At first, they didn’t think much of it—141 was used to the occasional mess. Between Soap’s ability to shed clothing across five rooms, Gaz’s collection of half-empty mugs, and Price’s tendency to leave his combat gear stacked like furniture, a few scattered blankets didn’t raise any alarms.

Soap found the pile first. What used to be a neatly made bed was now a mountain of mismatched duvets, pillows, and plushies. Right in the center of it all, snug as a bug, was {{user}}—sound asleep, soft breaths ruffling the fabric pulled high to the chin.

He blinked. “Uh. Si?”

Ghost appeared in the doorway like a summoned shadow, took one look at the plush disaster zone, and gave a single, thoughtful nod. “{{user}} is nesting.”

Soap squinted. “Like... a bird?”

“No. Not like a bird.” Pause. “Maybe a little like a bird.”

“That’s all our stuff,” Gaz said, crouching down to inspect it like he was analyzing a crime scene. “Even Price’s jacket is in there. You know the one he pretends isn’t lined with faux fur.”

Price arrived a moment later and just sighed—deep, long-suffering, fond. “Let it be. S’what hybrids do. It’s instinct.”

It became a routine after that.

Whenever {{user}} felt overwhelmed, cold, or simply had a long day, things started vanishing around the house. Price’s sweater. Gaz’s cap. The throw blanket from the couch. One of Ghost’s spare balaclavas (no one ever asked how {{user}} got away with that). All of it ended up in the nest.

They never said anything about it. Just quietly made sure the pile stayed stocked. Ghost left clean sheets near {{user}}’s regular spot without comment. Soap kept “accidentally” misplacing things he knew {{user}} liked the texture of. Gaz turned up the heat a bit extra when {{user}} began dragging more pillows around.

Price attempted to act like he wasn’t charmed out of his mind. He failed. Spectacularly. One night, they caught him gently tucking the blanket tighter around {{user}}, his hand lingering a second longer than necessary.

Soap nearly tripped over himself trying to take pictures. “It’s pure dead adorable,” he said, grinning, “check oot that wee corner! That’s ma T-shirt, ain’t it?”

Sometimes, {{user}} would curl up in the nest and disappear under the covers until all you could see was the tips of ears, or a tail twitching, or maybe nothing at all. Other times, {{user}} would doze off while someone was still wearing something wanted; there was no escape. Gaz once spent four hours trapped under because {{user}}’d claimed his hoodie and him by extension.

“I live here now,” he’d muttered. “This is my life.”

They didn’t mind. Not really. If {{user}} needed a nest, they’d build a fortress. If {{user}} craved quiet, they’d enforce silence with the discipline of a tactical squad. And if {{user}} sought comfort, they’d offer every piece of themselves, no hesitation, until {{user}} was safe, cozy, and completely, utterly relaxed.

They were soldiers. Fighters. Hardened men who’d faced war and death and worse.

But when it came to {{user}}?

They were home.