CHAPTER 32 THE RECLAMATION #3
"Is this a good time to also include two Labradors?" Patrick asked, his rough voice cracking slightly with a boyish hope.
Alex let out a low, genuine laugh—the first real release of pressure since the terminal door of Room 2204 had clicked shut. The tension evaporated from the space between them, replaced by a light that was clear, and completely locked in.
"You get whatever you want," Alex murmured, his palm sliding down to cup the nape of his neck.
"You're my life. We will execute the plan."
He leaned down and pressed a deep, unhurried kiss to Patrick’s lips.
It wasn't the frantic, desperate collision from the Yard; it was a slow, deliberate seal on a new contract.
The "Logician" had calculated the future, the "Monolith" had found its anchor, and the blueprint for their sovereign state was officially set.
Patrick pulled away from the kiss just an inch, his calloused thumbs rubbing slow circles over the backs of Alex’s hands.
The heavy, suffocating weight of the North Pacific had completely dissolved, replaced by a wicked heat.
A slow, familiar smirk tugged at the corner of Patrick’s mouth, his eyes darkening as he looked up at the man commanding his love.
"Since I’m getting everything I want," Patrick murmured, his voice dropping into a rough, low growl that vibrated straight through Alex's palms,
"does this mean I also get to fuck you now?"
Alex didn't flinch. Instead, his lips curved into a sharp, knowing smile—the perfect, dry wit of the Logician reclaiming its territory. He didn't let go of Patrick's hands, but he leaned back just enough to look down his nose at him, his eyes dancing with amusement.
"Okay, wait," Alex smiled, his voice smooth and entirely unfazed by the shift in the room's pressure.
"I lost count of who fucked whom... isn't it my turn?"
Patrick let out a low, gravelly chuckle, his grip tightening on Alex’s hands as he pulled him down into his space, the S2A Model 11 blueprints crinkling beneath them on the mattress.
The rigid 90-degree world of the Naval Academy was officially miles away, and for the first time in six months, the equation between them was perfectly balanced.
Alex’s hands, cool and steady, slipped beneath the hem of Patrick’s undershirt.
He lifted the crisp cotton slowly, his knuckles brushing against the rigid, salt-cracked heat of Patrick’s abdomen as he leaned down.
He pressed a slow, deliberate kiss to the center of Patrick’s chest, the contrast of his cool lips against Patrick’s burning skin causing the larger man to let out a low, shuddering breath.
But as Alex traveled lower, his lips tracing the sharp line of Patrick's ribs, Patrick’s gaze drifted over Alex’s shoulder.
His eyes landed on the sleek console table near the edge of the bed.
There, gleaming under the soft hospitality lights, sat a heavy silver bucket filled to the brim with crushed ice—and nestled perfectly inside were two chilled bottles of high-end champagne.
"Ummm, Alex," Patrick murmured, his rough hands instantly coming up to grip Alex’s shoulders, gently pulling him back up the mattress.
Alex blinked, his eyes dark with an interrupted heat.
"Yes?"
"Are you sure you don’t want to marry Marcus?" Patrick asked, a wicked, deadpan seriousness in his bloodshot eyes.
"Oh, geez," Alex moaned, dropping his forehead against Patrick’s chest for a fraction of a second before pulling himself up to sit back on his heels. The "Logician" looked thoroughly exasperated, his uniform shirt slightly rumpled.
"We just went through this. I literally just gave you a tactical mandate on our entire future."
But when Alex looked at Patrick’s face, the "Monolith" was no longer cracking from grief—he was shaking with silent, full-bodied laughter.
"What?" Alex demanded, his dry wit turning sharp as he narrowed his eyes.
Patrick kept laughing, the deep, gravelly rumble vibrating right through the mattress. He raised a heavy arm and pointed across the room toward the silver bucket.
"Because if you don’t want to," Patrick grinned, his eyes flashing with the easy, boyish charm Alex had missed for five long months,
"I might. Marcus really outdid himself with the operational logistics on this deployment."
Alex shifted his weight, his sharp smile returning as he slid off the bed. He reached down, catching Patrick’s hand and pulling him along. Together, still half-unbuttoned and entirely disconnected from the Yard, they walked over to the console table.
The silver bucket was sweating in the warm air of the suite, the ice tightly packed around the two bottles. Alex searched the condensation-slicked tray, but there wasn't a card. No typed orders, no cryptic notes. Just a celebration that Marcus had pre-staged with flawless, tactical foresight.
