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.”