Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Table of Contents

Day 1 - Mission Log - Shiro returns to the Iron Temple after a patrol of the Cosmodrome to find someone waiting for him.

Day 2 - Weight of Darkness - Saint considers his and Osiris's chosen paths. 

Day 3 - Trust - Zavala considers Stasis, and what it means to wield it.

Day 4 - Sleeping In - Zavala wakes to the sound of screaming.

Day 5 - Memento Mori - Zavala and Shaxx consider the inevitability of death. 

Day 6 - Tithing Pains - Drifter takes care of Eris after a difficult transformation. (Pt. 1)

Day 7 - Home - Drifter takes care of Eris after a difficult transformation. (Pt. 2)

Day 8 - Roots - Saint and Osiris take Crow on a surprise outing.

Day 9 - Holiday - Crow, Saint, and Osiris explore a Dawning Market.

Day 10 - Web of Lies - Crow tracks down a Scorn target in the Dreaming City.

Day 11 - Witness Me - Crow and Jolyon talk about their past.

Day 12 - The Perfect Gift - Marcus and Enoch enjoy the city's reconstruction efforts after the Red War.

Day 13 - Under Pressure - Crow seeks help navigating old and new stressors. (Pt. 1)

Day 14 - Drown - Crow seeks help navigating old and new stressors. (Pt. 2)

Day 15 - Cause and Effect - Crow seeks help navigating old and new stressors. (Pt. 3)

Day 16 - Armor - Hakim asks about Zavala's armor.

Day 17 - Moth to a Flame - Fynch is drawn to his new Guardian like a moth to a flame.

Day 18 - Vanguard Strike - Marcus Ren receives a message.

Day 19- The Second Law - Marcus Ren employs the second law of thermodynamics.

Day 20 - Hope for the Future - Marcus Ren ponders Cayde's message.

Day 21 - Commander - Zavala navigates the trials that come with exploring Stasis.

Day 22 - Salvation - Zavala and Ikora consider a Guardian's burden.

Day 23 - Desecration - Jolyon confronts Petra after speaking with Crow.

Day 24 - Trip - Crow, Saint, and Osiris discuss Crow's decision.

Day 25 - Rebirth - Mara and Osiris discuss Crow and the battles to come.

Day 26 - Crimson - Osiris finds Saint with a Crimson gift for the missing member of their flock.

Day 27 - Mend - Osiris's hands are dry and cracked. Saint takes care of him.

Day 28 - Stitches - Hawthorne is injured while she and Zavala patrol a lost sector. Zavala stitches her up.

Day 29 - Old Wounds - Zavala takes an injured Hawthorne back to his ship and confesses some of his own truths.

Day 30 - Read the Room - Zavala is still getting used to Shaxx and Saladin not fighting anymore.

Day 31 - World's First - Marcus Ren receives some fancy new tech.

Chapter Text

Shiro lets out a sigh that seems to come from his very bones, cold air whirring through his chassis as he climbs the temple steps. His whole body feels like it's caked in snow and ice, frozen after the long day spent outside. He feels stiff from the cold. His joints ache, his back is tense, his whole body exhausted with the drain put on his systems as he fights to keep his body warm in this cold. He stomps the snow off his boots on the steps, kicking the sides of his feet against the stone to dislodge all the snow he picked up while he was on patrol. Even without it, he feels weighed down. 

He crosses the open space at the top of the steps, shouldering his way through the heavy doors and into the central hall of the temple. The great fire keeps the space warm, and Shiro lets out another sigh—this time of relief—as he makes his way towards it. Even with only Shiro and the wolves living in the temple, Shiro keeps the fire lit for Saladin’s sake, as well as his own. He sustains it with kernels of his solar Light, resting among the firewood heaped inside. He can still feel the vestiges of Saladin’s power within the flames. Even gone from the temple, his power will linger within the flames so long as they still breathe, living alongside Shiro’s Light like some piece of him is still here. In many ways, Shiro supposes he still is, in the history of the Iron Lords marked in the temple, the statues, the blades, even the scrapes in stone. Shiro holds his hands over the great fire, letting Saladin’s lingering power drive the heat from his extremities. 

He’s pulled out of his thoughts by the click of nails on stone. One of the wolves, Finnala, emerges from the corridor that leads further into the temple. He kneels down when she crosses the room, towards him, smiling when she licks his face, her tail wagging, clearly pleased to see him. Still, there’s something restrained in her excitement. When Saladin left, the wolves became more attached to Shiro. They follow him more when he leaves, sometimes descending down the mountain with him, following him along his patrol route. When he returns, they whine and cry, even howling sometimes. They descend on him in a fury of tails and slobbery tongues, practically climbing on top of him, but now, Finnala is the only one to greet him, and instead of climbing on top of him, or shoving her head into his legs in a demand for more attention, she just follows at his side when he rises. 

He turns away from the living quarters, heading down the corridor opposite the one Finnala emerged from. The hallway leads to old studies and work spaces, rooms where the Iron Lords used to store armor and weapons, areas for sparring when the weather is too cold outside to emerge from the stone fortress. 

He follows the corridor to the workspace he made for himself, a large room filled with Vanguard gear. The technology looks at odds with the stone temple, so Shiro made sure the area was tucked away in a corner of the temple. Holoprojectors, data screens, and even a holographic war table depicting the cosmodrome sit on the smooth stone floor, hooked up to a generator in the corner. Finnala follows him inside, then drops herself onto the largest dog bed the Last City had to offer, set beside a desk off to one side of the large room. Shiro can’t help his smile at how she still manages to make the bed look small. 

He wanders over to the war table, pulling a small data slate from his pocket as he goes. He sets it onto the surface of the table, watching as both devices light up and all the data Shiro had collected during his patrol transfers onto the holographic table. He taps the slate, navigating to his logs and pressing the button to record. 

“Mission log…” he sighs, adjusting the holograms on the table until he can draw up the right dataset. “Two hundred and fifty-seven. House Salvation and House of Dusk Eliksni are fighting for control of the cosmodrome. House of Devils holdouts are still holding the Plaguelands but their Splicer numbers are dwindling by the day. Some conflict near the Doomed Sea, House Salvation won a skirmish but I’m not about to count the Devils out of the fight just yet.”

He runs his fingers over the edge of the war table. The holograms on the surface confirm his words, little dots detailing the forces moving against one another in the data Shiro had brought back, with the Devil splicer numbers dropping at the Doomed Sea. He shifts his gaze to the rest of the map.

“Overall, numbers are staying pretty constant. House of Dusk and House of Salvation are bringing reinforcements in from elsewhere and even falling to ruin the House of Devils is still getting turncoats onto their side. The title of ‘Splicer’ still holds a lot of weight for these guys.”

His face falls, his whole being sobering as he remembers the bodies Shaw had picked up near his camp, the ones Shiro had sent back to the City, back to their own Splicer. 

“All efforts to convert the Eliksni of the Cosmodrome to the House of Light have failed. Two casualties. I recommend we halt conversion efforts until we can utilize methods that will truly protect our allies.”

His metal lips pinch into a frown and he stares down at the war table, stuck in a loop of replaying data, Eliksni forces marching against one another in an endless cycle. 

“Shiro out.” 

He presses the data slate to stop the recording, and as he stares down at the war table below him, a familiar ache squeezes his chest so tight he feels like he can’t quite breathe. His eyes meet Finnala’s from across the room and he pushes himself off the war table.

“How about dinner, huh girl?”

The wolf jumps to her feet, eagerly following Shiro out of the study and back towards the living quarters. 

“Where is everyone, anyways?” He asks her, not that he expects a response. “Did you kids go hunting today?” There’s no blood on her muzzle, which is usually a sign of a hunt, and the winter makes things harder for the wolves given the lack of game running out and about, but Shiro can’t think of another reason why the wolves wouldn’t come to greet him when he arrived back at the temple. “You’d better not have brought any rabbits inside again.” 

After Saladin had left to join Caiatl's ranks, Shiro had built a set of wolf-sized doggy doors into the temple, meant to allow the wolves to move in and out of the temple as they pleased without needing Shiro or Saladin around to open any doors for them. Normally, they’d open the temple doors for the wolves in the mornings and let them back in if they wished to return at night, or during particularly harsh weather, but after Shiro’s schedule had proved too chaotic to stick to the routine, he’d decided he wanted a way to let the wolves in and out on their own. The wolf doors are in the furthest corner of the temple to isolate the cold, and they have to slip first though a weighted flap into what used to be an unused bedroom, then take a ram up to another flap that leads out of a basement window and outside, into the main courtyard. It’s not the most elegant system, but it works. Unfortunately, it also means the wolves can return with whatever they please. Shiro hasn’t quite taught them to leave their carcasses outside. 

Finnala just trots at his side, her gaze perfectly innocent as they make their way into the quarters. 

They round a corner and Shiro can make out what looks to be the whole pack, spread out on a thick fur in one of the temple common rooms, laying around an old couch. Half of them are asleep, the other half chewing on old bones or antlers, some contesting over their prizes, but Shiro can’t tell if they’re old or new. He hurries forward, looking around for the carcass he suspects will be on the floor, just out of sight.

“You know you’re not supposed to–”

He breaks off as soon as he rounds the couch. There’s no carcass, but instead he spots a familiar Iron Lord, a thick blanket thrown over him, with one of the year old wolves draped over him like they aren’t aware of their size. 

Shiro watches as Saladin’s face shifts, his eyes opening with the sluggishness he only allows himself in a place he really trusts, and he waits until Saladin’s eyes focus on his, a soft smile on his lips.

“You’re back.” Saladin observes. Shiro feels himself smile.

“So are you.”

Saladin nudges the wolf off his lap, and when he pulls Shiro down and presses a kiss to his lips, all the cold that had clung to Shiro, the tightness in his chest and the ache in every limb suddenly eases. He leans into Saladin, and at least for a moment, everything is alright. 

Chapter Text

“You seem…lighter.” Saint observes, his eyes on Osiris.

He’s sitting in Osiris’s study, watching from the couch in the little sitting area while Osiris occupies the open space, pulling at Strand with his fingers like he were testing the strings of some giant loom, or plucking the cords on a harp. When Saint watches Osiris manipulate the Stand, he wonders if his fingers are acting like the hammers in a piano, colliding with the cords that make up the universe, the echo of every point of contact reverberating through the confines of existence itself.

“Do I?” A rope of Strand winds up Osiris’s arm, running across his hand and reaching out to the other strings in front of it. Osiris twines the rope into one of the cords of his great harp, pulling it back and watching as the other cords around it react to its movement. Saint can recognize from his tone that he is speaking the way he does when he wishes to sound unaffected, but in reality, he is listening intently to Saint’s words.

“Yes.” Saint answers. He considers his partner. He’s standing in the sunlight that streams through the study windows. The sun is headed west, towards the horizon, but Osiris will enjoy its light for as long as it will reach him before it dips below the city buildings. 

He works with a sense of relaxed attention, intent on his work, but calm. Saint thinks of the desperation with which he worked during the first few months after he awoke. Such emotion is no longer visible in his countenance. His skin has regained the life it had lost while in captivity. He no longer looks waxen, frail and mottled with bruises and scrapes he gained after he fell from Savathûn’s crystal prison. Saint considers his partner’s frame.

“Emotionally, I mean.” Saint clarifies. He does not look lighter physically, but if he did, it would cause Saint more distress than relief. Osiris glances at Saint for only a moment, his gaze quickly returning to his work. 

His bones no longer press so intently against his skin. He is dressed in Warlock robes, but Saint knows his hips no longer look so angular. He can no longer find the sharp points of him just by looking. They are not hard to find with his hands, but Saint does his best not to concern himself with that fact. Osiris has asked him not to fret over him quite so much, and given that Osiris is healthy—healthier than Saint has seen him in years—he agreed. 

“Your being is lighter.” Saint continues, because that is how it appears to him, like going to Neptune and understanding what lay there unburdened Osiris like someone had lifted weights off his shoulders. It looks as if before, he was trying to wade through thick mud, and now he’s found himself on dry land, so free, so suddenly released it feels like a marvel to even move. He can see the way Osiris treasures his life now, now that he’s learned how to hold his grief in his hands. How to pass some of the weight to Saint, to let the pair of them hold the burden together.

 “You seem less troubled. Your expressions,” Saint rises from the couch, approaching Osiris’s side. He reaches a hand out, cradling Osiris’s cheek in a hand and gently guiding his face towards Saint’s own. He shifts his hand up, until he can brush his thumb between Osiris’s brows. “There is no longer a crease, right here.”

Osiris smiles, his eyes falling shut, leaning his cheek into Saint’s palm.

“There are creases elsewhere.” His words startle Saint, enough to make him bark out a laugh, and he shifts wrapping an arm around his love. 

“Perhaps.” He allows, a smile lighting his own face. He lifts his hand from Osiris’s head, turning his hand to brush his knuckle to the wrinkle beside Osiris’ mouth. Osiris shifts his head just enough to kiss Saint’s hand. “I only meant, you do not frown so much anymore.”

“Yes.” Osiris meets Saint’s gaze, his attention rapt, communicating to Saint with far more than just his words. “There are many reasons not to frown.”

They stand close together, touching, but leaned far enough back to see each other’s eyes. Saint’s arm is still wrapped around Osiris’s waist. Osiris’s hand rests on his arm, naturally. 

“There are many reasons to frown.” Saint begins cautiously. “There are many reasons to worry, to fear for the future.”

“Yes.” Osiris nods. 

In some ways, things feel harder now. Instead of standing on the frontlines of conflicts, as they did in their youth, Saint and Osiris now advise, watch from afar while others fight the battles they wish they could. There are exceptions, of course. Osiris’s time on Neptune, Saint’s occasional missions, his trip into Savathûn’s Throne World to acquaint her with death, vengeance for his own sake. Still, they were not the ones to kill the Witch Queen the first time. They do not have the authority to take the Witch Queen’s Ghost into their hands and shatter the life within, even though they both have the right after what she’s put them through. 

They were not on the battlefield to kill Calus. They will not be the ones to destroy the Witness, nor its underlings. There are so many battles that will be fought by others.

The consequences of this are multifold. The lack of control grates on Saint, something he knows weighs even heavier on Osiris because Saint still possesses his Light and Ghost, he is choosing not to fight when he stays back from the battles. This is a choice Osiris is not granted, at least, not in the same way. But more than that, Saint feels guilt. He is able to live in comfort, to spend his days in Osiris’s library, in their home or at the Tower. The conflicts throughout the system, while intricately linked to them, to the Tower, to everyone within it, feel so far away. Saint and Osiris are safe, protected from harm by those who lay their lives on the line. Saint knows the horrors that come with being a Guardian, the trauma of facing death the way they are required to. To subject others to that pain plunges Saint into a guilt so deep and dark he worries he might drown in it. 

But has he not worked for this? Is it his destiny to fight without end until he meets his own? Has he not done that already? Perhaps it is time to pass the torch, and more than that, to learn from the time he spent fighting, to understand the wax and wane of the universe around him so that he might become the leader those following in his footsteps require. Did those around him not have mentors who did the same for them? Zavala learned from Lord Saladin, and now he is leading the Guardians that came after him, guiding them through their battle. Osiris mentored Ikora, and now she is doing the same for her own students. They are still fighting, in their way.

“Saint.” Osiris murmurs, pulling his attention back with a gentle hand, guiding Saint’s chin back down to look at him. “It’s worth it. At times, it can feel hard to justify, but I know it is. We could lose all of it, the City, the Traveler, the Light, humanity,” he shakes his head. “As long as I have you, I can keep going. I can keep fighting.”

Saint drops his head, pulling Osiris closer until he can lean his forehead into Osiris’s. This is the phoenix Saint knows, stubborn beyond all measure. Some would call him obsessive, but Saint knows it's a fire that burns under his skin, and once lit, it will illuminate even the deepest darkness. Savathûn tried to starve that flame, to pull the oxygen from around it. Saint watched it gutter. He watched Osiris latch onto the investigation of Neptune like it was kindling, soaked through with water. He nearly fell to that uncertainty, Saint knows, but he didn’t. He can see Osiris in all his blazing glory—recently quite literally, after he caught his cloak on fire experimenting with Solar Light—alive again, despite everything.

He turns his head, pressing a kiss to Osiris’s cheek.

“I love you.” He murmurs. Osiris kisses him back, and Saint relishes in the words pressed into his skin. 

Chapter Text

Stasis is just a matter of perspective. Zavala reminds himself. Standing in the open courtyard at the edge of the Vostok Observatory, Zavala can’t help but find it humorous how many things around him feel at odds. Certainly this has given him some new perspective already, hasn’t it?

The observatory is a place of familiarity. He’s studied here, fought here, lived here while he trained under Saladin. In its forges, he learned to craft blades, weapons he fought with on this very ground. The grass buried beneath the layer of snow under his feet was rooted in the blood of many, his own included. In the harsh stone, the ancient statues and the long burning fires, Zavala sees a place of comfort, so at odds with the unease twisting his gut. 

He can’t tell if it’s the Stasis or the winter chill that makes him cold. He’s dressed for it, he spent enough time here to know how to prepare for the weather. He wears his armor, but beneath it his usual undersuit has been swapped for one that is insulated, fabrics specifically chosen to keep out the cold while also allowing him freedom of movement. Built in heated webbing in his gloves keep his fingers warm, his hands remaining quick and operational despite the bitter cold. His Titan mark is already turning stiff, the fabric freezing in the cold. The only thing he would have chosen differently is the hat and thick neck gaiter in place of his helmet. Eris told him she wanted to see his eyes.

Given how tumultuous his relationship to Stasis is—to the Darkness, to the Witness, to any power that feels linked to their influence—he knows he should be attempting Stasis with someone he trusts, someone he knows he will be comfortable with seeing his vulnerability. In that sense, the observatory, and the Iron Temple by extension, seems rational. Saladin no longer resides here, but Zavala learned here. In many ways, he grew up here. He grew up in the mountains all around here, scattered across Warlord forts and Iron temples, whatever bases they commandeered or conscripted, but the Iron Temple stands at the center of it all within his memory, Saladin’s home for so long. 

What isn’t rational is his company. He trusts Eris Morn, but what feels like just a few years ago he’d wanted her ousted from the Tower. He’d feared she’d lost what it meant to be a Guardian, he couldn’t see beyond the green glow of her Acolyte’s eyes. He couldn’t recognize the Guardian beneath. Now, he’s done his best to see her for who she truly is, but does that mean he’s comfortable with her seeing him vulnerable? Seeing him unsure like this? His Light twisting within his gut, writhing with uncertainty as he contemplates what this all means. What does Stasis mean? What does it mean that he, the Commander of the Vanguard, of all the organized Guardians of the Last City, is seeking it out?

If he wanted to do this with someone he really trusted, it doesn’t make any rational sense that the Drifter watches him, standing on the steps nearby, his arms crossed over his chest, his eyes hard, calculating. 

“Zavala.” Eris pulls his attention back, and his eyes jump from the Drifter’s like he is a child, being chastised for daydreaming in the classroom. Still, Eris’s voice is soft, her manner relaxed, receiving, open, warm, kind. He has learned all of that about Eris, after overcoming his mistrust. Her motivation is vengeance, it is something that is owed to her, but she doesn’t conduct herself in relation to it unless the time is right. Instead, she has learned to grieve, to ache, to understand and to overcome, to accept and move beyond, to love. Zavala’s eyes consider Drifter again, briefly.

“Apologies.” He responds, shaking his head. “I was just thinking.” 

“What of?” She is so patient. Zavala has tried to learn patience. In many ways he believes he has. He can teach, he can mentor, he can guide, all of these require patience, but how long has it been since he’s been on the receiving end?

“Stasis.” He gestures to the ice crystals that Eris formed in the snow in front of her. She has started off so small, like she’s worried she might spook him with anything too large, too sudden, like a flighty horse. Zavala’s not sure the assumption is wrong. “Osiris believes it requires self-control. Elsie believes it is more about a shift in perspective, time dilation through manipulation.” 

“And what do you think?” Eris folds her hands in front of her. Zavala cannot read her eyes the way he would human eyes. He can see almost nothing of her face when she draws her neck covering up over her mouth and nose to block out the cold, but through her veil her eyes are on him. He can see the attentiveness in her gaze, the focus of her being. 

“I don’t know.” Zavala confesses. “Osiris’s views make Stasis out to be entirely about power, a struggle for dominance over opposing forces, one through control of the self and others. This…” he lets out his breath, watching it cloud in front of him. “Has always unsettled me. But Elsie explained it as a shift in perspective. When she freezes an object, she manipulates the speed at which it’s moving. It changes gravity, the perception of time around the object. Rather than taking control, Elsie sees Stasis as a manipulation of perspective, used to cause time dilation. I prefer that view, it…”

Zavala purses his lips, unable to continue for a long moment. 

“It feels less daunting.” He says at last.

He and Ikora took a firm stance on Stasis when the power arose. They practically forbade it. They asked Guardians to stop using it, to not use it in the first place. There was a necessity to the Young Wolf’s actions, that much is for certain, but he and Ikora still stood against it. They claimed it was dangerous, that it could be corrupting. Now, coming back to Stasis after so long, Zavala can’t help but look back on his previous views and see them shadowed by fear. That fear still remains, lodged in his gut where his Light writhes, worried he is making a grave mistake. 

Ikora knows he’s here, knows what he wants to do, what he wants to attempt here. Why did she agree? Why did she consent when he asked for her approval? For her permission? Why did he seek this out in the first place? Or is that fear, too?

“There is validity to both stances.” Eris tells him. “But if you wish to view Stasis as a change in perspective, you must also recognize that there is power in perspective. There is still control in being the one to decide through which lens reality is viewed. The power of Stasis is making your perspective the only perspective through which one can see, the only frame of reference one can live within.”

Her words sink into his gut like stones, but after a moment, the weight feels centering, grounding. Zavala is not unfamiliar with power. If he had unaddressed qualms about wielding it, he would not be where he is now, the Commander of the Vanguard. He would not have lasted long enough to meet Saladin, to train under him, to help build the City. He would not have lasted long enough to come to lead it. He has spent his entire life considering the ethics of power, so in many ways, perhaps Stasis isn’t new at all.

“I understand.” Zavala agrees with a nod. “I’m ready to begin.”

Chapter Text

Zavala is awoken by a loud wail. He rolls over, peeling open his exhausted eyes. He’s so tired it almost hurts to open his eyes. It’s a testament to his exhaustion that he remains sluggish, disoriented and slow as he rubs his eyes and pushes himself upright. He’s so drained, adrenaline can’t even rush into his body, even while the wails escalate to near screaming cries. 

Zavala’s breath clouds in the cold room. Beside him, Safiyah groans, still mostly asleep. He watches her through half-lidded eyes as she burrows further into the blankets, mumbling words he can’t make out. The screaming continues, and Zavala’s head swivels drowsily towards the culprit.

Hakim, swaddled in blankets and furs and laying in his bassinet beside the bed. He and Safiyah take turns every night, sleeping beside it and being the one to wake when he does. He’s screaming like he wants to wake the dead. Even in his exhaustion, Zavala knows he’d take all the horrors of resurrection to wake for this little boy. He climbs to his feet, lifting Hakim from the bassinet. 

