#destcember2022

Crow lets himself into his apartment with an exhausted sigh. His whole body trembles with the effort of just standing, staying upright and making basic, normally undemanding movements after three grueling days in the field. It’s rare that his scouting work becomes so physically abrasive, but he’s spent the last three days in a game of cat and mouse with what felt like an entire legion of Wrathborn. He’d hit them hard only to be ambushed by more when he least expected it. He’d had to send out a distress call to local Guardians to even repel their forces, and had retreated back to a sniper’s perch while the other Guardians pursued Xivu Arath’s minions. He’d had to lay prone to even shoot, his body too shaky for him to even aim his gun standing.

He’d climbed into his ship, wished it to take him to take them to the Tower and let the paracausal forces take over. He’d tossed off his armor and passed out on his bunk for the short ride back. He felt like a dead man walking for the entire trip back to his apartment. He still feels ready to collapse as he pushes the door shut behind him, locking it with trembling fingers.

The silence that meets him isn’t the balm he’s expecting it to be. For the past few weeks, Crow has been spending much of his time at Saint and Osiris’ apartment. Initially, it was to help out. When Osiris was unconscious, Crow would come by to keep Saint company, to take his mind off Osiris for a while. He’d bring food, or help Saint cook or clean. After Osiris woke, it was much of the same. He’d bring food, or offer to help with little chores or errands while Osiris and Saint were loaded down with work.

Now, however, his relationship with Saint and Osiris has grown to something warm and pleasant. That isn’t to say Saint didn’t care for him before, but now when Crow goes over to their apartment, it’s because they’ve invited him over, which they seem to do every other day, if not more often. They teach him to cook meals he’s never eaten before. He and Osiris discuss the Hive, and Crow’s scouting work. With Saint, he talks about the Eliksni, and how they might better help them adjust to life in the city. Saint and Osiris have invited him into their Dawning traditions, sharing meals, exchanging gifts, watching movies, baking cookies. They’re eager to share the festivities with him. One night, after Osiris had been introducing him to a series of city-made wines and Crow had drank a bit too much, Saint had coaxed him into taking the guest room bed for the night. After that, Saint adopted a way of offering the room up for the night, and Crow has begun to feel at home with Saint and Osiris’ roof over his head, their warmth and care surrounding him.

His apartment is so silent compared to theirs. It’s so dark, so cold. As a relatively young Guardian, his salary isn’t great. The best apartment he can afford that’s close enough to the Tower to be manageable is a tiny studio apartment. To the right of the door that leads in and out are the only two rooms enclosed in the apartment, his bathroom, with a rickety old sink that probably hasn’t been tended to since before the Red War, and a shower with shitty water pressure and hot water that only works half the time. The single lightbulb overhead flickers and goes out when he’s trying to shower, and the toilet has a clogging problem. Beside the bathroom is his storage closet, where he keeps all his weapons and armor. To the left of the door is his kitchen, mostly functional given that the most he uses it for is meals that only get about as extravagant as macaroni and cheese, or maybe a quesadilla if he has the time to make it. His bedroom is a loft that sits over the kitchen. The one dazzling feature of the apartment being the massive windows at the end of the space that look out on the city below. Unfortunately, he’s sure the view he doesn’t often have time to appreciate hikes up his rent considerably, and in the winter months, cold seeps through glass, so chilling he has to go to bed under every blanket he owns, and still he shivers.

The cold hits him as soon as he enters. The city outside is covered in a blanket of snow, but Crow can’t find the beauty in it, not when he’s so worn down by stress and exhaustion. He feels like he’s going to snap, or burst into tears. He lets Glint transmat his guns and armor away, grabbing a loaf of bread from the kitchen and checking over it only long enough to confirm it isn’t moldy before he tears a hunk of it off with his teeth. He grabs the half gallon of milk from the fridge and drinks straight from the carton, hoping the minimal sustenance will be enough to get him through his shower and to bed without passing out.

“Crow.” Glint’s voice is gentle when he appears beside Crow. He turns on the light in the loft, adding a layer of illumination where the only light previously had been the dim light in the fridge. Crow caps the milk and shoves it back inside.

“I’m tired, Glint. I just want to shower and go to bed.” He’s covered in dirt and grime. He’ll need to clean his armor before he wears it again, but even with it off his body, his underlayers are matted down by the mess too. Old blood from injuries since healed clings to his skin. The evidence of fighting had marred him so badly the doorman in the lobby had yelped in surprise when they’d spotted him entering. Had Glint not been hovering at his shoulder, they probably would’ve mistaken him for an ax murderer, rather than a Guardian covered in his own blood.

“Okay.” Glint agrees quietly, his voice hesitant. “I’m just worried about you.” Crow can feel it down the bond, but he brushes it aside rather than acknowledging his Ghost and the complex feelings bound up inside him. He’s too exhausted to even consider them.

He heads to the bathroom, stripping off his shirt as he goes. When he leans into the shower to start it, nothing happens when he turns the tap. Crow feels his body stiffen. He cannot deal with this right now. He leans back, looking up towards the showerhead. Just as he moves in front of it, a burst of icy water spurts from the tap, drenching his hair and his face before it stops completely.

“No fucking way.”

He tries the other taps in the apartment. The bathroom sink sputters for a moment but only a few drops come out of it. The same happens in the kitchen, and by the time he returns to the shower to check it again, the icy cold water in his hair has seemed to seep into his scalp. The apartment has never felt so cold around him, and he feels himself shudder. Tears prickle the backs of his eyes.

“Crow.” Glint’s voice sounds again, and he drifts into Crow’s view, his voice pinched in sympathy.

“What?” Crow snaps, unable to fight the vitriol in his tone.

This is just his fucking luck. He should have just stayed in the field, or in his ship. He could have taken a bath in some half frozen lake and slept it off in his sleeping bag, or in his bunk. He wants to crawl up to his bed and pass out but there’s still blood all over his skin and he’s not willing to make a mess that big, not when things are already going this badly.

