Work Text:
“No,” Saint says firmly.
The cat meows in response. Its limbs flail in an attempt to get out of Saint’s careful grip and back to its favorite hobby of terrorising the pigeons, and Saint sighs as he finishes his trek across the hangar to deposit it by the stairs.
“No,” he tries again, pointing a finger in the cat’s face. It looks up at him, insouciant. “Do not bother my birds. The City has many children who would play with you; go find them.”
The cat stares at him for a moment before stretching out a leg and grooming itself. Its green eyes don’t leave Saint, and he can’t help but feel like he’s being taunted.
“I’m glad we have reached an understanding,” he says, uncertain. “The next time some Eliksni hatchlings come to visit, I will point them in your direction.”
The cat offers no response. Saint is unsure whether this is because it is unsatisfied with the proposed peace offering or because it is a cat and does not understand peace as a concept.
With an awkward nod in the cat’s direction, he turns on his heel and heads back across the hangar to his ship.
Leaving Osiris unattended, even for such a short time, makes worry coil through his wires, but Saint relaxes when he sees Osiris exactly where he’s been all morning: perched on the steps of the Grey Pigeon and surrounded by sheafs of research. Osiris’ cowl flutters in the faint breeze, the fabric dipping in the way that means he’s pursing his lips beneath it, and the worry uncoils itself slowly.
Osiris is here and he’s safe, just as he has been for the last three weeks now. Saint hasn’t failed him again.
“Do you need anything?” Saint calls. He’s aiming for casual but isn’t sure it lands. “I can get more tea?”
The last two cups of tea sit on a book, cold and half-drunk, but Osiris nods. “Ginger, if they have it.”
He doesn’t look up from his research but as Saint moves over to scoop a handful of glimmer from his stash below the stairs, he doesn’t miss the way Osiris leans slightly into him. It’s tiny, nothing more than the faintest brush of his shoulder against Saint’s arm, but Saint smiles beneath his helmet anyway.
Ever since they rescued him from Savathun’s snares, Osiris has been content to stay close physically. Saint knows it’s partly to avoid solitude, letting Saint’s presence serve as a bulwark against memories Osiris has only shared glimpses of, but he accepts the additional pragmatism of the arrangement too. The hangar is a busy place, after all, and Saint can scare away intrusive Guardians just as well as intrusive thoughts.
With glimmer in hand, he scans for a bystander he can bribe into fetching some drinks, but he frowns when he hears the familiar click of claws against the ground and the concerned cooing of his pigeons.
“We have had this conversation,” he says with a sigh, turning in the direction of the cat. “Will you go away if I give you some Trials armor to sleep on? The warlock robes are very—“
He pauses, bemused, when the cat strolls past the pigeons without so much as a swipe in their direction. However, before he can celebrate this milestone in cat-exo diplomacy, he sees the cat continue forward, straight towards Osiris.
“No!” he grumbles, hurrying after it. “Do not pester that bird either. He is doing very important research; he does not need you bothering him.”
Unfazed, the cat presses on. It reaches the stairs of the ship before Saint can grab it but rather than flinching away or dismissing it, Osiris barely reacts to the cat’s presence.
The cat clambers higher, sniffing curiously at Osiris’ robes before settling between his ankles, and Saint hesitates, looking for any sign of discomfort on Osiris’ part.
It’s only through watching Osiris so closely for the past weeks that Saint notices him calm a little. The angle of the feathers across his shoulders changes, his posture shifting just a fraction, and while his hands don’t stray from his papers and datapads, he also doesn’t move his foot when the cat nuzzles against his boot.
“I, uh- I will get the tea?” Saint says, uncertain. As delighted as he is that Osiris is okay with the situation, it feels a little like he’s just been bested by a cat.
Osiris hums in agreement, leaning back to peer at some kind of Hive tablet. At his feet, the cat looks up at Saint smugly.
“As long as Osiris permits it, you may stay,” Saint says, begrudging. Then, in an effort to maintain some level of dominance, “But I am not getting you any tea.”