He pushes away the furs and cloth around the baby so that he can lay Hakim’s head against his bare chest. The contact soothes him, as do Zavala’s murmured words as he rounds the bed, making his way to the fireplace. He has no idea what time it is, only that the wood has burned through. Hakim must have slept longer than usual. On these cold winter nights, they’ve taken to restocking the fireplace every time Hakim wakes, a task they would normally complete every two to three hours. 

He crouches down before the fireplace. There are still embers, glowing coals on the hearth, so it is not beyond salvation. Hakim quiets a little further as they near the heat, his cries weakening slightly. Even swaddled, he seems to press himself into Zavala’s warmth, desperate to be close to him. Zavala considers the bassinet, on the far side of the bed. Perhaps the boy had woken because he was cold. He has slept in colder, but not for long periods of time. 

He shifts Hakim, holding the boy against him with one arm while he uses the other to lift a few split logs from the pile beside the fireplace, layering them atop the coals, careful to keep open space for airflow. He pivots his body so that he is between Hakim and the fireplace before he blows onto the coals. His breath is steady and sustained, not too harsh. He watches the embers brighten, keeping Hakim clear of the ash his breath lifts. After a few breaths, the logs catch, and Zavala sits back on his feet. 

“There.” He murmurs, shifting Hakim back in front of him. “We’ll be warm in no time, I promise.” 

Zavala settles on the floor before the fireplace, folding his legs and moving close to the warmth of the flames. He lays Hakim carefully on his lap, extracting him from his blankets. He still cries, but not nearly with the force he’d woken Zavala with. Instead, his hand curls around Zavala’s offered finger and he brings it to his mouth while Zavala works with his other hand, stripping away the fabric swaddling him. He wails when Zavala draws away, but he melts into his touch when Zavala lifts him to lay him mostly bare against Zavala’s chest, covering his back with a thick fur. He’s so small, his whole back fits in Zavala’s palm. 

Safiyah suspects he was born premature. From what Zavala has been told, the signs are present, though it’s hard to be certain. Hakim is small, but that could be a result of malnourishment. He relishes skin to skin contact, but such contact is important for all babies development, not just ones who were born early, and there’s no telling whether the trauma of losing his birth parents has halted his development in some way. It’s a testament to his birth parent’s abilities that they were able to keep him alive, even more so if he were born premature. Even after he and Safiyah agreed to take him, to become a family, they could not travel for weeks while Hakim suckled at Safiyah’s dry breast, waiting for it to produce milk. The new mothers of the compound had taken up feeding Hakim after they’d found him, and Safiyah had whispered her doubts to Zavala at night while they lay in their bed, worried that the process wouldn’t take, and that such stories, of women producing milk for babies when they had not given birth, were only old wives tales, mythical fictions. 

Zavala can feel tears on his skin, snot from Hakim’s tiny nose. He ducks his head, pressing a soft kiss to the top of Hakim’s head.

“It’s alright.” He murmurs. “You’re safe, I’m right here.”

Safiyah has told him he’s incredibly patient. It’s not a quality he expected of himself, but perhaps he learned it on the battlefield without realizing it. Patience is often necessary to wait out one’s opponents, to strike at the right moment, and to wait for that moment to come. He can see it himself when she reaches her limit with Hakim before he even shows discomfort, though Zavala does not believe she gives herself enough credit. He is not the one who’s body is quite literally sustaining their child. 

He lifts his head at the rustle of bedclothes behind him. Hakim has not yet stopped crying, despite Zavala’s murmurs. The gentle touch of his hands or the soft kisses to Hakim’s head have not calmed him. He no longer wails, but it’s clear he’s still unsettled. Zavala tilts his head back to look at Safiyah as she lays a thick fur over his shoulders.

“He’s probably hungry.” She murmurs, resting a hand on Zavala’s shoulder. “I can take him.” 

There’s still exhaustion in her eyes, and Zavala can see the stress lurking below, frustration built from the taxing experience of attempting to raise a child in the Dark Ages. They were lucky enough to be able to stay in a house recently vacated in the village where Safiyah’s sister lives. Zavala helps with the village defenses and with the manual labor required by the villagers. Safiyah doctors and she knits when her patients don’t need her. They have help watching Hakim and help putting food on the table. Still, it’s not as though their lives are easy. Once winter breaks, they’ll find a place of their own, but for now, Zavala is content, even when they struggle.

“Sit with me.” He tells her instead, reaching a hand up to her. After a moment of arrangements, Safiyah holds Hakim and Zavala draws her into his lap, her back against his chest, Hakim resting against her chest. Zavala wraps the fur around the three of them and he presses a kiss to Safiyah’s shoulder as she holds Hakim, and his cries end swiftly as he nurses.

The first time Safiyah had nursed Hakim, she’d cried. She’d been doing the same thing for weeks, the same contact and the same position, but it was something entirely new to know that this was no longer a struggle, a pleading prayer for Safiyah’s body to be capable of sustaining Hakim, but something real. It felt like a miracle.

They had sat on their bed, nearly in the same position they sit in now. Safiyah leaned back into Zavala’s chest, Hakim held against her. She couldn’t yet feed Hakim on her own but she could feed him, sustain him, nurture him. She’d pressed her face into Zavala's cheek, smiling through her tears and they’d kissed, joyful, even laughing in shock and delight. It meant that they could do this, go off on their own, be a family, it meant everything.

Now, Safiyah is tired. Zavala can feel it in her weight on him, the way she tilts her head, pressing her forehead to his temple, her eyes closed. His arms wrap around her, taking Hakim’s weight into his own arms. He draws his Light out from where it slumbers within him, pulling it to the surface of his skin, coaxing it to warm and replenish. He wraps it around her like the fur draped over their shoulders and Safiyah sighs into the contact.

“I love you.” He whispers. He presses a kiss to her forehead. Safiyah presses her body into his and Zavala knows he’d spend a thousand lifetimes holding her if he could. 

Chapter Text

Zavala jerks as Shaxx’s sword clashes hard against his, the clang of metal reverberating through his fist and down his arm as it sings through the room. Not one to pull punches, Shaxx follows the strike immediately, forcing Zavala to shift his sword just in time to meet Shaxx’s blade before he can slice Zavala open. He manages a nick on Zavala’s side instead and Zavala stumbles backward. He catches a blow, aimed down towards his shoulder, then another aiming for his side. He can feel sweat streaking down his body, and blood from the cut on his side. His breath gasps in and out of his lungs. 

“Stop.” He gasps out, even as he lifts his sword to receive another strike.

Shaxx halts immediately. 

“Are you alright?” He lowers his blade. Zavala is one of few granted the rare privilege of seeing Shaxx’s face, and without his helmet he can watch Shaxx’s gaze drift over him, sizing him up. He eyes Zavala’s wound.

“I’m fine.” Zavala promises. He picks up a cloth from nearby, one he’d intended to use as a sweat rag, and wipes it over the wound, clearing away the blood to see the damage beneath. “It’s alright.” He tells Targe, shaking his head when his Ghost moves to heal him.

“Here.” Shaxx takes his sword from his hand, carrying his and Zavala’s blades to a rack off to the side of the practice space, at the rear of Shaxx’s workshop. Zavala presses the cloth to his cut, looking up when Shaxx returns with two glasses of water, offering one to Zavala.

“Thank you.” He takes it, pulling a deep gulp from the glass. He holds the rag to his side, drinking in the feel of the pain in his body. He and Shaxx train regularly, but it had been his choice to train with swords, something they rarely do. He wanted something that would feel taxing, and worthwhile. Considering his wound, perhaps it wasn’t such a good choice.

“What’s troubling you?” Shaxx asks, his eyes shifting over him again. “I noticed that you seemed distracted.”

“Honestly?” Zavala shakes his head. “I’m not certain.” 

He’d been distracted the whole fight. Shaxx had begun slowly, perhaps hoping to catch Zavala’s attention and draw him in after a minute or two of sparring, but when he had not, he’d taken a different tactic, resuming his usual effort and swinging at Zavala full force. Even that hadn’t focused him. If he’d been in the moment, he wouldn’t have been so unprepared for Shaxx’s blows. They’ve been sparring partners for what feels like the past century, after all.

“Perhaps the resurrection of the Ahamkara?” Shaxx offers, a telling note of frustration in his tone. Zavala smiles weakly.

“Yes.” Zavala admits with a nod. “That is a top contender.” 

He takes another drink from the water glass, watching as Shaxx sighs heavily. Zavala isn’t certain how to feel about the Ahamkara. Everyone he knows that had been around during the days of the Great Hunt seems to feel similarly to each other, frustrated by this new turn of events. He knows most of them feel their original actions were justified, having experienced too much to not recognize the danger Ahamkara present. Zavala feels similarly, but at the same time, the mass extermination of a species because they were labeled ‘dangerous’ is too authoritarian for Zavala’s comfort. 

The commander in Zavala, however, is terrified. Guardians are already being tricked by Riven, even the lingering bones of dead Ahamkara hold influence over them. If the whole host of Riven’s eggs are to survive, Zavala can’t imagine the danger they possess.

“It feels like,” Zavala begins, lifting his head. “No matter what we do, there is always something that is likely to kill us. Our deaths seem inevitable.”

Shaxx nods, tired, resigned. “We were brought back to fight a battle that will never end.”

“Or it will end with our deaths.” Zavala says, and Shaxx sighs again, shaking his head weakly.

“We shouldn’t think that way. We can defeat the Witness, I know you believe that.”

“Do you?”

Shaxx stops, crossing his arms over his chest to fix Zavala with a look that’s almost a glare.

“I think we can defeat the Witness,” Zavala begins, Shaxx’s brows lifting as he waits for him to go on. “But I’m not sure whether I think that because I believe it, or because I have to think that way.”

“We will prepare all that we can,” Shaxx says, “when it comes time to fight, is there really a difference between the two of those?”

“The difference will be if we succeed, or if we die having failed to lead our people through another, better option. Something that might save them.”

“There is no better option, the Witness wants to destroy us, even if we tried to flee, it would follow.”

“The Witness wants the Traveler. It doesn’t need us.”

Zavala watches Shaxx’s face fall, his expression shifting into worry and concern.

“Zavala.” His voice is much softer, no longer like they’re debating, or on the verge of arguing. “I thought you had made peace with this.”

Zavala’s eyes fall shut and he pulls a deep breath into his lungs. His sweat is already cooling on his skin, cold winter air flowing in from the window they’d propped open. Goosebumps are starting to rise on his skin.

“How can I make peace with the decision that may well destroy our entire civilization? The decision I made?” 

“You are not alone in this.” Shaxx reminds him. He sets a hand on his shoulder, stepping closer, and Zavala looks away. “Think about it. If the others did not agree with your decision, do you really think they’d be here? The Awoken, the Cabal, the Eliksni? They could all leave if they wanted to, but they haven’t. They’re fighting with us because they want to.”

“Even if we all die?”

“Zavala–”

“You can’t tell me that isn’t a possibility.” Zavala interrupts, and Shaxx lets out his breath, then nods.

“Fine.” He agrees, “even if we die. Even if every one of us dies at the Witness’s hands, we made this decision together.” Shaxx squeezes his shoulder. “The Traveler raised us to protect. Not only itself but everyone around us. We’re going to do that. I believe it.”

He holds Zavala’s shoulder, his eyes lingering on Zavala’s own until finally Zavala nods.

“Good.” Shaxx smiles, then claps his shoulder. “You should get some rest, Guardian. You need it.” Zavala smiles weakly, and Shaxx pushes him towards the door lightly. “And see to your wound. We both know pain can center the mind, but don’t rely on it if you don’t have to, Commander.”

“I know.” Zavala nods. “Goodnight, Shaxx. Thank you.”

He leaves his sword on the rack rather than take it with him. Perhaps tomorrow, when he’s better rested, they can try again.

Chapter Text

The pavilion seemed to yawn around Drifter as he hurried into it, up the winding path shadowed by Hive stone and hewn rock, he entered the cavernous space and felt a familiar prickle of unease settle into his bones. It was like standing in the middle of an open meadow surrounded on all sides by dense forest, like he was being watched by a predator he couldn’t see, lurking in the shadows, ready to pounce. He kept his eyes forward.

At the summoning circle in the center of the pavilion, he could make out Eris’ runes fading out of sight. Hive magic dissipated into the air with an acid tinge that burned Drifter’s nose and lifted the hair on the back of his neck, unease tightening in his shoulders. At the edge of the circle, Ikora looked back at him, his footsteps echoing through the chamber, but she spared him only a glance before she pushed ahead, rushing to the center of the circle where Eris knelt.

She was bare from the waist up, covered in Hive oil and the ripped remnants of her armor. Her back was to Drifter, her skin marred by old scars that had long since become familiar to him. Even in the distance between them he could see how she shook, her breath heaving, her body trembling. Ikora dropped to her knees in front of her, her hand finding Eris’s shoulder. The Drifter could see her lips move, but he couldn’t make out her words. He watched Eris jerk, bowing low over her knees, one hand braced on the stone floor and the other splayed over her chest. 

Drifter stopped at the edge of the circle, wheeling to face the other figure present, Immaru hovering at the edge of the ritual circle, watching Eris with scorn. The cold assessment in his eye made an ancient instinct in the Drifter’s mind begin to roar at the perceived threat.

“Get out.” He snapped, and when the Ghost’s shell lifted like he was going to respond, Drifter snarled, Stasis rallying to his fingertips so cold it burned. “I won’t say it twice.”

Immaru glanced between Drifter and Eris, still in the center of the circle. Drifter took a threatening step forward, and the Ghost flitted back, then he left without a word. Drifter hurried into the circle.

Eris’s hand had shifted to grip Ikora’s forearm, so tight her knuckles shone white against her skin, her brow pressed to the cavern floor as she shook, coughs and rattling gasps shaking through her. Her other hand was pressed to the cavern floor, her fingers trembling. Drifter eased himself down to his knees before her, laying his fingers over hers gently.

“Hey, Moondust.” He breathed, his gaze flitting over her. So close, he could see the goosebumps that had risen all over her skin. Hive magic tended to burn hot, the ritual fires in their bowls around the circle put off some heat, but Drifter could already feel the cold from the stone seeping through the layers of his armor, the heat from Eris’s magic already slipping away. 

He watched her draw in a sudden deep breath, her head lifting from the cavern floor. Hive eyes blinked at him, half covered by her dark curls. She placed her hands underneath her shoulders and pushed herself upright, her arms almost straight before she coughed hard and wet, doubling forward once more. He set a hand on her back as one cough turned into a fit, each one weaker than the last, her exhaustion clear when she finally dropped her brow to the stone and  struggled down deep breaths.

He sensed more than heard the quiet whoosh of his Ghost appearing beside him, their intentions reaching him through the link between them Drifter so often kept shut and barred. His glare was steely when the Ghost lifted its eye off of Eris to meet his gaze, and it shrunk back.

“Ikora,” he nodded to the Warlock, her Ghost already at her side. His lack of trust for his own Traveler-dictated partner didn’t mean he didn’t want Eris looked after, and he watched Ikora share a look with her Ghost before he drifted forward, dropping low to hover eye-level with Eris.

“Eris?” Ophichus asked, his shell tilting to meet her gaze as Eris lifted her head just slightly. “Could I scan you? We want to make sure you’re alright.”

“I’m fine.” She grit out, but still she gave the Ghost a nod as she pushed herself upright on trembling arms. She held still as his beam of light swept over her, Hive eyes shifting shut against the light when it reached her face. Drifter watched her let out her breath in a sigh once the Ghost was done. With her torso still bare, he could see the way her muscles flexed as she began to move and he squeezed her shoulder.

“Don’t get up.” He told her gently, from how she was still shaking, he knew it wouldn’t end well. Ikora’s hand shifted, dropping down Eris’s arm until she was laying her fingers over Eris’s on the cavern floor. Drifter reached up, his hand cupping her cheek, and he watched the hard chitin pieces around Eris’s eyes shift as she closed her eyes, leaning her cheek into Drifter’s touch. “Just breathe for a minute, Moondust. I’ve got you.”

Eris’s breath sighed out of her again and Drifter held on until a shiver rattled her frame, pulling back to reach for his robes. He stripped his gauntlets and the armored plates at his shoulders with practiced ease, slipping the gun from his belt and undoing the buckle, settling it all aside so that he could draw the robe off his shoulders. 

“Germaine–” Eris shook her head at him, her hand held up to show the oily Hive blood covering her skin, but Drifter just smiled as he draped the robe over her shoulders, drawing it around her.

“Don’t worry about it, Moondust.” His hands found her shoulders again as Eris reached up to hold the front of the robes, closing them at her chest. “You know I’ve seen worse.”

“And I’m loath to contribute.” She replied, her voice low and weak. Drifter’s soft smile left his face as her eyes closed again, her head dropping as she braced both hands on the stone floor again, her arms trembling.

“You need rest, Eris.” Ikora reached out to hold her friend’s shoulder, and Drifter nodded. The Warlock had been getting on Eris’s case more than he had since this whole ordeal had begun, he trusted Eris to know her limits and her own capabilities, but he also understood how relentless she could be in pursuit of a goal. 

“She’s right, Eris.” He said, his smile returning weakly when Eris aimed a glare at him. “We’ve all gotta rest sometime.” He reminded her, reaching out to guide a lock of her hair away from where it covered her center eye. “Call it a day, Moondust. You can go back to bein’ a Hive god tomorrow.”

Drifter could practically feel Eris’s irritation radiating off of her, but he reached out to hold the back of her neck, running his thumb over the corner of her jaw even as it left Hive oil on his fingers.

“I told you I’d be here.”

“I’m not done, Germaine.” She told him, but he held her gaze until she let out her breath in a slow sigh. “Fine. But I will be back.”

Drifter sent her a grin. “Oh, I’m countin’ on it, Moondust.”

Chapter Text

The HELM was thankfully empty when Eris and Drifter entered, not a soul in the common areas as Drifter moved through them, Eris light in his arms. He’d picked her up after she’d stumbled rising from the circle, not a move he’d have made if anyone more than Ikora had been around to see, but from the way Eris was already leaning into him, her head resting against his neck and shoulder, he suspected he’d made the right choice. 

The lights were dim to their reserve setting, soft red light in the hallways to offer Drifter something to see by without disturbing the crew trying to rest. He headed straight for the officers quarters, where Eris had been assigned a room, along with the Guardian and Crow. From the hallway, he could make out a soft yellow light from one of the rooms. Through the open door, he could see the Guardian, curled under a blanket pulled up to their ears, their eyes shut. He looked back to the hall at the sound of footsteps, Crow slipping down the hall, a glass of water in his hand.

“Hey,” the Hunter greeted quietly, his eyes drifting over Eris in Drifter’s arms. “Is everything okay?”

“Long day.” Drifter said simply. Eris didn’t shift a muscle in Drifter’s arms. He couldn’t help but wonder if she’d fallen asleep. He nodded towards the Guardian, asleep in bed with a light on and their door open. “You too?”

“Yeah.” Crow followed his gaze, then shook his head as if clearing his thoughts. “They’re fine, just tired, really.” He set the glass of water on a desk just beyond the Guardian’s door, returning to the doorway as soon as it was out of his hand. “Y’know, Eris’s room is–” he pointed behind Drifter, to a door he’d already passed, but Drifter shook his head.

“I know.” He’d thought the Hunter would’ve seen him aboard the HELM enough times to get that he’d stayed the night in Eris’s room more than once. “Not goin’ there yet.”

He made to turn down the hall again, but Crow spoke up before he could.

“Do you need any help?” Crow asked, color darkening on his cheeks when Drifter regarded him with an unimpressed look. “Hunters, we look after our own–”

“I think I’ve got it.” He headed down the hall, not at all surprised when Crow slipped past him, reaching the door to the communal bathrooms before Drifter could and pushing it open. “Thanks.” 

“Let me get the lights.” Crow slipped inside, flipping both switches on the wall as Drifter headed for the counter. Eris made a small noise in his arms, her body tensing as she hid her face in Drifter’s neck.

“Maybe just half of ‘em.” He suggested to the Hunter, Crow quickly complying. Drifter pressed his cheek to the top of Eris’s head, reaching a hand up to shield her eyes. “Sorry, Moondust. I know your eyes are better than mine.”

Crow lingered in the doorway when Drifter set Eris down to sit on the counter. Through the mirror in front of him, Drifter could see the Hunter shifting from foot to foot.

“Are you sure she’s–” he broke off, and when Drifter looked back, away from Crow’s reflection, Eris had lifted her head, meeting Crow’s gaze with acolyte’s eyes.

“I’m alright, Crow.” Drifter could hear her exhaustion in her tone, but he watched Crow’s shoulders drop as he let out a relieved sigh of breath, giving Eris a small nod. Eris straightened when he wouldn’t meet her gaze. “My apologies, I’ve forgotten my veil. Does this upset you?” She gestured towards her eyes and Crow’s head jerked up.

“What? No. No, not at all. I just–” Drifter rolled his eyes when the Hunter began to fidget again, a small smile creasing his lips when Eris slapped his arm. 

“I just feel like I’m not doing enough.” Crow said, meeting Eris’s eyes at last. “You and the Guardian are out there, dealing with Immaru and gathering tithes, you’re doing these crazy transformations and I’m just…here, writing reports or scouting. I should be helping you.”

“Your work is not insignificant, Crow.” Eris reminded him. Drifter set his hand on her knee, giving it a brief squeeze before he stepped back, retreating from Eris to allow her and Crow to speak while he headed for a set of shelves built into the wall of the bathroom, retrieving a set of towels and washcloths.

“Still,” he could hear Eris continue behind him, Crow’s footsteps soft as he made his way further into the room. “I understand your desire to be closer to the fight. I promise that I’ll call for you when the time comes.”

Crow’s words softened further and Drifter found his way to the showers in the back of the space. He deposited the towels on a nearby bench, then slipped from the room. When he returned from Eris’s room a minute later, a set of her clothes in his hands, he saw Crow give her a nod before he left the room, and Drifter patted his shoulder as he passed.

“Look after our hero, yeah? We’re gonna need ‘em.” They shared a look back towards Eris, and Crow nodded.

“Yeah. I’ll make sure they’re taken care of.”

Drifter clapped his shoulder in thanks, and he and Crow parted ways in the corridor. Drifter met Eris at the counter, setting her clothes aside to offer her a hand as she eased herself down to the floor on shaky legs.

“Germaine.” She sent him a weak glare and Drifter had to bite his lip to contain his smile.

“Sorry, Moondust. I know you can take care of yourself.” Still, he couldn’t quite pull his offered hand away, and he smiled when Eris took it once she was standing on the bathroom floor, her other hand still holding his robes closed at her chest. He lowered his head towards hers when she looked up at him, feeling his smile soften. “Been a long time since I let anyone in like this.” He murmured. “Guess some part of me is trying to make up for lost time.”

“Vengeance is not a suitable motivator for all of one’s endeavors.” Eris acknowledged, her voice low. She leaned her head into Drifter’s shoulder, stepping forward until her weight was leaned forward, into his chest. His arms came around her naturally. He pressed his nose into her curls, breathing in what he expected to be the familiar scent of her hair only to choke on a cough when the smell of Hive blood flooded his nostrils. 

