promptfic: o14, family

[sword_logic]

Ikora steps into the Hanger, losing herself to the hum and buzz of so many people and ships milling about, and the warm light spilling from the Gray Pigeon draws her immediately. Gold, purple, gray. Her heart swells. In the face of all the grief she’s lived through, the hope that rises in her chest at the sight each time tastes more and more beautiful.

The area in front of the Pigeon is unusually free of Guardians. Ikora is returning Amanda’s greeting, her smile bright as ever and her hands dark with grease, when a huddled pair of Guardians walks past her, heads bent, grins broad. They both pause to flash her a quick wave before diving back into their gleeful, quiet whispers and heading back towards the Courtyard.

Interesting. Ikora walks up the long runners – really, Saint could not possibly have been more transparent, this is bordering on ostentatious – and up to the ship. The usual flock of pigeons is settled around the ramp, but the crowd is notably lacking in Guardians.

The soft murmur of voices spills out from inside the ship. All she can see from this angle is two pairs of hands folded together, a broad thumb sweeping gently over a familiar set of modified Sunbracers, the projections over the knuckles jittering at the movement.

Ikora pauses, and lets herself smile.

She makes no attempt to hide her approach, and Saint twists around to look up at her with gentle, happy surprise lighting up his face at the sound of her boots on the ramp.

“Ikora,” he says warmly.

And—

“Ikora.”

Osiris bolts to his feet in an instant, hands falling out of Saint’s grip. Ikora feels somewhat gratified in the faint flush on his cheeks.

“Osiris,” she says evenly. “It’s good to see you. Here. On the Tower. In person.”

Behind him, Saint sits back and smiles like he’s just seen a trap sprung.

---

Saint is still laughing, hours later, when Osiris finally slips back aboard the Gray Pigeon looking distinctly ruffled.

“You cannot tell me you are scared of your own daughter,” he says, and something akin to panic flies across Osiris’s face. “Osiris.”

“I’m not– She’s not—” He grabs Saint’s wrist, stalling his efforts to pull the cloak off of his shoulders. “She and so many others were unwilling to listen to me. Still are. And so much could have been avoided if–”

“Osiris,” Saint interrupts, “let’s not waste time. We both know you were happy to see her.” He works his wrist out of Osiris’s hand and pushes his cloak off, catching it swiftly before it can slide onto the floor. “And that I am too.”

“And I you, my dear,” Osiris says, eyeing him warily, “but–”

“No but,” Saint interrupts, pulling his scarf down and arranging it neatly around his neck. “Stop thinking.”

“You might as well ask me to stop breathing,” Osiris scoffs, but doesn’t protest when Saint curls a hand around his chin and steps close.

“Is this where I say something about taking your breath away?” Saint asks, and Osiris finally gives in and presses a light, slow kiss against the familiar, solid warmth of his jaw.

“Perhaps,” Osiris replies, finally smiling, “or you could act, instead of talking.”