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“Look, I love camping as much as the next person,” Suraya says, planting her hands on her hips, “but are you sure this is a good idea?”
She reaches out to poke the cot with her foot. The metal creaks ominously.
Saint decides to ignore it.
“It will be fine,” he says with confidence. “It is very sturdy.”
Suraya makes a skeptical noise. While Osiris is still deep in slumber on the other side of the room, it’s all too easy for Saint to imagine him making an identical noise.
“You have done a wonderful job,” Saint says, switching tack. “I knew you were the right person to ask for help.”
“No arguments there,” Suraya says with a grin. “Still doesn’t change the fact that these beds are normally used for starving refugees, not exos the size of a small house.”
Saint frowns. “If someone else needs it, they should have it. I do not want to be stealing.”
“No, no, it’s all yours,” she promises. “The work on the Botza district has been going well; the Eliksni are squirreled away in real houses now and I think Mithrax is actually relieved about us getting some of this clutter out of his way. Not that he’d ever admit it.”
Louis chirps in agreement from where he’s perched by the open window and Saint smiles. “I can understand not wanting to give things up. Even if you do not really need them anymore.”
Suraya knocks her shoulder against his as she teases, “I never would’ve guessed.”
For a horrible second, Saint thinks she’s taken his words to refer to Osiris. He tenses, eager to correct himself, but she gets there before he can. “I mean, who wouldn’t want three different candle-holders shaped like fish.”
It’s accompanied by a nod towards the far bookshelf, where the three mismatched pieces of pottery sit amid the shelves of trinkets which both he and Osiris have accumulated over the centuries. There are memories attached to each one, some trivial, some integral, and Saint hasn’t been able to bring himself to part with any of them.
However, Suraya is here to help build a bed, not to listen to an old man reminisce, and so Saint just says, “The purple one is lobster, not fish.”
The tilt of Suraya’s head matches that of Louis’. “Wow, can’t believe I missed that key detail.”
Saint chuckles at the fond sarcasm. While Devrim and Marc have both been very kind in the wake of Osiris’ return, he knows they still walk on eggshells around him, and so Suraya’s candor is a welcome change.
“Not that I don’t have incredible confidence in my construction skills,” she says, looking up at him, “but you do have a perfectly good bed in your spare room.”
Saint raises his eyebrows and she smiles, sheepish. “I may have snooped a little when I went to the bathroom. I’m sure Osiris would be fine with you sleeping there instead of right here — it looks way more comfortable than this one.”
Saint sighs. “And less likely to collapse, yes?”
“That too.”
It’s a fair point. The cot is a self-indulgent addition where sleeping on the floor or in a chair has served him fine for the past weeks, but the thought of being away from Osiris even in sleep makes his circuits thrum with anxiety.
It’s only when Suraya rests a hand on his shoulder that he realises his hesitation has gone on too long to be easily dismissed.
“I’m not trying to tell you what to do,” she says gently. “Keeping my nose out of people’s business has served me well so far. If you wanna camp out on the world’s okayest cot, that’s totally your call. I just figured I’d flag the other options, that’s all.”
Saint nods. His gaze remains fixed on Osiris, sleeping motionless beneath the freshly laundered blankets, but he can’t bring himself to open his mouth for fear of what might escape him.
Suraya’s hand tightens in a knowing squeeze. “I get it, you know? I mean, not all of it — the whole Hive god thing definitely feels like an Osiris-specific problem — but I remember when Marc got sick when I was a kid. Devrim barely left his side for more than an hour and even then, it was just so he could go hassle every single warlock in the City for help.”
In spite of himself, Saint smiles. He’s met Marc (and his herd of loud, inquisitive sheep); he knows this story must have a happy ending.
“It took a while but Marc got better,” Suraya says. “Some kind of chest infection, cleared right up with enough time and rest.” She glances up at Saint. “Of course, by then Devrim had run himself so ragged that he got hit with a worse version of the same thing. He was laid up for two whole months, listening to Marc’s lectures on the importance of taking ‘real good care of himself’.”