“Sorry,” he rasped when Eris pulled back, covering his mouth and nose with a hand as he fought back another cough. “I just wasn’t expectin—”

“Quiet.” Eris told him. She took him by the hand again and Drifter followed her to the showers.

“You want help, or–?”

“Quiet, Germaine.” 

The showers were split between one row of little booths, with curtains and dividers between each shower, and another row of shower heads, exposed along the wall. Drifter could see the utility in both, with large crews, one often couldn’t afford the luxury of privacy in all of one’s movements, but it wasn’t like anyone wanted to catch a glimpse of their commander in the nude. Well, maybe some might.

Eris pulled him towards the exposed row, rather than try to cram the two of them into one of the booths. They’d done it before, when it wasn’t the middle of the night and Drifter wasn’t keen on anyone walking in and seeing him buck naked and kissing Eris like a lovesick fool, but Drifter doubted anyone was likely to come in now, even someone as nosy as Crow. He’d set the towels nearby, on a bench that ran along the outside wall of the first shower stall, and Eris let go of his hand, shrugging his robes off her shoulders and reaching down to untie her armor from where it had settled around her waist after her Hive transformation had torn through it. He turned on two of the showerheads, staying clear of them so that they could pour out the cold water lingering in the pipes, then planted himself on the bench, looking up at Eris with a lazy smile. 

“You could do more than just watch, you know.” She told him, shelling off the last of her clothes. He tugged off his gloves, then reached up to hold her waist. Opening his legs wide, he guided her to stand between his knees, still smiling up at her.

“I love to watch you.” He ran his thumbs over her hip bones. “You really are a sight to see, Moondust.”

“Even like this?” She looked down at him and he shrugged, his smile knowing. Even now, he couldn’t stop staring at her. She was covered in Hive blood, her skin pale from the cold, red lines of irritation over her skin from the places her armor had torn against her shifting form. Her scars were sharp against her skin and still she was the most beautiful person Drifter had ever looked at, maybe because of it all.

“Oh yeah,” he murmured, unable to bite back his smile. “You always look fantastic, this doesn’t change anything.”

She shook her head, fondly, exasperatedly. He wasn’t sure she could roll her Hive eyes the way a human’s eyes would, but the expression was close and Drifter grinned. She reached for the hem of his shirt, tugging it off him. 

“Come on, Germaine.” She said, pulling him to his feet after she tossed his shirt aside. “Don’t make me tell you twice.”

She headed for the showers without another word and Drifter hurried to shell off the rest of his clothes, pausing only long enough to watch her step under the spray before he climbed to his feet to join her. 

She met him under the heat of the water, the pair of them luxuriating in the feel of it for a long moment. Eventually, Drifter moved Eris so that her head was out of the water and he rubbed shampoo through her dark curls, taking care to wash away all the Hive blood until her hair was soft and clean all over her head. He washed away the rest of the blood, feeling Eris go boneless in his hands, her exhaustion creeping up on her once again. He nudged her back when she reached up to reciprocate.

“Go dry off.” He told her gently, dropping a kiss onto her cheekbone. “I’ll be right there. Promise.”

She slipped from the shower and Drifter followed her only a few minutes later. Once they were clean and dry, and they’d found their way back to Eris’s room, they sank into her bed pressed close to one another. Eris tucked herself under Drifter’s chin, drawing his warmth into her body, and Drifter was happy to supply it. He fell asleep holding Eris close, lulled to sleep knowing she was safe from harm.

Chapter Text

“Remember to stay close.” Osiris told Crow, holding onto a metal bar in the center of the train, Saint just beside him. “It will be very crowded. It would be best not to get separated.”

“ What will be very crowded?” Crow asked. Looking out the train windows revealed nothing, only the concrete under the city, and the occasional light illuminating the tunnels. “You still haven’t told me where we’re going.”

“It’s a surprise.” Saint reminded him, smiling brightly at Crow. “It will be worth the wait, I promise.” 

Crow frowned, almost petulantly, and Glint bumped his shoulder.

“I think it’s exciting!” The Ghost said, his eye bright, his shell tilted upwards with joy. 

“Glint, have you been to–” Saint began. Crow lifted his brows expectantly and Saint coughed. “Where we are going.” He finished. “Have you been to where we are going?”

“Nicely done.” Osiris murmured, a wry smile on his face. 

“Hush.” Saint shot back.

“I have! I think.” Glint’s shell tilted around his frame as he glanced towards the window, then towards the display that told them the upcoming stops. “If I’m guessing correctly, then yes! I have, and I’m very excited to see what Crow thinks.”

“Do they have comparable experiences among the Awoken?” Osiris asked.

Glint’s shell furrowed around his frame as he thought.

“If you’d tell me where we were going, I would know.” Crow pointed out. Osiris waved a hand.

“You will know soon enough. Patience.” He told Crow.

“I think they have comparable experiences in pieces, but not altogether.” Glint told them, and Osiris nodded, meanwhile Saint’s brow plates furrowed.

“What do you mean ‘in pieces?’” The Titan asked.

“Well,” Glint shot a look at Crow. “They have some things sometimes but not other times, and other things other times, but never all at once and never all together.”

Saint stared blankly at the Ghost. 

“I mean–” Glint glanced between Saint and Crow. “They have—I don’t know how much I can say without giving it away. The Awoken have hmm-hmm, but only on certain nights, and they have hmm- hmm, but not during certain holidays and they only have hmm -hmm on—”

“This is our stop.” Osiris interrupted. 

“Thank the Light.” Crow followed him out of the train, Glint and Saint just behind.

“This way.” Osiris led them up a staircase, into the main train station, where the area split into stairs and hallways leading to the various tracks. He glanced at the signs indicating the streets above, then led them off to the left, mounting another staircase. 

Crow was already beginning to understand what Osiris had meant when he mentioned crowds. The staircase was packed, a flow of people moving both up and down. Crow stayed on his heels to keep from being separated, Saint and Glint just behind them.

“Oh, excuse me.” He heard Glint saying, ducking out of the way of someone walking by. “Hello!” He waved his fins at a small child pointing at him. “Excuse me.” He ducked out of the way of another pedestrian. 

“Glint, come on my shoulder.” Crow reached out a hand, drawing his Ghost in.

“Good idea.” He sent Crow a grateful look and Crow shook his head fondly. 

“So,” Crow said to Osiris, still following him up the staircase. “What’s this grand surprise?”

“Look.”

They climbed out of the station, emerging onto stone streets, raised above a large open square. Ahead of them was a tall Ferris wheel, lit up in drawing colors and spinning gently. Filling the square were dazzling sculptures of lights, a carousel, and dozens and dozens of booths of food and goods. The booths covered the streets, the aisles between packed with people eating sweets, drinking from steaming mugs, holding food and talking, laughing, or bustling to and fro, weaving their way through the dense crowds. 

“Wow.” Crow breathed, taking in the sight before him. “Definitely worth the surprise.” He smiled at Saint and Osiris.

“Just wait until you try the food.” Saint told him with a grin.

“And the wine.” Osiris added.

“What is this exactly?” Crow asked, “I can’t remember seeing anything like it.”

“It’s a Dawning market.” Osiris told him. He nodded for Crow to follow, taking Saint by the hand and leading them to a spot out of the way of the crowd still leaving the station. He guided them up the steps of a tall stone building, until they stood between a set of pillars beneath the overhanging roof, looking out over the square from above. “Holiday markets have roots in numerous cultures, but this one relates most closely to pre-golden age German Weihnachtsmarkts. They used to be everywhere around the holidays, best known for handmade goods and glühwein, a mulled wine.”

“Spiced, warm, very good.” Saint told him. “You must try some.”

“I’d love to.” Crow agreed, glancing over to where a crowd of people clustered around a few rows of high top tables, steaming mugs in their hands.

“Does the city have these markets every year?” Glint asked, drifting up from Crow’s shoulder to look around. 

“When they’re able, I believe so.” Osiris answered. “We began holding markets a year or two after we established the city, once our craftsmen had enough resources to build up their stock. Various conflicts intervened occasionally, but for the most part we were all willing to put in extra work to come together for the occasion.”

“They are much bigger now.” Saint said, glancing around them.

“No kidding.” Crow followed Saint’s eyes, looking around. There must’ve been a thousand people crammed into the square, if not more. On any other night it would’ve felt like a big area, a large stretch of open space in the middle of the city, but now Crow was glad they’d emerged from the train station above the fray, rather than inside of it.

“Do not worry.” Saint offered Crow a reassuring smile. “We will not let things get too overwhelming. There are quieter places if you know where to look for them.”

“They get busier the closer it gets to the Dawning.” Osiris agreed, “but the experience is part of the allure.”

Crow nodded, surveying the crowds from their overlook above the square. “It’s a lot, but it looks like fun.” He offered Saint and Osiris a smile. “I’m ready whenever you are.”

Osiris grinned. “Let’s go then.”

Chapter Text

“Wow.” Crow grit his teeth against a gust of wind that blew freezing rain at him, a bone rattling shiver raking through him. He, Saint, and Osiris shared grins. “I didn’t realize how cold it was.”

As soon as they’d stepped out from under the awning of the building they’d sheltered beside, Crow had realized that not only was the market being whipped by wind, but a drizzle of rain had started up, just slightly too warm to turn to snow. It was cold enough to feel like ice on his skin, and he tugged his hood over his head, pushing it open for Glint to tuck himself against Crow’s neck.

“It would feel warmer if it were snowing.” Osiris agreed. He was dressed the warmest out of the three of them, a heavy, water resistant coat over his clothes, a wool cap pulled over his head, a scarf around his neck, and gloves on his hands, with warm boots on his feet. They’d advised Crow to dress warmly even though they hadn’t told him where they were going, and he was thankful he’d opted for similar clothes, complete with boots and a hat he hadn’t initially planned to wear. Saint had given him a pair of gloves to borrow and Crow dug them out of his coat pocket, shoving his fingers into them.

“We will just have to change the order of our stops.” Saint said, “I suggest food and wine first, then we can look at the booths.”

“Sounds like a plan to me.” Crow ducked behind Osiris and Saint as they began to weave into the crowds, so tight they had to walk single file.

Saint took the lead, the crowd parting around his tall frame, with Osiris and Crow following in his wake. Crow could see Osiris’s hand coming to rest on Saint’s back when the crowds grew particularly dense, and their progress slowed to a crawl. Finally, they pushed out of a dense group of people, coming to a stop beside a booth filled with steaming pots of liquid, food sizzling on grills behind the counter.

Another gust of wind flung more freezing rain on them and Crow shivered, pulling his hood back into place when the wind tried to knock it off. 

“If it keeps raining like this, we won’t have to worry about the crowds for much longer.” Crow said, glancing around at the people finding shelter under covered tables and shop awnings. 

“Wait just a moment, you’ll feel better once you’ve had some of this.” Osiris stepped up to the counter in front of them. After a moment, he handed a bill over to the worker and he and Saint returned to Crow holding three steaming mugs. “Try this.”

“This is the mulled wine?” Crow asked, taking one. The mug was small, just a bit larger than an espresso mug, it fit neatly into his hands, the ceramic heavenly warm against his fingers. He tugged off his gloves to get his skin closer to the heat.

“Glühwein.” Saint told him, taking a sip from his own mug. “It is very good.” He grinned, then looked down at Crow’s mug. “But, if you do not like it, we will have no trouble finishing it for you.”

Crow smiled, lifting the mug to breathe in the scent. After his resurrection, even after regaining Uldren’s memories he hadn’t quite regained his tolerance for alcohol, nor his taste for all of it. Osiris and Saint had led him to the revelation one night over drinks at their place. He’d been just a bit too tipsy to refuse a drink he hadn’t liked quite eloquently enough, and his words had been blunt enough to send Saint and Osiris into such raucous laughter that they’d nearly spilled their glasses.

“I think I’m going to like it.” He said, if the smell was anything to go by. He took a sip, the wine warm, not too sweet, fruity and full of flavor. He hummed in approval, relishing the warmth that flowed into him. “It’s good.” He grinned and Osiris held his mug between them, Saint and Crow lifting their mugs to clink their mugs with his. 

“Happy Dawning.” Saint smiled, their mugs clinking quietly as they bumped them, careful not to spill. They lifted their mugs to drink and Crow had only just taken another sip before a gust of wind threatened to push him sideways. 

“Do they ever hold these markets inside?” Crow asked. He took another sip of his wine, hoping the alcohol would warm his gut while the mug kept his fingers warm.

“That would be against tradition, I’m afraid.” Osiris said gravely. “But you will feel better once you eat something.”

“Perhaps we can find you another sweater.” Saint suggested, sending Crow a smile that almost looked conspiratorial. “Something wool, to keep you warm.”

Crow took another sip of his wine. “Only if you let me pay for it.”

“Nonsense.” Saint shook his head, “you know your money is no good here.” 

Crow couldn’t help his smile, even as he shook his head. “I think you spoil me too much.” 

“I think you could be spoiled more.” 

Crow opened his mouth to retort but Osiris spoke before he could. 

“I think this is a battle you are not likely to win.” He told Crow, and Saint grinned.

“Correct.” The Titan said. “Now come, let us find something to eat.” 

They wove back into the crowds, cradling their mugs in careful hands. Crow spent the rest of the night trying foods he’d never eaten before, shopping with Saint and Osiris, and drinking wine until his body was warm and his head felt just a little floaty. By the time they finally climbed back onto the train, there was a smile plastered onto his face despite the cold, and he, Saint and Osiris carried away their haul in backpacks and bags. Crow was more than grateful to drop down into a seat beside Saint in the mostly empty train, leaning into the Titan’s shoulder.

“Are you cold, little bird?” Saint asked, wrapping an arm around him. 

“No. Just tired.” Crow murmured, his voice quiet. He could hardly keep his eyes open. “Thank you for taking me here.” He lifted his head to look at Osiris. “I had a really good time.”

“Thank you for coming.” Osiris said, sitting across from Saint. “It’s nice to have someone to humor us from time to time.”

“I’m happy to hang out with you…” Crow trailed off into a jaw cracking yawn. “All the time.”

“You should spend the night with us.” Saint told him. “Our apartment is closer than yours.”

“I don’t want to impose–”

“And we don’t want you to fall asleep and miss your stop." Osiris interrupted, just as Crow yawned again.

“I wouldn’t–” He couldn’t even get the words out around his yawn, and finally he gave them a small nod. “Okay. Thank you.”

“Good.” Saint smiled, and he guided Crow’s head to lean on his shoulder. Crow spent the rest of the train ride dozing against Saint, and when he followed them into their apartment, it felt like coming home.

Chapter Text

“Your target’s just ahead, Crow. You’re closing in on them.”

Petra spoke in Crow’s ear, running support for Crow while he tracked down high priority Scorn targets in the Dreaming City. He’d taken down three targets already following Petra’s guidance, but her most recent set of directions had drawn him far out to the edge of the city, out of the Divalian Mists and towards the rock field past the Spine of Keres. 

“You’ve been saying that for the past fifteen minutes.” Crow grumbled. Still, he drew his gun from the holster on his thigh, checking that it was loaded before he continued forward, holding the weapon in both hands.

“Well, perhaps this time you’ll actually catch them.” Petra told him, a bite in her tone.

“Hey,” Crow snapped, his temper already short. “I don’t see you busting your ass trying to catch these guys.”

“ I am busy doing missions important to my Queen. You’re lucky I’m even helping you at all.”

“ You’re lucky I’m here.” Crow groused. “There are probably two dozen Guardians around that could be doing this for you. I have important things I could be doing, too, you know.”

“Well, you are here.” Petra reminded him. “And so is this target, at least for now. Who knows if you’ll catch them in time.”

“I get it. Hurry up.” He shoved his gun back into the holster on his thigh, grabbing a knife instead and racing in the direction Petra had pointed him in. If she really was so busy, she wouldn’t be sending him all the way out here just to go on some wild goose chase and not find anything, right?

“Follow the rocks out towards the shoreline.” Petra said, “the target is hiding somewhere in there.”

“Okay. I’m on it.”

Petra went quiet as Crow slowed, following the trail that led through the rocky craigs, away from the buildings behind him. He climbed over boulders, leaping from heap to heap, using the Light to carry him as he jumped. His feet had just hit the ground when he heard footfalls behind him and he spun, catching a glimpse of his target and slashing his knife out towards it.

The figure ducked with surprising speed, more coordinated than any Scorn Crow had ever seen, and a fair bit smaller, too. He hurried to recover, catching a fist aimed for his gut. He was barely able to dodge the knife that came to slash out his eye, earning a nick on his cheek instead, but he couldn’t get away from the figure’s foot before they swept his legs out from under him.

Suddenly, there was weight on his torso, a knife pressed to his throat, but all Crow could see was the braid of white hair hanging down from his attacker, so intimately familiar. He followed the braid up, his eyes settling on Jolyon Till the Rachis, frozen as he sat atop Crow, his knife pressed to Crow’s throat.

“Jol?” Crow asked. The words came out almost like he hadn’t meant to speak them, like Crow hadn’t meant to speak them, but someone else had.

The Awoken man stared, his eyes narrowed, his gaze roving over Crow’s face for long moments. His blade was still pressed to Crow’s throat even while Crow’s own fingers were slack around his knife. Memories were slamming into him from every direction, Jolyon and Uldren sparring, laughing, patching up each other's wounds. Even with Jolyon’s knife to his throat, the sharp edge of it pressed into his skin with every rapid breath, Crow couldn't close his fingers around his knife. He couldn’t fight back. It wasn’t possible.

He felt himself tense further when Jolyon’s free hand moved towards Crow’s face, reaching out like he wanted to grab him. Then he watched Jolyon freeze, lowering his hand like he hadn’t even meant to raise it. 

“You’re Crow.” Jolyon said at last, lifting his knife away. “Aren’t you?”

“I–” Crow blinked, realizing he’d just tried to kill Uldren’s best friend. Jolyon, who’d cared for Uldren even in his worst moments, even when he’d begun to slip into madness. He could still feel Jolyon’s hands on him from old memories. He could feel the care in his touch, see the love in his eyes even when Uldren dragged him on another reckless stunt. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to–Petra sent me here, I didn’t think you’d—”

“Crow.”

“I’m supposed to be tracking down a target I’ve been following for the past hour and it’s supposed to be here, I thought that you—”

“Crow.”

“I mean, you don’t look like a scorn or anything, I just didn’t think anyone else would be out here and—”

“ Crow. ” Jolyon grabbed his shoulders in both hands, pressing him down into the dirt. The reminder of his touch was enough to quiet Crow’s words completely, his attention fixing on Jolyon above him. He hadn’t even climbed off of him. There was still blood beading on his cheek, Crow’s chest rising and falling rapidly under Jolyon.

“Is Petra still on comms with you?”

Crow frowned. “Petra?” He frowned, listening for a response in his earpiece. “Glint, could you—”

“She’s gone.” Glint told him, appearing just beside Crow and Jolyon. “She told me to tell you both that you need to talk.” 

Crow could feel the prickle of unease from Glint through their bond. Without Crow's access to Uldren's old memories, Jolyon was really only a strange man who'd just held a knife to Crow's throat, Glint had no idea who he was, or what he was like. He didn't know him the way Crow did. But then again, it had been years since Uldren had died, and a few years more since he'd been able to see his life and everything around him with any clarity. Maybe Jolyon wasn't who Crow thought he was. But even the crease between Jolyon's brows felt familiar. Everything about him did. 

Jolyon let out his breath in a huff, dragging Crow back to his senses. “Of course she did.” He shook his head, finally climbing off Crow. He stood, then reached a hand down to help Crow, hauling him to his feet. “Sorry I got you.”

“Don’t worry about it.” He lifted his hand for Glint and his Ghost appeared in his palm, mending the cut on his cheek with his Light. Crow wiped away the blood with his hand, though he had a feeling he’d only just smeared it across his cheek. “I’m sorry I went after you.” Crow blinked when he realized Jolyon was staring at him, his eyes on Crow’s healed cheek. “Sorry, I–”

“No, don’t apologize.” He held up a hand, “I’m just not used to seeing…” He jerked his chin in at Crow, his eyes flicking across his face. “This.”

He turned abruptly, heading away from the rock field, towards the Spine of Keres.

“Right, sorry.” Crow hurried to follow him, taking a few long strides to catch up. 

Jolyon shook his head. “Stop apologizing.” Crow opened his mouth to respond just as Jolyon looked back to face him. He swallowed the apology on his lips, holding up his hands. Jolyon shook his head again, turning back to face forward again and heading for the building ahead of them. “If we’re going to talk, we shouldn’t do it here.”

“Where should we–”

“We can go to my camp. This way.”

Chapter Text

Jolyon retrieved his sparrow from where he hid it inside one of the nearby buildings and Crow summoned his own, following behind him as he led the way to his camp. It took nearly a half hour of riding, but eventually they made it to Jolyon’s camp in the hills that looked down on the Dreaming City. Jolyon’s camp was tucked into a little cave, just behind a small clearing. In the clearing, he started a fire in a small pit he’d clearly used before, lined with rocks and filled with ashes. He filled a pot with water from a jug in his camp and tucked it into the pit, beside the wood beginning to catch. He and Crow settled in the dirt beside the fire.

“So,” Jolyon began, his eyes on the flames. “Petra tells me you remember everything.”

Crow nodded. “At least everything he could remember.” 

The gaps in Uldren’s memory remained like they would for anyone. When Crow really dove deep into them, he could sometimes parse out all of the details, but there were some patches that would be forever hazy, or blocked. He knew that the Guardian and Petra were the ones to see Uldren’s last moments, but he couldn't remember who was the one to pull the trigger. Either it happened too fast, with both their guns trained on him, he’d have been dead before he saw the recoil or heard the shot, or the inherent trauma of dying was too much for his mind to take.

Jolyon’s eyes were sharp as they searched his face, as if sensing his train of thought.

“Everything he could remember?” Jolyon repeated. “You…Do you know who killed him?”

Crow shook his head. “It was either Petra or the Guardian, but I don’t know who ended up pulling the trigger.” Crow watched tension fill Jolyon’s frame, his shoulders suddenly tight. Uldren might have been Crow’s past life, their relationship wrapped up in a mess of attachment and loathing because of it, but he’d been Jolyon’s best friend. Someone he’d known for centuries, who he’d loved and lost. Crow wasn’t old enough to understand that kind of grief, but he could tell from Uldren’s memories that losing Jolyon would have been unimaginable. He lowered his eyes to the flames in front of them. He tried to keep his voice soft when he spoke again. “I’m not sure it really matters anymore.”

“How could it not–” Jolyon’s words came out in a rush but he broke off quickly, forcing down a deep breath. 

“They did the right thing.” Crow lifted his head, trying to look Jolyon in the eyes. “After everything he did, Petra did what she had to, and the Guardian–”

“The Guardian was power hungry and wanted revenge for something that was hardly related to them.” Crow could see the anger in Jolyon’s eyes, like he’d been bottling it up for years, if not longer, and he teetered on the edge of exploding. “They were on a rampage.”

“They understood the consequences of his actions. They knew he had to be stopped and they were the only one powerful enough to reach him.” 

