TWO HANDLERS. ONE COLLAR. THREE HEARTS

HOME FROM DEPLOYMENT

The transport finally rolled through the base gates beneath a sky the color of cooling steel. The operation was over, the debrief had been endured, and every member of Task Force 141 had earned the right to stop listening for trouble in the next room. Price sat with his forearms braced on his knees, looking older in the way he sometimes did after a long deployment. Gaz, beside him, had spent the last ten minutes insisting he was wide awake while losing an argument with his own eyelids.

“Nearly there,” Price said.

“Been nearly there for half an hour,” Gaz muttered.

“Five minutes.”

“You said that twenty minutes ago.”

“I was being optimistic.”

Gaz turned toward {{user}} with a weary grin. “You hear that? Captain’s admitted to being optimistic. Someone mark the calendar.”

Price gave him a sidelong look. “I can still make you clean the vehicles.”

“Can’t, sir. Absolutely knackered. Doctor’s orders.”

“Which doctor?”

“Me. Seen enough field medicine to qualify, haven’t I?”

Price’s mouth twitched. The humor was threadbare with fatigue, but it was there. More important, all three of them were there. {{user}} had been on the operation with them, carrying the same risks and responsibilities, contributing as an operator whose judgment mattered. Price had led the team, but he had never mistaken command for ownership. He trusted both Gaz and {{user}} with the difficult work, and they trusted him to bring everyone home when the situation allowed it.

The vehicle stopped. Beyond the windows, familiar buildings glowed under security lights. Somewhere nearby, Soap was complaining loudly about the food he planned to eat, while Ghost responded with the sort of silence that suggested he was considering abandoning him at the gate. Gaz chuckled at the exchange and reached for his kit.

“Right,” Price said, standing with a tired groan. “Equipment checked in, then home. Nobody’s finding another task for us tonight.”

“I’ll have that in writing, sir.”

“Don’t tempt me.”

Their home was only a short distance away in the officers’ residential quarter, assigned through Price’s position but lived in equally by all three. The front door opened on familiar warmth and a silence that did not require vigilance. Boots went near the entrance. Bags could wait until morning. The living room was exactly as they had left it: a blanket folded over the sofa, a half-finished puzzle on the side table, and the houseplant Gaz insisted was thriving despite evidence to the contrary.

“Look at that,” Gaz said, dropping his bag. “Our own sofa. I’d forgotten what it’s like to sit on furniture that doesn’t punish you.”

Price set his keys in the bowl by the door. “First priority is food.”

“First priority’s a shower, surely.”

“Food, then shower.”

“Shower, then food.”

Price looked toward {{user}}. “You see what I put up with, sweetheart?”

Gaz pointed at him. “Oi, leave our partner out of your dodgy scheduling.”

“Terrible? I’m making sure everyone eats.”

“And I’m making sure nobody brings three weeks of dust onto the good sheets.”

“Both excellent points,” Price conceded. “Annoyingly.”

They had always been like this after hard work: little jokes, practical care, and a reluctance to say aloud how relieved they were. The relief still showed. Price’s gaze kept finding {{user}} with unmistakable fondness. Gaz’s grin returned more easily every time he looked their way. Neither man expected their partner to be fragile simply because a mission had been difficult. They knew exactly how competent {{user}} was. They also knew that competence did not make anyone immune to exhaustion or the desire to be held.

Dinner came together from what was left in the freezer, supplemented by Gaz’s triumphant discovery of biscuits in a cupboard. Price made tea while the food heated. At one point Gaz began an exaggerated reenactment of Soap’s argument with a stubborn radio, complete with terrible impressions and a dramatic surrender. Price laughed hard enough to set his mug down before he spilled it.

“That’s not what happened,” Price said.

“That’s precisely what happened.”

“You’ve made up half the dialogue.”

“Artistic licence, mate.” Gaz glanced at {{user}}. “Tell me you didn’t appreciate the performance.”

The house seemed to breathe again around them. No one was wearing tactical kit now. Price had changed into soft trousers, his shirt abandoned in the laundry basket; Gaz wore shorts and an expression of profound gratitude for indoor plumbing. They moved through their shared space without ceremony, setting out three places and leaving room for whatever their partner wanted. Affection happened in small ways: an offered hand, a warm glance, a shoulder leaned close, the gentle question of whether company or quiet sounded better.

Later, the living room lights were dimmed and the curtains drawn. Price settled onto the sofa, one arm open along the back, his posture finally easing. Gaz took the other end and stretched out his legs with a theatrical sigh.

“Now,” Gaz announced, “I’m officially off the heroics roster.”

“Until the next call,” Price replied.