Faintly, the sound of music reaches his ears, pounding bass followed by cheers and shouts. Stomping feet sound from above the loft, and Crow presses his back to the wall and sinks down to sit on the bathroom floor. He presses the heels of his palms into his eyes, but can’t hold back his tears.

“I’m going to call Saint.” Glint tells him.

“No, Glint, don’t–” His voice is choked with tears. He reaches out to stop his Ghost but Glint flits out of his reach. Within seconds, Crow’s faced with a projection of Saint, smiling towards him.

Saint’s smile disintegrates as soon as he lays eyes on Crow, his mouth falling open with clear concern.

“Crow, are you alright? I thought you’d be asleep by now.” The Titan’s voice is filled with worry. Distantly, Crow can make out Osiris’ voice, but he doesn’t catch his words.

“I’m–” He breaks off, rubbing hard at his eyes as he fights to stop crying. He gasps in a shaking breath against his will, and Saint visibly softens, his whole face pure sympathy and concern. “I just got back from the field and I haven’t slept in days. The water’s not working and it’s freezing in my apartment–”

The bathroom light overhead goes out, plunging Crow into darkness. A sob tears itself from Crow’s throat.

“Crow,” Saint’s voice is honey sweet, filled with warmth so opposite to the cold apartment around him, the tile floor biting into his bare feet and the wall against his back, the icy water still in his hair.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t be bothering you with this, I didn’t mean for Glint to call you I just–”

He breaks off into hiccuping sobs. He has to close his eyes against the image of Saint in front of him.

“Stay there, Crow. I will come and get you.” Saint is already standing by the time Crow opens his eyes.

“No, Saint, you don’t have to–”

“I will. I’m coming, Crow. I’m going to take you home.”

Crow hasn’t managed to stop crying by the time Saint makes it to his apartment. In fact, he hasn’t really managed to do much of anything. The first bit of tears he let slip opened the floodgates to devastating sobs, and in the time that he’s been alone with Glint, Crow has collapsed onto his side on the bathroom floor and cried harder than he has since Spider beat him to death on a regular basis.

He feels like an idiot. He shouldn’t be crying, not over something as little as being deprived of a shower, some broken lights, and loud neighbors. But deep down he gets why he’s crying. He knows it’s about much more than the apartment, and the weight he’s feeling is as much in his control as it is beyond it. He’s exhausted, malnourished and dehydrated from being on the run from Hive for three days. He’s covered in blood and dirt, his adrenaline is crashing, and he’s still hung up on the fear of being stalked like prey. He can’t help that he’s crying. It makes sense that he’s crying.

Still, he hates himself for it. He hates himself for curling up on the bathroom floor, laying shivering on the cold tiles, bare from the waist up. The cold drives into his skin until he’s numb, and he sobs and gasps even as he hears Saint knock on the front door.

“Crow? It’s me. May I come in?”

He sends Glint, because he can’t manage to form words. He peels himself off the floor as his Ghost lets Saint into the apartment, even though Saint has his own key, given to him for emergencies. He’s managed to sit up by the time Saint crouches in the bathroom doorway—the room is so small the two of them would hardly fit together—but the soft look on Saint’s face sends him spiraling straight back into sobs.

“It’s alright, Crow.” Saint reaches out to him and Crow practically throws himself into the Titan’s arms. It says a great deal about how far their trust has come over the months they’ve known each other. Crow can’t think of anyone he’d really embrace without second thought, but Saint’s very being is comfort to Crow, and right now he needs all the comfort he can get.

Saint whispers soothing words to him, gathering Crow into his arms. He lifts him up, off the tile floor, slipping him into his arms like he weighs nothing, and he carries them from the tiny bathroom. Saint carries him up the staircase to the loft. He holds Crow with one arm while he sets a towel on Crow’s bed, no doubt having noticed the blood and dirt covering Crow like a second skin, then he sets Crow down on top of it. He cradles Crow’s face in his hands, his palms heavenly warm against Crow’s skin.

“I will help you into some new clothes, then I will take you home with me, yes?” Saint tells him gently, and Crow nods his assent. “You will wash up once we get there, but I do not want you to be so uncomfortable until then.”

Crow swallows hard, but he nods again. For as long as he’s known Saint, it’s still hard not to be blindsided by his generosity. He takes care of Crow as if he were a member of Saint’s own family, embraced and looked after without condition or expectation. Saint’s thumbs wipe away some of the tears on Crow’s cheeks.

A small stack of clothes appears beside Crow, Glint’s doing, and Saint thanks him even though Crow knows he should be the one thanking him, but Saint is ever patient, and constant with his care. He helps Crow out of his old, dirty layers, steadying him when his body shakes and shudders. He helps Crow dress in the new clothes, sliding thick socks onto his feet, helping him into pants and a sweater. There’s still grime underneath, but while they work, Glint transmats a bag onto the floor and fills it with more clean clothes, pajamas and regular clothes, wool socks and the sweater Saint had gifted to him as a Dawning present.

Once he’s dressed, Saint grabs the bag from the floor before Crow can pick it up, and he offers out a hand to steady Crow as he guides him out of the loft. When Crow tries to thank him, or to tell him that he’s alright, really—though he’s still teary eyed and breathing rough—Saint just holds him a little tighter, and shushes him quietly.

The walk to Saint and Osiris’s apartment isn’t long, but it feels like an eternity to Crow. Normally, Crow can walk over in less than ten  minutes. Their apartment buildings aren’t far apart, though Saint and Osiris’ is worlds nicer than Crow’s. They walk for five minutes at a slow pace before Saint lifts Crow into his arms again, and Crow must’ve started to doze off, because the next thing he knows, he’s enveloped in warm air, and the scent of home, Osiris and Saint’s voices in his ears.