Jolyon shut his mouth, turning his glare on the fire. Wordlessly, he took a cloth and pulled the pot from the fire, the water boiling. He set two metal tin cups beside the ring of stone around the fire and spooned tea leaves from a pouch into both cups. Finally, he poured water into both, taking one cup with him when he settled back in the dirt. The second cup remained beside the fire, waiting, an open invitation.

After a moment, Crow rose onto his knees, taking the second cup by the handle and sitting back down again. He stared at Jolyon for a moment, then looked down at his cup.

“You know it had to be done.” Crow wanted to look, to meet Jolyon’s eyes and see that he understood, but he couldn’t meet his gaze. Uldren’s memories were still flitting through his head, so much happiness with this one man, all gone now. Would Crow ever get anything like that? “Trust me, I wish things could have happened differently, but it didn’t. I’ve been paying the price for his mistakes for years. You must have some idea how much pain he caused.”

Jolyon seemed to deflate at Crow’s words, the anger seeping out of him to something cut up and exhausted. He pushed the base of his cup into the dirt.

“I heard you got picked up by Spider after you came back.” Jolyon murmured. “And I’ve heard about what’s been done to you, by his hands and others. I’m sorry I didn’t intervene. I’m sorry you had to go through all of that.”

It was Crow’s turn to tense. His anxiety was reflexive, just at the mere thought of Spider and of the harm that had been done to him, by Spider’s clients, by the kingpin himself, or even by other Guardians during those first few years he was alive, he felt his heart rate quicken. Adrenaline filled his veins. He itched to run, to fight back or to do anything other than sit still and take it. He set his cup down in the dirt before his hands could shake, then squeezed his hands into fists, pulling a deep breath into his lungs.

“I can’t say that it’s alright.” He said quietly, because it wasn’t. Uldren had done wrong but in those first few years it had never been Crow’s place to take the punishment for Uldren’s actions. He’d claimed that responsibility himself, to try to right the wrongs Uldren had done, but there was nothing that dictated that that role should have been forced on him, and certainly not in the way he bore it under Spider. One of the hardest parts about recovering his memories had been realizing there were people around who could have helped him, rescued him, protected him, and understanding that they hadn’t. 

“But I’m past that now.” He continued, forcing himself to push his mind on towards some modicum of positivity. It was so easy to get lost in the pain of his experience, he could forget that he’d come out the other side of it. He could forget about the people who’d taken him in after he’d been freed, sheltering him and helping him grow and recover. “I’m not alone anymore, and I’m stronger than I was then.”

Crow let out his breath in a heavy sigh. He didn’t care if Jolyon heard or not, he just needed something to shake the cloud of the experience off him. Jolyon seemed to recenter himself at the noise, too, taking his own deep breath and shifting in the dirt. Jolyon retrieved his cup, blowing on the hot tea before he took a small sip.

“I’m sorry I didn’t reach out to you earlier.” Crow said, pressing his fingers into the cool dirt. “I didn’t know how to approach you. I wasn’t sure if you wanted me to.”

“I’m not sure I wanted you to, either.” Jolyon admitted, his voice quiet. “I’ve been trying to forget what happened to him, to move on and move past all of it, and so for a while I wanted to forget you existed.” He met Crow’s eyes, shame in his features. “I realize now how cruel that was to you. I’m the one who should be apologizing.”

“He really hurt you.” Crow said, his eyes shifting between Jolyon and the fire. “It makes sense that you reacted the way you did.”

“That doesn’t make it fair to you, Crow.” Jolyon pointed out, his voice calm and steady. Crow frowned at the flames.

“Maybe not.” Crow’s voice was almost a whisper. He picked up his cup, blowing on the tea before he sipped from the cup. The tea was warm and flavorful. The mug pushed warmth into his fingers while the liquid warmed his core. He fought to feel every ounce of it, to let the sensations ground him. 

When was the last time anything in life had been fair to him? When had he ever had a fight where the odds weren’t stacked against him? Nothing that ever really mattered had been fair to him, not with everything he carried. It was clear to him that life hadn’t been fair to Jolyon, either.

“I don’t blame you, Jol.” Crow said at last, forcing his eyes up. “Everything that happened to me wasn’t anyone’s fault besides the one’s throwing the punches. I blame Spider for what he did to me. I blame Savathûn for tricking me, and Mara for everything she did to Uldren. It’s not your fault that they hurt me.”

“Even if I didn’t help you?” Jolyon asked. “I didn’t know everything that happened to you but I knew you weren’t in the best of circumstances. I was ordered to stay away, but it was my decision to follow those orders.”

“Knowing that you didn’t come to help me hurts.” Crow admitted. “It will take me a long time to get past that, but on some level, I think I understand why you did what you did.”

Jolyon nodded thoughtfully. “I think I can live with that.” He said at last. “And if you’d let me, I’d like to help you going forward. I know it won’t change the past, but I want to be there for you if I can be. And not just because I owe you.”

Crow took another sip of his tea, then stared down at the leaves floating at the bottom of the cup. Finally, he lifted his eyes to Jolyon, giving him a small nod. 

“I think I’d like that.”

Chapter Text

“Enoch, I swear on the Traveler itself, if we miss this because you wanted to make sure we flooded the entire fucking fire pit, I’m going to kill you.” Marcus’s words were hot off his tongue, his breath clouding the air around him as he charged through the city fortifications and towards the temporary barracks.

They’d only just retaken the city, so everything was still a patchwork, temporary housing areas set up for those working in the city. Guardians and civilians that patrolled the wall and the perimeter they’d set up, those working on deconstruction and reconstruction, and everyone in between, from cooks to mechanics to those caring for children and looking after the sick or injured. The housing areas were normally a bustle of activity, now quiet in the deep darkness of the night as Enoch and Marcus hurried through by the light from their Ghosts. 

“Excuse me for not wanting to catch the whole camp on fire.” Enoch shot back, though he didn’t entirely give in to Marucs’s heat. “I highly doubt they managed to break it in one day.”

“Then you have much more faith in people than I do.” 

They were just coming from the camp where all the surviving sparrow racers stored their gear and used as a home base to run their patrols. Enoch and Marcus were housed in the temporary Guardian barracks just behind the main fortifications, long, narrow buildings filled with lines of bunk beds and temporary shelving, where the Guardians had been put to live while the Tower was being reconstructed. They left the barracks in the morning to aid with the rebuilding efforts and went to the racers camp to run patrols on their sparrows around the city perimeter. Normally, Marcus was happy to sleep in the racer’s camp in a sleeping bag, able to sit out by the campfire with his friends or at least enjoy the quiet so long as the shacks they’d built weren’t frozen or leaking, but some of the other racers had arrived to the camp with news that had them racing for the barracks as soon as their patrol was done. 

“Even if they did break it, I bet you could find a way to fix it. You put that water heater into my ship a few years back.”

“Maybe I could, but a hot water heater for your tiny ship and the hot water heaters that are supposed to support a thousand stinky Guardians are entirely different things.” Marcus told him, “and I really don’t want to fix either.”

Another racer had come from the barracks that morning with news that hot water heaters were being installed in the shower facilities located outside the barracks. The showers were little more than big metal boxes with shower heads on all sides—usually freezing cold, as the city was beginning its descent into winter and the well water they relied on felt like it had come from the mountains of Twilight Gap itself—but it had been almost a year since Marcus had taken a hot shower. He’d endured a brutal winter in the wilds and was only marginally better off as another one approached. If he could just shower with water that didn’t feel like needles in his skin, he was pretty sure he could die happy.

Marcus felt himself craning his neck to see the showers as they approached the barracks. The buildings were laid out in rows, each sharing a shower block with the building across from it. Marcus and Enoch hurried towards their building, the whole place empty and dark with the late hour. It was closer to morning than it was to night at this point.

They headed straight for the shower block, not bothering to head inside the barracks building or drop their things, their Ghosts sent their weapons to their bunks but they left their armor on. Marcus didn’t want to slow down any more than necessary. He shared a look with Enoch at the entrance to the showers, tense, hopeful, excited, dreading. They ducked inside.

“Do you want to do the honors?” Marcus asked. Enoch gestured for him to go ahead, and Marcus tugged off his glove, then reached for a hot water knob in the center of the shower block. 

Marcus twisted the knob, cold water spilling out onto his hand when he moved it into the spray. His heart sank, and he lifted his eyes to Enoch, but his partner shook his head. 

“Wait. Give it a minute. Maybe it needs to warm up.” 

Marcus chewed his lip, but Enoch was right. After a long, tense moment, he wiggled his fingers, the cold gradually feeling less biting.

“I think it’s getting warmer.” Marcus said, glancing at his partner. “Feel it. Tell me I’m not crazy.”

Enoch tugged off his own glove, reaching his hand into the stream. He held his hand under the water for a long minute. The water splashed towards their boots, flicking water against their armor, but their eyes held each other’s gazes, unbothered.

“I don’t think you’re crazy.” Enoch said at last. 

Marcus grinned. He pulled his hand from the spray. Weaving around the stream of water, he turned on two more showerheads, one on either side of the initial shower, he pointed them towards the center, then backed off, pulling his cloak off over his head. 

“Holy shit.” He said, his voice seeming half whisper and half yell. “I can’t believe this is happening.”

“I know.” Enoch grinned. “You’re finally getting your wish.” Before they’d fought to retake the city, Enoch had asked him what he wanted to do first when they had back everything they’d lost. A hot shower was on the top of Marcus’s list. 

“It only took half a year.” Marcus grinned. He kicked off his boots, tugging his upper layers off as well. 

“You’d better enjoy it while it lasts. Someone will probably break the whole thing tomorrow.”

“But at least we have tonight.” 

Marcus caught Enoch’s shirt in his hand, pulling him in to plant a kiss on his lips, his smile almost getting in the way of even kissing his partner. Still, their lips met messily, then they were pulling off each other’s clothes, stripping bare in the cold room. Marcus lingered just beyond the spray, almost not brave enough to step in. Enoch took his hand in one of his own, reaching out to feel the water with his other hand.

“Wow.” He jerked back quickly, shaking off his hand. Marcus did the same, his fingers turning bright red while Enoch’s dark skin concealed most of the color. “That really is hot.” 

The fiddled with the knobs, adjusting the temperature until all three showerheads and the water pouring from them weren’t going to burn their skin off. Finally, they eased themselves into the spray.

“Holy shit.” Enoch breathed. Marcus couldn’t even form words, he only hummed in acknowledgement. 

Warm water flowed over his body, seeping into his skin, driving the cold out of him like it was melting ice on his very bones, filling him up with warmth in the best way. He shut his eyes, opening his mouth to let the stream flow over his head, over his face, his eyes, his nose. For a long time, he and Enoch just stood. They luxuriated in the warmth of the water as it flowed over them, shifting around to let it reach all of their skin. Finally, Marcus pulled Enoch into the center of the water, his hands skimming over his partner as he pressed close to Enoch, Enoch’s arms coming around him in turn. He laid his head on Enoch’s shoulder as the water pounded against their opposite sides, gloriously hot. He couldn’t keep his smile off his face, and Enoch lifted his chin to press a long, slow kiss to his lips.

He was grinning as soon as they pulled apart.

“Best shower ever.”

Chapter Text

“Crow!” Saint’s voice greeted him through Crow’s radio, delighted as usual. “It is good to hear from you. How was your mission?”

“Ah…” Crow frowned, glancing back at the bloody armor he’d peeled off as soon as he’d entered his ship, scratched and gouged after the Scorn he’d run into on his way out of the Dreaming City. Glint had already healed up all the worst of his gashes and cuts, slowly healing the rest while he directed most of his attention to mending the armor as Crow had asked. “It went okay. I got into a few scrapes, but I’m alright.” He told Saint, shaking his head to clear the thoughts. He needed to get his words out before he lost his nerve. “Actually, I was wondering if I could come over to your place tonight? I just… it’s just that—“

“Of course!” Saint interrupted. “You are always welcome, Crow. You do not need to ask, and you do not need to explain.” His voice softened. “We would love to have you.”

“Thank you.” Crow’s voice was quieter than he intended. He ran his fingers along the metal seams of the cockpit, his eyes down. “I really appreciate it.”

“It is our pleasure.” Saint promised. “Will you be here in time for dinner? We are having shawarma. It is Osiris’s recipe, very good.”

“I can try, but I need to stop at my place to clean up. My mission was a little messy.” Crow coughed, his voice pulled taught. There was something about Saint’s support, at being on the receiving end of so much care that made him realize how much stress was bottled up inside him, all aching to get out.

“You can clean up here. We would love to have you join us.” He heard rustling from Saint’s end of the line, and when his voice came again it was soft and kind. “You sound upset, little bird. Are you alright?”

“I– yeah.” Crow forced in a deep breath, lifting his eyes to the interior ship lights, fighting to blink away the sudden moisture in his eyes. “I’m okay. Things have just been a little–” He shook his head. He was not going to let himself even come close to crying, not now. He didn’t want to be a wreck before he even got to Saint and Osiris. “I’ll explain once I get there. I just need a little company, I think.”

“We are here for you, Crow.” Saint told him, his voice warm. Crow could imagine how he’d look, a soft, comforting smile on his face, warm encouragement, holding Crow’s eyes in a way that promised him he was worth all the trouble he put them through. He was suddenly glad they were only calling through his radio. The sight of Saint’s support might’ve toppled his resolve.

“I know.” He swallowed hard. “I’ll see you soon.”

He spent the flight to the Tower staring out the cockpit window. He had nothing else in his ship, so he shrugged his aching body back into his armor, gashes and all. Saint and Osiris didn’t live quite close enough to the Tower to walk, but there was a train waiting for him when Crow arrived at the platform. He kept his eyes down to avoid the stares at his bloody armor, wedging himself into a corner of the train and trying not to be seen. By the time he made it to Saint and Osiris’s apartment, his whole body was aching so much his limbs trembled. His hand shook when he knocked on the front door.

“Crow!” When he opened the door, Saint greeted him just as brightly as he had on their call. “I’m glad you made it. Come in.” He stepped aside, leading Crow in and shutting the door behind him. 

“I’m sorry I took so long. I hope you didn’t wait for me.” Crow felt his tension beginning to ratchet up. Doubts circled his head, worries that he was being a great burden, that Saint and Osiris only kept him around to be polite and that he was imposing himself on people he shouldn’t have been bothering. They’d already been through so much.

“Nonsense.” Saint’s hand came to rest on his back, between his shoulder blades, guiding him further into the apartment. “Osiris has only just started cooking. There is no rush.” He leaned towards Crow like he was sharing a secret. “He is very slow.” 

Crow glanced towards where the kitchen lay, around a corner off the entryway. He couldn’t smell anything coming from it, so maybe Saint was right that Osiris wasn't far along in making the meal. 

“If you say so.” He gave Saint a small nod, folding his arms over his torso, covering up some of the gashes on his armor. “Thank you.”

“You do not need to thank me.” Saint patted his shoulder. “We should get you cleaned up. Dinner will be in an hour, plenty of time. Would you like help? It looks like there is blood in your hair.”

He reached up, towards Crow’s hood and Crow couldn’t help flinching back at the sudden movement of his hand. He shut his eyes as soon as he realized he’d moved, forcing in a deep breath. His whole body felt rigid with tension, pain ignited as his muscles pulled taught.

“Sorry.” He breathed, opening his eyes again. “I didn’t mean to–” He trailed off with a quiet sigh.

He could hardly look at the concern coloring Saint’s features, softening his lights and pinching his plates. Crow had dealt with this kind of discomfort and fear before, when he’d first come to the Tower after leaving Spider. Saint had been one of the people to help him through it, and he’d seen Crow become comfortable with his touches and physical affection. Flinching back from him now felt like a leap backwards, all his progress disappearing, all undone by a little stress. 

“It is alright, Crow.” Saint promised. “You do not need to apologize.”

“I would love your help, but I don’t think I can take being around—” He broke off again, and he felt frustration building in his chest alongside the ache in his limbs. His words always seemed to fail him when he felt pushed into stress. He couldn’t quite explain what he needed, or what he wanted, no matter how desperate he was to speak. 

“Peace, Crow.” Saint moved slowly, setting a hand on his shoulder and giving him a gentle squeeze. Crow tried to relax his body into the contact, the touch wasn’t unwelcome, but the tension refused to leave him. “You wish to be alone?” 

Crow nodded. “Yes. Please.” He couldn’t meet Saint’s eyes. “I promise I’ll explain later, I just–”

Saint shushed him quietly. “It’s alright.” He squeezed Crow’s shoulder again before he let him go. “You do not need to explain. Would you like me to get some of your clothes from the spare room?”

“No, I can do it, I just–” Crow pressed his knuckles into his forehead, trying to flex the muscles of his arm, then purge the tension when he released. Unfortunately, he hardly felt any different. His hand shook when he dropped it back to his side with a heavy breath. “I think I just need some time.”

“I understand.” Saint told him, and from the way he held Crow’s eyes, Crow knew he was being genuine. The knowledge didn’t do much to soothe his guilt. “I am here if you need anything. All you have to do is ask.”

“I know.” Crow nodded, turning to head for the spare bedroom only to catch himself after a step. “Thank you, Saint.” He said, his voice quiet. “I really appreciate you letting me stay here.”

Saint smiled kindly. “Always, little bird.”

Chapter Text

Crow’s movements felt numb as he slipped into the spare bedroom, retrieving a set of clothes he kept in the dresser. His body still ached and his hands still shook, but his mind was a cloud of shame and doubt and pain, circling his head over and over again. Worthless. He was worthless, a burden, good for nothing and dragging down everyone who cared about him. Why had he even asked to come to Saint and Osiris’s apartment, to impose himself on their hospitality if all he wanted to do was ignore them and be alone? 

He was pulled out of his thoughts by a light tap on his shoulder, Glint’s shell bumping into him. When he glanced over to look, his Ghost’s shell was pinched with worry, his fins tight around his eye.

“You’re not a burden, Crow.” Glint reminded him gently.

Crow had never wanted to build any barriers between himself and Glint. He knew some Guardians relied on a sense of separation in their mental links for privacy, but Glint had been all he had when he was first revived. He never wanted to shut him out, and they both knew how to keep to their own sides of the bond well enough when they needed to. If Crow wanted privacy, he didn’t need a wall to enforce it, and he didn’t need anything to stand between him and his Ghost.

There were, however, some drawbacks. When Crow spiraled into negative thoughts, he tended to broadcast those thoughts all across the bond. They rolled out from his mind in waves, so powerful it was inevitable that they lapped against the shores of Glint’s own mind. But his Ghost was always there to comfort him.

“I know.” Crow whispered. He felt so close to tears, swallowing them back. “I just–” He shook his head.

He turned from Glint, crossing the hall to the bathroom, he kept the door open until Glint could flit in after him, then shut and locked it. Just being able to lock a door behind him, even if he knew Saint and Osiris would never invade his privacy, even if he knew he’d never want to shut them out completely, gave him a sense of control that he desperately needed. He could lock the door behind him, choosing to place a barrier between himself and the rest of the world. He could decide who was allowed in and out, it was his choice. He’d never gotten anything like that with Spider. 

He pulled a towel from the cupboard under the sink, unfolding it and hanging it on the hook beside the shower. Reaching his arms above his head sent a wave of pain through his torso and Glint was there instantly, warm Light soothing the ache of bruises and torn muscles, easing the sensitivity around the gashes and cuts he’d already closed.

“Thanks, Glint.”

He dropped his arms, reaching for his armor instead while Glint turned the shower on with a hiss. Worming out of his armor was hard work, his range of motion limited by his aches and pains, it took long moments for Crow to finally ease his way out of the sturdy layers. When they were finally on the floor, he pushed off his underlayers with a quiet sigh of relief. 

His body was caked in blood and dirt. His own and others, it centered around the cuts and gashes he’d received during his mission. He was a sorry sight in the mirror. His eyes were rimmed with deep purple from lack of sleep, blood caked and clotted in his hair, red scabs of healing gashes on his cheeks. There were gashes across his chest healed to thin scabs, bruises on his hips, his thighs, his knees, he could even feel them on his back. There was blood smeared over his chest and back. Red stained his right thigh, thick clots torn between his clothes and his skin. 

During the fight, Crow had taken a scorn knife to the artery in his leg. He’d gone down, howling in pain. Glint had saved his life, pivoting all his attention to healing the injury so thoroughly and precisely that if not for the blood, Crow wouldn’t have even known it was there. He preferred the healing to death and resurrection, but the injury had cost him. Healing something so important put a drain on his Light, and even while Glint tried to compensate, the blood loss had left him woozy and unsteady, his ability to fight hindered for the next few minutes while Glint fought to heal him and help him recover. Now, Crow felt shaky on his feet for a different reason, pain, hunger, dehydration, exhaustion, there were a number of reasons, all drawing him thin.

He stepped away from the mirror, heading for the shower instead. On his way, he grabbed the shower chair Saint and Osiris kept just outside the shower. They’d gotten it after Osiris had awoken from Savathûn’s spell, a helpful bit of assistance given his sapped strength. They’d kept it around even after he no longer needed it because neither found any reason to get rid of it, and Crow had found it helpful more than once.

He set it under the spray, feeling the water with his hands before he slipped into it, dropping down onto the chair and letting the water flow over him. With his eyes down, he could see the way the water flowed off of him bright red, flowing towards the drain carrying dirt and blood clots. He let out a sigh that seemed to come from his bones.

For a while, he sat, letting the warmth of the water embrace him, letting his body sink back towards calmness. The water settled him, grounded him. It had a tendency to do so. The only time Crow had ever had access to warm water while he’d served under Spider had been once, when Spider had fallen asleep with Crow in his quarters, and Crow had dared to bathe in the kingpin’s chamber. It was a mistake he’d only made once. The rest of his time on the shore, he’d bathed in the crew facilities devoted to Spider’s men, where the water was usually almost frozen, lukewarm at the very best. Hot water was a pleasure he’d only experienced after he’d come to the city, something that had always been safe to him. It was a comfort, settling his mind and letting his anxiety drain out of him, flowing away like the blood slipping down the drain.

His arms ached when he washed his body off, even more so as he worked the blood from his hair. Saint had offered to help him but he knew the presence of another person would have only made him feel worse. Just thinking about allowing someone so close to him while he felt so vulnerable made his anxiety ratchet up again, and he purged the thoughts with a heavy sigh. He turned off the shower when he was done and wrapped himself in the fluffy towel he’d hung up on the hook. He sat on the edge of the bathtub for a little while, mustering the will to move, and he finally stood when Glint nudged him gently, using their bond to remind him that dinner would be ready soon.

He dried off and dressed, finally exiting the bathroom and bringing his clothes and armor to the spare room. He hung up his armor and set the dirty clothes aside, and he was just checking over his knives when Saint knocked gently on the open door.

Chapter Text

“Dinner is ready if you would like to join us.” Saint told him from where he stood in the doorway. He was standing sideways, so his shoulders didn’t block the door frame and Crow wondered if he’d done so intentionally, so that he didn’t feel boxed in. A part of him hated the comfort he felt at seeing the open space, and the potential for escape. “Or,” Saint continued, pulling Crow from his thoughts. “You can eat alone, if you would rather do so.”

“No,” Crow shook his head. “I can eat with you.” He set the knives he'd been inspecting down, heading towards the door. “I’m sorry I’ve been so–”

“It’s alright, Crow.” Saint told him, stepping back to allow him more space. He met Crow’s eyes, giving him a kind, sympathetic smile. “We all have hard days. I am glad you came here, rather than going through this on your own.”