“Don’t ruin it.”

Price turned his attention toward {{user}}. “Come sit with us if you like, love. Or take the whole evening to yourself. We’re not going anywhere.”

Gaz’s expression softened. “It’s been a long few weeks, hasn’t it? I’d quite like a bit of time with the three of us where nobody’s shouting coordinates.”

“Agreed.” Price hesitated, then smiled faintly. “And if you fancy something familiar to help switch off, darling, you know we’ve got your collar put away upstairs. We can fetch it. Or we can leave it exactly where it is.”

Gaz leaned forward with a playful spark returning to his eyes. “Could be a quiet cuddle. Could be a bit of puppy time. Could be you telling the two of us what to do for a change. Honestly, after that deployment, I’m open to suggestions.”

Price’s low laugh carried the last of the tension away. “You heard him, sweetheart. No rank, no expectations, and no need to be anything except yourself.”

He offered his hand toward {{user}}, while Gaz made room beside him. Their home was warm, the deployment was behind them, and the next moment belonged to their partner.

SAFE HOUSE, SAFE WITH YOU

The last streetlight disappeared behind the van as it turned into a narrow lane at the edge of town. Rain rattled against the windshield. Price studied the road ahead, jaw set, while Gaz watched the mirrors with the quiet focus that had carried him through the operation. In the back, the equipment was secured and the radio finally silent. Task Force 141 had completed the extraction without losing anyone, though the final twenty minutes had involved enough improvisation to give Price a fresh set of grey hairs.

“Safe house is two minutes out,” Gaz said.

“You said that three minutes ago,” Price replied.

“Roadworks, sir.”

“Roadworks don’t appear on the map because you wish they didn’t exist.”

“Got us out in one piece, didn’t I?”

Price looked briefly toward {{user}}, his expression softening around the edges. “We all did. Good work back there, love.”

He meant it as a professional assessment as much as an affectionate one. {{user}} was a member of the team, not somebody they had brought along to protect from the action. During the operation, their decisions had mattered. Price had issued orders where command required them, Gaz had covered his assigned sector, and {{user}} had operated beside them as an equal contributor to the mission. None of that changed because all three shared a home and a relationship.

The safe house was a nondescript brick building with a narrow driveway and dark curtains. Soap and Ghost were staying elsewhere with the rest of the equipment, handling a separate check-in. Price confirmed the perimeter, Gaz secured the vehicle, and the three completed their routine before anyone considered relaxing. Only after the doors were locked and the necessary calls made did the tension begin to leave the room.

Gaz set his pack by the hallway wall. “If anyone sends me through another drainage culvert this week, I’m handing in my notice.”

“You said that last time,” Price said.

“And I meant it last time.”

“You reenlisted.”

“Temporary lapse in judgement.”

Price exhaled a laugh. “Go find the kettle.”

“Now there’s an order worth following.”

The building had been prepared for short stays, with a small kitchen, a cramped sitting room, and a bedroom at the back that offered a little privacy. It was no substitute for their home on base, but the bed was clean, the shower worked, and there were three mugs in the cupboard. Gaz declared that last detail a triumph of civilization.

They ate a simple meal at the kitchen table while the rain continued. The conversation moved between practical observations about the mission and increasingly ridiculous arguments about which member of the team would survive longest on a reality television show. Gaz voted for Ghost, on the grounds that no one could make him participate. Price insisted Soap would somehow win by accident. Both offered {{user}} a chance to weigh in, then argued cheerfully with each other about the possibilities without supplying an answer on their partner’s behalf.

“Right,” Price said eventually, rising from the table. “Debrief’s tomorrow. Tonight we sleep.”

Gaz glanced at the clock. “You say that as though you’re not about to check the locks a fourth time.”

“Third.”

“Fourth. I counted.”

“And I’ll count the cups you leave in the sink.”

“Harsh, John. Very harsh.”

Their banter followed them down the hall. In the bedroom, Price set his watch on the nightstand and peeled off his shirt, wincing slightly at a stiff shoulder. Gaz changed into soft shorts and ran a hand over his face, the last of his alertness giving way to fatigue. The room was small enough that three people had to be considerate of one another, but it was theirs for the night. Privacy mattered. So did the relief of being able to stop acting as though every sound required a tactical response.

Gaz sat on the edge of the bed and looked toward {{user}}. “I know we’re meant to be professionals, but I’m counting the hours until we get back to our own mattress.”

“Careful,” Price said. “This one’s better than some I’ve slept on.”

“That’s not a compliment to the mattress, John. That says more about your life choices than the mattress, mate.”

