SynTracker | ONC 2021 | MM Romance | Sci-Fi | Complete

Fourteen: Wednesday

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."