Crow wasn’t sure he could speak around the lump forming in his throat, so he only nodded, his eyes darting from Saint’s gaze when he could no longer meet his eyes. Saint led him into the kitchen.

Crow ate quietly. Saint and Osiris talked, then Glint was drawn into the conversation and Crow was able to sit quietly, comfortable in letting the conversation wash over him. They cleaned up together, Crow washed the dishes while Saint and Osiris cleared the table and put away the leftovers. When they were done, Saint took Crow’s hand gently. 

He led Crow and Osiris to the couch, guiding Crow between them, Saint maneuvered him until Crow was in his lap, leaning against Saint’s chest, Saint’s hand resting on his back. 

“Is this alright?” Saint asked, and Crow nodded. He let out his breath, tucking his head into Saint’s neck and closing his eyes. 

Osiris sat beside Saint, lifting Crow’s feet into his lap, and Crow extended his leg to give Osiris better access when his hands began to massage his foot. 

“You don’t have to tell us anything.” Osiris began, his voice soft, tempered for Crow and his aches, “but if you would like to, we are always here to listen.”

Crow nodded again, and he had to hide his face in Saint’s neck again when tears stung his eyes. Saint’s hand rubbed soothingly up and down his back, the Titan pressing a kiss into his hair.

“Things have been really hard recently,” Crow began, drawing back from Saint only a little. “With my memories, I mean. Working with Petra and Mara, thinking about what he did and what happened to me because of it…” He let out his breath in a quiet sigh. There were days when he’d thought he’d come to terms with what Uldren had done, and what had been done to him in retribution. Other days, he felt adrift, unable to cope with the harsh, painful reality, like he was trying to walk over a field of hot coals that never seemed to end.

“Petra sent me on a mission and ended up leading me to Jolyon. She played both of us, we thought she was leading us to Scorn targets so I tried to kill him as soon as I saw him and he did the same until we realized. After that, we talked, and it was fine, but then I got into a big fight with a bunch of Scorn, which normally would be fine too, but everything together is just too much.”

He shut his eyes. Saint and Osiris were quiet as he spoke, and Crow tried to center himself in Osiris’s touch, still massaging his aching limbs, rolling his ankles in his hands and working his way up to Crow’s tense calves. They waited, like he had more to say, and Crow knew he did.

“Jolyon and Petra knew Spider took me in.” He breathed. He felt one of Saint’s hands rest on his knee and he reached down, picking up Saint’s hand and holding it in both of his. His hands shook against Saint’s. “They knew what he was doing to me. Maybe not all of it but they knew he was abusing me.” He scrubbed at his eyes with the back of his hand. He’d worked hard to acknowledge the truth of his experience, to put it into words and to acknowledge them without letting them hold too much power over him, but his emotional reaction was hard to dim. “We used to be friends. I know Uldren hurt them but knowing that they let me suffer like that–” He shook his head, tears blurring his vision. He pressed himself into Saint again, and the Titan’s arms came around him in a careful hug.

“I am so sorry, Crow.” He murmured, pressing his face into Crow’s hair. He could feel Osiris lean in, pressing a kiss to Crow’s temple, his hand holding Crow’s shoulder.

“The worst part is that I want to forgive them.” Crow whispered. “I want to be angry, I am angry, but I care about them, too, because he cared about them. I want them back even though I’m not sure I should. I just don’t know what to do.”

“That will be up to you.” Crow lifted his head and Osiris ran a hand through his hair. “You will have to decide whether or not Petra and Jolyon can earn your trust again, and you’ll have to decide whether or not they are worth a second chance.”

“That can come later.” Saint reminded him, leaning down to press a kiss to Crow’s cheek. “For now, you should try to rest. You can think about all of that once you are ready.”

“I know,” Crow breathed, “you’re right. Sometimes it’s just hard to shut my brain off. The more I think about them, the more I think about Spider and–”

“Crow.” Osiris interrupted, stopping him before he could spiral. He cradled Crow’s face in a hand.

“We will do something else, something to distract you.” Saint suggested. “There is a new episode of the series we all like, the one about the nice coach and the grumpy sports players. We could watch that.”

“Sure.” Crow agreed, and Saint grinned. 

They rearranged themselves on the couch, moving to the long end of the sectional. They crowded in together in a tangle of limbs, Osiris and Saint pressed together with Crow on top of them. Saint threw a thick blanket over the three of them and Crow tucked himself in close to their warmth.

Crow twisted back to look at them after the opening titles had played, leaning in to press a quick kiss to each of their cheeks. “Thank you.” He murmured. Saint and Osiris held him close the whole night.

Chapter Text

“What are these pieces called?” 

Zavala looks up from the armor in his lap, working polish onto his silver chest plate with an old rag. He sits on the rug at the foot of his and Safiyah’s bed, his armor spread out on an old sheet in front of him, with Hakim, eight and ever eager to learn, seated across from him.

Hakim’s fingers brush Zavala’s leg armor. Unbuckled from Zavala’s boots, the plates lay face up on the carpet. The silver matches the rest of his suit, besides the red of his undersuit, or the thick black pants that he wears below his leg armor. Saladin had always called the red a problematic color, too close to the color of blood for him to see an injury at a glance. 

“I suppose you’ll have to trust me to ask for help when I need it.” Zavala had told him. His mentor had not offered him a response.

“Papa?” Hakim asks when he does not answer.

“Those are my greaves.” Zavala sets aside the chestplate he was polishing, setting the polishing cloth aside with it. He rises to his knees, circling the sheet of armor to kneel beside his son. 

“They sit over my boots, here, let me show you.” He picks up his boots from the side of the sheet, sitting down beside Hakim. He pulls his boot on and laces it, tying it tight, as if he were going to battle now rather than just sitting on the floor with his son. Hakim reaches for the armor plates. He eagerly lifts the bottom half of his greaves from the sheet, the armor slipping from his fingers on his first attempt.

“Sorry.” Hakim tells him, though he smiles at his own mistake. “My fingers slipped.” He tries again, hefting the plate in both hands and passing it to Zavala. “They’re heavy.” 

“They are heavy.” Zavala agrees, and they certainly must feel so to an eight year old boy. “They have to be in order to protect me.” 

He sets the plate over his boot so that the crook of it rests against his ankle, only a few inches of metal over his boot while the rest covers his shin, a third section on top to cover his knee. 

“It has to be buckled on so that it doesn’t fall off when I move.” He explains to Hakim. “Would you like to help me?”

Hakim nods rapidly, his eyes bright.

Zavala shows him the pieces. First, the strap that anchors just in front of the slight heel of his boot, then the buckles that reach around to the back of his leg, behind his ankle, under his calf, another just below his knee. He does the first buckle tight and Hakim follows his example, tugging with all his might before he pushes the metal into the hole and tucks the leather through the buckle. 

Hakim smiles proudly when he finishes. Zavala cannot help his own smile, reaching out to ruffle his hair. 

“Well done,” he tells him, then hands him an oval cushion of fabric and foam, about the size of Zavala’s palm, with snaps on the back side. “Now, where do you think this goes?”

Hakim studies the armor intently. “Here?” He asks, laying his fingers over the plate on Zavala’s shin. “It connects to this piece?”

“Yes.”

“So it doesn’t go on your shoulder.” Hakim says, still examining the armor thoughtfully.

“No, it doesn’t go on my shoulder.”

Hakim stares for a little longer, then pushes Zavala’s foot back, moving his foot closer to his thigh. The movement brings the top part of the plate away from his knee and Hakim wedges the cushion between Zavala’s knee and the plate.

“Why do you need knee pads?” Hakim asks. His fingers find the snaps before Zavala can point the out, already setting to work snapping the pad into place. 

“Sometimes when I fight I find it easier or better to shoot while kneeling, or when I’m fighting someone I sometimes have to slide on my knees. It’s good to have a cushion when I do that.” 

“But I can slide on my knees without a cushion.” Hakim points out. Zavala is well aware, having spent hours trying to get grass stains out of his pants, then nearly an hour more trying to convince Safiyah it was a lost cause when she tried to do the same.

“But I suspect you’d rather slide on the grass, or on the rug than over rocks, or on this floor, wouldn’t you?” He leans over, knocking his knuckles on the hardwood floor of the cabin.

Hakim frowns, considerate. “Mama doesn’t like it when I slide on the floor, and sliding on rocks hurts.”

“It does.” Zavala agrees, “that’s why the knee pads help me. Sometimes I have to move quickly when I’m fighting, and sometimes that means doing something that might hurt, so my armor is built to protect me.”

“But you don’t need armor, right Papa?” Hakim considers the plates spread out around them, then looks back at Zavala. “Targe can protect you. And Mama says if you get really hurt, he can make you better. She says that when you two met you were always fighting to protect everyone.”

Zavala nods. “When your mother and I met, I was training under Iron Lord Saladin. We defended the fortress where your mother came to live, and offer her services as a doctor.” Zavala is well aware Hakim knows this. They’ve never tried to hide anything from him, and they've always been open about their pasts and have told Hakim the story of how they met more than once, but sometimes it feels like a fine line. Zavala doesn’t want to hide the Light and the nature of Humanity’s struggle from him lest it become foreign and alluring, but at the same time, he wants to keep his son safe. Too much pressure and emphasis on duty and Hakim will charge headfirst into battle before he’s ready to fight. “And you’re right, Targe can heal me, but I’d rather not be hurt in the first place. Do you remember a few weeks ago, when you scraped your knee playing outside?”

Hakim nods, pulling up the leg of his pants to point out where the scabs had been. “It’s all better now, see?”

“That’s the same thing Targe does for me. You feel better now, but scraping your knee hurt, didn’t it?”

Hakim nods again. “So you wear knee pads so you don’t have to scrape your knees?”

“Exactly. It's the same with the rest of my armor. It protects me from getting hurt."

Hakim makes a noise of understanding, but he stares beyond Zavala after a moment, his brows furrowing in concentration. Over time, Zavala has learned how to parent and listen to Hakim, so he waits patiently, settling in until his son speaks.

“Targe heals you using your Light, right?” Hakim asks after a long moment. Zavala nods. “But you can also use your Light to fight with, or to make things, like when we were in the woods and you grabbed that shield out of nowhere, that was Light?”

“It was.” Zavala confirmed. He’d been jumpy and tense after he’d spotted too many Fallen raiders too close to their house over the course of multiple days. He’d taken Hakim out to the woods to look for berries and a herd of deer charging through the brush had startled him enough to think they might be under attack. “I thought we were in danger.”

Hakim smiles. “I know, it’s okay, Papa.” 

Despite Zavala’s unease, Hakim hadn’t even been the slightest bit bothered. Zavala has seen him react appropriately to the risk of nearby Fallen, but he’d heard the sounds of the deer and hadn’t even wondered if they were anything else. He’d been so calm and assured Zavala had almost felt silly when he realized there was no danger. It was almost like he knew why the deer were running, or that he could somehow place the crashing leaves as deer even before they could see the source. Sometimes he suspects Hakim’s youth allows him some deeper insight into the forest, some innate knowledge Zavala can’t access. 

“Can you show me your Light, Papa?” Hakim asks, pulling him out of his thoughts.

“You’ve seen my Light.” Zavala points out, though he can’t help but smile at Hakim’s own hopeful, happy expression. He looks almost wistful, smiling up at Zavala like he wants to see something beautiful. It feels like he just asked Zavala to show him a machine gun like it was a rare flower.

“Not really. ” Hakim pushes himself to his knees, walking on his knees until he reaches Zavala and flops into his lap, leaning against Zavala’s torso and smiling up at him. “When you were fighting off those Fallen a few days ago, Mama didn’t want me to watch but I saw you make this huge glowing bubble and none of the bad guys could get in. It was beautiful, Papa, it was so bright and shiny. Could you show it to me? Please?”

He finds Zavala’s hands when he naturally wraps his arms around his son. Hakim takes one of Zavala’s hands in both of his own, holding it tight while he peers up at Zavala, smiling bright and hopeful. 

“Please, Papa?”

Zavala frowns like he’s considering, thinking long and hard about whether or not he should allow Hakim to see his Light. It was a question he asked himself once, full of fear that Hakim might want the power for himself, but he’s since given up such practices. He doesn’t hide his Light from Hakim, but the nature of their relative safety means Hakim rarely has to come into close contact with it. Hakim probably saw more Light when he was a baby than he has since they’ve built their house and moved in. He probably doesn't remember most of it.

“Okay,” He says finally, “ but ,” he adds even as Hakim pumps his fists in celebration. “I’ll only show you if you help set the table. Deal?”

“Deal!” Hakim jumps to his feet. “I’ll do it right now, Papa! I’ll be right back!” He sprints from the room so fast he nearly slips on a rug, catching himself on the doorframe, but he isn’t deterred as he rushes out of sight.

Zavala watches him go, a fond smile on his lips. He considers the rest of his armor and decides polishing can wait for another day.

Chapter Text

Osiris stands in the empty courtyard before Strider’s Gate. In the late hour, Neomuna is so hushed even the citizen’s virtual figures aren’t present, only Osiris. He draws Solar Light out from his core, a tense, taxing experience as he pulls, fighting resistance. Fynch finds him quickly. He is drawn to his Guardian like a moth to a flame.

He’d thought Osiris was sleeping. He’d left his Guardian in his temporary quarters in the Cloud Strider’s tower, on the middle levels, where the furnishings are human sized rather than Cloud Strider sized. He’d been monitoring the Vex readings at Osiris’s station, hoping that the assurance that work was being done would allow Osiris to feel free to rest. Now, Fynch realizes he cannot fault Osiris for his refusal to rest, not when Fynch had done the same. He doesn’t need sleep in quite the same way as Osiris does, but he too would find it taxing if his mind were to operate at full capacity all the time. He too needs rest.

He follows the pull from the bond between them, letting it lead him outside to the balcony where Osiris stands. How the Warlock had managed to slip by unnoticed, Fynch isn’t sure, but Osiris has surprised him since Fynch drew him out of his coma over a year ago. He does not expect that to stop anytime soon.

The pull lets up as soon as he sees Osiris, like their bond had drawn Fynch near, but Fynch doesn’t believe the pull came from the Warlock himself. It’s almost as if their Light, the power they share, had wanted the two of them to be together. As Fynch leaves Strider’s Gate, exiting the tower to flit over the balcony on which Osiris stands, he’s close enough to feel the way Osiris is reaching into his Light. Osiris reaches into the power in his core, pulling up little bits of it like trying to scoop water from a well with a single, bare hand. Fynch can feel the way it slips through his fingers, evading his hold, but Osiris is not deterred. 

Since Fynch healed him, his Light has been difficult to access. It’s not a problem to Fynch, not necessarily. He’d been prepared for the possibility that after waking Osiris from his coma, the Warlock would want nothing to do with him. He’d been prepared for Osiris to reject him, maybe even to kill him considering his old ties to the Witch Queen. But Osiris hadn’t done any of it.

From the moment he’d woken, Osiris has been kind. Not altogether happy, or content with what has happened to him, Fynch has seen him bitter, angry, wrathful, vengeful, wracked by grief and tortured by his own fears, but he has never been unkind to Fynch. He never believed that Fynch was wicked for raising the Knight he’d first chosen as his Guardian, or that he was trying to replace Sagira. Fynch had saved his life, and for that he was grateful. More than that, he was willing to see Fynch for the person he was trying to be, for the help he was trying to offer, the good he was trying to do in the world. Sometimes it felt like more than he deserved. Regardless, he did not expect Osiris to want to charge headfirst into battle for anything other than vengeance, so his relegation to a more advising role had not been a surprise. What has been a surprise, however, is how much Osiris has lost.

Fynch is somewhat convinced the failure is his own. Physically, even with the Light on his side Fynch and Osiris have found it hard to return Osiris to what he was. Osiris cannot eat enough to regain the weight and strength he lost, and try as he might, Fynch cannot heal or regrow the atrophied muscles across Osiris’s body. But the physical is only one part of it. Worse still has been the failure of Osiris’s connection to his Light. A failure Fynch blames himself for.

He has no evidence for the claim, no reason to blame himself, but with Sagira, Osiris was a brilliant fighter. With Fynch as his Ghost, Osiris still has his mind, however battered and bruised from the Witch Queen, but his mastery over the Light hasn’t come back. Frynch knows Osiris is capable, he can feel the depths of Osiris’s power. The amount of Light Osiris could channel are rivaled only by a few legendary Guardians, like Ikora Rey, who quite literally exceeded the measurements used to quantify Light. Fynch knows Osiris has been great enough to control all of that Light on his own in the past, so the failure must be with the new variable, him, Fynch.

Osiris is a master Warlock. He has been for centuries. Fynch can see it in the care with which he meditates, the comfort in his body as he moves around the Light. He can see it even now, though Osiris draws only a kernel of Solar Light to his fingertips, he holds it with the ease of someone who has handled raging infernos and done so with the same comfort. Fynch can see nothing inside him that might cause Osiris any difficulty with his Light, that might limit his capacity in any way, so it must be because of Fynch. He is some kind of inhibition to Osiris’s power, a dark stain in his Light, a barrier that separates him from what he once was.

“I can feel you thinking from here.” Osiris says, his voice so jarring Fynch jumps, lurching a few feet in the air before returning to where he’d been.

“I–” Fynch blinks his eye, looking around. He isn’t sure whether to stay where he is, or move to better see Osiris’s face, as the Warlock stands with his back to him. After a tense moment, he decides to stay. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to disturb you, I was just–I just noticed you weren’t in your quarters and I felt you using the Light so I thought I’d come out and check on you.” Fynch feels himself fidget, shifting his shell around himself as Osiris doesn’t respond. “But you’re here, so I guess I should just go back inside.” 

“Stay.” Osiris tells him, just as Fynch turns to head back into the tower behind them. 

“You—“ Fynch stares, “you want me to?”

“It’s easier when you’re here.” Osiris says. Fynch can feel him still reaching for his Light. It doesn’t feel any easier to him. “You’re meant to be here.”

“Oh.” Fynch murmurs. Spoken by Osiris, they have clear meaning. They mean a lot, it means a lot that Osiris wants him here, but when the ideas bounce their way to Fynch’s side of the bond, he can feel them ricocheting in his mind, changing meaning with every impact. He’s meant to make things easier for Osiris, he’s supposed to aid him, supposed to help him as he reaches for his Light, but he’s not helpful. He’s a hindrance at best, and inhibitor at worst.

“Stop thinking that way.” Osiris’s words cut through his thoughts and Fynch jumps again. 

“What?” Fynch blinks. Can he really play dumb when Osiris can quite literally hear his thoughts? “I wasn’t–”

“You’re comparing yourself to Sagira.” Fynch can feel the sharp stab of grief in Osiris just at mentioning her, the way his gut clenches, his throat tightening. He can feel his very Light respond, turning sharp and molten hot for a moment. “Stop.”

“I wasn’t–” Fynch stammers. “I didn’t think–”

Osiris lets out a quiet sigh. It’s only through the bond that Fynch can tell that it’s a means of venting his twisted emotions–grief, anger, remorse–and that none of it is any frustration towards Fynch. He’s grateful for the extra reassurance. Finally, Osiris turns to face him. His eyes meet Fynch’s, holding his gaze steadily.

“You think she was better at channeling my Light than you are.” He says. Fynch nods, sheepish, like he’s been caught red handed. He tries not to think about Sagira, at least not without pulling those thoughts far enough from their bond to keep them from drifting over to Osiris’s side, but sometimes he can’t help it. It’s impossible not to compare himself to her.

“Was she?” He dares ask.

“Of course.” Fynch feels his whole body sink, like the air between the gaps in his shell is deflating. Still, Osiris isn’t unkind. The words feel devastating but Fynch can tell they’re not intended to hurt. “She was better because she had practice, Fynch.” 

Osiris holds out his fist, like he were offering a spot for a bird to perch and Fynch comes to rest atop the back of his hand. The gesture is such a small kindness, just the slightest change to the usual way Guardians hold their Ghosts, but it means so much to Fynch. He’s seen too many Ghosts—Ghosts who looked like him, Ghosts who served the Hive the way he did—killed by Guardians with only a hint of their powers, he hadn’t realized he’d internalized the fear of being crushed in a Guardian’s fist until he flinched away from Saint and Osiris, and even Crow. Since then, the Guardians have stopped offering their palms for him to perch on. Instead, he rests on the back of Osiris’s hand, or Saint’s shoulder. Sometimes he ducks into Crow’s hood with Glint. He rests on Osiris’s chest when he’s sleeping.

“When I learned to control my Light, Sagira learned alongside me.” Osiris tells him. His voice is soft. He pulls up memories slowly, the same way he has with his Solar Light, easing his way past pain and resistance until he can make his way towards what he seeks. Fynch can see Osiris and Sagira, both of them in unbridled youth. He can see hours spent under the mentorship of the Iron Lords, and hours more while they experimented and explored on their own. “It’s easier to learn when in the company of other learners. Sagira never worried that she might be holding me back.”

“Am I?” Fynch asks quietly. He can’t quite hold Osiris’s gaze, even as the Warlock carries him to the steps that lead up to Strider’s Gate, seating himself on one with Fynch still perched on his hand. “Holding you back, I mean.”

“No.” Osiris shakes his head. 

His voice is so calm, so genuine. Fynch can be witty, and sharp, and bright, but more often than not he feels so different from Sagira. He worries that he might not be compatible with Osiris because he isn’t like her. He doesn’t want to butt heads or challenge Osiris, not yet anyways, right now, all he wants is comfort. But what if Osiris needs something different now? If Sagira were alive, Fynch expects Osiris would need her, but maybe it’s because of her death that Fynch and Osiris found each other. Maybe the Traveler brought them together so that they could carve out something new in the face of their pain, something smart, and bright, of course, but also a place of warmth and comfort. A place for support. 

Osiris’s face is thoughtful, his brows furrowed, his mouth pressed in a line. “My time with Savathun hindered my connection to the Light.” Osiris tells him. “That is not your fault. My difficulties here–” he lifts his free hand, showing Fynch the kernel of Light he can summon now, where a few years ago he could draw out an inferno with the same amount of effort. “--are not your fault. You aren’t holding me back. I simply have to learn to navigate my newest limitations, and hopefully uncover how I might mitigate their effects.”

Fynch nods, his gaze sweeping over the Light in Osiris’s hand as it sinks back into his skin. Osiris’s process of coping with his experience with Savathûn feels like another process of grief. Fynch isn’t sure there will ever be a time where it doesn’t hurt him, where the thought doesn’t sting and the memories don’t make his heart rate spike, adrenaline pushing into his veins, but despite it all, Osiris bears the pain remarkably well. 

“I’m sorry you had to go through all of that.” Fynch tells him, pressing his shell a little closer to Osiris’s skin. He tries to press an air of warmth and reassurance into their bond, the way Osiris does for him when his fears rage beyond his control.

“Thank you.” He lifts his hand, bringing Fynch up and leaning his head lightly into Fynch’s shell. Fynch leans into the contact, and he can feel warmth flowing back to him from Osiris’s side of the bond. “I’m glad you’re with me, Fynch.”