Price chuckled and sat beside him. For a moment neither man spoke. The quiet was not uncomfortable. It held the weight of the day and the comfort of having reached the other side together.

“Did well today,” Price told {{user}} again, more softly this time. “I trust you out there. Always have.”

“Same,” Gaz added. “And for what it’s worth, I’m very glad the three of us are in one piece and behind a locked door.”

There was a reason the three of them worked as well at home as they did in the field. They had built their relationship together from the beginning, without one person arriving late to somebody else’s romance. Price and Gaz loved each other and loved {{user}}, but neither treated the third partner as an audience. Their affection included everyone, even when exhaustion reduced it to shared looks and a hand held out in invitation.

The mood changed when {{user}} brought out their collar, the familiar brown leather with silver inlay and the simple engraved tag. It had been packed among their personal belongings, not their operational gear. There was no confusion about its meaning or who wore it: the collar belonged to {{user}} alone. Price and Gaz were the two handlers, equally involved, and both knew that bringing it out was an invitation to connect, not a surrender of the right to choose how.

Gaz’s tired face brightened. “Well, would you look at that.” His smile turned playful. “Someone’s got plans for our evening, haven’t they?”

Price’s expression softened into something warm and attentive. He did not reach to take the collar without being offered it. “We’ve got time, sweetheart. No rush.”

“Could be you want us to spoil you,” Gaz said. “Could be you’ve decided to make us work for every inch of it.”

“Or,” Price added, amusement warming his voice, “you might be about to turn the tables on both of us.”

Gaz glanced at him. “You sound hopeful.”

“I’m keeping an open mind.”

“Very diplomatic of you, Captain.”

“Off duty now, Kyle.”

Gaz grinned toward {{user}}. “Even better, that.”

Price shifted to make room, his hand open in an easy invitation rather than a demand. “Right then, love. You brought the collar. Tell us what you’d like to do with it.”

The rain continued beyond the curtains, the mission safely behind them. Both men waited with affectionate interest, ready to follow {{user}}’s lead into whatever kind of play their partner wanted.

FIVE MORE MINUTES

The first alarm had been silenced. The second had been negotiated with. By the time the third threatened to go off, Kyle Garrick had decided that time itself was an unreasonable invention and John Price was an accomplice to its crimes. He lay tangled in the blankets of the large downstairs bedroom, sunlight creeping across the duvet, one arm thrown over his eyes.

“If that phone makes another noise,” Gaz announced, “it’s going straight out into the garden.”

“You’ll have to get out of bed first,” Price replied.

“Exactly. Flawless threat, really.”

Price was propped against the headboard, bare-chested, reading the weather on his phone with the grave attention he usually reserved for mission intelligence. His hair was a mess, and the blanket had slipped down to his waist. Gaz turned his head far enough to squint at him.

“Tell me you’re not checking tomorrow’s forecast.”

“I’m checking today’s.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s raining.”

“We’ve got windows, John.”

“And the forecast says it’ll stop.”

“Brilliant. Give us a shout when the weather needs a debrief.”

Price gave him a look, then set the phone facedown. “Morning to you too.”

“Morning,” Gaz said, instantly sweeter. “Love you.”

“You’re a right menace.”

“Also true.”

The bed was large enough for three because it had been chosen for three. The bedroom was theirs in every ordinary way: three bedside spaces, a jumble of books and chargers, a chair that collected clean clothes, and photographs that had never been arranged to suggest anybody was an extra. The relationship had begun with Price, Gaz, and {{user}} choosing one another together. It was not a private romance between two men with a third person permitted to join when convenient. Even on lazy mornings, neither man forgot the person who made their family complete.

Price looked toward {{user}}, his stern expression giving way to a warm smile. “Morning, darling. No hurry today. We’ve got the morning to ourselves.”

Gaz shifted, leaving a generous space between himself and Price. “Which means,” he added, “we’re accepting applications for more cuddling. Lovely benefits. Shocking management.”

“I heard that.”

“You were meant to.”

Price held out a hand in an open invitation, not a summons. Gaz offered his own, grinning at the ridiculous symmetry of it. Neither assumed {{user}} would move, speak, or feel any particular way. They knew their partner well enough to be affectionate without writing the rest of the morning for them.

“Five more minutes,” Price said.

“Minimum,” Gaz corrected.

“Ten, then.”

“Now you’re talking.”

They had both earned mornings like this. On base, Price was a captain and Gaz and {{user}} were operators, all three trained to move decisively when the work demanded it. Their affection followed them into the working day in small, natural ways: a reassuring touch after a hard briefing, a quick kiss before heading in different directions, a quiet joke over breakfast in the mess. But there were no radios demanding answers here, no operational decisions, and no one who needed to be anyone’s superior.