Saint chuckles. “I see this story has a very subtle moral.”
“That’s me,” Suraya says cheerfully, “subtle as a brick.”
“I do not think the effects of being in Savathun’s captivity are contagious,” Saint says, “but this is good advice.”
“That you of course won’t be taking.”
Saint shrugs. He’s been given the same warning by everyone from Ikora to Crow to Mithrax, but after finally having Osiris back with him, offering anything less than his full effort is too much like admitting defeat.
“You built a very nice bed,” he says instead, aiming for light-hearted. “How can I let it go to waste?”
“Real easily,” she points out. “It’s one step away from the trash pile already — feel free to help it the rest of the way along.”
“Never,” Saint booms. “I will make good use of it, at least until Osiris awakes.”
He’s immensely grateful when she doesn’t argue further. Louis flits across the room, doing a quick circle of Osiris’ sleeping form before alighting on Suraya’s shoulder, and through some kind of witchcraft, she tugs her poncho back on without dislodging the bird.
“Have it your way,” she says, eyeing the dubious cot with a sigh. “But I claim no responsibility if it collapses in the night and stabs you in the arm.”
Saint chuckles. “All the praise, none of the blame?”
“The Hawthorne motto,” she deadpans before lapsing into a smile. She leans up to give him a kiss on the cheek. “Take care of yourself, okay? He’ll get through this.”
Coming from her, it sounds like a guarantee rather than a platitude, and Saint squeezes her arm with a weak smile. “Thank you, Suraya.”
———
After a week, Saint reaches the conclusion that sleeping on a pile of Vex corpses may actually have been a more enjoyable experience than the cot.
It squeaks whenever he moves; the center of it dips to brush the floor beneath if he shifts at the wrong angle; and the lower right leg lurches to the side every time he so much as looks in its direction. It feels like some kind of cosmic punishment for his failings and so Saint sleeps there every night.
At the start, his dreams are no worse than usual. He hears the screams of those he failed, feels his plates crack under clubs and blades, smells the burning flesh amid the ozone sting of Mercury. He sees the Crypt and its tower, the Forest and its depths, the crystal and Osiris.
He isn’t surprised when dreams and reality start to blur into one.
The cot is unsteady beneath him, rocking like waves as he stares up at the ceiling. Shadows twist at the corners of his visions — Vex apparations, Fallen marauders, Taken tendrils — but Saint can’t move as Osiris’ hollow face stares down at him from the bed above.
Black ichor drips from his chin, lips moving in a language Saint doesn’t understand, and the metal of the cot curves around his arms like claws when Saint struggles to reach for him.
The eyes above him change with each blink — three, triumphant, terrifying; two, trapped, terrified — and when a faint hiss of speech finally slithers through his panic, he can’t tell whether it’s Osiris or Savathun who’s talking.
Was that really the best you could do?
———
“Drink some water, Brother Saint.”
From his seat on the cot, Saint looks up at the glass of water on the nightstand then closes his eyes. His head pounds. “I am not thirsty, Geppetto.”
She beeps in reprimand. “I did not ask if you were.”
Saint cracks an eye open but can’t muster any heat to back up his glare.
Geppetto bobs in the air and gestures to the glass again. “You won’t like it if I turn my light on.”
Grumbling, Saint reaches for the water and chugs obediently. He feels the pain pulse at his temples with every swallow. “You are threatening me now?”
“I just made an observation,” Geppetto says but she nudges her shell fondly against his shoulder once the glass is empty. “Your sleep is getting worse.”
“So many observations,” Saint mutters. He regrets it instantly and pulls Geppetto in for a nuzzle against his cheek in apology. “I’m sorry. I do not feel like myself lately.”
“I think that’s understandable,” she says, “given the circumstances. And the lack of sleep. And the structurally unsound bed.”
Saint flops back onto the cot. It judders in protest.
