This chapter is very similar in both novellas. The dialogue lines are mostly the same, the situation is obviously the same, the one change is whose thoughts we're privy to. I apologise in advance for that, but couldn't find a way where it would make any sort of sense to skip this scene in favour of writing a different one in the other novella.

☰☱☲☳☴☵☶☵☴☳☲☱☰

The door opened just as Quentin was walking towards it.

"You're awake." Ian. The lights turned on with a voice command that blinded Quentin for a moment.

A moment was all it took.

By the time his sensors adjusted, Ian had closed the door behind him, blocking Quentin's only escape route. Not again. This couldn't be how it ended after everything, not now that Quentin wanted to do so much more than just live. He stepped forward, trying to look intimidating, but even without a weapon, Ian wouldn't budge.

Two images flooded his mind in quick succession. Subduing Ian, making him pass out, escaping, both of them unharmed; Ian was unarmed, and Quentin was no stranger to non-lethal disabling methods. Maxine's blood splattering all over his face. Her life snuffed out like a candle because Quentin hadn't been able to control his own strength.

He'd never risk it. Nothing had changed in the end. Ian could still bring him to his knees with nothing but his presence; what else could Quentin have done? Accidentally killing his husband would have been just another form of suicide. He'd take his chances with the mines. Jax had escaped; maybe Quentin would too.

"You win." So much for the better future he wanted to live in. "I'll shut down."

"Quentin, no, wait." Ian's blue eyes were wide, no longer wearing the cold, focused mask Quentin would never become accustomed to. "Please. Hear me out."

The tone was as much a surprise as the look in his eyes. Not the emotionless, robotic voice Ian had adopted when talking to him in the car, when he'd asked 'Where's Quentin?'

He studied Ian's face. Bruised eyes, dirt painting the dark bags underneath even darker. He looked like he'd aged a lifetime.

'I have no need to destroy you if you cooperate. Where. Is. My. Husband?' He'd been so sure Quentin was an impostor then... Ian wasn't looking for Quentin anymore — he was grieving for him. He knew, then. He had to know there was no real Quentin to rescue from the big bad BioSynth conspiracy.

Quentin didn't have it in himself to console him. Not when the man Ian mourned was a version of Quentin who'd never existed; not when Quentin himself stood right here with all his flaws, unwanted. "What do you want from me, Ian? What are we doing here?"

"Are you hungry?" Ian said, taking off his backpack, as if that wasn't the most incongruous thing he could have asked. "I have soup and your protein bars."

Quentin was hungry, he realised with some amazement. In the middle of everything that was happening, that his system would spare the capacity for something this mundane was bizarre. But every minute Ian wasn't demanding he shut himself down was a shred of hope. Maybe Quentin could still escape if he played this right. "I suppose I could eat." He shrugged. "Does it make you feel better? Offering me a last meal before you ship me off?"

That wasn't what he'd meant to say; it was certainly not the best way to get Ian to let down his guard. Quentin seemed intent on self-sabotaging his shot at freedom.

Ian recoiled as if he'd taken a hit. "I'm not shipping you off anywhere. You're free to go. I just—" A shuddering breath. "I understand. Just... Five minutes. Give me just five minutes to explain and then you can go. Please. Is that alright?"

Free? "I... Okay. You..." He wished he could claim there was something wrong with his vocal capabilities, or with his neuroprocessor, but none of those played a role — he'd simply forgotten how to speak to the man he'd loved. The man he still loved. In little more than a week, they'd become strangers.

He walked to the bed, sitting down on the edge. Ian didn't lie, wouldn't go around promising freedom to BioSynths if he didn't mean it. Despite everything, Quentin had no reason not to believe him. "I could go for that food."

Ian sat close by, on the floor, food between them, a pair of spoons on top of each can. "Can you heat up your soup with your..." He gestured at Quentin's entire body.

"I'm a regular household appliance," Quentin said, because it was easier than falling apart. He wrapped his right hand around the can, turning up the temperature. "I bet I could even use my left hand as a can opener, if this weren't easy open."

Ian's laugh sounded like a sob. "I sold the house."

The soup became hard to swallow. "You..." The house Ian had wanted to grow old in. Why the need to let Quentin know it was so tainted by its association with a BioSynth that Ian had given it up as a bad job? "Wow."