———
It takes two days for their tea routine to expand to include the cat.
There is no actual tea for the cat, of course, not least because it took one sniff of Saint’s peppermint tea and gave him a look of withering disapproval, but Saint takes to filling up a dish of water at the coffee shop for the cat to drink from.
(The dish is not a dish; it is some Hive relic made of thin curved stone. However, Osiris assures him it is non-functional and Saint figures that if Savathun is somehow using it to listen to their conversations, the constant mlem, mlem, mlem from the cat will rob her of any useful intelligence.)
The cat is going back and forth between its makeshift bowl and the pieces of chicken Osiris is absently plucking from his wrap in offering when Saint hears a teasing voice from behind them. “Did y’all make a new friend?”
Saint turns, beaming. “Ms Holliday! It is nice of you to visit.”
If Holliday notices the way Saint positions himself between her and Osiris, she’s good enough not to comment on it.
“Just stopping by to say there’s cake up on the north walkway if you two want some,” she says with a smile. “It’s Niik’s birthday today; we’ve been teaching her some human celebrations.”
“Ah, that explains the flour,” Saint says. He gestures to Holliday’s cheek, where the usual smudges of dark grease have been replaced by a dusting of powder. “May I?”
“I thought I got it all,” Holliday says with a sigh but waves Saint in anyway. The flour comes away easily, her skin warm beneath his thumb, and she nods to the fresh scratches on his gauntlet as she teases, “At least I’m not the only one getting in a mess lately. Although I thought a cat might’ve gone for the feathers before the armor.”
She glances past him to where Osiris is in his usual spot on the stairs. Saint doesn’t need to look to know his robes are as pristine as ever, lovingly maintained by Geppetto in Sagira’s stead, and Saint shrugs as the cat tests its claws against his boot.
“Apparently this cat like a challenge,” he says with a sigh. “It is very persistent.”
“Aww, maybe she’s just set on making friends,” Holliday says. She crouches, reaching out a hand to the cat, and is rewarded by a curious sniff. “She seems plenty relaxed around people.”
“How do you know it’s a she?”
The question comes from behind them, and Saint looks back in surprise to see Osiris watching them intently, research discarded.
“Well, she’s a tortie,” Holliday says. “You’d need to check to be sure but almost all cats with that tortoiseshell coloring are female. Some kind of genetic thing, I think.”
Osiris makes a quiet, interested noise, the kind Saint’s so used to hearing when he makes progress in his research. He sets his datapad down, descending the stairs of the ship, and Holliday rises to her feet as the cat trots over to greet its favorite human. “Nothing in those old Hive texts of yours about cat genders, huh?”
Osiris’ eyes crinkle at the corners. Saint’s heart soars.
“Unfortunately not,” Osiris says, amused. “Perhaps the next tome we unearth will provide some insight.”
Holliday laughs. It’s bright and loud and Saint hates that his first instinct is to shield Osiris from it, but he unspools a little when Osiris doesn’t even flinch.
“It’s good to see you again, Osiris,” Holliday says fondly. “We missed you around here.”
A hint of tension creeps back into Osiris’ posture but it ebbs as the cat presses happily against his leg. “Saint has been taking good care of things in my absence.”
“Boy, has he,” Holliday says. “In all my years I’ve never seen that ship of yours so clean. I didn’t even know it had so many colors under all that grime.”
Osiris’ gaze cuts to Saint, bright with surprise, and Saint clears his throat in embarrassment.
“I was referring to Trials,” Osiris says, not taking his eyes off Saint, “but I see I owe him for his efforts elsewhere too.”
Before Holliday can volunteer any more examples of Saint’s attempts to distract himself from his frantic worry during Osiris’ time in captivity, the cat meows impatiently at their feet. Saint seizes the distraction gladly, scooping the cat up in his arms, but he instantly regrets it when she begins gnawing on the ribbons lining his chestplate.
“I, uh- I think you’re getting a little drool on you,” Holliday says with a wince, but Osiris just moves in closer, hands out.
