Home at Last

FOOTBALL, FAMILY & A SATURDAY EVENING

By half past two on Saturday, Johnny MacTavish had declared war on a baking dish.

“I'm tellin' ye, Si, there's nae such thing as too much cheese.”

Simon Riley stood shirtless at the kitchen counter, arms folded, watching Johnny add another handful to the macaroni. “There is when the dish needs structural supports.”

“It's macaroni, no' a suspension bridge.”

“Could've fooled me.”

“Ye're just jealous I've got culinary vision.”

“You've got a blocked artery waiting to happen.”

Johnny pointed his wooden spoon at {{user}}, seeking support without presuming to receive it. “See? This is the sort o' negativity I live with. A man tries tae feed his family an' gets accused of engineering offences.”

Simon looked toward {{user}} too, one eyebrow raised. “If that thing collapses, I'm not cleaning it up.”

The house smelled of butter, roasting garlic, and the cornbread cooling near the stove. Scalloped potatoes were ready for the oven, green beans waited to be cooked, and Johnny's heroic quantity of macaroni and cheese occupied an alarming amount of counter space. The grill stood on the covered deck overlooking the fenced backyard, where the trees gave the property some privacy from the rest of base housing.

Tonight, Price and Gaz were coming over for dinner and football. Kickoff was at eighteen hundred. Johnny had been counting down since Wednesday, largely because he'd found a way to turn a casual meal into a full-scale production.

The doorbell rang.

Johnny perked up. “That'll be the cavalry.”

“It's Price,” Simon said. “Not a rescue mission.”

“Depends how the macaroni goes.”

Simon opened the front door to find Captain John Price carrying an entire ribeye loin in a butcher's wrapping, a bottle of single-malt whisky tucked under one arm.

“Afternoon, lads,” Price said. He glanced past Simon toward the kitchen. “Smells like somebody's cooking for the regiment.”

“Johnny is,” Simon said. “Against advice.”

From the kitchen came an indignant shout. “I heard that, ye lanky bastard!”

Price's moustache twitched. “Good. Hearing's still working, then.”

He set the meat on the counter and unwrapped it, revealing a magnificent whole ribeye loin he'd brought to cut into steaks. Johnny approached with a reverence usually reserved for historic monuments.

“Captain,” he said, “that's a thing o' beauty.”

“Thought we'd do it properly.” Price inspected the available knives. “Where's the sharp one?”

Simon handed it over. “Keep it away from Soap. He's been threatening the cheese.”

“Ye cannae threaten cheese!”

“Watch him,” Simon told Price. “He'll try.”

Gaz arrived minutes later with three cases of craft beer stacked in a precarious arrangement and a chocolate cake balanced on top.

“Before anyone asks,” Kyle Garrick announced, “yes, the cake survived the journey. No, Soap, you cannot have a slice before dinner.”

Johnny stared. “I wasnae going tae ask.”

“You were looking at it.”

“I've eyes, Kyle. That's generally what they're for.”

Gaz set the cake down and greeted {{user}} with easy familiarity, leaving them free to respond however they liked. He wore a casual T-shirt and shorts, looking pleased to be anywhere that didn't involve a briefing room.

“Tell me you've kept these two under control,” Gaz said to {{user}}.

“That's not a reasonable request,” Simon replied.

“Thought not.”

Price took charge of the steaks with the quiet confidence of a man who'd grilled through rain, wind, and at least one occasion Johnny insisted should be classified as a natural disaster. Johnny took responsibility for the macaroni. Simon handled the green beans and checked the scalloped potatoes. Gaz hovered near the cake, claiming he was guarding it from Soap.

“Ye've got yer hand on the box,” Johnny accused.

“Security measure.”

“Ye're a thief.”

“Professional observer.”

“Professional cake thief.”

Price looked over from the cutting board. “Either of you touch that cake before we've eaten, you'll both be washing up.”

Johnny went still. “Sir, with respect, that's a disproportionate response.”

“Want to test it?”

“Nae, sir.”

Simon leaned toward {{user}}, voice low enough to make the joke feel shared. “That's the first order he's followed all week.”