It takes a moment for the sound of his own processors to quieten. This late at night, the City is almost silent outside their window, just the distant hum of ships above, and Saint stares up into the moonlight as he listens to the steady rhythm of Osiris’ breathing.
“I won’t suggest moving to a better bed,” Geppetto says, hovering beside him, “even though it’s a good and sensible choice.”
“I’m proud of your restraint.”
“Thank you.” There’s a brief moment of hesitation, as though she’s bracing herself to speak, and then: “Brother Glint has been in touch.”
“Oh?”
“It is undoubtedly poorly researched and full of rash speculations,” she says, “but he has provided a list. Of ways to potentially wake Osiris up.”
Saint takes a moment to consider this. He likes Glint; he’s a good match for Crow and as Pulled Pork, he helped a lot of Guardians through some tough times.
However, he has also very seriously asked Saint what the best method for killing vampires is.
Still, Glint’s suggestions are still more appealing than returning to his third week of dreams about Savathun, so he pushes himself back upright. (The cot’s groan matches his own.) “Let me hear them.”
Geppetto doesn’t bother to conceal her sigh. “Number one: smelling salts.”
Saint frowns. “We must make him smell salt?”
“Apparently.” She pauses. “You know, Brother Glint isn’t always the smartest—“
Saint is on his feet and heading for the kitchen before she can finish. The salt barely smells of anything, just the faintest hint of minerals, but even the most farfetched idea is an improvement on his current dreams, and so he jogs back to hold a handful under Osiris’ nose.
He can’t bring himself to be surprised when nothing happens.
“Number two,” Geppetto says as Saint swipes the salt into the trash, “a kiss. Specifically true love’s kiss.” She makes a judgmental noise. “He reads too many stories.”
“I have kissed Osiris many times,” Saint points out, “and he is still asleep.”
“It needs to be a kiss on the lips,” Geppetto informs him. “Um. Traditionally, that is. According to the stories.”
Saint smiles. “The stories, hm?”
She doesn’t look at him. “Sometimes I read to pass the time.”
His smile widens. With his cot on one side of the bed and the wall on the other, it’s tricky to get the right angle, but he’s careful as he leans down to plant a soft kiss on Osiris’ lips. He can feel the faint hum of light running through him, remnants of the treatments from the warlocks earlier that day, but his chest tightens with foolish disappointment when Osiris’ mouth remains slack beneath his own.
“It was worth a try,” Geppetto says quietly.
“Number three?”
“Saying ‘boo’ very loudly.” Her shell flaps lift when Saint looks back at her. “Look, I am not responsible for this list.”
“That doesn’t seem like a- BOO!”
Geppetto shrieks at the noise.
Her light flares, the beam of it sweeping around the room, and Saint raises a hand to shield his eyes even as he laughs. “I’m sorry, Geppetto. I thought it should be a surprise.”
He looks back to Osiris as she composes herself. “He never scared easily.”
“Number four,” she says, calming, “drink a glass of water upside down.”
Saint frowns. “How do you drink water upside down?”
“I do not have a mouth,” Geppetto reminds him. “I have no experience in this area.”
“Am I supposed to drink the water or is Osiris supposed to drink the water?”
A whirr. “The list gives no further instructions.”
“This one does not seem helpful. Which is next?”
“Number five: recite the alphabet backwards.”
“The—“ Saint sighs. “Geppetto. These are cures for when you get hiccups.”
Geppetto makes a noise that Saint has come to identify as the ghost equivalent of exhaling through clenched teeth.
“It’s okay,” he says, patting her shell. “Glint is just trying to help. Maybe we see if there are non-hiccup suggestions on his list.”
“Numbers six through…” She pauses for a long time. “…forty-three are cures for hiccups. Suggestion forty-four is to put bulbs of garlic around his neck. Like a wreath. Glint has included a very poor diagram.”
Saint hops off the bed. “We have garlic. I will be back.”
