"Let me get this straight." The BioSynth sat on the windowsill in front of Ian, back against the glass, legs dangling. "You had a change of heart and you have some kind of saviour complex now, out rescuing BioSynths from an unjust system? I have to hand it to you, man, that's a new approach."

Could he not sit on the bed like a non-suicidal person? Did he have to expose his back to whoever might be out there? Even with his own back to a windowless wall, Ian felt naked without his gun. To complete the incongruous picture, Ulla was busy brewing tea and humming.

"You don't... That's not what I said," Ian tried again. "I said I'd have gotten you out of there anyway—"

"—But you were looking for someone else. Yeah, I heard you. I just don't believe you."

"Believe what you will." He accepted Ulla's mug of tea, surprised to see the man do the same. "You're free to go. I switched your tracking chip. That one's blank. That was all I needed to tell you." Ian should be kinder, should apologise again for having Tracked him in the first place, for being ultimately responsible for the state of decay he was in, but he couldn't stop focusing on Quentin, even as his head felt like it was splitting in two.

He turned to Ulla, blowing on his tea just because the mug was in his hands. "You should get going, too. You have a family to get back to, and this..."

She patted his back. "I'll finish my tea first, if you don't mind. You should too. No sense rushing out on an empty stomach."

"I don't know what to do." Ian hadn't meant to say the words aloud, much less in front of the unfamiliar BioSynth, but it was too late to take them back. He'd been keeping his fear at bay, not allowing himself to dwell on the hypothetical so his ability to act wasn't compromised, but despair was overwhelming him. He'd start with the street cameras, as he always did, but that lead was far less promising that Ulla's contact's had been, and—

Something was wrong.

The man had set his mug down and readjusted his position in front of the window. It wasn't casual. He wasn't exposing himself to whatever was out there: he was blocking Ian's view of it. Hackles raising, Ian yelled, "Get down!" just as he threw his mug to the right and shoved Ulla down and to the left, towards the relative safety of the floor behind the bed.

The door burst open before Ian could get to the gun. His reflexes were good, but getting Ulla out of the way had taken him a fraction of a second too long. Five people, two wearing helmets, the other three BioSynths in various states of disrepair, spilled into the room. The first one had a gun out.

Beside him on the floor, Ulla drew hers.

And then the other helmeted figure raised his arms and yelled "Don't shoot! That's my husband!" as he placed his body in between Ian and the gun, struggling to take off his helmet with a skeletal hand Ian had kissed only last night.

Quentin.

Everyone started shouting at the same time. Ian reached for his weapon so he could regain a measure of control only for Quentin to stop him with a, "Don't. They're my friends," that Ian almost didn't hear amidst the chaos.

For all that every instinct screamed at him to draw, to protect Quentin and Ulla, he forced himself to follow Quentin's lead. It helped that Ulla was still behind the bed, ready to fire, but it was more than that. He'd agreed to work with Quentin; not to just share a life, but a fight. And Quentin had more combat experience than Ian did — he had to be ready to trust Quentin's instincts as much as his own.

Within reason.

He didn't draw, but he flipped their positions; if Quentin trusted these people, Ian would offer them his back, but he wouldn't let them have a shot at Quentin's.

And then Quentin was all he could see. Alive, safe in his arms. Not being dragged to the mines, or in the hands of someone like Connors, who'd... Who'd— He pressed their lips together over and over, fingers trailing over Quentin's face, his shoulders, his back, reassuring himself that Quentin was truly there. "I thought I'd lost you again," he managed to whisper, "I thought you'd been caught, love, and I didn't know where to look."

"I'm here." Quentin let him have his fill, let Ian look, and touch, and taste, and breathe him in. "I'm right here," he'd murmur every so often, when Ian's breath would hitch and his hands would shake. "Why would you think that? What happened?"

"I got your message. I was trying to find you."

"But why? I said I'd be back soon."

"You didn't." He couldn't begin to grasp where the message Quentin just said he'd sent and the one he'd gotten intersected. "You said you wanted me to know you loved me, and I—"

Quentin crushed their lips together before Ian could spiral into that agonising pit once more. "I sent that message when Connors caught me. You only got it today?"

"My work nexus was at home. I went back this morning, and I saw it, and I—" Ian laughed so he wouldn't cry, so he could banish the mental image of Quentin at Connors's mercy still finding the will to send Ian a final message, when all Ian had done up to that point was hunt him.

"I sent you messages today to say things were okay. I thought you knew." Quentin held him tighter. "How are you here? With Jax?"

Ian told him about the whole mess, starting with Ulla's contact and ending with going in only to find Jax in his place. Of having been Jax's Tracker. No small amount of shame filled him whenever he thought of the man's neck, of the yellow orb in place of an eye, of—

Quentin's hand forced Ian's eyes away from the floor with far more gentleness than he deserved. "You got him out. And I'm alright."

This time. Quentin was alright this time, but the life they'd lead from now on would be more dangerous than he could ever have imagined as a Tracker, and the worst that could happen to Quentin was so much more horrific than the worst of what Ian had ever imagined for himself that he couldn't breathe.

Today had been a comedy of errors — Ian could barely believe Quentin had been right across the street from him mere hours ago, waiting for the signal that the installation team had left so he could go in and rescue his friend. He'd risked capture to rescue an empty hovercase because of the lack of communication. Ian had never given Quentin a way to contact him on the traceless nexus, never told him about discarding the old one. That was on him.

But the rest? That was on Quentin.

"You can't do this to me again." The list of things Ian would give up on the altar of what he owed Quentin was long and varied, but this was one of the few exceptions. "Promise me you won't leave me in the dark."

The room had gone silent. Ulla was on her feet, having put her gun away. He imagined that, behind him, every one of Quentin's friends was watching this private conversation unfold, and he couldn't bring himself to care.

"You could have used my knowledge, my skills, even just the fact that I'm human and can handle the chips. If I can't trust you to come get me when you need me, I'll work alone, but it won't make me stop. Do you understand?"

The slant of Quentin's eyebrows, the line of his lips, both spoke of someone who was giving what Ian had to say due consideration. "I do." Another embrace, one Ian needed more than air. "I promise. Just... Give me some time to adjust to being the war machine in this relationship, alright? I'm still calibrating."

It might have been funny, if only Ian didn't hate knowing it had been his own prejudice tainting Quentin's self-image. He brushed Quentin's cheek again, the right one, trying to make sure Quentin had no choice but to know how little building blocks mattered. "You might be stronger than I am, but you're not that. You're still the artist who sees beauty everywhere. It's just that you can kick car doors off their hinges the same way you can take pictures."

Quentin's laughter was a balm on Ian's nerves. Until Quentin, who clearly worried even less about their audience than Ian did, left him mortified by whispering in his ear, "That's not the extent of my talents, I'll have you know."

"This," he heard someone ask, "was the husband who wasn't too thrilled you were a BioSynth? Guess he recovered."

Knees weak with relief, Ian sagged against Quentin and laughed.

☰☱☲☳☴☵☶☵☴☳☲☱☰

Thank you for reading!

It looks like maybe Quentin's friends have decided against shooting Ian in the head. Here's hoping it holds!

As usual, please remember to vote if you if feel it's deserved. Comments make me feel warm and fuzzy inside. Only the epilogue left before the story closes, and you can expect that by Friday.

Want to see the scene from Quentin's perspective? Tune in to BioSynth, SynTracker's companion novella (link on my profile) to find out!