"These are for you," Ian said, holding out a hand with eight cards in it. "There's fifty thousand credits in each, and they're untraceable. That should help when establishing a new identity. But I'd still advise you to buy something easy to carry and easy to sell, so you can start building on that identity in a way that looks legitimate. Stop me if this is knowledge you already have, I..." He swallowed. "I don't know what your skills are."

A slow intake of air as he took the cards. Ian wasn't letting him escape; he was helping. "When did you find out? That I'm me?"

"On Thursday. SynSec — the Secretary," Ian spat the word as if it were something foul, "himself — called me in for a meeting."

The soup can was empty. Quentin wasn't that hungry anymore, but he didn't want to go. This conversation was awkward, and stilted, and it tore him to shreds, but it was likely the last time he'd look at Ian's face, hear the sound of his voice. He wanted it to last. He reached for one of the protein bars, taking his time unwrapping it, even as the skeleton fingers of his left hand punctured the wrapper. "How long do you think I have? Until they give my codes to someone else?"

That was the first real smile he'd seen on Ian's face since the accident. "They can't Track you anymore. I switched your chip."

Quentin's world flipped on its head. "You..." Could he not say anything other than that one word before all thoughts deserted him? He settled on, "Thank you." It was silly, it wasn't enough, and it didn't answer the most pressing question of all — didn't answer why — but Quentin couldn't bring himself to ask, not when the answer might be honour and pity. Instead he said, "Is there anything I can do for you in return?"

The question seemed to make Ian smaller, somehow. "Not in return. Not if you'd rather not. But, if you don't mind answering, I do have some questions."

Whatever questions Ian asked were sure to rip his heart from his chest, but if he said no, he'd have no excuse to linger. "Ask."

"First, just... Who did that to you? Do you know their name?"

Quentin didn't need to ask what Ian meant. "It was Connors."

Ian's voice shook with the force of his hatred when he asked, "Is he dead?"

Quentin's reply was a nod, some of the tension in Ian's frame smoothing away. "Good," Ian said, managing to infuse that one word with loathing, "That's good." His tone shifted, eyes fixed on the wall somewhere left of Quentin. "Why me? What was the goal?"

It wasn't as hard this way, not having to look at him, but that didn't make it easy. "I was part of the rebellion. You were a Tracker. A good one. I was... Sent to keep an eye on you, at first. I'm..." It was so cutting, so wrong, to explain it like this now, but Ian wanted to know how it had been then, and this was the rationale behind his choice. "A people person, my commanding officer said. Easy to connect with."

"A mission, then." Ian's features were carved in marble. "You were chosen because you were willing to—" His Adam's apple bobbed convulsively before he finished with a quiet, "You were very convincing."

Quentin wasn't sure anymore this was any better, staying a little longer instead of leaving now. Watching his marriage decomposed, broken down into ever smaller units until it resembled nothing like what they'd shared.

Ian asked another question, making the decision for him. "But... Ten years?" You never did anything, never sabotaged anything... What was the point of keeping me under watch for that long?"

Admitting this was even harder. "I glitched. A few months into the... Mission. After I'd gotten the order to kill you. The day after I first told you I... After we said..." He didn't have to say the words. Ian knew. "When I woke up the next morning I didn't know I was a BioSynth. I didn't know until the accident. I glitched," he repeated as if that made the lie he'd perpetrated any more palatable.

A broken, joyless huff of breath Quentin would never mistake for laughter escaped Ian. "You glitched. God..." Ian ran a hand across his face.

Silence blanketed the room, oppressive and cloying. Quentin forced himself to finish his protein bar and down some water. "I..." I should go. "Is there anything else you'd like to know?"

The corners of Ian's mouth shook, as if he kept trying to paste on a smile that wouldn't stick, but his voice was steady, eyes still glued to the wall. "Just one more question, if you'd do me the courtesy. But, if you answer, please be honest."

Quentin nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

"After that... After you glitched, was... Did you feel something wasn't quite right? Or... What I mean is... Did I ever make you happy?" He closed his eyes. "You don't have to answer."

There was no taking his words back, no taking back the pain Quentin had inflicted, and that wasn't the question he'd expected, that was nothing like what he'd thought Ian would want to know, nothing like what a man who was mourning a husband who'd never existed would ask. Quentin didn't know what he was going to do next, but he knelt on the floor in front of Ian, close enough to touch if he just dared to reach out. He may never have Ian again, but he needed him to understand. He needed him to know.