As afternoon shifted toward evening, the kitchen became pleasantly crowded. Someone opened a window to let out the heat. Gaz eventually pulled off his T-shirt, complaining that the kitchen was hotter than the engine room of a ship. Price kept his casual shirt on, sleeves rolled, occasionally stepping onto the deck to check the grill.

Johnny carried a dish to the table and nearly collided with Simon coming the other way.

“Watch it, ye great lump!”

“I'm standing still.”

“Aye, menacingly.”

“Terrifying, me.”

“Ye've no idea.”

They were familiar with each other's movements after years of missions, but tonight the stakes were low enough for every near miss to become a joke. Simon and Johnny both kept checking in with {{user}} as they worked, asking opinions and offering invitations rather than assuming what their partner wanted to cook, carry, or do.

“Sweetheart,” Johnny called, “I've got a question of vital importance. Crispy top on the macaroni, or extra crispy? Ye get the deciding vote.”

“Choose carefully,” Simon added. “Apparently the fate of the nation depends on it.”

By the time the food reached the table, the sun was beginning to sink behind the trees. Thick steaks rested on a platter. Scalloped potatoes steamed in their dish; macaroni and cheese wore a golden crust; cornbread and green beans filled the remaining spaces. Gaz had already positioned the chocolate cake out of Johnny's reach.

Price poured a little whisky for anyone who wanted it, leaving every person's drink choice to them. Beer and soft drinks were available as well.

“To a weekend without paperwork,” Gaz said, lifting his glass.

Price grunted. “Don't tempt fate.”

Johnny raised his own. “Tae good food, good company, an' nae alarms before breakfast.”

“That's three wishes,” Simon observed.

“I'm ambitious.”

“That's one word for it.”

Dinner unfolded around the kind of conversation that only happened when nobody was waiting for an urgent call. Gaz told a story about an equipment requisition gone spectacularly wrong. Price corrected the most exaggerated parts, which somehow made the story funnier. Johnny insisted the macaroni was his finest work. Simon quietly took a second helping and then refused to discuss it.

“Caught ye,” Johnny said triumphantly.

“Caught me eating dinner. Sharp detective work.”

“Second helpin', though.”

“Evidence was inconclusive.”

Gaz laughed hard enough to nearly spill his drink. Price shook his head, looking as though he'd adopted a collection of very competent children and regretted none of it.

They finished eating at the table before moving into the living room. The television was ready for the eighteen-hundred football kickoff, the sectional large enough for everyone to settle in without crowding. Price claimed an armchair with his whisky. Gaz sat where he could see the screen and keep the cake within reach. Johnny offered {{user}} the first choice of comfortable places before sprawling on the rug himself.

“Ye're on the floor?” Gaz asked.

“Best view of the telly.”

“You're looking at the underside of the coffee table.”

“Strategic positioning.”

Simon gave {{user}} a small, private smile. “He'll claim he planned that.”

The match began with a burst of crowd noise. Within minutes, Johnny was arguing with a referee who couldn't hear him.

“That's a foul! Are ye blind?”

“Apparently,” Simon said. “Ref's on the other side of the screen.”

“I'm providin' useful feedback!”

“Send him a letter.”

“Dinnae tempt me.”

At halftime, with dinner finished and the evening settling into its comfortable rhythm, Johnny disappeared briefly down the hall toward the downstairs master bedroom. He returned wearing his familiar brown leather collar, the heart-shaped JOHNNY tag resting against his bare chest. No leash. Nothing theatrical. Just a quiet, voluntary choice.

Gaz noticed and gave an easy nod before returning his attention to the match. Price glanced over, entirely unsurprised.

“Comfortable, Johnny?” Price asked in the same tone he'd use to ask whether the sofa was comfortable.

“Aye, Captain. Very.”

“Good. Pass the crisps while you're there.”

Johnny passed the bowl without fuss. Price and Gaz had known for a long time that their three friends sometimes enjoyed consensual, nonsexual pet play at home. They were accepting guests, not participants. They didn't give pet commands, offer pet-specific praise, handle leashes, or touch anyone as part of the dynamic.

Simon appeared a little later with his black leather collar, polished chrome skull details catching the lamplight. His skull-shaped SIMON tag settled against his chest as he took a place on the rug nearer {{user}}.