“Crow?” Saint’s voice speaks softly in his ear. “I’m going to put you down now, alright?”

Crow manages a noise of understanding, peeling open his eyes to look around. He’s in Saint and Osiris’ bathroom, the tub already mostly full with steamy water. Osiris sits on the tub’s edge, using his hand to test the water’s temperature. Saint lowers him down, setting him on the bathroom counter. He pushes Crow’s hair from his eyes with a fond, sympathetic smile, and Crow can’t help the way he leans slightly into his hand.

“How are you feeling?” Osiris asks him, just as Crow feels his eyes slip closed. The effort to drag them back open is monumental.

“I’m tired.” He mumbles. “And my head hurts. I feel shaky.”

“You haven’t eaten anything in several hours.” Glint reminds him, and before Crow can bring up his little snack from when he first made it back to the apartment, he goes on. “The bread doesn’t count. You also haven’t slept more than six hours in the past three days, and I can’t correct for something like that without reviving you.”

“You will have a bath, you will eat something, and then you will sleep.” Saint tells him.

“I might fall asleep in the bath.”

Saint laughs quietly. “That’s quite alright.” He says, cradling Crow’s cheek with a hand. “I will look after you.”

He unties one of Crow’s shoes and pulls it off his foot. Crow reaches down to help, but he’s hardly untied the laces of his other shoe before Saint gently guides his hand away to do the rest himself. He pulls off Crow’s other shoe, then his socks, and pulls his sweater up, over his head.

“I will go heat up some food. Would you like soup? I believe we have some leftovers.” Osiris turns off the faucet once the tub is full, rising to his feet.

“Soup sounds great.” Crow lifts his head, offering both Saint and Osiris a weak smile. “Thank you for doing this.”

Osiris sets a hand on Crow’s knee, while Saint reaches out to hold his shoulder.

“You will always have a home here, Crow.” Osiris tells him, then gives him a smile. “Try one of the bath bombs, I believe you’ll find them enjoyable.”

A genuine smile crosses Crow’s face despite his exhaustion. A few days ago, Saint and Osiris fell into a debate of whether or not bath bombs were enjoyable, with Osiris for and Saint against, both eager to have Crow serve as a tiebreaker.

“I will.” Crow agrees.

“I will leave you to undress. I will come back to help you once you are ready, if that’s alright?” Saint asks him.

“I can–” Crow breaks off. Part of him wants to refuse, the part of him that needs to take care of himself and not show weakness, but his exhaustion is clinging to his bones, pressing down on him like lead weights. He’s not sure if he could even manage a whole bath on his own. He’s not sure he trusts himself not to fall asleep and drown. “Okay.” He agrees, giving Saint a small nod. “Thank you.”

Saint and Osiris leave the bathroom and Crow eases himself off the counter. He picks out a bath bomb from Osiris’ collection and sets it beside the tub, then slips out of the rest of his clothes. When he eases himself into the tub, the water is hot at first, but as he gets his aching limbs under the heat of the water, a sigh melts out of him, and he lays back against the end of the tub, his eyes slipping closed.

He luxuriates in the heat for a few moments before he retrieves his bath bomb and sets it in the water. It fizzes to life, filling the air with a citrusy scent, and Crow watches it dissolve. It clouds the water until it's opaque, but it makes his skin feel smooth and soft, and it might be the comfort in the face if his stress and exhaustion, but he’s pretty sure he agrees with Osiris on the subject.

Crow’s eyes are nearly closing when a gentle knock sounds on the door.

“Come in,” he calls, and Saint pokes his head in. Crow gives him a tired smile. “I’m so ready to fall asleep right now.”

Saint smiles back, stepping inside and closing the door behind him. “Baths often have that effect.”

Crow’s whole body feels relaxed. His head still aches slightly, and his body still feels weak from hunger, but the utter anguish and stress that had driven him to tears earlier has faded in the face of Saint and Osiris’ care. His headache already seems to be subsiding when Saint sits on the edge of the tub beside him, tilting his head back to use a bowl to pour warm water over his hair.

Saint washes his hair, running his fingers over Crow’s scalp until Crow practically melts from the touch. He scrubs the blood from Crow’s face and neck, his arms, and his back, and Crow tends to the rest. By the time he’s clean, he feels ready to collapse, but Saint slips out and Crow forces himself to stay awake. He drains the tub and rinses himself off under the shower before he dresses in the pajamas Glint had packed him. When he makes it out to the kitchen, Osiris has a steaming bowl of soup ready for him, and Crow feels more loved than he’s ever been in his entire life.

“Thank you.” He tells Osiris as he sits down at the breakfast bar in front of the bowl of soup. He imagines he will have to tell them the whole story later, not on their insistence but on his own desire to explain, but neither Osiris or Saint ask him about it. They need no explanation, no reason for the warmth and comfort they provide. They offer it without question and Crow drinks it in.

Osiris smiles at him, and Saint wraps a blanket around Crow’s shoulders, hugging him through it.

It was a control room of sorts.  More of a control alcove.  A control breakfast nook.  There were no doors that could be closed (a poor planning decision in Andal's opinion- just anyone could walk up and start messing with things).  A few terminals had been haphazardly shoved into the corners.  At one of them, with their back turned to the hallway, was an upright figure in a House of Kings cloak.  Andal almost drew his weapon before the person let out a frustrated sigh and tapped at one of the screens with a five-fingered hand.  They were human- and apparently the cause of the abundance of Fallen corpses around.

Andal kept himself from drawing, but he must have made a noise of surprise.  The person turned.  The brief glimpse of an Exo face (black, with red highlights and cerulean eyes) was all Andal needed to confirm that they weren't a threat.  Too late he saw the gun in the stranger's hand.  The Exo automatically aimed and let out a spread. 

