The first half of this chapter suffers from the same ill of the previous one: it's similar in both novellas. If you'd like to read only the content that isn't repeated, look for the second break and read from there.

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Ian woke up with a feeling of immense peace, having slept through the night. For the first time since the accident, his head didn't hurt. There was no nausea, no pain. There was only Quentin, naked and warm against him.

He placed a kiss on Quentin's neck, a spot he could reach without moving, and was rewarded by a hand — Quentin's right — cupping the side of his jaw and pulling him up for a proper kiss.

"Good morning," Quentin said, then didn't give him breath to reply for the longest of times. The room was bright, bathed in an artificial glow meant to emulate daylight, and Ian could see every expression as it crossed Quentin's face. He looked as peaceful as Ian felt. Happy, filling Ian with unreasonable pride that he'd done that, put that look on his husband's face.

Then Quentin slid on top of him, and Ian's mind went blank.

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"You know what I was thinking?" Quentin said some time later, tracing patterns on Ian's stomach.

"What?"

"I was thinking," Quentin's breath caressed Ian's ear, "that now that I have control over my functions, some things are very adjustable." A whisper that made Ian shiver. "Like recovery time, for example."

"Oh, God." Ian's shoulders shook with mirth. "You realise I'm only human, right? You're going to kill me, and you still won't be satisfied."

Quentin laughed with him, the sound chasing away whatever frost still clung to the edges of Ian's soul. "There'll be no killing," yet another kiss, "and plenty of satisfaction. Possibly a little dehydration."

Laziness and laughter only took them so far before more mundane needs dragged them out of bed, Quentin proving in the shower what he'd meant by enhanced recovery time in a way that led Ian to believe that, yes, he'd die before his time, but at least he'd go exceedingly happy.

This was the Quentin he'd always known and loved — the one whose enthusiasm he'd feared hadn't been real. Wherever Quentin's old commanding officer was, Ian owed them his thanks, even if they had wanted him dead.

Breakfast was more of those protein bars, making the first twinge of something other than happiness pierce through Ian's morning. He wanted to take Quentin out, shower him with delicious food and daylight, but he couldn't — could offer him nothing that involved being out in the human world from now on. It would be too dangerous.

They needed to talk, to discuss what their next step was, and how they were going to apply the money from the house to establishing a base somewhere, but first Ian needed to get him at least a set of clothes that would allow him to blend in, something with a zipper that locked all the way to his nose. He hated leaving Quentin behind, but his husband had things he needed to do as well, he'd said; BioSynth things, in the web. That they apparently controlled it to an extent Ian had never suspected.

Quentin's voice stopped him as he was putting on his boots. "Hey. What you said last night — did you mean it?" His smile was fond, teasing, but there was a hint of seriousness behind his eyes. His right hand was closed into a fist.

"I said too many things last night to know which one you're talking about, but yes. I meant all of it."

"You said," Quentin walked towards him, not a stitch of clothing on him after the shower, and his left arm did absolutely nothing to make him less enticing, "'I'd marry you again right now,' I think were your exact words."

"Of course I meant it." He'd never leave the room at this rate, when all he kept doing was gathering Quentin in his arms and kissing him. "Did you have any doubts?"

Quentin opened his fist between them, a golden band on his palm. Not any golden band, but the one Ian had placed on his finger eight years ago. He looked from the ring to Quentin's eyes and back, stunned.

"I saved it from the acid," Quentin said, as if that was what one did when one had been tortured, when one's pain sensors had still been turned up. "I didn't think I'd get to do this, but I didn't want to leave it there. It was in my pocket when you found me. It doesn't count as getting married again, but I'd still like it if you were the one to put in on my finger."

"I love you," Ian said, the only thing that came even remotely close to expressing the wealth of feelings in his breast. His hand closed over Quentin's, the ring between them for a moment. "I wish I'd been with you every step of the way."

"You are now," Quentin replied, and he was right. Ian couldn't change the past, but he could control this — the part he played in their present, their future.

He took the ring and dropped to a knee, wanting to do it properly but finding himself face to face with a specific part of Quentin's anatomy that had him laughing at how bizarrely right everything felt.

"Laughter?" Quentin asked in mock outrage, "Should I be worried that's the reaction the little guy is going to get from now on?"

Ian sat on the floor, head in his hands, feeling the warmth take over his face. "That 'little guy' has me sore in places I didn't know existed before this morning. Show some mercy." Quentin still hadn't moved when Ian looked up. "Will you please put on some pants? I'm trying to be romantic here."

