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“I think you should try shooting me.”
The cheery comment from Crow’s ghost carries across the midnight silence of the hangar. It’s followed by a thunk that’s audible even from where Osiris is watching as Crow looks up in alarm and promptly smacks his head against the underside of his ship.
Glint’s shell contracts with sympathy as Crow holds a hand to the back of his head with a wince. “Glint, why would I ever shoot you?”
“For practice!” Glint says happily. “If we’re going to be hunting these psions, I think I need to get good at dodging. Like how you train with your light — I can train to avoid getting shot!”
Not for the first time, Osiris doubts whether Crow and his ghost are always a good influence on each other.
“You know, I hear there’s a foolproof method for not getting shot,” Crow says, reaching out to flick Glint’s shell. “It’s called hiding.”
Glint beeps in disapproval. “Well, that’s no fun. I don’t want to spend exciting Vanguard missions hiding in your backpack. What if I miss things?”
“What, like bullets?”
“Very funny.” He circles the wing of the ship before coming to rest on the edge of it. “I want to help! Besides, you need someone to watch your back.”
Osiris had almost forgotten Sagira saying the same thing, centuries ago now, but he can hear Glint’s words spoken in her voice as though it were yesterday. The memory is a punch to the chest, leaving a dull ache beneath his ribs, and he allows himself the painful luxury of wallowing for a moment, recalling how many times she had to swoop in and save him before he finally acknowledged that he needed her help.
(Of all the people he’s met over his long life, Sagira was the only one whose stubbornness exceeded his own.)
“You should take care,” he says, more to Glint than to Crow as he steps out from the shadows. “We know what these psions are capable of. The City can’t afford to lose any more ghosts.”
Crow narrowly avoids bumping his head again as he whips around in surprise. The mask is gone, broken during the attempt on Zavala’s life, but in its place is a dark cowl, not unlike his own, which covers half of Crow’s face.
Even so, it’s clear enough that Crow’s smiling beneath it when he looks over at him. “I wasn’t sure you’d show.”
“I brought you to the City,” Osiris points out. “It seemed appropriate for me to be here for your departure too.”
Crow’s smile fades. Before Osiris can work out what he’s said wrong, Glint swoops down from his perch on the ship to chime in, “We’re not leaving permanently! Just for a little while so that Commander Zavala can smooth things over here.” His eye shines. “Crow’s a real Guardian now, out on real Vanguard missions!”
He beams proudly from Crow’s shoulder. Stupidly, Osiris is reminded of Saint introducing him to whichever pigeon was his current favorite, the small bird held aloft in Saint’s gentle hands.
“You’ll be careful?”
It isn’t really a question but Crow nods anyway. “Always. I got a close-up look at the tech that disabled Zavala’s ghost — I’m not letting that get anywhere near Glint.”
Glint huffs but Crow ignores him as he fiddles nervously with the material of his glove. These past few months with Saint have at least taught Osiris how to identify when someone wants to say something (although he’s still waiting for a lesson on how to say the right thing in response), and he stays quiet as Crow fumbles for the words.
“About what happened with Zavala,” Crow says cautiously, “I’m sorry for losing the mask. I needed to do something — I don’t regret that part of it — but I know what you told me about keeping my identity hidden. I didn’t mean to cause any trouble for you with the Vanguard.”
The argument with Zavala and Saladin had been a bruising one. Osiris had responded with just as much venom but between Saladin’s sharp comments about his exile and the weight of Zavala’s disappointment, he still felt like he’d been on the losing end of that fight.
“It was the right choice,” Osiris says, and watches the way some of the tension leaves Crow at the confirmation. “I can’t say I support you trying to catch a knife with your face but it did the job. Zavala’s safety takes precedence over my working relationship with the Vanguard.”
He hasn’t spoken to Ikora about Crow yet. He doesn’t think he ever wants to.
“Zavala reacted well,” Crow offers, his words tinged with disbelief. “He didn’t say much but he was… kind.”
Osiris supposes it says a lot about Crow’s past experiences that another Guardian helping him up rather than shooting him while he’s down is a cause for celebration.
He never expected Zavala to actually hurt Crow but even this quasi-acceptance is proof of the difference between the City Osiris left and the one he returned to. Zavala is not the Speaker, and after months of worrying about Crow being cast out in disgrace, for once Osiris is glad to be wrong.
“I’m pleased he responded as he did,” he says. “You’ve done good work. You’ve certainly earned your place here.”
“I think Saladin would disagree.” Crow’s tone is somewhere between amused and self-deprecating, but there’s something in there Osiris can’t quite read.
Nonetheless, he offers an honest assessment when he says, “Saladin enjoys arguing more than most; I would not be surprised if he misses having you as a sparring partner. You need to work on your tactics though; sometimes it is more efficient to chip away at someone’s defenses rather than toss in a grenade.”
It borders on hypocrisy, he knows that, particularly after the jibes they both aimed at Saladin regarding the Red War. Osiris’ own first instinct is often to reach for the grenade too, and see whether he or his opponent is left standing when the dust settles, but he hopes, however foolishly, that he can stop Crow making some of the same mistakes.
Crow plucks at the material of his glove again, awkward and anxious, and Osiris realises too late what’s coming.
“I’m sorry,” Crow says, soft and wretched, “for what I said to you about Xivu Arath. I know I screwed up in the gardens by taking my mask off, and I’m sorry for that too, but I shouldn’t have said what I did.”