"Ian," he said, his words soft and forceful in the same breath, "I didn't glitch into thinking I loved you. I glitched because I loved you. Because I wanted to be the man you were in love with."

Ian's head whipped around to face him, eyes open wide, just as Quentin adjusted his position, forgetting for a moment that his left arm wouldn't balance him quite the way he expected it to. Ian reached up to steady him, one hand on Quentin's right arm, the other on his left shoulder, fingers grazing the skin on Quentin's clavicle where the uniform was torn.

The touch was lightning, spreading through them both like a current, and they were close, so close, much too close, and he'd never know who'd moved first, but it didn't matter, none of it mattered other than they'd surged forward to capture each other's lips in a kiss that made Quentin feel alive for the first time since the accident.

Ian had his hands on Quentin's face, on both sides of his face — as if they were both still who they used to be, as if nothing about Quentin repulsed him at all — and Quentin knew he should put a stop to it, but he couldn't. He wanted to have this once. Just once, with Ian knowing who he was. Then he'd stop tempting fate. Then he'd go.

The bed was right there, half a step away, but that was too far when neither of them was willing to stop touching the other for a single beat. Quentin murmured the words to turn off the lights, only to have Ian voice the opposite command the second after that.

"Please." Ian's hand shook where it cupped Quentin's right cheek, the metal flat against his palm. "I want to look at you. You're beautiful."

Breath caught in Quentin's synthetic lungs. "I..."

"You're beautiful," Ian repeated, voice filled with something that made Quentin want to weep. "All of you."

Ian flipped them so Quentin would be on his back, and then... And then— Quentin didn't have sensation in his skeleton arm, couldn't feel soft touches, didn't have skin or tissue there anymore, but he could see it, and Ian— Ian took hold of Quentin's destroyed arm, and... Ian was... Ian... Ian kissed every metal knuckle, every joint, every finger, as reverently as if they'd been flesh and bone. As he had when he'd believed Quentin to be human. He brought Quentin's metallic hand up to his cheek and inhaled, as if feeling that brought him any sort of happiness or peace.

It made Quentin ache, desperate, painful. The one admission he didn't want to make slipped out like sand through his fingers. "I love you. I still love you. You held a gun to my face, and you were willing to shoot me and send me in for processing, and I can't make myself stop loving you."

Ian said his name like a prayer. Endearments fell from his lips in a torrent, a litany of 'I love you,' and 'I've missed you,' and the heartbreaking 'beautiful'.

Quentin was clumsy with a hand that was more weapon than limb, all thin metal ends that tore Ian's shirt as Quentin tried to undress him, but Ian seemed no more bothered by that than anything else, sitting up for a moment, divesting himself of his clothes first, then Quentin of his uniform. They rose only to fall on the bed, limbs entangling, fitting together by instinct and years of being attuned to one another.

When Ian kissed down Quentin's body, stopping to lavish attention on the twisted mass of scars left on his chest from the accident, it was the metallic hand he chose to entwine his fingers with; an image Quentin would keep forever, no matter how many years he lasted or how damaged his memory files might become. He wished he could take a photo of their joined hands, undeniable proof it had been real. It was hard not to notice Ian had decided to be on his literal knees for this, on the floor, like a supplicant.

No, Quentin would never forget this. Never forget the sweetness, the longing, the love they'd shared. For this one time, Ian had truly been his.

When it was over they turned off the light, exchanging murmured words that Quentin hoarded like precious jewels. Ian, worn out, ended up falling asleep in his arms — both his arms, as if it didn't matter what was flesh and what was metal. It was all Quentin could do to make himself get up and get dressed. He still didn't know where he'd go, but he knew he couldn't linger or he'd lose the strength of will to leave entirely, and he didn't want that either. He refused to go back to putting his happiness over everyone else's.

Jax, Clementine, every other BioSynth out there, they weren't weapons. They were people, every bit as much as Quentin; some better than others, just like humans. And a part of him expected Ian would follow him, if given the chance, but it was much too dangerous. Ian had made himself a target for both humans and BioSynths. All Quentin wanted was for him to go, to get out of the country, to be safe.

Out of nowhere, the image of Ian living somewhere else, happy in someone else's arms, imprinted in his mind. Ian would move on after some time, and Quentin, blessed and cursed with the ability to review every minute they'd ever had together, would never love as deeply or as fully, if he ever did at all. But that was the price he'd chosen to pay.

