Saint can’t bring himself to tell Osiris of how Asher remains on Io, even as the Pyramids crowd the sky and Darkness shrouds the planet. He can’t tell Osiris the hurt and anger in his last words to Asher; he can’t tell Osiris of Asher’s cold eyes and colder voice.
Pen poised above the paper, Saint pauses and stares at the page before him. It is in his handwriting; the words are measured and written with the faintest of flourishes, the pen’s pressure uneven. The words begin to merge and blur on the page, Saint trying to focus on his next sentence. He tries to move his hand, to lay down the next damning lines, and nothing happens.
He can’t bring himself to put the words onto paper.
Saint can’t bring himself to tell Osiris of how Asher remains on Io, even as the Pyramids crowd the sky and Darkness shrouds the planet. He can’t tell Osiris the hurt and anger in his last words to Asher; he can’t tell Osiris of Asher’s cold eyes and colder voice.
Saint knows- Osiris would think- that Saint could simply have picked Asher up and whisked him away from his impending doom. If he could bring himself to be a liar, Saint would tell Osiris he tried to do so.
They both know Saint wouldn’t have been able to defy Asher’s decision, to take his choice and will, then or ever.
Even so, Saint is unsure if he can find forgiveness for himself.
Geppetto suddenly appears at his shoulder, gently nudging Saint’s pauldron. She glances from Saint’s page of half formed thoughts to his face. “Saint,” she says calmly, “there’s a commotion in the hangar. You should see to it.”
Saint sighs heavily, dropping his pen. He gets to his feet and glances from his ghost to the ship’s open drop door. Geppetto blinks at him, her shell calm and still. His letter will be there later, Saint decides.
Stepping down the Grey Pigeon’s ramp, Saint’s throat goes tight at the sight of the ship that has just flown in.
***
Though he’s kept his voice strong, Asher’s shoulders are sagging as he snaps at the nearest hangar technician unloading another box of hurriedly packed gear. “That is delicate equipment! Take some care with it!”
Asher drags his hand down his face as the hangar technicians continue to roughly unload his ship, ignoring him. Asher’s hands itch to do this himself, to tear his equipment from their hands and handle the entire business of unloading the ship by himself.
Asher’s mouth is dry with Io’s dust and his bones ache. He can feel a migraine storming in the back of his skull, ready to crash over him soon enough. He pushes it all to the background when he notices that someone is approaching him with intent. Asher’s grip on his ghost tightens.
Asher cannot help a thin, grim smile seeing the entire Vanguard has come to greet him. They look to be in good health, even with the new lines on Zavala’s forehead and the bristling tension contained within Ikora. It is her who comes to him first, weaving around boxes and people. The surprise and concern are blatant on her face; Asher feels unexpectedly relieved to see Ikora is just as expressive as their last meeting, however long ago it may have been. There are still some constants in the universe.
“Asher,” Ikora composes her voice into a calm that is at odds with her searching gaze, “our sensors just reported-“
“A great anomaly in the universe’s sky; Io is gone,” Asher nods jerkily. “My equipment functioned until I broke atmosphere; I will send a copy of the readings,” Asher says, looking away to the datapad in his hand. He squints at the cracked screen, watching as the precise calculations turn into mystifying glyphs and smudges.
He is so tired.
Zavala’s voice is stiff, though not unkind, as he says, “We can sort through a report later. You sh-“
All three of them look up as a powerful voice echoes from across the hangar, a desperate edge to it as someone shouts “Asher Mir!”
It is a voice Asher easily recognizes.
"Asher Mir!” Saint-14 calls again, striding towards them with purpose. He looks every bit a legend, and Asher wonders if he is about to be smited, right here in the hangar. Saint’s ghost follows quickly behind him, her shell twisting excitedly.
Asher glances at Ikora and Zavala before stepping forwards, holding the datapad like a shield as he straightens up. “Saint, it has-“
The clatter of Saint’s helm being thrown to the ground silences Asher, Saint not pausing a single step as he rushes to stand before Asher. He is a wall of armor, his face unreadable; Asher cannot look away from him.
Saint stands much closer than anyone else in the hangar has dared, cautiously reaching to cradle Asher’s face in his hands. His large palms are warm through his gauntlets- and shaking, Asher’s eyes widening as he feels this.
Asher’s voice sticks in his throat as he meets Saint’s bare optics. Saint’s face, unshielded, has an incredibly vulnerable look to it. Asher feels his knees go weak, looking into Saint’s optics, his throat tight with guilt. His bones ache and his head is pounding and the soft touch of Saint stroking his cheek nearly makes Asher crumble.
“You’re here,” Saint says, his voice barely above a breath.
“Well, yes, it’s- there are things to attend to,” Asher says curtly, metal hand fidgeting with his Ghost’s shell.
Saint kisses him.
It is a slow and simple thing. The passion of previous moments between them is replaced with the quiet sentiment that there is infinite time for their touch. Asher closes his eyes against the longing in Saint’s touch. Saint handles Asher with such a tenderness, as if too heavy a hand will cause Asher to disappear into smoke.
The world is blissfully quiet as Saint pulls away, still cradling Asher’s face. Asher opens his eyes to look up at Saint, to see the look of-
Someone whistles.
The whistle echoes in the silence. The hangar holds a collective breath before the nearest technicians break into a cheer, boxes and equipment forgotten. Asher feels his ears glow with a blush as Zavala clears his throat, their sudden crowd quieting. Some swiftly return to unpacking Asher’s gear, while others continue working on the parked ships.
Saint straightens up and away from Asher, letting go of him. The loss of Saint’s touch leaves Asher swaying on his feet before he shakes his head sharply. Asher brushes off the front of his long jacket, keeping his eyes anywhere but on the Vanguard’s expressions.
Asher’s composure disappears with a squawk as Saint sweeps Asher up into his arms. “Asher will debrief you after he has rested,” Saint tells the Vanguard calmly.
Lolling his head back over Saint’s arm, Asher looks at the two Vanguard commanders. “It appears I must go now.”
“Of course,” Zavala nods, tone business-like.
“You can sync your data remotely,” Ikora tells Asher.
Saint marches off with Asher held firmly against his chest. Asher doesn’t recognize the route he takes through the busy hangar, then through a quieter hallway; Asher has never seen any of this part of the Wall. Saint adjusts Asher’s legs away from the spikes of his armor as he walks, Asher simply letting his body slacken in Saint’s arms. Asher keeps his hands closed over his ghost, letting her rest against his chest.
Asher lets his eyes close, lets himself indulge in the warmth that comes through even Saint’s armor. He feels the confident rhythm of Saint’s steps, listens to the sound of them. Asher pretends to doze as he feels the prickling sensation and hears the rush of a transmat.
He doesn’t know where they are when he opens his eyes. The room is dim, the walls a warm color, the wood floor a rich brown. A brief light marks Geppetto’s arrival, her voice too low for Asher to hear as she flits through the room to turn on lamps.
Asher looks back up to Saint. He could easily ask Saint to set him down, to take him back to his ship. Saint would do it in an instant at the simplest request.
Asher doesn’t want him to; he knows safety in Saint-14’s arms.
“I have no place asking,” Saint’s voice is low, hushed to match the quiet of the home around them, “but I would like it if you stayed, Asher Mir.”
A painful, yawning cavern of yearning splits Asher’s chest. He sighs, looking away as he says, “I will consider it.”
Saint laughs, careful to not rock Asher. He gives Asher another smile of tilted mouth plates, his optics bright. A long forgotten feeling fills Asher at the sight of Saint’s smile, at the bright flicker of Saint’s lights.
It is a sense of contentment, a sense of home.