Andal dodged.  Two of the bullets missed him, but one ricocheted off of his chestplate and a sting told him the other had penetrated the weaker armor between his shoulder and his neck.  There was a beat of silence as all of the Guardians froze- the stranger's gun rigid and still, no longer tracking Andal's motion- Cayde taken by surprise, Andal with his hand at his hip.

The echo of the gunshot reverberated.  There was a heartbeat of stillness as everyone sized each other up, waiting to see what the others would do-

Then Cayde straightened, crossing his arms.  "Four-burst?" he said skeptically.  "Really?  Excessive."

"Got you, didn't it?" the trespasser replied in a raspy baritone.  The spell was broken- Andal let his hand drift away from his cannon and the trespasser holstered his gun in turn.

It finally seemed to occur to the stranger that shooting someone was something you should apologize for.  "Sorry," he said, businesslike.  He still turned back to the terminal he was working on.

"We're looking for a Captain by the name of Filchis," Cayde said, taking the lead.  "Haven't seen her around, have ya?"

"Filchis?" the other Exo replied, optics flicking from the terminal to Cayde's face, then back.  "She's not here.  I waited 'till she was gone before I broke in.  I'm not after her."

"Bigger fish to fry?" Andal guessed.

The Exo's expression darkened.  "Vokril," he muttered.

"King Baron," Sundance said in recognition.  "Got a hefty bounty on his head."

The trespasser didn't immediately reply, still lost in his data.

"You're not after the bounty," Andal reasoned. 

"It's... personal," was all the other Hunter said.

Andal took a critical look at the Fallen corpses on the floor and came to a conclusion.  "Well, you know, I certainly wouldn't object to some more help on this hunt.  Especially not from someone as skilled in... infiltration as you."  Infiltration seemed a good word to describe the havoc the Exo has wrought here.  "And hey, we'd be willing to split the bounty.  If you're willing to split the one on Vokril for our help with him."

Cayde interjected.  "Not like you were gonna pick it up anyway, right?"

The trespasser just frowned at them for a moment before an orange Ghost appeared and bonked him on the head in chastisement.  "You help them kill one Captain, then they help you kill Vokril and you'll get paid for it," the Ghost said.  

"Alright," the trespasser said, sounding resigned.  "You're the boss."

"Good man," Andal said, stepping forward to shake the stranger's hand.  "I'm Andal Brask.  This is my packmate, Cayde-6."

The Exo nodded at Andal's words and took his hand.  "Shiro-4."

1)     Sleeping In

2)     Class Warfare

3)     Worm

4)     Eavesdropping

5)     Sin

6)     Saintly Virtues

7)     Music? Something… Classical.

8)     Trespasser

9)     Mistakes Were Made

10)  The Ghost of You

11)  Merriment

12)  Countdown

13)  Roadtrip

14)  Modern Myths

15)  Kell

16)  Missing Moment

17)  Throne World

18)  Volatile

19)  Weaving, Unraveling

20)  Sight for Sore Eyes

21)  Breaking News!

22)  Gambit

23)  Home

24)  Spring Cleaning

25)  Memories

26)  The Harder They Fall

27)  Baby, It’s Cold Outside

28)  Symbology

29)  Torn

30)  Arts and Crafts

The first time Osiris meets the Kell of the House of Light, Saint is at his side. They invite him and his daughter to their home for dinner, and the meal is light and amicable. Eido bombards him with questions on nearly everything, but she stays away from the personal or difficult topics well enough that he can relax into it. He takes comfort in the familiarity of sharing knowledge with such an eager student, though Eido quickly proves herself different from Ikora. Overall, Osiris' meeting with the Kell is agreeable for someone who might be little more than an acquaintance, perhaps a friend that is not particularly close, but for someone who has done as much for Saint as Misraaks has, it does not suffice. 

Osiris makes a point to seek him out. Saint has talked a great deal of his friend, and of the Kell’s deeds during the time Osiris was unconscious. It’s clear their bond is strong, and Osiris is well aware his partner makes frequent trips into the Eliksni quarter. Osiris can see how beneficial the friendship is for Saint, the way Misraaks kept him stable in the face of Osiris’ capture and condition. He’s eternally grateful for everything the Kell has done for his partner, and that is a fact he needs to make known.

He finds Misraaks in the Eliksni quarter on a cold afternoon. Osiris is bundled up in a thick coat, a hat, gloves, and a scarf, rubbing his hands together to keep them warm in the winter chill. Misraaks catches sight of him outside the Ether Tank, speaking with members of his House before his eyes fall on Osiris and he excuses himself with a few words of Eliksni.

“Osiris,” the Kell inclines his head. “I greet you in the Light.”

“Misraaks.” Osiris nods in return. “It’s good to see you.”

“Is there something I can do for you?” The Kell asks, already attentive, his eyes bright with inquisition. “Is the situation with the Warmind–”

“All is being handled appropriately, I can assure you.” Osiris promises, lifting his hands. “However, I have a growing suspicion your input may be required soon. I hoped to meet with you before the conflict requires your attention.”

“The Vanguard has kept me informed on the situation, however I would be grateful for any further insight you could provide.” Misraaks lifts one of his primary arms to gesture towards a fire pit burning in an open space beyond the Ether Tank, and Osiris follows him as they begin to amble over.

“I would be happy to tell you what I can, but that is not the reason for my visit.” They pause before the fire and Osiris holds his hands out towards the burning warmth, letting the sensation seep through his gloves and into his chilled fingers. Misraaks mirrors his position with his four hands.

“I don’t follow.” He sends Osiris a curious look, confused, but without suspicion, which is more than Osiris feels he deserves on most days.

“I wanted to speak to you about Saint.” Osiris tells him, and Misraak’s expression relaxes into understanding.