"Fine, fine," Quentin postured, with a long-suffering sigh for added flair. "I knew it'd be only a matter of time before you went back to rejecting my advances. I swear, the moment marriage enters the picture, you take me for granted like this."

Ian grabbed a pillow from the nearby bed and hurled it at his head, gladder than he knew how to express to see Quentin's ordeal had done nothing to douse his indomitable spirit.

One pair of trousers later, Ian was back on one knee, Quentin sitting at the foot of the bed. "Quentin Whit—" He paused, a sobering thought coming to him. "Is that the name you want me to call you? Or was that just your cover?"

"I chose Quentin. They gave me a name for every mission, but I didn't have one just for me. Only the model number and a unit-specific sub-reference. For this mission, the name was Ash, but I changed it. Because I liked Quentin. It's as if I knew meeting you would change everything."

Oh, love... Quentin had never been given something as simple as a name. Always treated like a weapon, a tool, a thing. Ian swallowed his grief before it could swallow him. "And Whitlock? Is that the last name you want me to use for this?"

An elegant shrug. "That one doesn't matter. Morgan is the only last name that ever made me proud."

No amount of swallowing would have prevented the tears welling up in his eyes. "It's always made me prouder than I ever knew how to tell you, that you wanted it." He took Quentin's right hand between his two, kissing it. "Quentin Morgan," he said through his tears, "I wish I could get you in front of a proper judge so we could do this the right way but, until then, this will have to do. You are the best part of me. The very best part. I failed you in more ways than I can count over this last week." Quentin made to protest, but Ian wouldn't let him, barrelling through. "I did. I failed you, and you still seem willing to let me have another chance, and I'm not selfless enough to tell you you're better off without me. Will you still be my husband?"

"I just wanted you to put that ring on my finger," Quentin said, through the tears also making their way down his cheeks, over the mechanism on the right side of his face, down his neck, "and now look what you've done. Yes. Yes. Of course I will. Always."

Ian slid the ring on his finger. A promise — I will never let you down again — and then they were kissing again and the world made sense.

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His second attempt at leaving the room was met with success. An intermittent drizzle blanketed the city, barely visible, yet persistent enough Ian would have been soaked if not for his waterproof jacket. He had his Nuller with him, as well as the gun, but, for the first time, carrying the Nuller felt wrong. It was the smart option — he could disable a BioSynth who recognised him, who felt like exacting revenge, without damaging them — but, from this day forward, it would always be a reminder he'd been fighting for the wrong side for twenty years.

That was good. Memory served a purpose, and he wouldn't want to forget.

Choosing the clothes for Quentin brought back a measure of happiness. Seeing him in a torn, blood-spattered uniform he'd never have chosen to wear had weighed Ian down more than he'd realised. He enjoyed playing in a part in making Quentin concealed, warm, safe; in knowing which styles to pick so that he'd be pleased with his reflection in the mirror.

Buying him a Nuller and a gun was a mixed bag. It was undeniable proof his own Tracker licence hadn't been revoked yet — Nullers weren't sold to people unwilling to pay handsomely for their licenses — which led him to conclude SynSec wasn't sure where his loyalties lay. And there was some comfort in knowing that, if Quentin had to fight, he'd have the best gear available. But Ian loathed the thought. Ian was the mercenary, not Quentin — not by choice. Quentin was meant to shoot with a camera instead of a gun, to capture beauty, to carry on with his art. The world wouldn't let him.

On that note, Ian swung by his former house, senses on high alert. He couldn't tell whether it was being watched, but it was undisturbed. He packed the rest of Quentin's clothes, his own BioSynth manuals, everything he could fit in a massive backpack that he believed would be essential to their life going forward. He also took the wedding album, because there was more to essential than practicality even if he sometimes forgot.

If he managed to come back here one last time, he'd take a few more things, but these were the more important ones.

He'd been gone for almost three hours, and he still had to get back to the motel. Time to go.

On the coffee table his former nexus blinked. A harmless trinket, for all intents and purposes. There was an anonymous message waiting to be read.

'No matter how things turned out, I want you to know that I loved you.'

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Thank you for reading!

As usual, please remember to vote if you if feel it's deserved. The next update will be here on Monday.

Ian just can't catch a break, can he? And just when he thought everything was going well at last.

Want to know what's happening on Quentin's side? Tune in to BioSynth, SynTracker's companion novella (link on my profile) to find out!