He almost slipped out then, but Ian deserved one last farewell. A tangible one, not a nexus message. Ian's retro ballpoint pen was next to a few sheets of paper in the backpack compartment where Quentin had known it would be.

So Quentin sat down and wrote.

He wrote of the love he felt. Of how he held nothing against Ian, but it wasn't his place to absolve him of the sins he'd committed against others. Of how he wished he could stay. He spoke of no longer being a passive observer in the history of his own people. Of a fight he had to join, of a path he had to tread. And of how he'd always, always, always carry Ian with him wherever he went.

When he laid down the paper on the bedside table, Ian sat up. His grief-laden voice arrested him. "Is that for me?"

Quentin turned on the light and sat down next to him. "Yes. I didn't want to leave without saying goodbye."

Ian nodded, as if he'd expected nothing else. Quentin thought he might not say anything at all, but then, "Do you regret it? What we did?"

Quentin's smile hurt. How could he be less than human when a smile was this painful? "Never. I wish I could stay."

"But you can't trust me after everything I've done," Ian finished. His shoulders were hunched in. "I understand."

"No. Ian, no." He pulled his husband in for a kiss, but it wasn't enough. It would never be enough. Feeling him in his arms was always like coming up for air after being underwater — one more human reaction he'd never be able to shake. "I know you," he said, clutching Ian tight with his good arm. "I believe you. I trust you."

Ian sucked in a breath. "Then why—"

"Ian." There was no anger in his voice, only yearning tempered with purpose. "I'm not your pet Syn who doesn't bite. I've been safe long enough." He leaned backwards a little, just enough to lean his forehead on Ian's. "There are others out there like me. Being Tracked, being tortured, enslaved. I can't turn away from that anymore. Can't run away and hide. Hiding's all I've done for too long. I have to help them be free. I don't know if you think I'm the exception, that the rest of us are weapons—"

"I don't." Urgency melded with the anguish in Ian's voice. "I don't think that anymore. I only ever did when I thought you were programmed, not intelligent." A shuddering breath. "I know I've been hunting people."

There were wounds, far crueller than the ones the acid had caused him, that had been festering under the surface ever since the car crash. He hadn't thought it possible that they'd ever begin to heal, but hearing Ian's words was a balm. Because, if Ian knew that, and Ian saw him, truly saw him... And still didn't find him wanting...

It made Quentin want to hold on to him even more, to give in to the foolish notion that he could have his rebellion and come home to a loving husband at the end of the day. But he'd never willingly put Ian in harm's way, and he'd be painting a target on his back. Syn-lover, they'd call him if he were lucky. There were worse words, worse actions, worse endings. How revealing that, as a BioSynth, Quentin feared humans much more than he'd ever feared BioSynths as a human.

Ian deserved better. "Thank you," Quentin said, trying not to break into pieces. "It means so much to hear you say that."

"I want you to know." Ian's voice wavered again. In so many years, Quentin had never seen him as devastated as today. "I want you to know that there's nothing I won't do. Whatever you need, wherever I am, I'll find a way to help. I swear. I know I didn't protect you. I know —" His eyes were fixed on Quentin's arm. "That it's my fault you—"

"No. That was Connors's fault."

"I swore I'd protect you and I hunted you down instead."

He wished Ian wouldn't carry the weight of the world on his shoulders every single time. "You thought you were saving me from the evil Syn."

"Don't use that word." Ian sounded crushed as he brought the tips of his fingers to Quentin's lips. "Please. You never used to, and I never will again."

"Okay." Even that felt painful. "I should go." It was the last thing he wanted, but he understood duty now. And he understood the need to protect. He'd become Ian, in a way.

"Won't you..." Ian stopped. "I have no right."

Quentin lifted Ian's chin up with his good hand. "Ask."

"Won't you at least stay until morning?"

It was torture to see the plea in Ian's red-rimmed eyes. "No. I need to go."

Ian nodded again. He got up without a word and picked up a hoodie lying on the floor. "Here," he said, holding out his hand. "It's one of mine, it... It won't fit very well, but it's better than what you're wearing. And you can pull the strings to hide your face if you need to."

Always so thoughtful, so worried about him. Quentin had trouble summoning a simple thank you, opting to just nod and put it on instead. It gave him comfort to have something of Ian's with him. Now it was Quentin who shouldn't ask — it was no longer his place — but he couldn't help himself. "Where will you go, now that you've sold the house?"