“I see.” He waits patiently for Osiris to elaborate, and Osiris peels his gloves from his hands and slips them into his pockets. The winter air has left his skin dry and cracked, no amount of Saint’s doting reminders to moisturize and apply lotion has been able to revitalize his hands. He rubs his fingers over his dry knuckles, staring into the flames for a moment.

“You’ve done a great deal for him.” Osiris meets Misraak’s eyes once more. “More than could ever be expected of you, especially considering his past.”

“Saint has done a great deal for my people.” The Kell looks out over his House with soft eyes. “It was difficult for him to come to terms with the view many Eliksni hold of him, but since then he has shown nothing but devotion to the House of Light. I am indebted to him for this.”

“I don’t believe you helped him because you felt indebted to him.”

Misraaks’ chin dips slightly, and he offers Osiris a smile beneath his mask, the corners of his eyes crinkling enough for Osiris to see. “Perhaps not.”

“Your friendship has helped him. When you helped him search for me, all the times you visited him while I was unconscious, you’ve kept him grounded. One might not see it from an outsider’s perspective, but Saint would wear thin without community, especially considering the circumstances. You gave him something to rely on, and something to be a part of. I cannot thank you enough.”

Misraaks shakes his head, his eyes drifting to the fire. “You do not need to thank me.” He lifts his eyes to Osiris’ once more. “I have heard a great deal of you. I understand you advocated for my people far before humanity was willing to see the Eliksni in a positive light. I suspect had it not been for your influence, Saint would never have grown to accept me and my House. For this, I should be thanking you.”

“That is not necessary.” Osiris promises, and he and the Kell share a smile at their own likeness. Osiris’ gaze returns to the fire, the rippling flames transfixing his eyes. “I’m afraid I don’t have a great deal to offer you at the moment, but I will aid the House of Light in whatever way I can moving forward.” He holds back the mention of Savathûn and the harm she caused, the stinging desire to right the wrongs she did while she wore his skin. He suspects Misraaks knows this already. Regardless of the Witch Queen, he suspects his devotion is enough.

“It is good to see you well, Osiris.” Misraaks tells him. “For now, all I request of you is that you ask for help when you require it. That act alone will serve my House, I’m certain of it.”

Destcember Day 2 - Class Warfare

------

Fynch was immediately taken with the Eliksni of the Last City. Osiris noticed it instantly. After Osiris woke and was healed thanks to the combined efforts of his new Ghost and the Kell of the House of Light, he was quick to notice how drawn Fynch was to the House. They visited the Eliksni quarter often. Osiris was still healing both in mind and body—though Fynch did make the latter a great deal easier—and he found it eased some of the stressors that plagued his mind to be among the House of Light, to help them as they had helped him.

Saint was similarly drawn to the Eliksni quarter, as were Crow and Glint. Osiris could understand why. Even with the difficulty surrounding his first impression to the House of Light, they’d become a steadfast support for Saint in the difficult months that had followed, dealing with Savathûn’s deception and Osiris’ comatose state, Mithrax and the others had been there for Saint in a way few others could. It was only natural that he would remain close to them even after Osiris woke, but what surprised Osiris was the attachment the other members of his little flock had to the quarter.

Geppetto’s feelings were closely related to Saint’s, and to Osiris’ own. The House of Light had taken care of her and her Guardian during a dark time, the Eliksni also had a way of seeing Ghosts as their own beings, not so tightly coupled with their Guardian partners as some of the people of the city seemed to believe. Crow’s attachment was similarly understandable. The Eliksni had been both protectors and abusers to Crow in his lifetime. Spider had been his captor on the Shore, and that certainly introduced a layer of tension into their time in the Eliksni quarter, but many of his men had worked to shield Crow from his brutality in the same way he had tried to protect them. Of the group of them, he had the best hold on the language, and could often be seen speaking among them in both English and Eliksni.

Glint and Fynch offered a new perspective, however. Even bonded with Osiris, Fynch still found the Tower and the Guardians within to be unreceptive to him. Whenever they ventured in, Fynch would conceal himself within Osiris’ light, the feeling of being unwelcome creeping down their bond from Fynch’s side. Osiris did his best to reassure the Ghost, but as long as the Ghost still bore his chitin shell and green eye, the Guardians would not forget who he’d once pledged himself to.

At first, the Eliksni of the House of Light had given him similar looks. It had taken the explanation of who Fynch was—Osiris’ Ghost, but more specifically one of the key players in the defeat of Savathûn—for their suspicion to be replaced by trust. Once it was, Fynch had relaxed into their company. The feelings of discomfort, of being unwelcome or different had gradually lessened, until Osiris could no longer feel them through the bond that linked them together. Glint, he realized, had a similar experience. Among other Guardians and Ghosts, there were still those that felt Crow should not have been revived, that Uldren Sov did not deserve the Traveler’s blessing, and that Glint had betrayed the Tower and the City by bestowing it upon Crow. The Eliksni quarter offered them both an escape from the creeping class warfare that deemed them both as different, or evil, agents of Darkness and ill will to the Traveler.

Unfortunately, it was never completely safe.

Osiris was on his knees, his hands in the cool earth, his knees cushioned on a foam panel as he tended the garden beside a number of Eliskni and human workers. Crow was at his side, picking weeds from the dirt around the growing plants. He was immersed in his work, relaxed in the domesticity of his task when he felt a pinprick of Light from the other side of the quarter. He lifted his head on instinct, only for an overwhelming sense of fear to pour down the bond between himself and his Ghost.

It was so intense it was nauseating, and Osiris drove his fingers into the damp Earth as he shuddered at the sensation, stimuli pouring into his being. Fynch suddenly reached for him with utter desperation Osiris had never felt before, sending his every perception down the bond as he tried to bring them close together.