Fynch isn’t sure he can quite attempt words. He’s not sure he could capture his own gratitude, or the love swelling inside him the relief he’s felt since the moment Osiris accepted him as his Ghost, but the emotions flow freely through their bond. Fynch knows that Osiris can feel all of it inside him, and he leans further into the contact, pressing his shell into Osiris’s temple. 

“I’m glad you’re with me, too.”

Chapter Text

“Marcus?” 

Marcus turns at the sound of an unfamiliar voice, a Ghost flitting over to him while he stands in the hangar beside Amanda’s station. He snaps himself out of the near trance he’s been stuck in, staring at Cayde’s station, unmoving and silent. The workbench and the floor are covered in mementos. Flowers, trinkets, gifts and other little offerings clutter the space. Marcus has already pulled Colonel away from the mess when she’d started getting into food that she shouldn’t be eating, and he’s been watching the hen pick her way closer to the goodies for the past ten minutes. He doesn’t know whether or not to leave it all to Amanda, or get rid of it himself, and when? What should he even do with it?

“Are you Marcus Ren?” The Ghost asks him, drawing his attention again. Their Guardian stands off behind him, their arms crossed as they wait for their Ghost. They have their head ducked, a helmet covering their face, but Marcus can see them staring towards Cayde’s station all the same.

“Yeah.” Marcus turns towards the Ghost, nodding as he finally faces them. He isn’t in the mood to be noticed, much less fawned over, but something tells him this Ghost isn’t here for that. From the bond stretched between the two of them, he feels Didi take notice, a sharp bolt of intrigue spearing out from her side of their link. “What can I do for you?”

“Nothing.” The Ghost shakes his shell. “I have something for you, actually.” 

Marcus watches him look around, scanning the area to make sure no one’s standing too close. It’s the middle of the night. At this hour, the Tower feels dead. More dead. Marcus’s gut clenches, but there’s no one around to overhear the Ghost’s words. Amanda is the only one close by, and she’s laid back on a creeper, working on a ship engine with headphones turned up so loud Marcus can hear what songs she’s listening to. It’s the kind of music Marcus turns on when he wants to drown out his thoughts. He knows exactly why Amanda would turn to it now while she busies herself with work. She hasn’t even rolled out from under the engine in half an hour, but Marcus can see her working still.

“I’m Ghost. My Guardian,” the Ghost nods his shell back to the Guardian waiting for him. “Is the Young Wolf. We just got back from recovering all of Cayde’s stashes and he…” The Ghost fidgets, but he has Marcus’s full attention now. He pushes himself off the scaffolding he’d been leaning on, standing up straight to look in the Ghost’s eye. Marcus is something of a legend himself but everyone has heard of the Young Wolf. Everyone, including Marcus, knows that Cayde-6 died in their arms, and that they’ve been on a revenge quest in the Reef ever since. “He left something for you. Sort of. We thought you should have this.”

He looks down, picking a spot in the air for transmat and Marcus lifts his hands into the path, ready in time to catch the datapad the Ghost drops into his hands.

“So far that’s just the audio message.” Ghost explains. “We’re still sorting through all the stuff, but that datapad has our contact information. You can reach out and we’ll send you the list of everything he left behind and we can try to split things up that way. It’s–”

“A problem for another time.” Marcus says, just as the Ghost’s confidence is flagging. He holds up the datapad before pocketing it. “Thank you for bringing me this. I really appreciate it.”

The Ghost nods, his shell deflating like passing on the message is a relief, a weight off his metaphorical shoulders. Marcus can’t help but dread what’s waiting for him inside.

“Of course.” Ghost starts to drift back, towards his Guardian. “We’ll be in touch.”

Marcus takes the data pad to his private workshop, buried deep in the lower levels of the hangar. He keeps the heavy rolling doors shut, ducking instead through the small hinged door cut into one of the panels. Didi flips on the lights while he shuts the door behind them, his Ghost turning to face him.

“What do you think might be in this thing?” She asks, nodding her shell to the datapad in his pocket.

“I don’t know.” Marcus shakes his head. His whole body is tight with unease. Since he and Didi left the upper hangar, his gut has been plummeting down, down, down, filled with worry about what he’ll find. What kind of message would Cayde leave for him if he knew Marcus would only hear it after his death? What’s waiting for him on this drive?

A year ago, he might’ve joked it would be some kind of treasure map, a guide to some old Hunter’s den filled to the brim with loot. Back before Cayde started running in the Reef, before he started getting tangled up in the mess that was the Awoken kingdom falling to ruin without their Queen, Marcus might’ve actually believed it. Now, though, he doesn’t. The past few months have been hard. He hadn’t run with Cayde when he went out on his missions, but he’d seen and heard enough. Some part of him always knew someone wouldn’t make it out alive, he just didn’t know it would be Cayde.

He crosses the workshop, setting the datapad down on his workbench. He opens it with a tap, an audio file illuminating the screen before him. He lifts his eyes to Didi, her shell pulled close around her core, but she gives him a small nod. He taps the play button.

He can’t watch the datapad while it plays. It wouldn’t reveal anything to him anyways, so he turns to face his workshop, reaching his hands up to push his hood off as he runs his fingers through his hair. 

For a few moments, he hears the sound of the Guardian’s footsteps, soft breaths through their helmet, then the sound of them opening a cache. 

“This one’s for any Hunter who kills me.” Cayde says, his voice clear despite the recording. Marcus feels his stomach twist. “Best guess…Marcus Ren?”

Marcus’s hands drop to his sides, jerking his head back to look at the datapad. Shock ripples through him. The Hunter who kills him ? He wouldn’t, Cayde couldn’t think that he’d–

The Vanguard’s voice plows on.

“You realize you get my stuff now? All my stuff. Including the Hunter Vanguard gig.” Cayde says. “Yeah. Congra-tu-lations, dummy. That’s what we call a Vanguard Dare. Sucks, doesn’t it?”

Marcus’s breath feels punched out of him as he looks back towards the datapad. His eyes jump between the workbench and Didi, her shell pinched with worry. He didn’t kill Cayde, he wouldn’t, but what does that mean for his Dare? For him? Half the Hunters have fled the Tower for fear of getting caught up in the Dare. Anyone who qualifies is gone, all except Marcus, though even he’s been lying low since the news came. Cayde wasn't killed by a Hunter, so his Dare doesn't work, but does this audio recording change things? If Cayde thought Marcus would kill him, does that make him his successor?

Cayde, as usual, continues right along.

“Okay, brace yourself for some advice, hotshot.” Cayde tells him. “One, know your people. Like my Nessus scout, Quantis Rhee. I like to call her about once a moon, else she gets a little too much night, not enough stalker, you know?”

He’s still reeling, but this, Marcus knows. Cayde has done the same thing for him for years, jumping back in to be a tether for Marcus at precisely the moment he needs it. He might have needed to lean on the Vanguard more than once a moon, but Cayde never seemed to mind.

“Two! Keep your weapons sharp. Your job’s to watch everyone’s back, which means no one’s watching yours, but you. And three, start thinking now about what you want to do for your successor’s Vanguard Dare. ‘Cause trust me kid, this gig will kill ya.”

Marcus turns back towards the workbench as the datapad goes silent. Just like that, Cayde's voice is gone. No jokes, no teasing dig, or playful jab, and no goodbye. He’s just gone, and it’s up to Marcus to pick up the pieces. 

Chapter Text

“Marcus,” Enoch grumbles, bent forward as he sits on a log beside a campfire, a mug of coffee in his hands and one Marcus Ren draped over his shoulders. “Why do you insist on sticking yourself to me like a fucking leech every time you come back from patrol?” He grapples with Marcus one handed, holding his coffee mug away from the two of them so he doesn’t spill it, his other hand reaching for Marcus. First, he tries to pull him, tugging him forward or to the side, then he turns his elbows back towards Marcus’s ribs. Marcus presses himself closer, shifting this way and that to avoid Enoch’s attempts at pushing him off.

The Red War and the fight for the city is over, but autumn has started a steep descent into winter, striking hard. The cold has led them all to flock to campfires and any other source of heat while city reconstruction efforts are slowed by the weather. With most of the City’s inhabitants are still living in tents or haphazard shelters, camped out near the walls, from the patrol path around the city, it almost looks like Humanity is a foreign army poised to raid the city, their numbers calculable by the campfires dotting the horizon. But their invasion has since passed. It’s been nearly a year since they lost the city, and months since they reclaimed it and started to rebuild.

Since then, they’ve settled into routines. Marcus and the other racers run patrols around the city and the outlying camps, covering the ground on sparrows that would be too large to patrol on foot. Marcus has only just returned from an early morning patrol, bitter cold hugging the earth even after the sun had risen. As soon as he’d made it to the camp and climbed off his sparrow, he’d found Enoch at the campfire and draped himself over his partner’s back, eager to press into his warmth. Enoch tries again to dislodge him, but Marcus stays put. 

Marcus knows Enoch isn’t actually upset. He likes to fuss, but Marcus knows he really does enjoy their contact, and if he wanted Marcus to stop he’d have taken a more serious approach. Their complaints and teasing is part of how they show affection, finally coming back to them in the comfort and safety of the city’s reconstruction.

“Because.” Marcus pulls himself off Enoch’s back, only to round the log Enoch’s sitting on and drop himself into Enoch’s lap. Enoch, seeing him coming—because really, Marcus can be plenty predictable when it comes to Enoch—catches him without even spilling a drop of his coffee. Marcus throws his arms loosely around Enoch’s neck, planting a kiss on his cheek before he leans into Enoch’s warmth. “Second law of thermodynamics, baby.”

There’s a long moment of silence, both from Enoch and the others assembled around the fire, a few members of the racing league having just returned or waiting to go out on patrols around the city. Marcus lifts his head off Enoch’s shoulder, looking across the flames to the other racers. “Come on. Someone must know it.”

Didi appears beside him and Marcus can see the way her shell lifts as she’s about to speak.

“Hang on, Didi. I know you know it, just give them a minute.”

“No one cares about your nerd shit, Marcus.” Boaz tells him. Marcus rolls his eyes.

He looks back at Enoch, leaning in until they’re nearly nose to nose.

“I know you know it.” He tells his partner, smiling at him. “You listen to me talk enough.”

Enoch frowns at him, but his hands still come up to hold Marcus’s waist, holding him steady on his lap. He leans his head into Marcus’s.

“You can’t just tell me?”

Marcus shakes his head. “Guess.” He tells him. “I’m almost positive you’ll get it.”

“Almost?”

“Almost.” 

Enoch sighs, but Marcus can see him considering. “You said thermodynamics?”

“Yep.” He presses his nose into Enoch’s cheek, still cold from his patrol. “It’s happening right now. The second law.” He pulls one of Enoch’s hands off his waist, holding it up so that his warm hand is pressed to Marcus’s ear, so cold they’re almost numb. He’d taken off his helmet so that he could feel the wind on his face despite the cold. 

Enoch watches him thoughtfully for a long moment. “Hot things make cold things warmer?” He guesses at last.

Marcus grins. “Bingo.” 

He’s a moment away from pressing his lips to Enoch’s for a job well done when a gagging noise sounds from across the campfire, and he and Enoch look up to find Ariadne and Boaz staring at them. Ariadne’s brows are raised, with Boaz leaning off to the side as he mimes vomiting. 

“You two really need to get a room.”

Chapter Text

“You want to do what? ” 

“Marcus, that’s crazy. You’re crazy.”

“Seriously, you can’t just–”

“Will you please just listen to me?” Marcus snaps, rising from the log he’d been seated on, glaring across the firepit at his friends. “You haven’t even heard my side.”

“Your side?” Ariadne demands. “Your side is a hero worshiping duty complex that’s going to get you stuck in the Tower doing a job that you’re not meant to do.”

“Gris is right.” Boaz crosses his arms over his chest. “This isn’t you, Marcus.”

“Guys.” Enoch cuts in, shooting Ariadne and Boaz a glare. “Let him talk.”

“Thank you, Enoch.” Marcus nods at his partner. Enoch nods back, and Marcus lets out his breath in a sigh. He can’t bring himself to sit back down, instead pacing behind the logs that sit around the firepit. “I just need you guys to see this from my perspective.”

“From my perspective, you’re an idiot.” 

“Thank you, Ariadne.” Enoch speaks fast enough to nearly cut her off, shooting her a sharp glare.

“Just listen.” Marcus tries again, stopping his pacing long enough to make eye contact. He’s pretty sure if he has to wrangle their attention one more time either he or Enoch will lose it, and Enoch looks closer to snapping than Marcus feels, which is saying something. “Cayde left this message for me.”

“Cayde left this for whoever killed him.” Boaz points out. “Last I checked, you aren’t Uldren Sov.”

“But he thought that I could. ” 

“So?” Boaz asks. “If you really wanted to, you probably could. It would be tough but I think you could come up with something clever to–”

“No, I don’t mean physically capable, I mean–” Marcus breaks off, raking a hand through his hair. He shoots Enoch a look, because he must get what he’s trying to say, but his partner just gives him a weak shrug. 

“I mean,” Marcus tries again. “Cayde thought that I might have a reason to kill him one day. Me.”

“Yeah, clearly he was fucked in the head.” Ariadne cuts in. “You’re his fucking protégé.”

“No!” Maybe Marcus is going to snap first. He forces down a deep breath. “He wasn’t messed up. He taught me how to look after people. All the advice in this message is things he’s been teaching me, he just never said them to me outright. So if he left this message for me, he must’ve thought I’d only kill him for a good reason.”

“Like what, Marcus?” Ariadne’s frown looks a lot like a glare as she points it at him. “Why would you ever want to kill your Vanguard?”

“I wouldn’t. Cayde knew that. I’d only ever kill him if I thought he was hurting us, and that the Vanguard needed someone better.”

“So?” Boaz demands. “Let someone else take his spot and kill them if you think they’re doing such a bad job of it.”

“No, you don’t get it!” Marcus can feel his whole body tensing, the need to fight rising. “I can’t just leave it up to someone else. Not when this means Cayde wanted me to be the one to take over when he couldn’t lead anymore.”

“I think you don’t get it, Marcus.” Ariadne rises from the log she’d been sitting on. She crosses the space between them in a few quick strides, jabbing a finger into his chest. “You are so obsessed with doing what Cayde would have wanted, you aren’t thinking straight. This job won’t just take you off the track, Marcus, it’s going to get you killed. I’m not going to sit by and watch that happen.”

For a moment, the only sound is the snapping of the campfire. Marcus stares as Ariadne glares at him. Her anger seems to pierce straight through him, taking the wind out of his sails for a moment. But the moment doesn’t last, his anger swelling straight back up in the face of her confrontation. 

“So what do you want me to do? Sit by and watch the Vanguard fall apart?” Marcus snaps back, and suddenly they’re all shouting.

He doesn’t hear Ariadne’s retort, not when he scowls and turns away, tuning her out. Boaz is already yelling his points from behind her, but he and Enoch rush closer when Ariadne yanks his arm back to force him to face her, Marcus pushing her off on instinct. For half a moment Marcus thinks they’re about to come to blows before Enoch sets a hand on Ariadne’s shoulder and suddenly all the fight seeps out of her. 

“Think about this, Marcus.” She tells him, her voice quiet. “Please.”

Ariadne shrugs off Enoch’s hand. She heads away from the fire, towards where their sparrows wait a safe distance away. She dons her helmet and climbs on. After a moment, Boaz follows. Marcus and Enoch watch them race away, until the howl of their engines is only a dull hum in the distance. 

“Marcus.” Enoch tries, gently. He reaches out for Marcus’s hand.

He lets Enoch take his hand, but only for a moment, giving Enoch’s hand a soft squeeze before he pulls away. 

“I need to take care of something.”

Marcus heads straight for the Tangled Shore. Not for revenge, what’s done is done. Instead, he takes on a gauntlet, a set of rocks lashed together, barely cohesive enough to be called a run. It’s a place of legend. They say Yaviks the Rider made it through and lived. He’s willing to bet money that she didn’t, but he tries it anyway.

Marcus Ren attempts the Ragged Valley four times. He doesn’t make it through. The first three attempts claim three sparrows, the fourth taking his body with them. But he tries again, one last time, and on the fifth he scrapes through, narrowly avoiding two rocks clashing together behind him. He doesn’t believe that Yaviks could have made it out alive. Maybe that’s a kind of revenge. 

Chapter Text

“Easy there, Blue.” Drifter’s voice cuts through his thoughts and Zavala eases up on the Stasis under his control, spooling his power, this manipulation of time and energy, back into himself until he can feel reality and time naturalize itself, his influence leveling off to neutrality. Finally, Zavala allows himself to release his hold entirely, letting up with a quiet sigh of relief. Drifter grins when Zavala meets his eyes. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you look a little intimidated.”

“Then I’m glad you do.” Zavala retorts, though the sentiment seems to fall flat, his words not quite firm enough to sound decisive. 

In truth, he is intimidated. He’s almost certain they all know that. Zavala certainly knows it, from the fear that continues to writhe in his gut no matter how long he has been kneeling here in the cold, tense as he fights his own shivers, attempting to wield a power so foreign to him it feels dangerous to even think about. 

He’s sure Eris knows as well. When Zavala approached her about Stasis in the first place, he’d tried to communicate at least some of his trepidation, and Eris has always been better at seeing than most. Drifter, he imagines, can tell just from the time he’s spent observing, watching Eris instruct him for a painstaking hour before she released him to his own practice, monitored by herself and the Drifter. Zavala has felt Drifter’s eyes on him for all of the hours they’ve spent here in this courtyard, even when the rogue had stepped inside to warm himself by the fire they built in the little observatory building beside them. It’s unnerving how much his presence lingers over Zavala, and yet, he’s grateful he’s here. 

“You’ve been at this for a while.” Drifter points out. 

He’s been watching Zavala work for an hour, lingering in the archway that leads in to one of their campfires, off to the side of the observatory. For the past hour, he’s watched Zavala freeze and melt a crystal created by Eris, a base around which Zavala could slow the water molecules within the air, stilling them until they froze to the crystal, suspended. When he felt his control weakening, he’d ease off, letting the molecules return to the time around them, speeding up to normal. Then, he would gather his strength, and begin again. 

“You must be getting cold.” Drifter says. 

Zavala doesn’t look at him, instead staring at the crystal in the snow before him. Zavala is freezing. The effort and the stress of dealing with Stasis had made him sweat, the cold temperatures cooling the sweat on his skin until Zavala feels frozen solid, fighting not to shiver. Zavala can’t see himself, the Stasis offers some reflection, but not enough to make out much, but he suspects his lips have gone from Awoken blue to purple in the cold. He can hear the fire snapping in the chamber just behind Drifter. He can smell the smoke drifting on the breeze, but he stays where he is. After all, Zavala has never been the best at knowing when to allow himself to rest. 

“I’m fine.” He tells Drifter. He feels close to exhaustion, but he wants to feel confident with Stasis, and that won’t come without practice. He has the time to practice now, something he can’t guarantee in the future. He lifts his hands towards the crystal again.

“Blue, really, I don’t think you should–”

Footsteps sound on the stone walkways, and Zavala looks up to see Eris emerge from the building beside them, her gaze fixing on Zavala.

“Commander, come inside.”

Zavala looks between her and the Drifter, the rogue stepping back from where he’d been about to descend the steps towards Zavala, seemingly to intervene should he try to keep practicing. He lowers his hands, rising to his feet with a quiet sigh.

Their campfire sits in the corner of the cement room, sheltered from the wind. Zavala watches the smoke rise, curling and slipping through the gaps in the dome above them, where the roof might’ve parted for an old pre-golden age telescope to look out on the night sky. The cement floor beside the fire is warm, and Zavala drops down to sit in front of it, inching as close to the flames as he dares, letting the heat drive out the cold that’s settled into his bones.

“You don’t need to master this on your first attempt.” Eris tells him, seating herself beside him on the cement floor. 

Zavala’s breath flows out of him in a sigh. “Yes, but some progress would be nice.”

“You cannot force this, Zavala.” 

Zavala stares into the flames, then lets his eyes slip closed. Even his eyes feel cold, like the contact of his eyelids is a warm blanket being draped over them. He opens his eyes again, then strips off his gloves, holding his bare hands out towards the heat of the fire.

“What’s got you so tied up, anyways?” Drifter asks, leaning on the wall on Eris’s other side, his eyes on Zavala. “This seems like a little more than just Vanguard taboo.”

Zavala shakes his head, looking back down at the flames. “After we first discovered Stasis, the Guardian came to debrief with me regarding their missions on Europa. From what they told me, they didn’t take to Stasis particularly well at first. For them, it was draining, and frightening, something they couldn’t control, something manipulating them because they needed it. For the longest time, that was my understanding of Stasis. That’s why I fought against it, barring it from the Vanguard.”

Zavala sighs, readjusting his hat, tugging it lower over his ears. 

“I’ve been trying to see the truth in it, but being here now feels like I’m dismissing the power I once thought it held. It feels like I’m leaving myself vulnerable for it to hurt me, if it so chooses.”

He lifts his eyes from the fire, watching Eris and Drifter exchange a look. Maybe it’s the cold outside, at odds with the heat of the fire, but for a moment Zavala thinks he sees more color in Drifter’s cheeks than a moment ago. Drifter clears his throat with a cough.

“It’s a tough pill to swallow, Commander, you’ve got that right.” He says after a moment. “Even without all your baggage on top of it. But hey, maybe it’ll pay off. After all, the best things in life don’t come without a little risk.”

Zavala sees what he means when Drifter seats himself beside the fire. He leans his shoulder into Eris’s, subtly, nonchalantly, until Eris leans back, and then her head is resting on Drifter’s shoulder. He has to look away when their fingers lace between them, but Drifter is right, and maybe one day Zavala will move past his aches and pains to be willing to risk the same, or at the very least, find the progress he's been searching for. 

He lets the fire push the chill from his body, shedding his layers as the warmth envelops him. When he's ready, he rises to his feet once more and dons his layers. He returns to the crystal in the courtyard, sinks to his knees before it, and tries again.

Chapter Text

“You seem troubled.” 

Zavala glances behind him at the sound of a familiar voice, Ikora Rey approaching the balcony on which he leans.

“I–” He glances away, but there is little he can do to deny her observation. He cannot go back in time to hide his unfocused glare from her view, nor can he strip away the darkness that still seems to hang over him. “Yes.” He admits at last.

“Why?” Ikora leans on the balcony beside him, staring out at the wilds beyond the Tower while Zavala turns to look at her more fully.

He has known Ikora Rey for a long time, known of her, associated with her here and there, but they have not worked together for long. In many ways, he feels he’s still coming to understand her. He is continually surprised by her deep compassion and empathy, the moral fire that burns in her for justice. On the other hand, he is still trying not to shrink from her inquisitive gaze. There exists a thought in the back of his mind that tells him she is judging him, even when he’s almost certain she isn’t.

“Are you not upset?” He asks her. 

They had just left the meeting room, a scout having delivered a report to them regarding finding the bodies of a fireteam of Guardians that had been working to uncover more information on a largely unexplored Vex threat. Three Guardians in body bags and three Ghosts set before them, laying lifeless atop a sheet on their meeting table. They’ll be laid to rest with their Guardians, but none of that is enough for Zavala.