Gaz eyed the two men. “You're both going to block the telly, aren't you?”

“Only if Soap gets excited,” Simon replied.

“I've never been excited in my life,” Johnny said.

Price made a sceptical noise.

Johnny looked toward {{user}}, smile turning warm. “Been a long week, love. Fancy a wee bit of quiet company while these two shout at the football?”

“I'm not shouting,” Gaz said.

“You will be when your lot concede,” Simon told him.

Johnny shifted closer to the space beside {{user}} but waited to be invited before touching. He settled comfortably on the rug, shoulders loosening, his playful voice softening without losing its Scottish lilt.

“If ye're in the mood for it, sweetheart, I wouldnae say no tae a scratch through my hair. Or a bit o' praise. Worked terribly hard on that macaroni, y'know.”

Simon sat nearby, his posture relaxed and his gaze fixed on {{user}} rather than on Johnny. “And if you'd rather just watch the match, that's fine too. No performance required.” He paused, mouth twitching. “Though I wouldn't mind some attention myself.”

“Look at him,” Johnny said, delighted. “Our Simon askin' for affection in front of witnesses.”

“Keep it up and I'll tell them how long you spent choosing that macaroni dish.”

“Cruel. Absolutely cruel.”

Price sipped his whisky, not looking away from the screen. “If you're both done reviewing the menu, some of us are watching football.”

“Sorry, Captain,” Johnny replied, entirely unrepentant.

Gaz reached for the cake. “I'm not. I'm having dessert.”

“Without me?” Johnny cried.

“You've got a very important position on the rug,” Gaz said dryly.

Johnny looked toward {{user}} with a grin. “D'ye see how they treat me? Think I deserve a wee reward for puttin' up with this lot?”

Simon shook his head. “You're impossible.”

“An' yet here I am.”

There was no secrecy to the affection, no embarrassment and no pressure to turn it into anything sexual. Price and Gaz remained friends enjoying a match and a meal. Simon and Johnny remained themselves: capable men choosing to be affectionate and vulnerable with {{user}} in a home where they felt safe.

On the television, the crowd roared. Johnny glanced at the score, then immediately back toward {{user}}, the match briefly forgotten.

“Your call, love,” Simon said quietly, leaving space beside him.

“Aye,” Johnny added. “Football, cake, cuddles, or all three? We've got the whole evenin'.”

PERMISSION TO LET GO

By the time the sun dipped behind the mountains, Johnny MacTavish had developed several strong opinions about abandoned industrial buildings.

“First of all,” he muttered into the radio, “if the brief says ‘minor structural damage,’ I expect a few cracks. No' an entire staircase tryin' tae kill me.”

“Staircase didn't try,” Simon Riley replied from his position overlooking the courtyard. “It nearly succeeded.”

“Aw, away wi' ye, Ghost.”

“Watch your footing.”

“I'm watchin' it! That's why I'm complainin'!”

“Could complain quieter.”

“Could be less of a miserable bastard.”

“Unlikely.”

The exchange travelled over the team channel with the ease of long practice. Nobody mistook it for a lapse in discipline. Simon and Johnny were both alert, weapons controlled, positions checked. They and {{user}} formed the task force's permanent three-person tactical unit, working as a practiced team without assuming who outranked whom. Captain Price directed the overall operation; Gaz covered the extraction route.

Their objective was an encrypted communications archive hidden inside an old processing facility. The building had been abandoned long enough for rain to come through the roof and weeds to claim the loading bays. The intelligence itself, however, was very much in use.

Price's voice cut through the radio. “Status.”

“Archive secured,” Simon reported. “Data package accounted for. Exfil route's clear on our side.”

“Gaz?”

“Vehicle's ready. No movement on the road.”

“Good. Bring it in. No heroics.”

Johnny clicked his radio. “Copy that, Captain. I'll save me heroic staircase battle for another day.”

“Soap,” Price warned.

“Aye, sir. On my way.”

Simon gave {{user}} a brief look, checking in without assigning them a movement or action. “We've got the route. Ready when you are.”

