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“OSIRIS!”
The wounded echoes of Saint’s bellow haven’t even begun to fade by the time he’s pulled Osiris from the wreckage of his prison, cradling him against his chest with one arm and cupping his cheek, caution thrown to the wind at last.
His face is gaunt with exhaustion and grief, his skin translucent and sickly in the fetid light of the place, but he is here, even if he is not whole, and he clings to Saint like a man drowning in frozen water: his grip numb and half slack but desperate. Oily blackness drips sluggishly from the jagged spikes of Saint’s armour, and he’s dimly aware of Geppetto fussing at his side, but he has eyes only for Osiris. He watches fretfully as the haze fades from his partner’s face, clouded confusion shifting to sharp disbelief and finally, finally , to a golden spark of hope.
“...Saint?” The hoarse whisper is barely audible, but it’s enough. Saint’s shoulders sag in relief.
“I am here. I am here, Osiris, you are safe now.” He repeats it like an affirmation. It’s as much a comfort to himself as it is to Osiris, easing the growing terror he’s been holding for months, the uncertainty of the past year and the awful, yawning wrongness he’s been unable to truly pinpoint until now. Osiris’s fretting hands settle, clawed grip easing as he allows Saint to bundle him into his arms like a child. The tatters of his headdress snag slightly on Saint’s armour and he leans into it, too worn to free himself. Metal clunks against metal dully, reassuringly solid.
A shrill shriek of rage swirls around them, dopplering distressingly back and forth, and Saint takes off at a dead sprint, wisps of purple sparking at every footstep. Geppetto blinks in and out of existence around them, calling out directions to her guardian as he runs blindly into the dark. Her Light is dim against the all-encompassing blackness, but he follows faithfully: there must be a way out.
There is no acceptable alternative.
----
Saint wakes with a cold start, his body locked tight into the stasis of sleep. It takes milliseconds to respond, but even that span is too long to bear as he fights to sit sharply, fully alert and reaching for a weapon Geppetto isn’t compiling for him, registering his surroundings: the dim light of his bedroom, window half open and curtains blowing gently in the night breeze of late summer; Geppetto settled in the little cubby nest he’d built for her; Osiris stirring beside him; freight ships rumbling in the distance; Osiris- Osiris . Saint freezes again, relaxing incrementally and lowering his outstretched hand to rest on his lover’s chest. Osiris’s heart beats slowly, Saint’s sensitive digits noting the slight uptick at his touch. He smiles despite himself, trying to wind down from the nightmare.
Osiris covers Saint’s hand with his own, voice thick with sleep as he mumbles. “Again?”
Saint twitches guiltily and waves his free hand. “It was not so bad. You know we have the dreams sometimes, I am... used to it.” There is not as much confidence in his voice as he would like, but watching Osiris is already helping him settle.
“It was the crypt this time?” Ah.
“No,” he admits, begrudging the way his answer brings Osiris to full alertness, raising himself onto one elbow. He doesn’t remember much of the escape beyond fleeting scraps of Geppetto’s muffled instructions and the beleaguered warmth of Saint’s Light, but the fear in Saint’s voice is never going to leave him.
“Saint…”
“I know.”
They stay in silence for a long moment, listening to the distant night traffic. It’s a long way from the humming wastelands of Mercury and the howling madness of the ascendant plane, and for once Osiris is grateful for the distracting noise.
“I would rather not think about it.” Saint’s voice seems to come from a long way off, and Osiris squeezes his hand gently. “Not tonight, at least. You are here, now. This is what matters, yes?”
Saint finally relaxes enough to lie down and Osiris shifts to accommodate him, a silent apology for inadvertent blanket theft given in a kiss to his shoulder as they settle together again. Osiris shivers as Saint idly traces the lines of his tattoos, butterfly touches dancing across his shoulderblades.
“Will you ever tell me what happened?”
“Are you ever going to explain your Sundial?”
“That’s not the same-”
“Then we will agree to disagree.”
Osiris huffs so irritably in protest that Saint laughs, dispelling the last of the tension and startling Geppetto awake with a squawk.
“You’re insufferable.”
“I love you too.”