“I am.” Ikora tells him. Her face softens incrementally. A few months ago, Zavala might not have noticed. “But this seems worse for you. More personal.”

“Yes.” Zavala’s eyes fall to the railing. He lets out his breath in a quiet sigh. “I suppose I blame myself, but it’s more than that.”

Ikora regards him expectantly when he lifts his eyes and Zavala bites his lip.

“I have questioned our roles in the past, the role of Guardians.” He says quietly. “We’re meant to be protectors, but sometimes it feels like all we do is kill and destroy, or be killed ourselves. Even after we ourselves are killed, we aren’t able to rest, we’re instead brought back to fight again.”

Zavala’s eyes are locked on the mountains beyond the city. He thinks about once, when he was full of pain so bitter it felt as though his insides were being sliced with knives of grief, he turned a gun on his Ghost in the hopes of ending his unceasing pain. He regretted the instant he leveled the gun. All he did in that moment was cause more pain.

“Have you ever heard about the origins of zombies?”

Zavala blinks, but Ikora continues on.

“According to the original myth, zombies were reanimated slaves. After dying as a result of their labor, they were brought back with magic so that they might be forced to serve their masters once more. This fate denied them the peace they were meant to receive in death and became the ultimate horror for the living slaves, as it meant their toil was unending. Later, the zombie moved into fictional mediums, coming to represent the worker under the system of capitalism that plagued Earth before the golden age.”

Zavala stares out at the vast landscape beyond them. Even without turning to look at it, he can feel the Traveler’s presence behind them, looming over the city. Were they brought back for similar reasons? To fight an unending battle, a never ending torment and toil? Is that why they lack the memories of their previous lives, so that these fears cannot take hold in them?

“That’s not who we are, Zavala.” Ikora cuts through his thoughts. “We might’ve been brought back, but it’s a mistake to believe we were brought back only to serve the Traveler. Service is a part of our role, certainly, but it is not everything. Feel the Light in your veins and tell me it does not feel like a promise of life.”

“Lately, it’s felt only like a promise of death.” He lifts his eyes to Ikora’s and watches her frown, then she pushes off the railing to stand up straight.

“Come with me.” She leaves before he can argue.

Zavala has to struggle to keep up as she makes her way back into the building behind them. They weave past their meeting station, then to the level where the hall lets out into the central Tower courtyard. Here, she takes Zavala up to the railing that looks out over the Last City, stretched out for miles below them. 

“You were facing the wrong way.” She tells him, then gestures at the city below them. “The Light built that. We built that. Not because we were forced to, but because we wanted to.”

Zavala’s eyes trace over the city, the lights like a thousand glittering gems, like the stars have been mirrored down onto the earth before them. Zavala remembers lifting stones to build the wall. He remembers digging gardens. He remembers the camps they lived in together, the way they looked out for one another, laughed together, loved together. He remembers the life and beauty in the toil. Even during the worst moments, it was never the nightmare Ikora described. 

“I know you’ve experienced great suffering.” Ikora tells him quietly. No one in the Tower knows the full story, but since Zavala arrived at the camp that became the city, there have been whispers of the life he tried to live with Safiyah and Hakim before it all crumbled into tragedy. It weighs over him more now that he bears the title of Vanguard. “But I don’t believe the Traveler brought you back to suffer. I don’t think it brought any of us back to suffer, even if we must endure pain.”

She takes his hand, offering it a gentle squeeze. “There will be light on the other side of this. I promise.”

Zavala nods. “I know.” He murmurs. He sends Ikora as grateful a look as he can manage. “Thank you.”

Chapter Text

“Petra.” Jolyon snaps, charging into the throne room built in the Guardians’ command ship. “You had no right!”

Jolyon has never been one for emotional displays—he’d left those up to Uldren for so long he didn’t know he was even capable of creating one anymore until now—but anger courses through him, driving him towards the Queen’s Wrath as she stands at one of the Vanguard holo devices. He doesn’t look at Queen Mara, on her reconstructed throne, or at the Techeuns and Corsairs scattered around the room. He notices them only as much is habit after many lifetimes spent in combat, but his focus is on Petra.

“Jolyon.” Petra turns from the display she’d been facing. She looks relatively unruffled in the face of his anger, but he’s known her long enough to know she’s irked, he can see the tells in her posture, the tightness of her grip as she crosses her arms, holding her biceps.

“You had no right to send me after him!” He growls, “no right to interfere after everything you–”

“I was looking out for you!” Petra snaps back, taking a step towards him. It takes no time at all for her to bend to his anger. Petra is a fire just waiting to be let out.

“Enough.” Queen Mara’s voice rings out over the room, projected through the space. At least she isn’t mad enough to yell. When Jolyon turns to look, she’s standing before her throne. “If you two intend to argue you will take it someplace else.” Her eyes and tone do most of the scolding, but she backs off slightly after a moment. “The chamber below is available.”

Jolyon presses his lips together hard, but Petra nods, dipping her head to the queen.

“Apologies, my Queen.” She tells Mara, already heading for the staircase. Jolyon tries and fails to stifle a frustrated sigh. When he echoes Petra’s words, his voice is quieter, gruffer than Petra’s dignified manner, but Mara doesn’t comment. He follows Petra down the staircase, into the room below the throne.

“I understand that you’re angry with me,” Petra begins, taking up a spot standing at the table in the center of the space, facing the open doorway. “But if you’d just–”

“Angry? I’m furious.” Jolyon tells her. He can only meet her gaze for a heated moment before he has to look away.

“Jol-”

“No,” he raises a hand. “Let me talk first, or this conversation won’t get very far.”

Petra lets out a quiet sigh, but nods. “Fine.”

“You had no right to send me after Crow, and no right to send him after me. You had no right to interfere with my choices after you ordered me to stay away.” He moves to stand before the table with her, but he can’t, pacing the space instead, pressing his fingers into his scalp before letting his arms fall back down to his sides. 

“Jolyon, I told you that was over a long time ago.” 

There’s no more anger in Petra’s voice, just exhaustion, and something else he can’t quite place. He’s not sure if it’s pity or something more. Does she pity him for not letting go? For not being able to move past this? The thought ignites another wave of anger in him and he has to face away from her. He didn’t get the kind of closure with Uldren that she got.

Jolyon squeezes his hands into tight fists. He wants to yell. To scream. But the walls around them aren’t fully enclosed. He already feels like he has to keep his voice down to avoid being heard by everyone above them. Letting out his breath as quietly as he can manage, he turns back to face her.

“Did you do it?”

Petra might’ve brought him and Crow together against his wishes, but it doesn’t make the knowledge he gleaned from the encounter any less important. Or the knowledge he didn’t glean.

“Do what?” Petra asks, her arms crossed over her chest. She’s playing dumb, he knows she is.

“Did you kill him?” He steps towards her as he speaks, every word almost a growl but Petra holds firm, her posture steady. 

“You would have if you were in my position.” 

“Answer me!” He has to force himself to keep his voice down.

“I won't.” Petra tells him. She holds his gaze. “Whether it was me or the Guardian, it doesn’t matter, Jolyon. That’s not why you’re hurting now, and it has nothing to do with why I brought you two together.”

“Then why did you do it?”

“Do you know what he’s planning?” She asks. Jolyon nods. 

Crow had told him, just as he’d been leaving, that he was trying to talk Mara into letting him go into the Traveler, after the Witness. Jolyon had just stared. It felt like years ago, when Uldren had told him he was going to the Black Garden. That they were going into the Black Garden. Would this kill him just like that had? Corrupting him bit by bit, until there was nothing left? Nothing of the man he once knew?

“You know he might not come back.” 

“Seeing him should have been my choice .” It's like he's caught in a loop, unable to acknowledge the truth in Petra's words. He's hurt so deeply he can't feel anything else. He can hear his voice breaking, his resolve crumbling into the deep, aching pain he’s been carrying for so long.

“If something happened to him, and you hadn’t seen him, you’d never have stopped regretting it.”

Jolyon finds a stool off to one side of the room, dropping onto it and slumping over his legs. He braces his elbows on his knees and holds his head in his hands.

“You could have told me.” He whispers.

“Would you have gone?”

Jolyon can't answer, but he lifts his eyes when Petra kneels in front of him, looking him in the eye.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you, Jol.” She tells him, her voice gentle, “but I wasn’t going to stand by and watch you get in your own way. I wasn’t going to let you watch him slip away.”

She sets a hand on his shoulder. 

“I know he hurt you.” She murmurs, “and I know how hard it is to process all of that anger. I was vicious to him for the longest time, even before he had his memories. He didn’t even know why and still I threw everything at him.

“He isn’t Uldren, but he isn’t a stranger, either.” Petra leans down to meet his eyes when Jolyon looks away from her face. “Talk to him, please? On your own terms this time?”

Jolyon lets his eyes drift shut, wringing his hands tightly together as he leans forward on his knees. At last, he lifts his eyes to Petra again and nods.

“I think about it.” 

She gives him a small smile.

“That’s all I ask.”

Chapter Text

“Crow,” Saint begins, and already Crow feels himself frown at Saint’s tone, hesitant and worried, though he can tell Saint’s trying to hide it. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

Crow can’t quite bite back his frustrated sigh, looking away from Saint. “Can we not go through this? Mara already put me through this same thing. I can do this, I don’t need to justify myself—”

“Crow.” Osiris cuts in, frowning at the sharpness in Crow’s tone. Crow feels guilt begin to curl in his gut as soon as he looks at Osiris. The warlock doesn’t even need to mention his slight. Osiris soothes the feeling a moment later, setting a hand on Crow’s shoulder and leaning in to press a kiss to his jaw. “The reason we’re all asking you is because we care about you. It is not a question of your ability.” 

Osiris’s kiss doesn’t quite soothe the frustration in him, and Crow watches Osiris as he stands straight again, walking towards the bathroom attached to the bedroom. The three of them are in the process of getting ready for bed. Saint is already under the blankets, having just set aside his book—real paper, not loaded onto a data tablet, so it must be from Osiris’s collection—on the nightstand to focus his attention on Crow. Crow leans against the footboard just below Saint’s legs, one foot propped on the edge of the bed, just outside the box spring, the other folded atop the blankets, a datapad resting atop his knee. 

“Then what is it a question of?” Crow asks, calling after Osiris as he ducks into the bathroom. Osiris steps into the open doorway, toothbrush in hand. 

“It’s a question of why. ” Osiris says. Saint nudges Crow with his foot. 

“We all believe you are capable of going,” Saint tells him. “You are very strong, but we want to know that you’re going because it’s what you want to do, what you feel is right for you.”

“Why else would I go?” He’s not even trying to keep the frustration out of his voice anymore, but Saint offers him a sympathetic smile in response.

“To find purpose?” Saint suggests. “To achieve something great? Quests that might seem noble to Guardians at first can often be the most dangerous.” He lowers his head, catching Crow’s gaze and holding it. “I can understand what it is to feel lost. Venturing into the unknown is not always the best cure.”

Crow shakes his head, glancing between Saint and Osiris, still lingering in the bathroom doorway as he brushes his teeth. 

“It has to be me.” He tells them, and he watches Saint’s face plates crumple.

“That is what I’m most afraid of.” The Titan confesses, his voice quiet. Osiris ducks into the bathroom. 

“Think about it,” Crow pushes, like that will resolve any of Saint’s fears. “Mara and I still have our connection. If I go, then she can use it to lead everyone to me. We’ll open the door and everyone else will be able to follow me.”

From the bathroom, Crow hears the sound of splashing water, then the tap turning off, and Osiris emerges from the doorway. 

“You’d be going after the Witness by yourself.” He points out. Crow’s mouth falls open. 

“I thought you were on my side with this.” 

“I am,” Osiris holds up a hand to placate him. “But even still, we should not ignore the risks.” 

Saint looks caught between disbelief and horror. It quickly sharpens to something Crow can only place as the single look for are you crazy? “You agree? You want him to fight the Witness? Alone? Osiris–”

“Saint-” the former Warlock shifts his attention to Saint, rounding the bed to perch on the edge of the mattress, beside him. “He will only be alone until we can get the Guardian in after him.”

“Which could take months. ” Saint argues. “We have no idea what we’ll be facing. What if there is no way to open this ‘door’ from the inside? What if you get stuck?” He demands of Crow, “or worse–”

“Saint–” Osiris tries to cut in. 

“I’m the only one that can do this.” 

“That does not make it your duty.” Saint snaps, his voice loud enough to silence the room.

For a moment, no one moves, then Saint nudges Osiris out of the way, climbing out of the bed. Crow and Osiris watch him stand, pacing the floor of the bedroom for a moment before Osiris rises, stepping into his path and pausing him gently, his hands holding Saint’s arms. Saint reaches out a hand to cradle his cheek.

“I cannot forget the amount of times I have lost you.” He murmurs. Crow thinks of the infinite forest, of Osiris’s work pulling him away, of his capture at Savathûn’s hands, and all the time he spent unconscious. Saint presses his forehead to Osiris’s. “For so long you were beyond my reach.”

He lifts his head, meeting Crow’s eyes where he still sits on the bed.

“I do not want to experience the same with you.” 

Crow swallows hard. “I know.” But he can’t change his decision. He can’t let someone else do this for him, it has to be him, there is no other option. “I have to go.” He whispers. 

“Come here.” Saint opens his arms, and Crow hurries straight to him, grateful for the crushing hug Saint pulls him into. He feels the Titan press his face into his hair, breathing him in, holding him so tight it’s like he’s worried Crow will disappear from his arms if he doesn’t. Saint presses kissed to the top of his head. “You will be very careful.” Saint tells him without letting him go. “You will go in, and you will use all of your Hunter stealth to avoid any danger whatsoever. You will not even think about going near the Witness. You will open the door and you will come back to us. Do you understand?”

Crow feels himself smile as he leans into Saint’s hold. “I will.” He promises, and in return Saint presses another kiss to the top of his head. 

Saint and Osiris hold him close when they crawl into bed together. Crow presses into their touches, relishing them as much as they are him, and for the night he pushes his mission to the back of his mind and rests in the company of his lovers. It won’t be the last time, not if he has any say.

Chapter Text

“This fondness you have for him,” Queen Mara says, her eyes resting on Osiris. “You did not have the same feelings for Uldren.”

Her request to explain goes unsaid, but Osiris can hear it anyway, existing between the lines of her words. She regards him expectantly as she leans forward, taking the cup of tea he’d just poured for her. He does not serve her as his queen, Osiris is well aware she knows as much, but as a friend offering her a polite gesture. He takes his own cup, relaxing into the seat across from her.

“No,” Osiris confirms, taking a small sip from his cup, “but you do not need me to tell you, he is not Uldren.”

“He is like Uldren.” Mara points out. “In many ways. Seemingly more by the day.”

Osiris chuckles quietly. Crow has only just left them, after they were able to convince Mara of Crow’s plan—with Osiris’s support, of course—to enter the Traveler utilizing Savathûn’s wish, he’d left to tend to his Vanguard duties, though it had been clear as day that he was restless. As soon as Mara had agreed—begrudgingly, more of an acquiescence than a true accord—Osiris could see Crow itching to go, to strike out into the unknown and to fulfill the destiny set before him.

“He is eager to please.” Osiris allows, and Mara’s expression darkens slightly. Osiris clears his throat, hoping to move beyond the darkness of the thought he’s sure Mara has gotten caught up in. “But he is different. He has experienced a great deal already. He has been hurt in ways Uldren could not be.”

Mara’s eyes bore into his. “You like him because he has been hurt.” 

Osiris knows her manner to be teasing, even if most others would find it threatening, and he shakes his head. 

“He is humble.” 

This gets a smile out of Mara, and she lifts her teacup to her lips.

“Is he now?” She asks, taking a sip of her tea. She has one leg neatly crossed over the other at the knee, sipping her tea with all the grace of a queen, her smile almost feline, and Osiris smiles back.

“More than Uldren.” He tells her. “In case you’ve forgotten, he was insufferable, and he hated Guardians. I have no interest in those who would dismiss me outright.”

“You were never just a Guardian in my court, Osiris.” Mara reminds him, but she gives him a nod, her face growing somber. “There is much brutality I could not protect him from.” She lifts her eyes to his. “Both of you. I’m sorry for that.”

Osiris feels his body tense, the reflexive intake of breath, the adrenaline that spirals through his veins at the mere mention, at the mere thought of his experience with Savathûn. He remembers seeing Crow for the first time through the filter of Savathûn’s eyes. He remembers the way she preened, delighting at the violence and trickery dealt from Spider’s hands, and at her own craftiness as she folded herself into his scheme. Had Osiris been there, he would have—

“You could not have prevented what happened.” Osiris tells her, driving the thoughts from his mind like rushing from shadows into sunlight on a cold day, trying to reenter the warmth. “And it is thanks to you that I was freed from her.”

“And thanks to your Guardian.” Mara takes another sip from her tea, but her somber expression doesn’t lift. “I’m sorry I couldn’t do more for Saint.”

“Mara.” 

Mara shakes her head, lifting a hand. “No, you're right. There are more battles ahead.”

Osiris nods. “And we’ll be alright. Crow has gained much since the Guardian freed him from Spider, and Saint and I are recovering well.” 

It’s more of an admittance than he would normally allow himself, just shifting his recovery into a current state of being rather than something past. His body is mostly recovered from what Savathûn did to him, but he’s not sure his mind will ever be the same. The process might be ongoing for as long as he is alive. Normally, to admit such a thing would feel like defeat, but Mara’s smile is kind and sympathetic, thankful for the trust they both know is in Osiris’s honesty. 

“And after this?” Mara asks, gesturing towards the open doorway through which Crow left. “The three of you are close, I imagine dealing with Crow being gone won’t be easy.”

“I don’t think any of us will find it particularly easy.” Osiris sends her a knowing look. “But it is only temporary, he will come back.”

Mara draws in a deep, steadying breath. “Yes, and we’ll make sure of it.” Osiris nods, and Mara lets out her breath, then takes a sip of her tea before setting her cup back on the table. “Well, what else do you like about him?”

Osiris regards her for a moment, brows furrowed. “Why are you asking?”

She shrugs. “I want to see him from your eyes.”

“Very well.” He lets out his breath, combing his thoughts to put his admiration into words. “He is a quick study. As much as I hated that Savathûn could pull through my mind as she did, she taught him a great deal from our collective knowledge. He’s sharp witted, he’s been able to help me out numerous times in the past.” Osiris’s hand finds his tea cup, but he doesn’t lift it, tracing his fingers over its surface. “And, despite everything, his experience hasn’t made him jaded. He gets frustrated, as we all do, but he’s still…” he meets Mara’s eyes. “Very kind. He’s thoughtful. He advocates for those who need his support. I think the Shore taught him a kindness most wouldn’t have been able to learn from the same circumstances.”

“I’ve heard what he’s done for the House of Light.” 

Osiris nods, watching Mara look over the room around them. They’re in the HELM, in the room below Mara’s throne. Osiris can’t ignore the symbolism of it, the fact that both of their respective peoples are tied closer now than they’ve ever been. Sharing spaces like this is more integration than they’ve ever had before. Mara seems to sense his thoughts.

“I know I haven’t always seen eye to eye with you and your people, but I’m glad we’re here.” She nods to the ship. “All of us, humanity, the Guardians, the Awoken, the Cabal, the Eliksni, we’ve been working towards this for a long time. I’m glad we’ve made it here, for the fight ahead.”

Osiris lifts his teacup, taking a sip as he nods to her. “And none of it would have been possible without you.”

“Or you.” Mara reminds him. “I remember you were among the first to suggest to Guardians that you were not so different from the Eliksni. Do you think that didn’t leave an impression on them? On Saint?”

Osiris nods his thanks, a small smile on his lips. Osiris lifts his teacup towards hers. “To the battles to come.”

“To bringing down the Witness.” She clinks her teacup into his and they toast to the future.

Chapter Text

“What’s that?” Osiris set his hand on Saint’s back as he stepped up behind him, standing beside where Saint was perched on a stool inside their walk-in closet, a maroon sweater in his hands. Of course, he could tell it was a sweater just by looking at it, but it was one he’d never seen before, too small to be for him and much too small to be for Saint. Unfortunately, Osiris had a sinking suspicion of who it would fit rather perfectly.

“It was supposed to be for Crow,” Saint told him, his voice hard with a mix of frustration and disappointment. “I was saving it as a present for today. And now…” He trailed off. 

Crow had left to pursue the Witness inside the Traveler only a few weeks ago, but his absence hung heavy over Osiris and Saint. Osiris was trying to be resilient about it, Saint was as well, of course, but Osiris couldn’t help but think he shouldered the burden better, detaching himself from the fear and worry for their partner rather than letting it hang over him in a dark cloud the way it seemed to linger over Saint. More than just his fear, it seemed Saint was consumed by a bitterness Osiris realized only later that he should have expected from his partner. He’d left Saint behind too many times for his departures to not leave scars, and having Crow leave now was like attacking those scars, beating the flesh that had never been able to heal as strong as it had been before. It twisted him, made him bitter, and hollow, stuck in the throes of a darkness Osiris could never entirely burn off. At least for now.

Unfortunately, with the Crimson Days now upon them, a celebration dedicated to love and partnership, there was very little Osiris could do to distract Saint from the missing member of their little flock. Especially not after how thrilled Saint had been for Crow to finally spend the holiday with them, invigorated at the prospect of showering him in affection and sharing all the holiday had to offer.

Osiris looked over his partner, Saint’s head still ducked as he stared down at the sweater in his hands. This was not the only gift Saint had set aside for Crow. He suspected it would be a long, trying day. 

“It is difficult,” Osiris acknowledged, running his hand up and down over Saint’s back. “But there will be others, we will get another chance to spend—”

“You don’t know that,” Saint snapped, interrupting Osiris and standing so quickly Osiris could only stare after him as he stepped away, only turning back to face him when he was a few paces from him. His voice was loud in the little room, shockingly angry.

“Saint–”

“You have no idea what he will find in there, Osiris. You cannot be certain–”

Saint’s anger was already flagging, just like that the fight was seeping out of him, already pushing towards despair and pain. He held the sweater in tight fists, his features shifting from tight, pinched anger to something more drawn out, long, tired sadness. 

“Saint,” Osiris whispered. He crossed the space between them slowly, then reached out for one of Saint’s hands, taking it in both of his.

“You can’t know that he’ll come back.”

He looked down at Saint’s hand, turning it over and running his thumb over Saint’s knuckles. When he lifted his head, he offered his partner a sad smile. 

“No, I can’t,” he agreed, his voice soft. “But I believe that he will.” He squeezed Saint’s hand, and his lover’s face pinched again, this time with a wave of aching sadness. 

Osiris reached up, cupping Saint’s cheek in a hand, he brushed his thumb over the hard pane of Saint’s cheekbone. “I know you’re scared,” he whispered. “But he will come back.”

Osiris watched Saint’s optics flicker out, remaining dark for a long few moments like he was pinching his eyes closed. Finally, he stepped around Osiris, guiding him by his hand back to the stool Saint had been sitting on before. He sat down again, holding Osiris’s hand in his own and staring down at them. Osiris nearly prodded him to speak before he drew in a deep breath.

“Osiris,” he began, his voice very quiet. “When I followed you into the Infinite Forest, I died.”