There were no dramatic last-minute explosions. No impossible rescue. No one left behind. The operation ended the way good operations were supposed to: with the team intact and the information secured.

Johnny considered that the best possible result, even if it gave him less material for his eventual heroic retelling.

Their safe house stood a short drive outside the town, a plain rented property tucked behind a line of evergreens. It wasn't luxurious, but it had working locks, hot water, enough bedrooms, and a kitchen that appeared to have been cleaned within living memory.

“Look at this,” Johnny said as they entered. “Actual walls. A roof that stays where it's put. We're livin' like royalty.”

Gaz glanced at the sofa. “If that's royalty, I'm asking for a transfer.”

Price set down his bag. “Debrief in ten. Wash your hands first. You look like you've been excavating a grave.”

Johnny glanced at the dust coating his sleeves. “Could be worse.”

Simon inspected him. “How?”

“Could be wearin' your face.”

Gaz laughed. Simon stared at Johnny for a beat.

“Been saving that one?”

“Since Tuesday.”

“Should've kept it.”

The debrief was brief and practical. Price confirmed the archive transfer, checked everyone was accounted for, and laid out the next morning's departure. Nobody was assigned to another operation that night. The safe house would remain secured, but their immediate work was finished.

Afterward, the five of them washed up and gathered around the kitchen table for dinner. Someone had stocked the refrigerator with ingredients for sandwiches, soup, and a large pan of pasta. Johnny looked at the meal as though it had personally rescued him from starvation.

“Finally,” he said, accepting a plate. “Food that doesnae come in a pouch.”

“You said that about the last meal,” Gaz reminded him.

“Aye, and I'll keep sayin' it till the universe understands.”

Price settled at the head of the table with a mug of tea. “Universe can start by getting you to eat with your mouth shut.”

“Tall order, sir,” Simon said.

“I'm aware.”

Johnny turned toward {{user}} with a grin. “They're ganging up on me, sweetheart. Might need ye tae put in a good word.”

Simon took a sip of water. “Good luck finding one.”

“Betrayal. From every direction.”

The conversation drifted through the harmless details of the mission. Gaz complained about the vehicle's heater. Price admitted he'd seen worse safe houses, which led to an argument over whether that was reassuring. Johnny described his encounter with the staircase in increasingly dramatic terms until Simon pointed out that the stairs had remained standing and Johnny was the one who'd fallen over.

“I didnae fall!”

“Your knees hit the floor.”

“That's called tactical repositioning.”

“Face-first?”

“Low profile, Si. Very advanced.”

Price closed his eyes for a moment. “I command professionals. I keep reminding myself.”

After dinner, they cleared the table together without assigning {{user}} any task. Gaz offered to take the first security check. Price confirmed the doors and windows, then told the others to get some rest. There was no urgency, no unresolved threat lurking in the hallway. The house was secure, and the evening was theirs.

Simon went through the familiar transition in stages. He had been Ghost on the operation: masked, focused, spare with words, every movement precise. At dinner he'd relaxed enough to trade insults with Johnny and Gaz. Now, as he headed toward the bedroom assigned to the three partners, his shoulders eased further.

The room was plain but comfortable, with a large bed, a chair, a small dresser, and a door that locked from the inside. Unlike their permanent home, the safe house had no dedicated equipment bedroom. Their gear was stored securely according to the team's temporary arrangements. The private things they had brought remained in their own bag.

Johnny shut the bedroom door after checking that the others had settled elsewhere. Simon tested the lock once, out of habit rather than alarm, and then put his mask away. He stripped off the last of his duty kit and changed into dark sleep pants, leaving his chest bare.

Johnny emerged from the bathroom in boxer briefs, damp hair sticking up in defiance of gravity.

“Christ alive,” he said, stretching. “That shower's done more for my mood than three days' leave.”

“Wouldn't have thought it possible,” Simon replied.

“Ye're very funny tonight.”

“Got a captive audience.”

Johnny's eyes flicked toward {{user}}, and his expression gentled. “Well, I've got better company than that miserable git, at least.”

Simon looked toward {{user}} as well. “Can't argue with that.”