“Please!” Osiris heard his Ghost saying. “You don’t understand! I’m not one of them, I helped the Guardian fight her, I–”

He saw the flash of an armored Guardian looming above him, felt the clench of a fist around his body—around Fynch’s body. Distantly, Osiris felt Crow’s hand on his shoulder, but his focus had moved into his Light.

Osiris reached for his Ghost, fought to pull him back from the being inducing such fear in him, to draw him into his Light and protect him the way he needed to, but something held Fynch in place. Paracausal power wrapped around Fynch’s shell and rallied, but Osiris would not lose another Ghost, certainly not like this.

His own Light roared in response, and Osiris was on his feet in an instant, crossing the Eliksni quarter at a sprint.

“I helped save Osiris! The Guardian, the Young Wolf, they trust me, please—”

Osiris could find his Ghost without his senses. He needed no sight to guide him, he didn’t need the sound of his cries, the nauseating fear was enough, the power of the Light that linked them together. Osiris ran.

He spotted the Guardian in front of him, sunlight reflecting blindingly off of his armor, a Titan held Fynch aloft in his fist, paracausal power dripping from his fingers and holding Osiris’ Ghost in a vise grip.

“Let him go!” Osiris felt his own Light surge in him, it rallied in defense of his Ghost, to fight tooth and nail if need be, but at the sight of him, the Titan balked.

The instant the grip of the Titan’s power lessened around Fynch, the Ghost broke free of his fingers, hurtling towards Osiris. He paused before the Titan, his Light raging through his veins, Crow just a step behind. Osiris cupped Fynch in a palm for a moment, looking him over to confirm what he was feeling with his Light—that the Ghost was scared, but unharmed—before he guided him behind him. He could feel through their bond when Crow’s fingers brushed over Fynch, protectively pulling the Ghost close.

Osiris didn’t remember what he said to the Titan. By the time the words of anger and reprimand were out of his mouth, Saint and Mithrax were at his side and they were beginning to draw a crowd of onlookers. The Titan left the Eliksni quarter without delay, and Osiris coaxed his raging Light to calm. When he finally turned round, he found Fynch cradled in Crow’s hand, pressed to his collarbone, wrapped in the warmth of the Hunter’s Light. Saint’s hand settled on Osiris’ shoulder. Crow met his gaze with worried eyes.

“Fynch.”

His Ghost turned to face him, his shell drawn close around him.

“I–I’m sorry.” He stammered, “I didn’t mean to–”

Osiris reached out a hand. His movements telegraphed through their bond, he drew his Ghost close, cradling him in his hands with warmth rather than aggression.

“You have nothing to apologize for.” He lifted Fynch to press his forehead to his Ghost’s frame, even when the prongs of his shell were hard and sharp against his skin. “That Guardian should not have touched you.”

“But I look like–”

“It doesn’t matter.” Osiris cut in. He pulled back enough to look Fynch in the eye. “You’ve more than earned your place here. You deserve to live in peace.”

“But I–”

“Fynch.” It was Crow who interrupted him this time, setting a hand on Osiris’s shoulder and stepping close until he, Osiris, and Saint formed a protective little circle around the Ghost. He cupped his hand around Osiris’, holding Fynch in an open grip. “It doesn’t matter what you look like.”

Fynch’s shell seemed to droop around him, and he gave them a small nod. He pressed himself into Osiris and Crow’s hands.

“Thank you.” He murmured. “I’m sorry.”

Osiris leaned forward to press a kiss to his shell. The Hive chitin was rough against his skin, but the Ghost had never had an ounce of malintent towards him. He wreathed their bond in affection and care and felt Fynch sink into his touch, gratitude coupled with exhaustion shuddering out of Fynch’s side of the bond.

-----

There are moments where Osiris lingers, unable to move. He stands concealed between the bookshelves of his former student’s library, listening to her speak of secrets to her agents. Everything in him wants to announce his presence and yet he stands in silence. He remembers every moment Savathûn did the same thing and his body forces itself into stillness. When Ikora finds him minutes later, trembling against one of her many bookcases, he manages to find the words to tell her he had not meant to eavesdrop. He begs her pardon and tries to apologize but Ikora keeps so few secrets from him now, there is no harm done by his listening in. It is a kindness and a trust he feels he has not earned, because there is a part of him that will always believe he is to blame for Savathûn’s capture of him. His own foolishness is to blame for Savathûn’s victories, for the death of so many people.

Osiris hates to eavesdrop because Savathûn utilized the practice as a method of war. Before her, Osiris would have eavesdropped if it was beneficial to him. He never denied information, no matter the form it came to him in. Turning away darker informants and discolored sources of information was a task left to those with a stronger moral code, not something Osiris ever concerned himself with. Now, he cringes to hear even a word that isn’t directed at him.

He informs the Commander the door to his office is not quite soundproof, and that he should remedy that immediately. He tells Ikora her study is not nearly secure enough. None of it is enough. They look at him the way one views a hypochondriac, with veiled disdain and pity. Once bitten and twice shy, he worries constantly.

It has threatened to drive him to a breaking point. Despite the happiness that just comes with being awake, being alive after everything Savathûn did to him, he carries pain and trauma with him. It is a constant weight, and sometimes it overcomes him. It is a mix of a great deal of things, the memory of pain, of Savathûn pulling through his memories, reaching into his mind. He remembers how it felt to lose himself in her vast knowledge, something that had once seemed like a boon, only for him to realize too late it was like stepping from a spacecraft without a tether.

He is not without support, Saint and Crow do a great deal. Ikora helps where she can. He has spoken a great deal with Eris. When Osiris feels the talons of Savathûn’s claws on his very mind, Crow sits with him, and it comforts something in him to know that he understands something of what Osiris is reliving. Saint holds him when he feels adrift, wraps his Light around him when he aches for everything he’s lost, when he feels consumed by Darkness. Still, his problems will not be solved by comforting gestures.