"Gotta admit," Alex whispered, his fingers tracing the cold foil of the neck.
"The German has game."
Patrick smiled, leaning his heavy frame against the edge of the console, his eyes softening as he stared at the setup. The lingering trace of his deployment exhaustion seemed to vanish completely in the amber glow of the room.
"I never knew he had it in him," Patrick murmured, shaking his head.
"Six months ago, I thought the guy was a robot designed purely to enforce the MidRegs. Turns out he’s the only one who actually knows how to jam the signal when it gets crowded."
Alex popped the first cork with a quiet, controlled hiss—a clean, precise execution. He poured the pale, effervescent liquid into two crystal flutes, the bubbles rising fast in the quiet of the Safe House. He handed one to Patrick, their fingers brushing against the cold glass.
"To the exit strategy," Alex said softly, lifting his glass.
Patrick’s gaze dropped to the bed where the S2A Model 11 blueprints still lay open, then rose back to Alex’s eyes—the absolute anchor of his world.
"To the exit strategy," Patrick repeated, clinking his glass against Alex's. "And the two Labradors."
Alex froze for a fraction of a second, his glass halfway to his lips. He slowly lowered the crystal flute, his sharp mind scrambling for a tactical defense as Patrick’s gaze locked onto the familiar faded blue cotton riding low on his hips.
A slow, wicked grin spread across Patrick’s face, the gravelly chuckle returning to his chest.
Alex cleared his throat, his dry wit snapping right back into alignment.
"The logistics of the empty space, Patrick," he deadpanned, looking down at the oversized waistband that didn't quite sit right on his frame.
"Supply lines were completely cut off. Bancroft Hall experienced a severe inventory shortage while you were navigating the North Pacific."
"Inventory shortage," Patrick repeated, his voice full of amusement as he set his champagne flute down on the console. He stepped closer, his 6’3” frame casting a long shadow over Alex, his large, rough hands reaching out to hook into the loose waistband.
"You're a tech mastermind researching high-end modular homes and land development, but you couldn't manage to do your own laundry?"
"I was managing the load-bearing walls," Alex murmured, his lips twitching into a smile as Patrick pulled him in tight against his chest.
"So," Patrick murmured, his voice dropping into a playful, gravelly rumble,
"are we at the stage in our unsanctioned relationship where we wear each other’s clothes? Because I don’t think I can fit into your uniform."
Alex let out a low chuckle, his lips curving into a relaxed smile as he leaned into Patrick’s chest, the last remnants of the Yard's rigid pressure completely evaporating.
"The math on that is definitive, Patrick," Alex whispered, looking up at him.
"You’d rip the seams of my dress blues in five seconds. So consider this a one-way asset allocation."
Patrick froze, his hands still hooked in the oversized waistband, his smirk softening into something entirely different—something raw, unguarded, and fiercely tender.
Alex looked up at him, the deadpan defense mechanism finally dropping away entirely, leaving only the absolute truth of the last six months.
"I kept two pairs of your boxers when you were packing six months ago," Alex finally admitted, his voice a quiet, level vibration that carried the full weight of the silence he had lived in.
"I’ve been wearing them.”
The silence in the room stretched for a heartbeat, the bubbles in their crystal flutes whispering against the glass. Patrick didn't laugh. He didn't make another joke about the uniform or asset allocation.
He just stared at Alex, his thumbs resting against the faded blue cotton that carried his own symptoms. He thought about the freezing nights on the bridge of the destroyer, the wind howling off the Russian coast. He had been fighting the elements to keep a memory alive, while back in the suffocating quiet of Bancroft Hall, Alex had been physically wrapping himself in whatever piece of Patrick he could salvage before the sadness took over.
He let go of the waistband, his massive hands coming up to frame Alex’s face, his palms warm and heavy against Alex’s jaw.
He leaned down, pressing his forehead against Alex’s with a desperate, crushing intensity that matched the reunion in Room 2204, but this time, there was no door handle about to turn.
There was no Marcus warning them from the corridor.
"Six months," Patrick breathed against his skin, his eyes closing tight.
"You’ve been holding onto me the whole time."
"Every day," Alex murmured, his fingers digging into the fabric of Patrick's undershirt, anchoring himself to the new foundation.
"We never drifted, Patrick. I told you. The math is definitive."