The vinegar-like smell of the darkroom always filled Quentin with joy. Even the gentle slosh of the development bath hitting the edges of the tray made him feel at peace with the world. Not that he'd been at war with it when entering, Quentin thought with a smile, but developing the photos was just as much a part of his art as actually framing the shot and taking the picture.

How people could claim traditional photography was dead was beyond Quentin. Yes, holoramas were the perfect medium to preserve every detail — no one would find him arguing that stills ought to make a comeback for forensic work — but there was nothing emotional in translucent 3D renderings that, along with the scene, also rendered the human eye irrelevant. It was his vision that made his work what it was; choosing to leave something out of the frame was as important, if not more, than choosing what to keep.

The beeping of the holonexus he'd left in the living room alerted him to an incoming call. He never brought it with him in here — some people chose to ignore his "in the darkroom" status, despite knowing light from the nexus would ruin his photos. Probably yet another company offering unsolicited SynTracker insurance.

In the developing tray, his latest photo started to come to life, outside distractions forgotten.

This was his favourite part — the moment when his work revealed itself in a format other people would be able to appreciate. One by one he enlarged his prints, thrilled with the end result. He couldn't wait to see the reactions to the exhibition.

On the subject of said exhibition, it was time to hang the last photo of the day to dry and make several calls to fine-tune whatever details needed adjusting. Ian would be coming home in a few hours, and Quentin didn't want to be the one making them late for dinner.

☵☲☵

Freshly showered, Quentin towelled his hair with one hand while going through his wardrobe for the perfect t-shirt. He had the rest of the outfit already picked out — grey jeans, boots, and a black leather jacket that screamed "you'll have to put effort into looking this effortless" —, determined that one of them would look trendy in the company of Zaiden and Cid. Not that Ian didn't look good — that was the problem. With his intense blue eyes and spiky cropped hair, allied to the physique of a SynTracker, he looked good in anything. Which meant the man always went for practical, leaving Quentin to shoulder the burden of trend alone.

Quentin studied himself in the mirror. He might not be as gorgeous as Ian, but he wasn't too shabby either — trim body, short beard, dark hair that was about to be artfully messy... Yeah, he'd look good at dinner. Not to mention he had amazing genes — in the ten years since he'd met his husband, Ian had aged at a regular pace, while Quentin didn't look a day older.

He spotted the black and purple t-shirt Ian had given him — with a white drawing of a camera and the words "stop or I'll shoot" — and huffed out a laugh, already knowing he'd wear it. Damn Ian for giving him cheesy, goofy gifts that melted his insides and made him abandon all pretence of being a trendsetter.

The nexus went off, beeping with an incoming message. Running a little late. Still hoping to make it in time for dinner. Love you.

"A little late," in Ian's line of work, could mean a few minutes or several hours. Well, he could start with a drink. It was past five o'clock: fancy cocktails with tiny umbrellas were fair game. He searched his nexus for the news and blew up the picture, covering the living room in 3D imagery.

Ugh.

If he'd known it would be politics, he'd have gone back into his darkroom.

He grumbled every time, but never failed to watch the news. It was more of the same. Increased regulations for the disposal of toxic waste (always a plus). The government was trying to ban untraceable cards, so that banks could control every single credit going in and out of someone's account — they tried this stunt every couple of years, and they never pulled it off. New licences for SynTrackers: yet another excuse to make them spend money on endless bureaucracy. Ian was going to be thrilled.

A BioSynth had been spotted in a small town, and people were required to stay indoors while SynTrackers dealt with the issue. Quentin let out a breath of relief that it was all the way across the country and Ian was already occupied with a case. Multiple SynTrackers after the same target had the potential to turn lethal fast.

The obligatory commercial break, and a brand of implants for humans, purporting to be the next big thing, exhorted him to 'Embrace your true self and take control of your life'. He was in perfect control of his life without the need for implants, thank you very much.

Further south, a group of lunatics protested the legitimacy of SynTrackers — Free BioSynths, they said in their colourful posters and holosigns, ignoring the fact that it was the very SynTrackers they were protesting against that made it safe for them to be out in the streets in the first place.

Drone footage of a female-looking BioSynth, cornered, the tears in her eyes belying her aggressive stance. And Ian. Quentin clutched the glass stem with too much force, helpless to do anything other than sit there, watching the man he loved risk his life. Ian was on the nexus, Synth-Nuller in hand, telling the BioSynth to stand down. Quentin looked at the blinking text to confirm what he already knew. "Live footage." He hated this reminder of how dangerous Ian's job was, despite the glory that came with it. Suddenly his colourful cocktail was unbearably cheery.

The BioSynth's eyes darted left and right, scanning the area to confirm she — it — had nowhere to go. Quentin sent out a silent prayer it wouldn't self-destruct and take out half the neighbourhood, including his husband, with it. Most of them weren't programmed that way, but there had been the occasional case, and it... He couldn't finish that thought. His pulse beat an erratic tattoo on his throat. Please be safe. Please be safe.

The BioSynth raised its hands in defeat, and Ian hit it with a disabling pulse. It was over.

Stomach still roiling, Quentin turned off the nexus and sat there, feeling queasy. He knew it was a BioSynth, but his untrained eye couldn't tell the difference, and it looked like his husband had just shot an unarmed, weeping woman, live on the news.

He needed something stronger than a cocktail.

☵☲☵

Less than an hour later, his sweaty, dirt-covered husband had made it home, scrambling to get all the way to the bathtub without touching the cream-coloured sofa. It wasn't Quentin's fault, he thought with some amusement — he'd argued against purchasing that sofa, three months previously, on this very basis, and been overruled.