"A few motel rooms for now. Rent a space somewhere that's discrete, when I figure out how to earn a living. Some place under the radar, where the number of people walking in and out won't be noticed. It won't be an issue at first. I haven't exactly earned a lot of street cred. But you know me. I work better when I have a base, and I don't take up too much space."

Yes, Quentin did know him, and— "Discrete for what?"

"Chip replacements, mostly, but I don't know the condition in which the people I manage to extract will be, and they might need a place to lie low. I'll have to figure out how to get more chips. Repairs, when I have the materials; those will be harder to come by at first." A rueful smile, forcibly superimposed on the sadness. "Can't exactly use my old contacts now that I've switched sides."

Chip replacements. Extracting people. Ian wasn't talking about people — he was talking about BioSynths. "You have to be out of your mind. You can't help." With Ian's past, it'd be far more dangerous than Tracking. "They'll... What you did caused too much harm. They'll kill you, if the government doesn't get you first."

"Dying in the line of duty was always a possibility for me." Ian's gaze caressed Quentin in that way that made a chasm of longing open up in Quentin's heart. "Did you think it'd be less acceptable because I've been on the wrong side of that line up until now? If anything it's less of a burden," he looked away, "now that I have nothing to lose. You have my word I'll do my best to stay safe."

Him. Ian meant him. Meant he valued his own life less because of the absence of Quentin in it. "They're my people. You're doing this no matter what I think about it?"

"I hunted them down no matter what you thought about it. I have to undo what I can."

Then what was he giving Ian up for, if Ian was always going to throw himself in harm's way no matter what? The first blush of something that was pure hope, untainted by grief, made Quentin's chest expand. They wanted the same thing. To tread the same path. There was no reason they couldn't tread it together, fingers entwined. He made to speak, but Ian beat him to it.

"Don't leave me," He'd never heard Ian beg before, not in any context that mattered. "I promised myself I wouldn't do this," he continued, devastation writ clear on his handsome features, "I promised myself I'd accept whatever outcome you chose, that I wouldn't question it. And I will. Of course I will. But you have to choose it first."

Quentin's chest ached, his synthetic, unnecessarily beating heart working overtime. Ian took a halting step in his direction. "You have to choose knowing what your options are. I'll understand if I killed anything we might have had the night of the accident. If that's your choice." Another step. Such a small gap between them, yet it felt impossible to cross. "And I know being with a former Tracker would undermine your credibility with the movement you're trying to start. Damage whatever bridges you build. I respect that."

It wasn't that, it'd never be that, but the words stuck in Quentin's throat. Ian had enough words for the both of them. "But if that's the only reason," the pained emotion in Ian's eyes wasn't grief. It was hope making his words come out in a choked whisper. "I could be your secret. No one would have to know. Don't leave me," he repeated as Quentin's legs finally obeyed and carried him the rest of the way so they'd be face to face. "I promise no one will know."

This was everything he'd hoped for since the night of the crash — not Ian offering to be kept a secret, no, but him seeing Quentin, and loving him regardless... Knowing Ian had found him worthy enough, in this one moment. But Quentin couldn't take it yet. Not without telling him the rest. Ian was looking at him with so much love in his eyes now... It would turn to revulsion if Quentin hid this, only for Ian to find out later. And, if Quentin admitted it now, there was a chance it wouldn't. There was a chance this was truly his to keep.

"Connors wasn't the only person I killed today."

"Quentin—"

"No." He raised his hand, hoping Ian would understand he needed to get the words out. "Please, let me finish."

Ian nodded, that damnable hope still so clear in the depths of his blue eyes. Quentin's own eyes fell to the floor, too much of a coward to want to see that emotion change into something else.

"It was Maxine. She... I— She wasn't like him. I didn't mean to." A pleading note had insinuated itself into his tone and wouldn't be shaken off. Ian might never want to look at Quentin again, but if Quentin could at least get him to believe that it'd been an accident, it'd be enough. "She was pointing her Nuller at me and I... I took it, and I punched her, and I just wanted to knock her out, but I..." His memory files brought up that exact moment, the sickening crunch of her bones against Quentin's knuckles, the spray of blood. "I punched too hard. I didn't mean to. She was dead before she fell."