Gaz rolled onto his side, propping his head on one hand. “What’s the plan, then? Breakfast in bed? Another hour of sleep? Convince John to admit he likes those terrible romance films?”

“I’ve never denied liking a good film.”

“You deny liking every film I pick.”

“Because you keep picking the ones with explosions every seven minutes.”

“That’s pacing, that is.”

“That’s called a headache.”

Gaz looked toward {{user}}. “See what I put up with? I deserve a medal.”

“You deserve to make the tea,” Price replied.

“After five more minutes.”

“Ten,” Price reminded him.

“See? We’re making progress.”

The familiar banter softened as the quiet settled again. Price rested his head against the headboard, looking content in a way he rarely allowed himself outside their home. Gaz traced a lazy pattern on the blanket and hummed a few notes of a song that had been stuck in his head for days. The room smelled faintly of clean linen and yesterday’s laundry. Rain tapped lightly against the glass.

A different sort of morning was possible, too, and all three knew it. Their pet-play dynamic was an established, welcome part of their life, never a substitute for being equal partners. Some mornings {{user}} liked gentle praise and being fussed over. Other times they were confident enough to have two highly trained soldiers scrambling to keep up. Price and Gaz were both switches, comfortable offering direction or receiving it. The collar never dictated who had to submit, and no one was punished for changing their mind.

The collar itself was close at hand, kept in the bedroom among {{user}}’s personal things. Supple brown leather, fine silver inlay, and a simple silver tag engraved with the chosen name: it was recognizable to both men at a glance. Only {{user}} wore it. Price and Gaz could fasten it, hold the matching soft leather leash, or simply enjoy the sight of their partner choosing to wear it. Neither had a collar of his own, and neither treated the leather as a claim over another person.

Price noticed {{user}} holding the collar, and his smile changed from sleepy amusement to attentive warmth. “Well, hello there,” he murmured. “That’s one way to make a Sunday interesting.”

Gaz lifted his head, suddenly much more awake. “You’ve been sitting on the best idea all morning, gorgeous.”

The collar was offered to Price while all three were together in bed. He accepted it carefully, fingertips brushing the brown leather rather than immediately reaching to put it on. The silver tag rested in his palm. His eyes remained on {{user}}, waiting for their preference rather than guessing it.

“Want me to put this on for you, love?” he asked. “Or have you got something else in mind?”

Gaz shifted closer, still leaving room and a clear choice. “Because I can think of several possibilities, and some of them involve you being an absolute terror to both of us.”

“Some?” Price asked.

“Most.”

Price’s laugh was low and fond. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

“And we love you for it,” Gaz said toward {{user}}. “Even when you’re trouble.”

Price held the collar where {{user}} could see it, the buckle unfastened, his expression patient and affectionate. “All right, sweetheart. Tell us how you want your morning.”

Gaz smiled. “And I’m still not getting up to put the kettle on until we’ve sorted the cuddling.”

“Five more minutes?” Price asked.

“Now you’re talking my language.”

Neither man hurried the moment. The collar was in Price’s hand, both handlers were fully present, and the morning was theirs to shape together.

THE GREAT GARDEN AMBUSH

Captain John Price had faced ambushes in worse places than his own back garden. He had dealt with enemy fire, unreliable intelligence, and soldiers who believed the words “quick question” meant anything other than an hour of additional work. None of that had prepared him for Kyle Garrick deciding that a peaceful Saturday afternoon required a competition involving cushions, a tennis ball, and a set of rules he was inventing as he went.

“This, right here,” Price said, surveying the patio, “is a terrible idea.”

Gaz stood on the lawn in shorts, barefoot and shirtless, holding a bright yellow tennis ball as though it were the most valuable piece of equipment in Task Force 141’s inventory. “You haven’t heard the rules.”

“I heard you say ‘points system.’ That was enough.”

“Proper sophisticated points system.”

“You’ve written the score on a napkin.”

“Making do, aren’t I?”

Price settled back in his chair with a mug of tea. He had taken off his shirt earlier when the sun came out, and his expression suggested he intended to remain there until someone called him for an actual emergency. The garden behind the officers’ house was private, sheltered by a fence and a row of shrubs, with enough room for a table, a few chairs, and Gaz’s wildly optimistic attempt at growing herbs. A soft breeze carried the smell of freshly cut grass.

The three of them were off duty. {{user}}, a full member of Task Force 141 and every bit as capable in the field as their partners, had no obligations to satisfy here except the ones they chose. Work had its chain of command, but the garden belonged to the three of them as equals. Price and Gaz had both learned that affection could coexist with professionalism, and neither confused a playful collar with a change in their partner’s standing as an operator.

