"Can you believe Zaiden?" Quentin asked as they left the restaurant. He'd expected Ian to laugh, but there was something in the slant of his shoulders that didn't sit well with Quentin.

"I can believe they'd fall in love with the house," was Ian's subdued reply.

"It's our house." Quentin had an inkling of what might be upsetting Ian. "Did they think they'd wave a million credits and we'd jump?"

"It's worth eight-hundred thousand. We'd turn a profit." His husband's gaze wouldn't meet his, fixed somewhere on the floor as they made their way to the car. "I wouldn't blame you if you wanted to take them up on it."

Quentin stopped and turned, letting go of Ian's hand to cup both his cheeks. He'd been right "That's our home. I know that's not what you want."

"I'm saying that we made a huge investment, and you might not—"

"Stop worrying." It'd be criminal to be this close and not indulge in a kiss. "You've been this way since we got it. I love it too."

"I just... I don't like to think that I made you jump when you weren't ready."

"I thought you said you could read me? I'll jump anywhere with you. We're not selling." He paused, then added, "Well, if they offer five mil I'll reconsider."

Ian laughed. "For five million credits, I'll do the move for them and be their cleaning bot for a year."

"Well," Quentin quipped, wagging his eyebrows, "just as long as you don't offer to be their sex bot."

Ian's facepalm was expected; he did it to hide his embarrassment whenever Quentin pushed his buttons. "There's no danger of that. On that topic," he said through his fingers, "you had that face all throughout dinner. You don't need me to tell you they noticed."

Quentin pulled Ian's hand away to taste his lips again. The man had been living on a knife-edge for twenty years; Quentin relished that he could make him blush like a schoolboy, regardless. "If you mean the quickie in the car before going in the restaurant," Ian's faced warmed further as Quentin's voice dropped. "That was just the appetiser. Also: is there anything wrong with the world knowing you're keeping me this satisfied?"

"I'm trying to berate you and you turn and compliment me." Diffident, but pleased. "That's not fair at all."

He whispered his next words into Ian's lips. "Then I guess It's a good thing I never had any intention of playing fair, husband. Now, tell me," another kiss, "did you really think I would?"

For a while he thought Ian wouldn't answer, too busy making Quentin's head spin. When he did, it was with a muttered, "You'll be the death of me."

Quentin's good mood fled, the earlier nexus broadcast replaying uninvited in his mind. "Better me than a BioSynth."

Ian grazed his cheek with his knuckles and stared as if he were trying to read Quentin's soul. It took him a long time to find words but, when he did, Quentin's world tilted sideways. "Best-case scenario, ten years. Worst case, fifteen. Max. I'll stop Tracking then."

That was... He'd never committed to a date before. Quentin had often feared he'd keep Tracking well into his seventies, if he hadn't gotten himself killed before. Fifteen years might be a long time, but it was a specific moment to look forward to, and Ian wouldn't have mentioned ten if he didn't think it could happen. Quentin felt too overwhelmed to even smile, his heart racing. "Is that a promise?"

"It's a promise."

The wave of happiness bubbling up inside him would have lasted for days, if he hadn't found himself struggling for breath in a capsized car, barely twenty minutes later.

☵☲☵

He felt strange when the car came to a halt — as if something other than the seatbelt were pressing him to the seat. Ian was still strapped to his own seatbelt, hanging upside down, apparently unharmed.

But his eyes were closed.

And he wasn't moving.

"Ian. Ian!" Fuck, no, no, not now, not ever, not like this. "Ian, please, God, please. Wake up!"

When his husband blinked awake, Quentin's relief manifested in a hysterical fit of laughter, even though humour was the last thing he could find in the situation.

"Are you alright, love?" Ian was the one who'd just been unconscious, and still Quentin was his first thought. "Did you hit your head?"

Why couldn't he stop laughing? "I'm okay," he managed at last. "You're the one who was out like a light."

"I'm fine," Ian said, just before all the blood drained from his face — and if that wasn't just the funniest thing, considering he was upside down and blood should be rushing towards his head.

Quentin tried to take a deep breath, but found he couldn't breathe deeply at all. His second inappropriate fit of laughter of the night subsided. A part of him didn't want to know what Ian had seen when looking at him, or how it might relate to the weird pressure spreading to his chest, that had Ian blanching. He didn't ask.

Ian twisted himself in various ways, too calm and collected, and managed to release his seatbelt without falling on his head. Quentin hadn't made any progress with his own, hands shaking too badly to even try.

"I've sent for help," Ian said, fiddling with the nexus, voice gentle and... And terrified, Quentin realised. "They'll be here soon, love. You'll be okay."

"Ian, what..." Quentin glanced downwards — upwards — and saw it, then. A piece of twisted metal had speared him like an arrow and lodged itself in his sternum.

Pain burst across all five senses — now that he could see it, he could feel it, hear it, smell it, taste the pain, even. A distant sort of panic hovered on the edge of his awareness, and he almost laughed again: He wasn't going to make it.

Ian knelt on the ceiling, adjusting the nexus until a bright light flooded the car. "I'm going to take a look, love, just to make sure, but you'll be alright. It can't have hit anything important." His tone belied his words. "TrackerEvac are on their way and then—" He never finished that sentence.

Quentin blinked, his eyes protesting the glare, and added "blinking" to the list of activities that caused excruciating pain. He needed to speak — to say something, tell Ian how much he loved him one last time — but the words all caught in his throat. It wasn't fair. They'd just moved. They'd decided when Ian was going to retire. It wasn't fair. "Ian—"

When he was done blinking, Ian had a gun pointed to his face.

"Where is he?" He'd never heard his husband's tone like that.

"Ian?"

"Where's Quentin?"

Ian must have a concussion; a dangerous combination with the gun. Quentin spoke calmly through the pain, trying not to spook him. "I am Quentin."

The gun pressed right against his forehead.

"I have no need to destroy you if you cooperate. Where. Is. My. Husband?"

"I am your husband," he pleaded. If he was going to die from the crash, he didn't want his last minutes with Ian to go down like this. Not like this, he thought for the second time that night. But then—

"You're not him. You're one of them." Ian waved the gun the slightest bit, allowing Quentin to get a better look at his wound.

It was—

There were—

It couldn't be—

Layers of flesh and bone, of sinew and blood. And, glinting underneath it all, inside of him, a part of him, the mechanism. A BioSynth mechanism.

And the world in front of his eyes exploded in a cacophony of information.

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Thank you for reading!

Needless to say, I'd love any and all comments you might have to offer, both on this second chapter and in general. And, if you liked the chapter enough, there's always the little vote button you can click on or tap.

If you didn't read the blurb, were you expecting the reveal?

Should you want to know what's going on with Ian, tune in to SynTracker, BioSynth's companion novella (link on my profile), but be forewarned: There will be spoilers if you decide to read both.

☰☱☲☳☴☵☶☵☴☳☲☱☰

ONC Rec Time!

Because one (or two, as the case may be) novellas are not enough, I'm going to be using this space to recommend other ONC Novellas for your reading delight. The links will be on the ONC2021 reading list on my profile, as well as in the author's profile.

First on my list is Weaver, by the inimitable CeeMTaylor

I've always made no secret I'm a huge fan of Cee's writing, but don't take my word for it -- go read it. You'll thank me later. Here's the blurb:

When a simple job goes horribly awry, ghosthunter Anya must prove she has what it takes to do spirit work or risk losing her job, her brother, and a second chance with the One Who Got Away.