He thought Ian might say something, but there was only silence, an endless corridor of oily darkness engulfing him, slow and inexorable. There wasn't enough strength of will in the universe to make him look at Ian's face for this.

"She was a decent person," Ian said at last. "Always looked out for the kids. I wish it hadn't been her." An exhale. "But we all know what we sign up for. And you didn't mean to kill her, which is more than what can be said for her if she was pointing a Nuller at you." Ian raised his hand just a fraction in Quentin's direction before dropping it, but it was enough for Quentin to finally look. Ian's smile was still pinched, eyebrows drawn together. "You're not a killer, not by choice. Did you think I'd blame you for not letting yourself get killed?"

Quentin allowed himself to hope for the first time since the accident. "So you'd still..."

"Always."

Tears spilled forth even as he surged forward to capture Ian's lips at last. He wished he still had his other arm to wrap both around this wonderful man, but one was enough. It was the headiest feeling, warm and dizzying, settling inside him and taking permanent hold. "I didn't think you'd— I thought you'd welcome a fresh start without... Without being tied to me."

"Nothing makes sense without you." Ian's words always managed to lay Quentin bare. His husband's eyes were anguished, darker. "But you... Twenty years," he said. "And I never saw it. Can you still take me, knowing that?"

"Less than two weeks," Quentin countered, leaning his forehead on Ian's. "And, from the moment you saw it, you saw everything. Do you know how rare that is? That ability you have to say you were wrong, to do the right thing, to change? And me, I... They told me to kill you, and I wanted so badly not to that I glitched and forgot." He hated this admission. "I've wondered this week, if I hadn't glitched, would I have done it? Killed you in your sleep and walked away? I can't say for sure that I wouldn't have. So I guess I'll send that question back to you: Can you still take me, knowing that?"

"You're not that man anymore. We've both changed."

"Have we?" Quentin thought of his features, his static programming, his obsolescence."I don't have that ability."

Ian just smiled his aching smile. "So you still can't say for sure whether you'd kill me in my sleep if you got the order now?"

The thought of that was so abhorrent, Quentin pulled back. "Of course I can. I wouldn't." He couldn't even think it. "I wouldn't."

"Then you have changed. If you don't hold the man I've been until last week against me, how could I hold the man you were ten years ago against you?"

He swallowed, no longer believing the words coming out of his mouth, but needing the reassurance. "Are you sure?" He gestured to his cheek. "I understand this isn't easy to get used to."

"That's not who you are," Ian said, conviction infusing his every word. "That's just what you're made of. And I'm glad, I'm so glad — if you were human you'd have died in that car crash."

A startling sentiment, one Quentin hadn't expected to hear, hadn't even considered. A timid, irreverent smile broke through Ian's features. "Are parts really that important? Unless you tell me what drew you to me was my liver?"

Quentin's laugh was helplessly wrenched from him and he could see a way forward, could see a future in which the best parts of them remained unchanged. "Well I'm sure it's a very sexy liver." He sobered up gradually, some of the lightness nestling deep in his... He'd call it soul and be done with it. Now was not the time to argue semantics with himself. "What I mean is, I'm not the man you thought you were marrying."

"I'd marry you again right now." A challenge in deep blue eyes. "If you'd have me."

Quentin crushed their lips together, all thoughts of leaving evaporating like raindrops in the summer sun. "Always," he offered back. "And not as a secret. I want this, I want to build something, but not at the expense of keeping you a secret."

Ian kept coming back to kiss him, touch him, even as he drew back as if he meant to speak. Finally he managed, "No, love. We have to keep it a secret. I understand what you're trying to achieve, the importance of—"

"Ian." Quentin had never been more sure of anything in his almost seven decades. "I'm not fighting for BioSynths to be free to do anything except fall in love with a Tracker. Don't you see that's not freedom?"

The change in Ian's expression, the wonder that started in his eyes and spread to the rest of his face, pulling the corners of his lips ever upwards, was mirrored in Quentin's. Ian understood now. "Together?"

"Together."

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Thank you for reading!

There you have it. What these two feel for one another, what they're willing to do, what they want to achieve. I don't need to beg for comments at this point, do I? You all know I'm chomping at the bit. Also, should you feel it's warranted, please remember to vote.

If you've been reading both, did you decide to reread this chapter in the other novella? Why/Why not? And, if you did, what are your thoughts on having the scene from both PoVs?