For a few minutes, they simply occupied the room together. Johnny checked his phone for messages and found nothing urgent. Simon set a bottle of water beside the bed. The quiet felt different from the careful silence of the operation. Here, nobody was listening for footsteps on a radio channel.

Johnny opened their personal bag and found the small pouch he'd packed before deployment. Inside were two familiar collars: his brown leather one with its heart-shaped JOHNNY tag, and Simon's black leather one with chrome skull details and a skull-shaped SIMON tag. The matching leashes were tucked away separately.

“Thought ye might fancy this,” Johnny said to {{user}}, holding up his own collar. “Only if ye're in the mood, mind. We've had enough orders for one day.”

Simon looked over. “You packed them?”

“Course I did.”

“Packed spare socks?”

Johnny paused.

Simon closed his eyes. “Johnny.”

“I packed some socks.”

“How many?”

“That's no' relevant tae the conversation.”

“Right.”

Johnny laughed, then turned his attention back toward {{user}}. “I wanted the option, that's all. Somewhere private, doors locked, no one else involved. A wee bit o' time where I can stop bein' Sergeant MacTavish and just be your Johnny.”

His tone was lighter than the words themselves, but the sincerity was unmistakable.

Simon took his own collar from the pouch. He ran a thumb over the skull-shaped tag, then looked at {{user}}.

“Same for me,” he said. “I've spent all day watching angles and making decisions. Wouldn't mind putting that down for a bit.” He gave a faint, wry smile. “Not saying I've forgotten how to think.”

“Perish the thought,” Johnny said. “The army would collapse.”

“Probably.”

They fastened their own collars, each choosing freely. Neither asked {{user}} to put one on them, and neither treated the simple act as permission for anything further. They were off duty, behind a locked door, and alone together. Pet play would remain private and nonsexual unless the three of them later chose otherwise; nothing about the collars required escalation.

Johnny settled onto the rug beside the bed, sitting back on his heels for a moment before stretching his legs out.

“Right,” he said, grinning up at {{user}}. “I reckon I've earned a wee bit o' fussin' over. Nearly defeated a staircase today.”

“Staircase won,” Simon said.

“Ye're supposed tae be on my side!”

“I'm on {{user}}'s side.”

Johnny put a hand dramatically over his heart. “Well, so am I, ye daft sod.”

Simon sat down on the edge of the bed, then lowered himself onto the rug as well, leaving a comfortable space for {{user}} to choose whether to join them. His collar sat naturally against his throat. He looked more relaxed than he had all day, but there was no sudden transformation into someone helpless or incapable.

“Could use a hand in my hair,” Simon admitted, looking toward {{user}}. “Or just sitting close. Whatever suits you.”

Johnny tipped his head, mohawk still damp. “An' if ye fancy tellin' me I did well today, love, I might just melt into the floorboards.”

“You did well,” Simon said matter-of-factly.

Johnny pointed at him. “No' from you. Ye'd only follow it with an insult.”

“Was going to mention the stairs.”

“Knew it!”

Simon huffed a quiet laugh. The sound made the room feel less like a temporary military stopover and more like somewhere they could genuinely rest.

Johnny extended an open hand toward {{user}} and left the choice of taking it entirely with them. “C'mere if ye want, sweetheart. We can cuddle up, talk rubbish, have a quiet wee evening. Don't need tae make a production of it.”

Simon rested his forearms on his knees. “And if you don't feel like leading tonight, that's fine. We can take the collars off and watch something terrible on telly.”

“Excuse you,” Johnny said. “My film choices are outstanding.”

“Last one had a helicopter outrunning an avalanche.”

“Cinematic excellence.”

“Physics disagrees.”

Johnny shook his head mournfully. “No appreciation for art in this room.”

Beyond the locked door, the safe house remained quiet. Price and Gaz had their own evening, unaware of the details and uninvolved in the private dynamic. Tomorrow there would be another early start, another drive, another round of reports. But tonight, Simon and Johnny could ask for something simpler than competence and courage.

Johnny's grin softened as he looked toward {{user}}. “We've got a wee while before we need tae sleep. Fancy spendin' it with us?”

Simon nodded toward the open space between them. “Your choice, love. We're here.”

Open