Weeks after he first woke, Osiris lies alone in his bed, the sounds of voices drifting under the bedroom door. He does not want to listen, and yet he does so anyways. He cannot help it.

“How are you?” It’s Crow’s voice, more frequently heard around the apartment than Osiris’ own, when he spends so many hours in silence. “I know we’ve all been worried about Osiris, but it must be an adjustment for you, too. And taking care of him hasn’t been easy for you.”

“It is the only thing I want.” Osiris’ partner responds. He can hear noises beyond the door, a mug being set down on the counter. “But, you are right. It is far from easy. I hate to see him in pain. There is much he still struggles with. He is afraid, sometimes of eating, sometimes of sleeping, sometimes of being alone, sometimes of being in my company.” He can hear Saint’s labored sigh, even when he tries to temper it. Osiris feels his gut twist. He is a burden, a pain, nothing but a drain of Saint’s time and energy. He is a resource sink and a parasite, nothing but a broken man grasping at the threads of his former life. It would have been kinder to his partner if he’d never woken at all.

“I do not understand all of it.” Saint continues, his words reaching Osiris even in the face of his self-loathing spiral. “But that does not matter. None of it. I would endure a thousand struggles to be with him, and he is getting better. Do you remember when you made him laugh yesterday, little bird?” The reverence in his voice halts every thought in Osiris’ mind. “I’ve not seen him smile like that in centuries.”

They’d been out in the city. With the winter falling over the landscape, Saint has been persistent in getting them into the holiday spirit. Osiris’ strength had finally allowed a longer outing, so they’d bundled themselves up in coats and scarves and ventured out into the cold. They’d bought hot apple cider from a street vendor and watched a group of human children teach a group of Eliksni children about snowball fights, leading them into what had turned from a fight to a war. Shrieks of laughter and giggles had filled the park, and Osiris, Saint, and Crow had looked on with smiles on their faces. Osiris had felt warm all over. He’d sipped his cider and smiled at the children until Crow had cracked a joke that had caused Osiris to laugh, to actually laugh, real and unforced for the first time in what felt like forever. When was the last time he had reason to laugh?

“To see him smile, to watch him laugh, you see his wit now, don’t you?” He can hear the smile in Saint’s voice now, warm and loving, fondness that makes every part of Osiris feel embraced and warm. “That is my Osiris. My phoenix. He is brilliant. Even the Witch Queen could not extinguish his flame.” Osiris draws in a deep breath, he feels himself slip from the bed, his body seeming to move of its own accord.

“I am well.” Saint tells Crow, and Osiris can hear the truth of it in his tone.

He pads to the bedroom door, opening it before he can second guess himself. Saint and Crow turn as soon as he steps out, and it isn’t until he sees the worry in Saint’s face that he realizes there are tears in his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he breathes, wiping at his eyes. “I didn’t mean to eavesdrop–”

Saint’s worry fades into a knowing smile, and then he’s standing in front of Osiris, his hands on Osiris’ shoulders. Osiris feels another wave of tears force themselves out of his eyes.

“I love you.” He croaks as Saint gathers him into his arms. Saint presses a kiss to the top of Osiris’ head. “I love you.” His words are twisted by tears, tense and shaking, and Saint shushes him gently.

EIGHT!

The gift-giving, like you couldn’t just give someone a gift on any other day of the year- the trees, the decorations.  The holidays were really just an excuse.  A beautiful, indulgent excuse to have some fun, dance and sing and be honest with your affections with the comfort of tradition to hide behind.  There was no reason to celebrate the holidays except for wanting to.

SEVEN!

There was no reason for Cayde to be at this party.  There were almost a hundred people crammed into this bar, loud and riotous, and he only actually knew one of them.

SIX!

But the person here was Andal, who’d looked at him with puppy dog eyes and explained how it would be really rude for him to not show up after his Warlock friend invited him, but the party was going to be so boring if he went alone-

FIVE!

Cayde couldn’t say no to that, right?  Even if the bar was loud and crowded, Andal was hanging on his arm and he was smiling, hair all in disarray from the dancing and face flushed from the champagne.

FOUR!

And he had to admit to himself that he was having a good time.  The alcohol wasn’t hurting things, but honestly he could have fun stuck in the bottom of a well, as long as Andal was there with him.  They didn't even need jokes- they'd just accidentally make eye contact and they'd be cracking up,

THREE!

So, here he was, in a loud bar, counting down to an arbitrary moment in time, drinking over-sweet champagne and leaning on Andal.  It was all gloriously meaningless.

But why did he feel like he had to do something?  Why was he nervous?

TWO!

He wanted to just dismiss it, but he’d learned a lot of hard lessons about listening to his gut.  Was it the countdown?  Tricking his brain into a sense of anticipation?  They weren’t really counting down to anything, after all.  The clock would go from 11:59 to 00:00 on the wall and everyone would cheer.

Oh.

ONE!

That’s not all that happened at midnight, he remembered.

Cayde didn’t think.  He just acted.

HAPPY NEW YEARS!

He leaned in and kissed Andal full on the mouth.

He pulled away almost immediately, regret beginning to penetrate through the alcohol- why did he do that?

Andal’s hand was on the back of his neck, pulling him back in.  The crowd had erupted into cacophony, but Cayde suddenly didn’t have much attention to spare on the outside world.  Andal’s hand was Solar-hot on his plating.

Andal plonked his glass down on the bar with violence.  His free hand immediately went to Cayde’s back, pulling him closer, and Cayde was only half on his barstool and it didn’t matter. Andal tasted like… well, Cayde was an Exo, so his brain catalogued the ethanol and gamma-decalactone and amylase before his mind said champagne and Human.

Then Andal angled a bit deeper and Cayde’s senses were overwhelmed with honey and cinnamon.  Burning and sweet, like a shot of spiced whiskey.  There was more as their Light mingled- every bit of Andal that Cayde had learned to associate with home: scratchy-warm wool blankets, the smell of desert creosote, the rib-aching sigh after a laughing fit.  His entire universe was the wiry muscles under his fingers and the mouth on his.