"You're wearing your 'I told you so smile.' You're thinking about the other sofa, aren't you?" Ian's lips were curved upwards, despite the tired look in his eyes. "Are you ever going to let that go?"

"Did I say anything?" Quentin had to laugh.

"You didn't have to. I can see 'self-cleaning grey sofa' stamped right there in your eyes."

"You can? Damn, I have expressive eyes!"

Ian's smile softened. "You do, actually. Or is it just that I can read you that well? I'm okay with either explanation." Quentin often looked at his husband as if he wanted to undress him, but Ian? Ian made every glance feel like a caress on his skin. "That's how I know you love that sofa."

"Of course I love the sofa," Quentin gazed heavenward, asking for patience. "That was never the point. Just that you shouldn't feel like you're living in a museum when you come home like that. And, anyway, retro's not your thing."

"No, it's your thing, Mr Photographer."

It was true — of course it was true. This house had been their folly — they'd seen an opportunity and had taken it before their personal finances were comfortable enough for that. Quentin wouldn't have minded waiting for the next chance, but he'd seen the look on Ian's face when talking about the possibility and knew they had to get this one. And Ian had known it and made sure everything in the house was something Quentin loved, including paper books and impractical cream-coloured sofas.

Ian finished undressing, and Quentin's mouth went dry.

"You're always making sure I have all my things." He sauntered towards the bathroom. "Can I have one more?"

Eyes widening in mock alarm, Ian closed the door before Quentin could walk in. His voice was muffled, yet filled with fond laughter. "Not right now. If you get in here now, we'll never make it to dinner."

☵☲☵

The man really did look unfairly good in anything, Quentin confirmed half an hour later. Ian was wearing the same sort of military-cut pants filled with pockets he normally wore when working — pants that didn't even showcase his ass properly, which was a loss for humanity at large — and Quentin still wanted to jump him.

Or he did until Ian brought up the whiskey glass on the table, his brow furrowed. "This isn't usually your thing. Did something happen?" His concerned gaze met Quentin's. "Is everything alright?"

Damn it, he should have washed the glass and put it away. Ian could come home to find him blind drunk with weird cocktails and unspeakable mixtures, but one glass of whiskey and he knew something was up — Quentin hated the taste.

He ran a hand through his hair. "You were live on the news."

"Li—" Dismay overtook the puzzlement that hadn't even set in. "The Syn?"

"Yeah. You know they don't miss a chance to cover retrievals."

Ian set down the glass, walking closer to Quentin and wrapping his arms around his waist. Some of the tension bled from Quentin's frame as Ian murmured into the shell of his ear, "Hey. I'm right here. Safe and in one piece. You know I always come home to you."

"Until the day you get yourself killed," Quentin replied, unwilling to let empty platitudes soothe him. "And this time, she... It looked like a woman. She was weeping. I wish you had a different job. You don't even like this one."

Ian sighed, kissing his temple. "That's so you. You have an artist's soul. The Syn's not a she. It's a weapon. Weapons don't weep. They have programmed responses that look like it, but that's where it ends."

Quentin found it very hard to complain Ian was ruining his hairdo when fingers brushed his scalp like that. It was a challenge not to purr. "You're right. It was just... I don't know. Disturbing."

"Because you see beauty everywhere. Don't go into the garage this weekend? I'm only sending the Syn on Monday; you shouldn't have to look at it if it makes you feel like that."

"So you're not going to address the point I made about you having a job you don't even like for the last twenty years?"

A kiss at last, and Quentin was ready to agree the sky was below his feet. Ian sounded resigned, as he always did when this subject came up. "I don't much like it, but someone has to do it. Most of the good ones retired. Kaya died last year. This new crop... They're little more than children. Looking for glory, for credits, for a cheap thrill. Half of them didn't pay enough attention in history class to even know what they're tracking. Who's left? The perverts who trick themselves into thinking they're hunting down people and enjoy it?"

"You could teach." Quentin hated knowing in advance the answer he was going to get. "You've always wanted to."

"I will, love. When I'm too old to Track. It'd be irresponsible to retire before."

Quentin kissed him again, his desire flaring up with every touch. Now that he'd exhausted his arguments, the current topic of conversation was no longer on the forefront of his mind as anything but an excuse to press Ian against the nearest wall. "So it has to be you? The only responsible SynTracker left? Without you, humanity's doomed? My saviour!"

As always, his husband saw right through him, sidestepping Quentin's attempt to corner him with a grace that was blatantly unfair. Ian entangled their fingers together and pulled him towards the door. "Right now I'm going to save us from being late." He spun back around, the intensity in his blue eyes making Quentin's knees weak. "But, when we get back? 'No' won't be in my vocabulary."

☰☱☲☳☴☵☶☵☴☳☲☱☰

Thank you for reading!

If you've enjoyed this chapter, please remember to vote! Also, if you have the time and disposition, I'd love to know how these two are coming across:

What are your first thoughts on Quentin?

How about Ian?

I'd also like to remind you that there's a parallel novella, following Ian, being updated at the same time at https://www.wattpad.com/story/259135307-syntracker-onc-2021-mm-romance-sci-fi (link on my profile and right here -->)

There'll be spoilers for BioSynth in SynTracker and vice versa, so make the choice to read one, the other one (or both!) based on your comfort level. That being said, chapter One has no spoilers in either novella, so if you want to read just one but don't know which to choose, it's safe to read that one in both before making a decision.