“Here,” he says, extricating the cat from Saint’s grip. “I suspect she wants my chicken more than she wants your armor.”
The cat meows at the mere mention of chicken, but Saint marvels at the ease with which she settles in Osiris’ arms. She chitters to him as they head back towards the stairs and to Osiris’ half-eaten lunch, and Saint can’t keep from smiling when he hears Osiris murmur back, “Have patience. You won’t go hungry.”
It’s only when Holliday rests a hand on his arm that Saint realises how long he’s been staring for.
“How about I bring down a slice of cake for you both?” she says. “Wouldn’t want you to miss out on any important cat parenting.”
Saint scoffs. “We are not parenting. We're just feeding a stray, that’s all.”
“Oh, of course, of course.” Her smile is warm but her tone is warmer when she says, “I’ll remind you of this once you’re dressing her in little outfits.”
———
When Saint returns home to hear Osiris talking to an empty apartment, his heart plummets.
Icy terror crawls through his system, crystals of it spiking through his processors as he thinks of Savathun deceiving them still, of his Osiris being lost once again. His boots thump against the wooden floor as he sprints forward, desperate to catch the Witch Queen off-guard, but he comes to a screeching halt when, rather than a Hive god communing with her horde, he finds Osiris stretched out on the couch with the cat in his lap.
Osiris arches an eyebrow in a question. His floating cubes hang in mid-air, frozen between configurations, and the cat bats at them happily, chirping when they pulse blue at the tap of her paw.
“I, uh, heard talking,” Saint says, lamely. “I was concerned.”
Osiris’ cheeks darken in embarrassment. Somehow it’s the most soothing thing Saint has seen in days.
“I find it helpful to think aloud sometimes,” he says. Then, almost reproachfully, “My habits haven’t changed that much since my return.”
Saint smiles. “Just your audience?”
He gestures to the cat in Osiris’ lap. At his silent request, Geppetto transmats his armor away to leave him in his soft underclothes and his footsteps are far quieter when he moves to sit beside Osiris’ legs.
“She’s hardly a replacement for Sagira,” Osiris says, even as his dark nails scritch through the cat’s fur, “but sometimes the application of a stochastic process can enable consideration of theories I had previously overlooked.”
Saint blinks, lost.
Between them, the cat stretches up to gnaw on the corner of a cube. The contact makes two of the sides glow a pale green and Saint lapses into a grin as he translates, “You are letting the cat play with your little cubes to see what happens.”
Osiris’ lips twitch in a smile. “I see your talent for simplicity remains undimmed.”
From anyone else, it would be an insult, but Saint knows Osiris far better than that.
He reaches out, nominally to stroke the cat’s soft belly, but his hand soon settles at Osiris’ hip. The touch is one of reassurance rather than romance, and he’s glad when Osiris takes it as such, the pads of his fingertips resting warm against the sliver of skin at Saint’s wrist.
“I know this is taking longer than you would like,” Osiris says, and holds up a hand for silence before Saint can correct him. “At the times when Savathun was not showing me her actions in my form, it was dark and it was quiet. Exceptionally so. It…” His gaze goes distant for a moment, the way it has done every time he’s tried to speak of this. “It made it difficult to think.”
Just as Andal Brask was famed for his ability to nap in any location, Saint remembers Osiris’ flexibility when it came to places to study. Before his exile, Saint had found him leafing through tomes everywhere from the edge of a rooftop to under a desk, and from what he’d heard of Osiris’ time in the Forest, a hail of Vex gunfire had rarely been an impediment either.
His anger burns bright at the fact that Savathun has injured this part of Osiris too.
“Is it getting better?” he asks. “Being back in the City?”
“It is,” Osiris says with a sigh. “I’m still working too slowly but talking out loud, whether to you or to the cat, is helping more than I expected.” His fingertips press more firmly against Saint’s skin, finding the thrum of the motor beneath his plates. “Just having someone else close by is…” He swallows. “I find it useful.”