It takes him a while to rummage through their vegetables in search of garlic, and even longer to thread the numerous bulbs together into some semblence of a wreath. He finds himself yawning again as he does so, and when he heads back upstairs to check on Osiris, he’s grateful that this diversion has tired him out, if nothing else.
“Garlic has no medicinal properties in this form,” Geppetto tells him as Saint drapes the garlic carefully around Osiris’ neck. “I believe Glint is thinking about vampires again.”
Saint hums. “Is this going to make Osiris a vampire or stop him from becoming a vampire?”
“Extremely unclear.”
Deciding that vampirism wouldn’t be the worst outcome at this point, Saint does not remove the garlic.
“Are there any others?” he says around a yawn.
“Yes. Number forty-five: hu—“ Geppetto blinks. “Human sacrifice?”
Saint’s processors stutter. “Human sacrifice.”
“Apparently Brother Crow volunteers.”
He scrubs a hand across his face. “Okay. Please tell Glint and Crow that we are grateful for their help but that we have not yet reached the threshold for considering human sacrifices.”
Geppetto’s eye gleams. “I will tell them to check back next week.”
The cot squeaks as Saint sinks down. “Oh, you are funny now?” Another yawn. “Thank you for your help, Geppetto.”
She nods, floating over to brush gently against his forehead. “He will wake up soon, Brother Saint.”
From her, it sounds like a prayer.
———
Much to his surprise, Saint’s rest is peaceful.
He doesn’t know whether to credit something from Glint’s list or just his own exhaustion, but for once, no phantoms crowd him as he sleeps at Osiris’ bedside. He dreams briefly of Osiris’ face, looming down in the ghostly glow of the moonlight, but Savathun doesn’t stare back at him this time and even the squeaks of the cot beneath him don’t disturb his slumber.
As such, when he finds Osiris tucked up at his side, he knows he’s still dreaming.
His body is warm against him, devoid of the eerie chill that’s lingered since his return, and Saint lets himself sink deeper into the fantasy as he pulls Osiris in close. His head rests beneath Saint’s chin, the movement as easy as a handshake, and Saint closes his eyes when he feels the familiar scratch of Osiris’ beard along his collarbone. “I missed you.”
He feels Osiris’ chest expand with each breath, feels the rumble of his voice when he speaks, hoarse and exhausted, “Likewise. Although that may be an understatement.”
The response is so far from Savathun’s silky lies that Saint almost can’t take it. He keeps his eyes closed, too afraid of doing anything to fracture the first good dream he’s had in months, but he can’t resist pulling Osiris into a tighter embrace all the same.
Osiris groans a little at the pressure, shifting on the cramped cot, and Saint pauses when he feels a ring of strange bumps pressing against his chest. “What—“
He fears Osiris will vanish as soon as he looks down to check but the curiosity (and the faint, terrible flutter of hope) is too much to ignore. He blinks, dumbfounded at the sight of the garlic wreath now wedged between their bodies, and when he tightens his grip on Osiris’ shoulder, he half-expects his hand to pass right through him.
Osiris makes a disgruntled noise, as though complaining that Saint is disturbing his nap, but when he buries his face against Saint’s neck with a contented sigh, Saint can’t stop the sob that escapes him.
“Osiris?”
Osiris goes still. “Ah.”
They’re close enough that Saint knows Osiris must be able to feel the pounding thrum in his chassis. “You’re awake?”
“I’m awake.” He stifles a yawn. “Mostly.”
The combination of tearful relief and stunned outrage is an emotion only Osiris has ever managed to inspire. “And you didn’t wake me?” The cot sways below him as he shifts to get a better look at Osiris’ face. “You, what, just shuffled down here to go back to sleep?”
“We did talk about this last night,” Osiris says. It would be defensive if he weren’t failing to hide his amusement. “You said something about Savathun and the alphabet so I thought it best to let you sleep.”