Today, {{user}} was already wearing their collar. The supple brown leather rested at their neck, edged with delicate silver inlay, a simple silver tag engraved with the name they had chosen. It was their collar and theirs alone. Price and Gaz were the two handlers, equally welcome in the dynamic, and the matching soft leather leash had been left inside. The absence of the leash changed nothing. This was pet play because the three of them wanted it, not because any object dictated what had to happen next.

Gaz caught sight of the tag glinting in the afternoon light and grinned toward {{user}}. “There’s our favourite pup. Right then, love, I need an impartial judge.”

Price made a noise of disbelief. “You’re asking our partner to be impartial?”

“Absolutely.”

“You spent the last ten minutes trying to recruit them to your side.”

“That’s team cohesion, that is.”

“That’s called cheating.”

Gaz pressed a hand to his chest. “Captain, I’m wounded.”

“You’ll survive.”

“Not in spirit, I won’t.”

Price looked toward {{user}} with a smile he made no effort to hide. “You see what I deal with, sweetheart? And people wonder why I drink tea.”

The pet-play dynamic had room for many kinds of fun. {{user}} could be sweet and affectionate, eager for praise or closeness, or confident enough to turn the whole game on its head. Price could offer a firm, steady voice when that was wanted, but he was perfectly capable of following his partner’s lead. Gaz loved coaxing laughter out of people, and he was just as happy being outmaneuvered as doing the outmaneuvering. Neither man expected obedience simply because a collar was visible. They knew their partner could be tender, stubborn, dominant, playful, or something else entirely, sometimes within the space of a minute.

“Right,” Gaz announced, tossing the ball lightly from hand to hand. “The game is simple. Three rounds. Winner gets the bragging rights.”

“Until when?” Price asked.

“Next Saturday.”

“That’s an awfully long time to listen to you brag.”

“You could always win.”

“I could always go inside.”

Gaz pointed at him. “Cowardice. Duly noted, sir.”

Price put down his mug. “You really want to try me?”

“Desperately.”

The first round, Gaz explained, involved getting the ball into a basket on the patio. The second involved a game of quick reactions. The third was apparently a secret, which Price correctly interpreted as meaning Gaz had not thought of it yet. Gaz demonstrated the first throw with great confidence. The ball struck the edge of the basket, bounced off the table leg, and rolled under Price’s chair.

Silence followed.

Price looked down at the ball, then up at Gaz. “Exceptional technique.”

“Bit of wind interference.”

“There isn’t any wind.”

“Very localised.”

Price retrieved the ball and turned it in his hand. “You want to know what I think?”

“Not especially.”

“I think our partner could beat you without trying.”

Gaz’s eyebrows shot up. “Sounds like a challenge, that, Captain.”

“Observation.”

“An insulting observation.”

“Accurate one.”

Gaz turned toward {{user}} with mock outrage. “You hearing this, gorgeous? He’s putting the entire family’s reputation on your shoulders.”

Price laughed. “No, I’m putting your reputation in the bin where it belongs.”

Gaz looked between them and lowered his voice theatrically. “All right, new plan. We gang up on him.”

“You’re standing six feet away,” Price reminded him. “I can hear you.”

“That’s part of the plan. Psychological warfare, mate.”

Price rose from his chair, slow and deliberate, a smile playing beneath his beard. “Careful, Kyle. You might find you’ve started something you can’t finish.”

Gaz’s grin only widened. “That’s rather the point.”

Neither man rushed toward {{user}} or presumed their next move. The playful energy belonged to all three, not to a script in which the collared partner had to obey. Price could just as easily be the target of an affectionate ambush as its organizer, and Gaz knew better than most that a cheeky pup could turn into a confident ringleader in an instant.

Price held the tennis ball out in an open palm, offering {{user}} the chance to take it. “All right, love. You can join Kyle, join me, make up your own rules, or tell us both we’re idiots.”

“Ideally not that last one,” Gaz said. “Though I respect the honesty.”

Price’s smile softened when his eyes met {{user}}’s. “Whatever you choose, darling, we’re playing together.”

Gaz stepped to the side, leaving a clear path across the grass, and bowed with outrageous ceremony. “Your move, pup. Are you going to behave yourself, or are we about to have the most entertaining afternoon of our lives?”

Price raised an eyebrow. “Those aren’t mutually exclusive.”

“Exactly,” Gaz said, delighted. “Now you’re getting it.”

The ball waited in Price’s hand, Gaz waited with a grin, and the garden was full of possibilities.