Osiris exhales. The blast from that particular grenade had taken days to shake off, the impact tearing open an already-raw wound, but he knows the shrapnel still embedded in his chest is courtesy of Sagira’s death itself rather than Crow’s reminder of it.
“You shouldn’t have,” he agrees. “Although I understand why you did.”
Crow nods, embarrassed. “When you mentioned Spider—”
“I know,” Osiris says. “Perhaps you weren’t the only one who overstepped.”
From the twitch of the fabric over his face, he knows Crow is smiling a little. “Grenades, right?”
“Even with centuries of practice, it is a hard habit to break,” Osiris admits. “I suspect we are more alike in that respect than either of us would care to admit. Patience is not my strong suit any more than it is yours; it is often simpler to stoke a conflict than to wait for it to ignite in its own time.
Crow won’t meet his eyes. “Sometimes it’s better that way,” he murmurs. “If the axe is going to fall one way or another, it’s easier to help it along.”
Osiris can remember the way the sun glinted off Sagira’s shell as they had the same discussion amid the Mercury sands, both of them still stinging with the outrage of exile. He recalls his own logic, his insistence that this was for the best, that goading his opponents into doing their worst was the only real way to know the limits of his alliances.
In a rare instance of mercy, Sagira hadn’t pointed out just how wrong he was.
“It may be easier,” he tells Crow, “but it is not always wiser. The Tower is not the Shore, and the Vanguard is not the Spider. The axe may never have been raised in the first place.”
“I know,” Crow says, almost sheepish. “I just— It takes some getting used to.”
That much is obvious, both from the way Crow still recoils from sudden movements and from the way Osiris still can’t shake the discomfort of walking through the City without his face covered. Even with the Speaker gone and his exile revoked, the claws of the memories still dig deep, but while it may be too late for him to shed his past, he can only hope it is easier for Crow.
Crow’s flinch is not unexpected when Osiris reaches out to rest a hand on his shoulder, and Osiris squeezes in reassurance.
“It will take time,” he says gently. “You are making good progress. I expect things will be better on your return.”
The corners of Crow’s eyes crinkle when he smiles. “It’d be nice not to have to wear a mask for once.”
Osiris chuckles, and gestures to the cowl before he lets his hand fall back to his side. “I see you’ve adopted an alternative in the meantime. Should I be flattered?”
“You’re very inspiring, what can I say,” Crow teases, adjusting the fabric where it rests across his nose. “It’s just while I leave; I didn’t want to risk any trouble. Zavala may have reacted okay but… Well, not all Guardians are like him.” His gaze brightens as he looks over at Osiris. “But hey, maybe I won’t even need a mask when I get back.”
“Soon, hopefully,” Osiris says. Crow’s ship is well-stocked, thanks to a generous requisition order Osiris slipped past Ikora, and is the most durable model Holliday could acquire; he’ll be fine. “You’ll be missed.”
“I think Holliday’s just upset that she has to start buying her own drinks again,” Crow says with a smile. “I’ll miss spending time with her though, even if it did mean drinking everything through a straw. I’ll miss working with you and the Guardian too — I know I didn’t always make it easy for you but you taught me a lot. I’m grateful.”
Osiris knows Ikora could attest (at length) to his failings as a mentor but pride sparks at Crow’s gratitude.
“You’re not rid of me that easily,” he says. “I expect regular reports on your operation against the psions. Especially if you find anything more about their work with Vex technology.”
Crow laughs beneath the cowl and gives him a playful salute. “Yes, sir.”
“I mean it,” Osiris says, holding his gaze. “You aren’t going back to what you had before with the Spider. You may be laying low but we’ll be here if you need anything. ”
Crow nods. “One exile to another, right?”
“You are no exile,” Osiris says. “Not any more. You’re a Guardian now, officially.”
Some of the shrapnel burrows deeper as Osiris tries not to think about his own status. He stopped being a Guardian the day the City threw him out in favor of its own short-sighted politics, but now, without his Light and his ghost, and with nothing more than a title gifted in pity, he feels far from what a Guardian should be.
From the look in Crow’s eyes, he’s picked up more than Osiris intended him to, but he just holds out a hand.
“Then here,” Crow says, “one Guardian to another.”
The urge to pull Crow in for a pat on the back — not a hug — is uncomfortable and most likely a consequence of spending time around Saint again in-person, but Osiris resists it as he grasps Crow’s arm instead. The pulse of Light beneath his skin is a burden that gets easier to deal with each day, and Osiris settles for patting his shoulder again as he says, “I will see you soon, Guardian.”
They break apart. Glint trills happily at Crow’s shoulder when he gives the jumpship one last check and Osiris retreats back into the shadows as they climb inside and prepare to depart.
The hangar is deserted, the glow of the Traveler bright against the night sky above. He understands the need for discretion, the benefits of secrets, but it still seems wrong that there are fewer people here to bid Crow farewell after an act of heroism than there were when Osiris was cast out as a heretic.
Through the ship’s window, Glint gives him the ghost equivalent of a wave as Crow guides the ship out into the open air, and Osiris can only offer a nod in return as they take flight.
They’ve come a long way from him smuggling Crow into the City as little more than contraband but as Osiris stands alone in the empty hangar, it feels like they still have a long way left to go.