Saint nods. He turns his hand over, squeezing Osiris’ arm gently in return, but he can’t shape his jumble of thoughts into words of reassurance. He knows the pain of isolation, although his was at least dulled with the distraction of Vex to kill, and he knows the disproportionate relief of return, of being surrounded again by people (or birds, or cats) who are real and alive.
However, he can’t bring himself to voice any of it.
The reminder of the Infinite Forest is a reminder of the disparity in their successes; Osiris bent time, reshaped the past to bring Saint back to the present, whereas Osiris’ safety was all thanks to the Awoken Queen and her deals rather than any accomplishment on Saint’s part.
The sense of failure still aches.
“I am glad you are back,” he says softly. Osiris’ skin is warm when Saint leans in to press a kiss to the back of his hand, and despite the gnawing guilt, Saint smiles when the cat’s paws bump against his cheek as she stretches. “And I am glad you have someone with you when I’m not here.”
“Her conversational skills are no match for yours,” Osiris says, stroking the cat’s head, “and she lacks Sagira’s wit, but beyond that, she’s adequate company.”
Coming from him, it’s high praise but the cat just yawns before curling up into a snug pretzel.
“I suppose we will have to make her at home,” Saint says, settling back on the couch. Osiris’ legs come to rest across his thighs, careful not to dislodge the cat with the movement, and Saint watches the cubes shift above them as he teases, “We also have to make sure she is properly credited for all of her discoveries. I am excited to read the research papers you two will write together.”
When Osiris laughs, Saint realises just how much he missed the sound of it.
———
“I can’t believe you haven’t named her yet.”
The comment comes past a mouthful of fried rice and Saint looks over to where Crow is sitting cross-legged atop the crates. Beside them, the cat chases Glint on a winding pursuit beneath the tables lined with monitors, and Saint leans down to snag a tempura prawn from one of the takeout boxes.
“She does not need a name,” he says between crunches. “She is just ‘cat’.”
“Everybody needs a name,” Glint calls as he zooms past. (His shell already bears the scratch-marks from where he was too slow.) “I think she’d like having one.”
“She is a cat,” Saint reminds them both. “She likes to eat fish and to yell for attention. I do not think she has strong feelings on names.” He tosses a treat for her and watches as she goes skidding joyfully across the hangar floor. “Besides, she is Osiris’ cat. If he wants to name her, he will.”
Glint emerges from beneath the table and exchanges a knowing glance with Crow.
“No,” Saint says, pointing between the two of them. “I know those expressions.”
“There are lots of good names,” Glint says earnestly as Crow tries to hide his grin behind his chopsticks. “How about Pumpernickel?”
“Pumpernickel,” Saint repeats.
“Or something else,” Glint says, unfazed. “Couscous? Souvlaki? Bacon?”
Having retrieved the treat, the cat returns to flop on the ground at Saint’s feet and he crouches down to pet her. “Why are all your suggestions food?”
Glint’s plates lift in a shrug. “I was named Pulled Pork for a long time. Food names are nice - I think humans find them soothing somehow.” He tilts, looking down at the cat in contemplation. “I don’t think you can call her Pulled Pork the Second, but there are lots of other options. How about Grilled Cheese? Croque Madame? Oh!” He brightens. “Panini!”
Saint looks to Crow. “Do not name our cat after a sandwich.”
Crow laughs, giving him a mock salute. “Yes, sir.” He pauses. “Wait, our cat?”
Saint’s eyes narrow. “I didn’t—“
“As in yours and Osiris’? Not just his?”
Saint takes a sulky bite of prawn. “Shush.”
“I knew she would grow on you eventually,” Crow says. He sounds inordinately pleased at Saint’s slip-up. “Don’t worry, we’d never name her without your permission.”
He taps his chin in feigned thought and flashes Saint a grin. “Although, just hypothetically, what are Osiris’ opinions on sandwiches?”