Vaguely, Saint remembers the moonlit face above him saying words, but after months of waiting for Osiris to be awake, he can’t bring himself to get into an argument this soon. (However, if he happens to hug him a little tighter in retribution, that’s his own business.) “You are infuriating.”
He feels the curve of Osiris’ smile against his throat. “Consider it making up for lost time.”
The relieved outrage dissolves into sheer joy. Even this much contact is not enough, not after so much fear and uncertainty, and the bed rocks when Saint rolls them over to claim Osiris’ lips in a deep kiss.
The ghost of Savathun burns away under the touch but it’s only when Osiris’ hand comes up to cup his cheek that Saint recognises just how weak he still is. Faint tremors run through him, even as he returns the kiss with enthusiasm that outmatches Saint’s own, and when Saint pulls back, it’s to notice the bruise-dark circles under his eyes.
“You must rest,” Saint says, kissing him carefully on the cheek.
“I believe I was trying to do just that,” Osiris says, and if the techeuns hadn’t already reassured him this was really Osiris, Saint would know it from his tone. “Until I got accosted by a handsome titan in a truly terrible bed.”
Saint kisses him again, and then twice more. “I am sorry to disturb you.”
Despite the frailty of his form, the light in Osiris’ eyes remains undimmed as he nods to the still-wobbling cot. “I can only assume our spare room and its comfortable bed were consumed in a very localised fire?”
Embarrassment slinks through Saint’s wires. “I did not wish to be away from you. And the cot is not so bad; Suraya did a good—“
As though launching a rebellion upon hearing the name of its creator, the cot chooses that precise moment to implode. The lower right leg gives out first, sending the two of them lurching to the side before the other three follow suit. The metal frame clatters to the floor and Saint barely manages to roll them both out of the way before a support clasp springs free and ricochets off the lobster candle-holder on the shelf.
When the dust settles, Saint finds Osiris looking up at him with an infuriating little smile. “You were saying?”
Saint hefts him into the air with a growl. Osiris laughs, clinging on for support, but Saint makes sure to deposit him gently on the actual bed before climbing under the sheets beside him.
After weeks on the cot, the mattress is softer than he ever thought possible and Saint groans in satisfaction as he plucks the garlic from around Osiris’ neck and curls up beside him. “I take it back. The cot is very bad.”
It’s a testament to how weak Osiris still is that he doesn’t push his victory any further. His eyes drift shut, even as he tucks himself closer against Saint, and Saint feels the terror of uncertainty begin to finally fade. Between Sagira and Savathun, they have so much to talk about, but that, and everything else, can wait until Osiris is stronger.
Almost everything else.
“I love you,” Saint whispers, pressing a kiss to Osiris’ forehead. “I know we are not good at talking about—“
“I love you too.”
It’s said around a yawn, which somehow makes Saint even fonder, and he dips in for another desperate kiss before his self-control kicks back into gear. Osiris looks exhausted, even with the happy flush painting his cheeks, and Saint tugs the covers up over both of them as he prepares to go back to sleep.
Curiosity nags at him one last time before he does so.
“I need to ask,” he says. “What made you wake up?”
Osiris smiles but doesn’t open his eyes. “Do you want the real answer or the Saint answer?”
Saint huffs. “The real answer! I am not a child who needs coddling.”
“The passage of time and the healing effects thereof,” Osiris says flatly.
Saint deflates a little. “Oh.”
Osiris burrows closer. “One could hypothesise that the kiss helped,” he says, and even though Saint can hear his smirk, he still brightens. “Although that theory would require further testing. Very—“ Another yawn. “—thorough testing.”
“I did not say it had to be the kiss,” Saint says as his own eyes fall shut. “It could have been the garlic.”
“It could.”
Saint cracks one eye open. “Are you a vampire?”
Osiris’ blunt, non-vampire teeth chomp down on Saint’s shoulder. “Yes.”
“Good.” It’s embarrassing how easily his smile comes as he holds Osiris close, safe and alive and himself. “I know a ghost who will be very pleased.”