The Call

A wheezy blast of smoke vents out of the Gray Pigeon's engines. Its thrusters wind down, failing to initialize.

"When was the last time you had this rust bucket serviced?" Osiris wonders aloud, running a hand along the pockmarked side of the jumpship. "Better yet, when was the last time you even flew it?"

Saint-14 shouts indistinctly from the cockpit. Hammering follows, and then another weary whine from the engines before a dusty blast of smoke sputters from the exhaust. Osiris makes a soft sound in the back of his throat and ducks under one of the wings.

"Don't," Saint blurts out as he emerges from the cockpit, stopping Osiris before he can set foot on the stairs.

"You need a new ship."

"I say 'don't' and still you criticize," Saint grumbles, lumbering down the steps. "She is a good bird, flies well. It has just been a little while. She is… sleepy."

Osiris swipes a finger along the hydraulics. "She certainly is," he quips while Saint glowers tenderly from nearby. "Didn't you have Miss Holliday—" He stops and lowers his gaze. "Ah, yes…"

"I am not one to easily trust another's hands," Saint says as he approaches Osiris, lacing their fingers together. "And… I have not had time to maintain the ship myself." Osiris leans into the touch and presses his free hand to Saint's breastplate. "But I have to be ready to answer Zavala's call when the time comes."

Osiris shakes his head, looking up into Saint's eyes. "We answer that call together. I will not leave you aside to wander off into another dimension without me again." His hand at Saint's chest curls into a fist. "Never again."

Saint wants to fight, but it is one battle he knows he will not win. Instead, he lifts the hand he holds to his mouth and presses a kiss to Osiris's knuckles.

"Never again."