———
“No,” Osiris says. He folds his arms in disapproval and Saint loiters in the doorway to watch the stand-off between his moderately tall partner and the cat who has scaled a very tall stack of weapon crates. “Those guns are for Trials, not for you.”
The cat meows, defiant.
Osiris sighs. “Yes, I know you could out-maneuver half the hunters in the City but that still doesn’t mean you’re allowed into the gun storage.” He takes a step closer, hand outstretched. “Come down and I’ll take you to visit Saint at the the Lighthouse next weekend. The simulation has plenty of ledges for you to sleep on.”
The cat tiptoes to the edge of the crates, apparently swayed by the offer, and even from behind him, Saint can hear Osiris’ encouraging smile. “Good girl. Come on, Tapi, get down.”
Caught off-guard by the name, Saint almost misses the blur of movement as the cat leaps down from the top of the crates into Osiris’ arms. She flails a little and Osiris presses a kiss to the top of her head before lowering her back to the ground. “Thank you.”
“You named her?”
From the way Osiris whips around at the question, he hadn’t known Saint was watching. A blush rises on his cheeks as the cat trots past them to cause havoc elsewhere. “We can change it if you like. I just thought that—“
“No, no,” Saint says quickly, “I am glad you did.” He knows he’s taking a chance closing the gap between them but as he moves in to rest his hands on Osiris’ hips, he’s met with a sheepish smile rather than any kind of recoil. “What was it? Tapi?”
Osiris nods. “Crow and Glint were here earlier. Most of their suggestions were abysmal; I’m still not certain if they just wore me down or if they actually found one which was good, but I think it suits her.”
“They were listing sandwiches at me yesterday,” Saint says. “I’m glad they progressed to actual names.”
“I wouldn’t give them that much credit,” Osiris says. “Glint’s knowledge of pasta types is prodigious.”
Saint chuckles. “What, you didn’t want to call her Spaghetti?”
“I opted for plausible deniability,” Osiris says, rueful. “Tapi, technically short for Cavatappi.”
“That’s a pasta?” The name tugs at the back of his mind and Saint frowns. “Why does that sound familiar?”
“It was a long time ago,” Osiris says. A small smile plays on his lips as he rests a hand against Saint’s chest. “The place we used to visit up in the Alps. We found that Golden Age resort buried by snow.”
The memory comes back in an instant. They were both far younger then, at the start of their courtship and unburdened with the responsibilities of command, and fondness wells up at the thought of the time they’d spent together delving through the ruins. They visited regularly through the centuries, watching the sun rise and set over the peaks together, and Saint’s lights flicker when he realises where he recognises the name from.
“The crates,” he says. “Durable plasteel, stamped with the name of ingredients. You made me carry two of them all the way up from the kitchen so we had something to sit on in the snow.”
“As I recall, you volunteered,” Osiris corrects, and there’s a gleam in his eyes that Saint hasn’t seen for years. “Something about it being ‘no problem for the City’s greatest Titan’?”
Saint winces. Flirting had never been his strength. “Ah.”
Heat blossoms when Osiris leans up to kiss him on the cheek. “And there were three crates, not two.”
Saint nods, piecing it together. “A table and two chairs.”
The cavatappi crate was the table. He remembers the name etched across the side, half the letters covered by fresh snowdrifts every time they returned, but it’s the thought of Osiris remembering which stays with him.
“I still don’t know what cavatappi is,” he admits, kissing Osiris’ temple in return. “Is it that long squiggly pasta?”
“Apparently it’s curly macaroni,” Osiris says. “Although I hardly consider Glint a reliable source on the matter.”
Saint grins. “So we have named our cat after curly macaroni?”
Osiris returns the smile. “You know, it’s not too late to change it to Spaghetti if you prefer.”
“Oh, definitely not.” The kiss is on Osiris’ lips this time, soft and careful, and the contact warms Saint just as deeply as the memories. His whole frame feels lighter at the familiar weight of Osiris’ body against his, and as Osiris sinks into his embrace, Saint says with conviction, “Tapi is perfect.”