave me your heart. That’s the only data point I’m tracking until you get back."
For a fractional second, they dissolved completely. A single, hot tear escaped Patrick’s eye, mirrored by the moisture on Alex’s cheek. It was a terminal breach.
But the rhythmic, heavy thud of boots in the hallway signaled a passing watchstander. They both moved with surgical, mechanical speed to wipe their faces, their features snapping back into unreadable masks before the shadow crossed the threshold.
"The synchronization isn't going to break, Patrick," Alex whispered, his knuckles brushing the warm skin of Patrick's throat—flesh against flesh.
"I'll be in 2204. I’ll be tracking the logs. Every right-hand turn you make in the Pacific, I’ll be at this desk, ensuring the math holds."
Patrick caught Alex’s wrists, his grip desperate and possessive. He pulled Alex a fraction of an inch closer, until their uniform buttons nearly touched, a tactile lock that said everything the "Standard" tried to silence.
"I don't care about the math, Ko," Patrick rasped.
"I’m not a statue. I’m a man who is coming back for his husband. Do you hear me? Six months. Then we walk back through that gate as Juniors and we finish the mission."
"Für immer," Patrick whispered.
"Forever," Alex replied, sealing the contract.
Patrick abruptly dropped his hands. He snatched his sea bag, executed a flawless mechanical pivot, and marched out of the room without looking back.
Alex stood in the center of Room 2204, his hands curling into tight fists, his partner a ghost on the ocean, but the Sovereign State was still a matter of record.