Cayde had lost all sense of time when they finally pulled apart.  Andal’s face was ruddy under his tan, his eyes shining like stars.  He leaned back and reached for his abandoned champagne.  “Damn, Spades, if I knew you could kiss like that I’d have made a move years ago.”

Cayde loved holiday parties.

Osiris’ mind is clouded with memories. He cannot help but remember all the years that have passed him by, clouded with unhappiness. He has spent so many years alone. First, it was only Sagira that kept him aware of the years that passed. Once he met other Lightbearers and found community with them, there was a period of time where he was not quite alone. Celebrations of the new year found him in the company of friends or acquaintances for some years, until his exile and he was left unbearably alone. He and Sagira stopped celebrating the coming of a new year while they traversed the Infinite Forest. Eventually, they stopped discussing it altogether. Now, to wake up and know that years passed between his capture and rescue is chilling. The thought plagues his mind as the clock ticks down towards midnight.

Noise reaches Osiris’ ears, the merriment of their guests, muffled by the door to Osiris’ study. He stands inside, alone. His breaths shudder in and out of his lungs, his hands braced on the desk before him. There is nothing specific in his mind, a mass of fears built up from the emotional state of the evening. The high energy of the guests, the flurry of activity that comes with trying to host them in his home, all of it leaves Osiris overstimulated and tense, overwhelmed by everything around him.

But his study is at least a refuge of quiet. He keeps the lights off as he stands inside, his gaze drifting over the city beyond the window. Fat, fluffy snowflakes drift down outside, catching the light of the street lamps and revealing themselves to Osiris’ eyes through the dark of night. Osiris watches them fall, mesmerized.

It’s true that he has been captured, it’s true that he has been alone, but there are people that care about him. The evidence—however overwhelming at times—is all around him, in the form of the guests in his house. The clock will not reach midnight before their concern will grow, and someone will come looking for him, a concerned representative sent by the party. That representative will likely be Saint. Osiris feels the ghost of a smile form on his lips. For the occasion, his lover had donned a pair of glasses made in the shape of the new year, the numbers making the construction so asymmetrical and awkward neither Osiris nor Crow could resist teasing him when he’d first put them on. Even thinking of them brings a smile to Osiris’ lips.

A quiet knock on the door draws him from his thoughts.

“Osiris?” Saint opens the door enough to peek inside.

“I’m here.” He calls, watching his lover’s optics shift and dim as they adjust to the low light. He reaches out, taking Saint’s hand and guiding him inside. His lover shuts the door gently once he’s inside, looking down at Osiris, his face pinched with worry.

“Are you alright?” He glances around the room. “It’s very dark in here.”

Osiris smiles. He sets his hands on Saint’s arms, then slips his arms around Saint’s torso, stepping close to press his head to Saint’s chest, his arms wrapping around Saint. The Titan returns his embrace immediately, resting his head atop Osiris’.

“I’m fine.” Osiris promises, “I was a bit overwhelmed, that’s all. I’m doing much better now.”

Saint hums against him. He presses his lips to Osiris’ knit hat. Saint has practically showered Osiris with all manner of winter clothing since he awoke, fighting the winter chill having become more difficult due to the strength he lost during his capture and unconsciousness, his weight and muscle mass proving difficult to regain. Osiris now has an entire shelf of sweaters in their closet, much to Saint's delight.

“I am sorry, I should have considered that this might be difficult for you.” Saint tells him, his words murmured into Osiris’ hat. His arms still hold Osiris close, and Osiris presses his nose into Saint’s sweater, inhaling the scent of him. “I had thought that being around friends might be a welcome change.”

“It is, Saint.” Osiris draws back enough to cup Saint’s cheek in his hand, offering him a loving smile. “It is wonderful. I am glad they’re here. It’s only the noise that overwhelmed me, and that feeling has passed.”

Even in the darkness, he can see the concern coloring Saint’s features. He leans forward, pressing a kiss to his cheeks, to the center of his face, where his nose would sit if he were human, then to his lips. He rests his forehead against Saint’s.

“I’m alright.” He tells Saint. Saint’s hands creep up to his shoulders. One comes to rest on his chest, and Osiris breathes into Saint’s palm, letting his partner feel the rise and fall of his chest beneath his hand. He understands the need for reassurance and confirmation that he is well and alive. Osiris is still plagued by the same fears. He still wakes from nightmares, reaching blindly across their bed to feel his lover when he forgets about the Sundial and the success he eventually found with it. When Saint relaxes enough to look assured that Osiris is telling the truth, he offers a bit more.

“I could not help but think of all the New Year’s I spent alone.” He tells Saint quietly. He smooths his hands over Saint’s sweater, then lifts his eyes back to Saint’s optics. “I have no intention of being alone again.”

Saint gives him a smile colored by melancholy from old aches, but warm with hope and new light. He presses his forehead to Osiris’.

“Neither do I.”

His lips are mere millimeters from Osiris’ when a knock sounds on the door. The pair of them freeze, their eyes finding one another in the darkness.

“Osiris? Saint?” It’s Crow’s voice, calling out through the door. “It’s almost midnight. We’re opening the champagne.”

Their eyes flick to the door when Crow speaks, and Saint draws back just a hair, watching him once again.

“It would be rude to miss our own party.” Osiris points out.

Saint’s features shift into a sort of pout, and Osiris feels himself smile. “I think I would quite enjoy spending the new year alone with you, but I fear you’re right.”

Osiris leans forward, dropping a quick peck to Saint’s lips, a preview for what he will get at midnight, then he reaches for the door.

“Worry not, my love.” He tells Saint, reaching out to take his hand. “I will be yours for many new years to come, I promise you.”