Johnny and Simon aren't used to domesticity beyond what they can give each other in the quiet of the barracks. They haven't been together quite long enough to share a leave the way they'd like to. But when you came along, and chirped about on one of your weekly calls to them about how they should both just stay at your flat in London when they come back, so the three of you aren't all separated, they couldn't say no.
They didn't know what to expect, duffel bags in hand and covered in grime, sticking out like weeds on the cleanliness of your doorstep. "Door's unlocked" you had told them over the phone when they said they were on their way. Simon does Johnny the favor of opening the door first, stepping inside to cover him as if they're still on the field. But they're not met with gunfire or yelling, not even empty silence. The television is on low, playing a random football (because it is football, birdie) match and the house smells of cinnamon and something hearty bubbling on the stove.
They aren't used to the excited call of your voice from the kitchen, the sound of soft, socked feet padding on the floor towards them. You in a large shirt (one of Johnny's,) and a pair of leggings. They're almost frozen when you take their bags, dropping them to the floor and pulling them both towards you for a hug while you murmur about how you missed them.
But they like it. It's not much different than a shared tray of food in the barracks, followed by a fitful rest on a too hard mattress pad and scratchy sheets. Except it is. It's a shared meal, home cooked, the best thing they think they've ever tasted. It's you checking them over for injury not so subtly as they scarf down their plates, daring to ask for seconds to indulge both themselves and you. A shower, for both of them while you clean up, hot water and soap that smells like you.
They whisper conversation in the shower, about how different and nice it is. Johnny does more of the talking than Simon, who scrubs Johnny's back the way he likes while he listens to Johnny ramble quietly about their lass. About when did she learn to cook like that? About how he never wants to go back to his place, how he could stay here and let her feed him his weight in roast until it was time to leave again. Simon who indulges him with nods and grunts, but who's really thinking about a neat glass of bourbon and having you two draped over his lap where he can bask in your shared warmth because in his mind he's already used to this. He already knows he wants more.
It's Johnny passing out on your couch, drooling onto the armrest, a leg thrown over Simon's lap and a full belly. You coming into the living room with a mug of hot tea for the man left awake. Sitting down next to him and leaning against his side, asking him questions about where work took them and if he needs anything while you comb your fingers through his damp hair, occasionally stopping to catch a stray drop of water with your fingers. Once the cup has gone cold and theres no liquid left, you let him sit in silence as well, not speaking, only lightly pressing your lips to the stubble of his jaw and whispering that you have a surprise for him. Leaving the living room and coming back with a bottle of his favorite. Whispering about how you asked Johnny to make sure this was the right one as you burrowed your way back under his arm. And as he presses a kiss to your forehead, traces circles along your shoulder with his fingers while the other holds the bottle of bourbon on his lap, he thinks Johnny was right.