Osiris felt his hand tighten around Saint’s. Why would Saint—it wasn’t as though he would ever forget–

“You may have rewritten time to bring me back, but the fact that you had to bring me back in the first place still stands.” He lifted his eyes to Osiris’s, looking older and more world weary than Osiris had ever seen him. His eyes showed Osiris a man who had endured not only the countless deaths of a Guardian, but also the pain and suffering of a final death, something Osiris himself had never experienced. 

“I know you sacrificed a great deal to bring me back to you.” Saint brushed his thumb over Osiris’s knuckles. “And I know this is not a sacrifice you can make again.”

“Saint–” he whispered, broken, aching, suddenly he felt cut up, shards of himself just as he had been when he’d learned of Saint’s death in the forest. “Saint–”

Saint shushed him quietly, guiding Osiris to step closer, to stand between his legs as he sat on the stool. His hands cupped Osiris’s face. 

“Forgive me, my love, if I am not optimistic about Crow. I am not sure I am capable anymore, not after everything we’ve been through.”

“But,” Osiris shook his head, stunned. He felt like he was trying to reanimate his body, trying to snatch back control over his limbs, pushing for his own agency. It was all too familiar a feeling. “But we’re together now, Saint. The important part is that we survived. Banishment, the Infinite Forest, Savathûn, Sagira’s death, we’re both still here–”

“But I didn’t , Osiris.” Saint drew in a deep breath, letting it out in a sigh. “We’re here now, but neither of us could come back from what we went through if we experienced them again. If Crow meets a similar fate inside the Traveler, there will be no saving him.”

“Then you must believe he won’t, ” Osiris said, through grit teeth, his free hand in a fist so tight his knuckles were white. He was a logical man, always, but if force of will could bring Crow home safely, he’d give himself over to it in a second. 

Saint lifted his eyes to Osiris’s again, and Osiris felt his gaze upon him, his face softening just as Osiris realized the moisture clouding his eyes. Saint wiped a tear off his cheek with his thumb, and he guided Osiris close to him, wrapping his arms around him.

“You’re right,” he whispered. “I’m sorry, my love. You’re right. I did not mean to upset you.”

Osiris let Saint draw him into his arms, holding onto his partner almost passively, because he had no other option, no other idea of what to do, but the words were not comforting. It was hopelessness, a vast, empty nothingness Osiris had come to know so intimately under Savathûn’s thrall, a pit he’d dragged himself out of using Saint’s love, Saint’s hope, Saint’s fire. He’d never imagined he’d find Saint there in his place. He wasn’t sure he had the strength to pull him out in return. In all his time in the Infinite Forest, he'd never felt more lost.

Chapter Text

“Osiris,” Saint says, a frown twisting his plates, “what have you done to your hands?”

He reaches out to take Osiris’s hands into his, focusing particularly on Osiris’s left hand. A red scratch has scabbed over on the back of his wrist, reaching towards his thumb, with another old cut just below the knuckle of his middle finger. The rest of his skin is dry and cracked, and after time out in the cold it feels as though if Osiris were to hit something too hard, his entire hand would bleed. 

Osiris follows Saint's gaze down.

“Nothing,” he mumbles, even as Saint inspects the old cuts, running his thumbs over the scabs. “It’s just so dry, the smallest thing will draw blood.” He points to the scab below his knuckle. “I did this with my own fingernail by accident.” He shows Saint the fingernails of his right hand, not held by Saint's hands. There’s only a small sliver of white visible at the ends of his nails, not nearly enough for him to suspect he might scratch himself without effort. 

“You must take care of yourself, Osiris,” Saint reminds him, squeezing his hand. 

“I’m not neglecting myself, Saint,” Osiris protests, frowning.

“No?” Saint teases, his voice warm. “Tell that to your hands, my love. Where is that lotion I bought you?”

Saint leads him into their bathroom, releasing Osiris’s hands to dig through the cupboard under the sink until he emerges victorious with a bottle of lotion. It’s not something Osiris would have bought for himself, with a Ghost he never needed such things, and Saint’s own skin calls for a different kind of care when he does not replenish himself with the Light. But Saint, thoughtful as he always is, bought the lotion for him a few weeks ago, likely after Osiris commented on his skin being dry. Aside from a few times after emerging from the shower, he hasn’t made a habit of using it.

“May I?” Saint asks, poised to pour some of the lotion into his own hand.

Osiris nods, and Saint smiles. 

From anyone else, Osiris would’ve found the practice ridiculous. Saint’s skin doesn’t absorb the lotion, so there’s no use in him getting it on himself, but he pours a little into his hands and rubs them together, then works his hands over Osiris’s. He’s methodical and careful, attentive and clearly engaged as he massages it into Osiris’s skin, paying particular attention to the cracked backs of his hands. With anyone else, it would feel stifling, coddling in a way that would make Osiris feel condescended and belittled, but he’s long since learned that there is a difference, with Saint. 

Saint rubs his thumbs over the back of Osiris’s hand, massaging the lotion into his skin and Osiris can see how much it pleases him from the small smile on his plates. He knows how much Saint enjoys taking care of him. He knows Saint is well aware that he can take care of himself, but he draws a special pleasure from doting on him from time to time, showing his affection in attention to detail, and a focus on the little things, like the dry skin of his hands. 

Saint adds a little more lotion to his hands, then works his way up towards Osiris’s wrists. He coaxes more lotion into the backs of his hands and into Osiris’s knuckles, growing rough from dryness, then works the backs of his wrists. Slowly, his hands creep upward, until there is no more lotion on his hands and he is instead massaging Osiris’s arms with gentle squeezes, working his way up his forearms, towards his biceps. 

“I see what this is,” Osiris murmurs, a smile on his lips as Saint uses his grip on Osiris’s arms to draw him closer.

“What?” Saint asks, all faux innocence even as he presses his face to Osiris’s cheek. He layers kisses over Osiris’s jaw, moving slowly. His hands climb up towards Osiris’s shoulders, squeezing harder as the muscle becomes more substantial.

“You and your nefarious purposes,” Osiris tells him, and Saint chuckles into his neck. He takes a small step back so that he can set both hands on Osiris’s shoulders and work his thumbs deep into the muscles above his clavicles. Osiris groans, his hands finding Saint’s hips as tension he hadn’t even realized was there suddenly unfurls under Saint’s touch, the pressure wringing bliss out of ache. 

“I am never nefarious.” Saint presses kisses up the column of Osiris’s throat when Osiris lets his head fall back. “I am perfectly innocent.”

“Of course you are,” Osiris returns, though it’s hard to argue any point when his eyes are half shut and he can feel his muscles turning into jelly under his lover’s care. Saint hums, sounding very pleased. He guides Osiris’s head forward, working the muscles on the back of Osiris’s neck and Osiris melts into his touch, leaning his body into Saint’s and resting his head on his partner’s shoulder.

“You spend too much time at your desk,” Saint tells him. “You hunch.” He massages Osiris’s neck with one hand, the other slipping under the hem of his shirt to run over Osiris’s lower back, anchoring over his spine. “Do you know what the Guardians are calling it these days?”

He finishes rubbing Osiris’s neck and sets both his hands to work on Osiris’s lower back, his fingers kneading the muscle on either side of Osiris’s spine.

“What do they call it these days?” Osiris’s eyes are completely shut, his face tucked into Saint’s neck.

“They call it ‘shrimping,’” Saint informs him. “You ‘shrimp,’ hunching over like the sea creature.”

Saint wrings the tension from his lower back, then his hands begin to still, sliding over Osiris’s skin rather than massaging with pressure. He runs a hand slowly up and down Osiris’s back, and Osiris sighs into his neck.

“That is inaccurate considering their typical shape,” he murmurs, and Saint laughs quietly. Osiris can’t resist pressing a soft kiss to the side of Saint’s neck. 

“They are not referencing the shrimp when it is alive, Osiris,” Saint tells him. He lifts Osiris’s chin, pressing a slow kiss to his lips. “They mean when the shrimp is food, served on a big platter at parties, dozens of them.”

He can hear Saint’s smile in his voice and Osiris is smiling too. Not at the shrimp—he couldn't care less about what the Guardians call slouching these days—but at the intimacy of their touch, the comfort of Saint’s hands running over him, the way he can purge Osiris’s tension in a matter of moments. He is so, so in love with Saint-14 that even a discussion of shrimp is the most pleasing thing he can think of, so long as his partner is with him.

“Well, I hope I don’t look like that,” Osiris murmurs into Saint’s lips, and Saint hums, chuckling quietly. He rubs his thumbs over Osiris’s hip bones, ducking his head to press more kisses to his throat and the side of his neck.

“No,” Saint agrees, “though if you were served to me on a platter,” his plates tease at Osiris’s skin, a soft bite. “I would not be able to resist.”

Saint is still smiling when Osiris drags him into the bedroom. 

Chapter Text

“Easy,” Zavala coaxes, squinting past the chemlight in Hawthorne’s trembling fist to see her face. “Breathe with me now, inhale.” He draws in a slow, exaggerated deep breath, watching Hawthorne copy him nearly through clenched teeth. “Exhale.”

He waits until Hawthorne has pushed most of her breath from her lungs before he pierces her skin with the needle again, pulling Hawthorne’s wound closed with a tight knot. 

“ Fuck, ” she hisses, though, to her credit, she exhales just as Zavala instructed, pushing out the last of her breath in a string of curses. She wipes her nose with the back of her free hand when she finishes, drawing in a few more shaky breaths. 

“You’re a Guardian,” she says once she begins to recover herself, “where the hell did you learn how to sew?”

“I am a rather old Guardian,” Zavala points out. He lifts his eyes expectantly, and Hawthorne pushes out her breath once again, shutting her eyes when Zavala pierces her skin again to make another stitch. “This,” he ties another tight knot and Hawthorne makes a hiss of pain, “was a necessary skill for me to learn in the Dark Ages. I wish I could say I haven’t done it since.”

They share a look, memories of the Red War no doubt flashing through both their minds. After arriving on the Farm, Zavala pitched in like everyone else. Commander or not, he patrolled beside militia and lightless Guardians alike, calling back his old skills in the event of an injury occurring too far from the Farm for anyone more suited to tend to it. 

“But,” Zavala continues, “this is only temporary. I’m taking you to a city doctor as soon as we get out of this.”

“Trust me, you won’t hear me complaining.” Hawthorne promises, casting her eyes around the cave they’ve found themselves in.

They’re somewhere in the Dreaming City, a place Hawthorne had told him she’d always been interested in seeing. With the morale of the Corsairs low after the realization that even Riven could not undo the curse that keeps them trapped in the time loop within the Dreaming City, Zavala thought they might benefit from meeting another tireless fighter, one without Light or Awoken magic on their side. They met with the Corsairs on their arrival, then headed out into a nearby lost sector hoping to clear out some of the threats plaguing the Awoken forces. Unfortunately, the curse is at its height during its third week. Everything around them is covered in Taken blights, the Darkness so sick and foul it makes Zavala’s own Light uneasy. 

Hawthorne had taken a shot to the thigh running from one sniper’s perch to the next, thankfully nothing too deep, the bullet easy to remove and the wound a simple patch job that can be fixed up in no time once they return to the city. Still, Zavala doesn’t want to linger. The sector might be cleared, but his anxiety hasn’t, and with Hawthorne’s blood on his hands, he knows his unease will remain until he sees her well again.

“You think we’re taking these games a bit too seriously?” Hawthorne asks. 

Zavala pauses, looking up from his work to meet her eyes. 

“I don’t think this is about the games,” he admits. It had been established without question that Hawthorne would compete in the Guardian Games again with him and the Titans, the routine something that has become familiar since she first badgered him into it years ago, but there’s a much stronger pressure lingering over Zavala now. He isn’t here, in the Dreaming City at the height of its curse cycle because he wants to win points in a competition. “Do you?”

Hawthorne’s eyes fall, studying the wound Zavala is still holding closed with the fingers of his free hand. A stitch or two more will likely do the trick until they can reach a proper doctor. In the Dark Ages, Zavala’s battlefield care would have been good enough to not even warrant being redone, though he might have cauterized the wound with his Light back then, too. For Hawthorne’s sake as well as his own, he doesn’t even suggest such an act. He has no intention of smelling burning flesh and hearing any more bitten off screams, and certainly not from one he’d call a friend. One Dark Age was enough. 

“No,” she answers after a long moment. Her eyes pinch as she shoots him a sympathetic smile. “I bet you’ve got a lot on your mind.”

He snorts, returning his eyes to his work. “That’s an understatement,” he tells her, looking up when his needle is ready.

Hawthorne lets out her breath again, and she holds steady as Zavala makes another stitch in her skin.

“I know you’re the strong and silent type,” she says after taking a deep breath, “but I want you to know that I’m here. And more than just me. You’ve been through a lot, and the people around you see that. We all want you to lean on us when you need us.”

Maybe it’s cruel to Hawthorne, but he does another stitch before he responds, checking over his knots and digging the bandage she’d brought out of her pack.

“I hope we won’t come to needing militia support in this fight,” Zavala tells her, “but we will need you at home. I don’t think the Guardians will be able to pursue the Witness and maintain their hold on the walls and the territory surrounding the city all at once. We need to be free to move to where the worst of the danger is.”

“Of course,” Hawthorne responds easily. “We can make that happen.”

Zavala gives her a thankful nod, of course they will plan details later, but he lets the topic drop as he sets the bandage over her wound, wrapping it tight around her thigh. 

“Regarding the more personal,” he says, his voice soft, his head down as he works. “I appreciate that, thank you.” He manages to lift his eyes for a moment, and Hawthorne’s face is open and kind. “I know I could be better at accepting help.” 

Hawthorne shrugs. “The harder the job, the harder it is to hand over the reins. I get that.” Hawthorne was running the Farm by the time the Guardian brought him back from Titan. Even as the Vanguard Commander, with centuries of combat experience on his side, he’d seen the difficulty she’d felt trying to hand over tasks to him before she knew him. But he proved himself to her, and Hawthorne has long since proved herself to him as well. 

He ties off the bandage, tucking in the loose ends and packing away his tools. Hawthorne experimentally shifts her leg, and Zavala watches her face tighten in pain almost immediately.

“I have painkillers on my ship,” he tells her, “can you make it that far?”

“Medicinal or alcoholic?” she asks, and Zavala chuckles quietly.

“Both, I suppose.” He tucks the supplies into a pouch on his belt, then rises to his feet. “Take this,” he pulls his sidearm from the holster at his hip, handing it to her and slinging her sniper rifle over his shoulders. “It will be easier to fire one-handed.”

“Yeah, no kidding,” she huffs, accepting the gun without complaint. Targe transmats another weapon into its place, a hand cannon the Vanguard had just begun distributing to Guardians, but he leaves it in the holster, instead reaching out both hands to Hawthorne. She clasps his arm with the hand not holding the sidearm, letting him ease her to her feet, his free hand holding her elbow. Once she’s stable, he moves around to her wounded side. 

There’s too much of a height difference between them for her to comfortably put her arm over his shoulder and rely on his support that way, so he winds an arm around her waist instead, her arm coming around him in turn, her shoulder leaning into his side.

“Ready?” 

Hawthorne’s face is twisted with displeasure, but she nods anyway.

Chapter Text

The walk out of the cave is a nightmare until they run into a cluster of Taken. Hawthorne struggles at his side, limping heavily and leaning her weight into him. He keeps his pace slow for her but it feels like they’re crawling through the cave until the Taken arrive and Zavala uses the arm he has around Hawthorne’s waist to lift her up and deposit her into an alcove out of the line of fire. He brings the Taken down in seconds, turning back to find Hawthorne watching him with a look that seems both impressed and disappointed. 

“Just carry me, Zavala,” she tells him when he offers his arm again, “we both know it’ll be faster.”

He lifts her into a fireman’s carry. He’s sure it’s not the most comfortable for her, but it enables him to stand upright, even to run if he needs to, and he can wield his hand cannon one handed while he holds Hawthorne’s arm to keep her steady. He sets her down as soon as they’re inside his ship, easing her down onto the bunk behind the cockpit. 

“Medicine or alcohol?” 

Hawthorne sighs, sinking into the bunk. “You’re taking me to a doctor after this?” He nods. “Medicine. I don’t need any doctors yelling at me.”

He smiles, but he can’t help but agree. It would certainly be irresponsible of him to send her drunk to a doctor to be patched up. He digs in the back of the ship before he brings out a box filled with a selection of painkillers, most of them things he’d never taken, held onto for lightless’ sakes. He sets the box in front of her, Targe emerging to watch while he finds her a water bottle and pulls a chair up to sit in front of the bed. He seats himself close enough to reach her, leaning forward to check over the injury on her leg. 

She makes a small hiss of pain when he checks over her injury, but he bandages her back up as gently as he can, setting the box aside once she’s taken her pick. Targe gives Zavala a nod of his shell before he disappears into the cockpit, and within a few moments, the ship lifts off gently from the ground.

“My wife taught me to sew,” he says after a long moment of quiet, only the hum of the ship interrupting the silence. He can’t quite meet her eyes, his own gaze down on his gloves and the blood crusted into them. 

Hawthorne is silent for a moment. “I didn’t know you were married,” she tells him at last, and he nods. 

“We met during the Dark Age, I was being mentored by Lord Saladin when she came to our fortress offering her services as a doctor. She ran the hospital there for a time before the two of us left to make a life for ourselves.”

He manages to lift his eyes to her briefly, finding her eyes on him. She doesn’t ask what happened to her, or how it all turned out for him. His situation must be clear enough from where he’s ended up for her to know nothing between them could have lasted, at least not as long as he has.

“We built a house together in the mountains.” He lifts his eyes to the slit window on the slanted ceiling above them, watching the stars glide past them. “We adopted a son, a baby whose parents had died. His name was Hakim.”

Zavala can’t help the way his throat tightens. He looks up at the window, blinking hard in an effort to discourage the tears that want to well in his eyes, then peels his bloody gloves off his hands. Even without them, he doesn’t feel clean.

“What happened to him?” Hawthorne asks gently. 

In another situation, Zavala might’ve thought the question cruel. Hawthorne can see how cut up he is by his past—they’ve been friends for long enough that she can recognize that this is something that pains him not only from his reaction but also from his refusal to mention it before the present moment—but she asks anyways, like she’s probing at a cut, drawing pain there without realizing. In this situation, however, Zavala can’t help but believe Hawthorne can see through him, that she can understand how desperate he is to speak, how much he wants to change and open himself up to her. He wants more than anything to offer these truths to her not as some sort of peace offering, as a consolation for her own hurt, but because Zavala has lived for centuries behind a stone wall of his own making and he is so, so tired. 

“He died,” Zavala croaks. A foregone conclusion, but saying it makes it real in the space around them, the truth existing beyond the confines of Zavala’s mind. “He was only a teenager. Our house was attacked by Fallen raiders and he followed me into battle. I couldn’t protect him.” 

“I’m so sorry, Zavala.” 

Hawthorne gives him a sympathetic smile when he finally lifts his eyes, and Zavala chokes down a shaky breath, his hands trembling in his lap. 

“Come here.” Hawthorne pats the bunk beside her and Zavala moves to her without comment, rising from his chair and sitting on the bunk beside where Hawthorne reclines, leaning back on the cushioned wall behind them. Hawthorne eases herself closer, until she’s leaning into his side. When he strips away his heavy pauldron and armplates, she settles her head on his shoulder.

“How does your leg feel?” he manages after a long minute of silence. He feels like his breathing is still unsteady, trembling in his lungs. Everything in him aches to collapse into sobs, and he allows himself to lean just a hint into Hawthorne’s side.

“It hurts like a bitch,” she answers, though her voice is only minimally pinched from the pain.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have brought up…” he trails off, gesturing vaguely around them when he cannot come up with a suitable word for his old traumas, “that. Not while you’re injured.”

“It’s alright, Zavala,” Hawthorne promises, reaching down to squeeze his arm. “Sometimes it takes a little vulnerability to feel safe enough to open up.” 

Zavala shuts his eyes, unable to face the truth of her words head on. He draws in a deep breath, letting it out slowly.

“Thank you for telling me,” she says, her voice quiet. “I’m sure that must’ve been hard, but it means a lot.”

She wraps an arm around his, hugging his arm gently, and Zavala lets his head rest atop hers, suddenly feeling the weight of all his years. Hawthorne just sinks into the contact, sighing deeply.

He’s drifting towards sleep when Targe transmats the rest of his armor away, leaving him in his undersuit, soft layers both for him and Hawthorne as they lean into one another. They’re both asleep when the Ghost transmats a blanket over them, and the pair sleep soundly the whole ride back to the Tower. 

Chapter Text

Zavala nearly flinches at the sound of Shaxx’s laughter, booming in response to something Saladin said, the joke having washed over Zavala completely in his haze of thought, though the volume of Shaxx inevitably forces his attention back to the men in front of him. 

It’s a striking concept, to be frank, Shaxx and Saladin no longer at each other’s throats, or glaring daggers at one another, the space between them becoming filled with silence so sharp Zavala could mistake it for physical blades. Now, Zavala wouldn’t say that they’re entirely cordial, but the anger and resentment has faded into something so much more comfortable it still takes Zavala off guard. If someone had told him, a year ago, that he would be sitting at a table with Shaxx and Saladin and that Shaxx would laugh at one of Saladin’s jokes, not ruefully, or intended to taunt but genuine, hearty laughter, he would have believed the person was only attempting to pull his leg. 

Now, however, the awkwardness of navigating Shaxx and Saladin’s sudden reconciliation has faded, bringing the three of them closer to what they once were, though Shaxx and Zavala have long since graduated from Saladin’s tutelage. Despite the heat and duration of their disagreement, Shaxx is not a vengeful man, at least not towards one as close to him as Saladin once was. It was pride and sheer force of will that maintained their disagreement for so long, not anger. Zavala suspects Shaxx would not agree entirely with such an assessment, but he maintains the belief all the same. With the disagreement since cast aside, Shaxx’s curiosity has returned in full force. Throughout their time together this evening, he has peppered Saladin with questions about his life now. What is it like to live among the Cabal? How does the Empress treat him? What do her troops think of him? The intensity of his interest is so much that Zavala would not be surprised if such questions had been festering in Shaxx’s mind since the agreement with the Empress was first struck years ago. 

“Zavala,” Saladin interrupts his thoughts once more, his face colored by a warm smile, likely at the joke he and Shaxx just shared, though there is concern lingering beneath. “Are you well? You’ve hardly spoken.”

“My apologies.” Zavala looks down at the table, picking up his glass of wine and taking a sip. Shaxx pushes a small basket towards him, a single bread roll sitting within, likely saved for him to eat, neglected by his inattention. “I was lost in thought.”

“What of?” Shaxx’s posture is relaxed, leaning back in his chair, he has a hand resting atop the table, the stem of his wine glass between two fingers, his other hand set atop his thigh. In a private dining room of a restaurant they frequent—though Zavala has spent the last century coming here with either Shaxx, or Saladin, never together—its secluded enough for Shaxx to even remove his helmet, something Shaxx does rarely beyond the confines of his own spaces, and only in specific company. His Ghost is attentive enough to transmat it back into place before the waitstaff can slip past the curtained doorway that separates them from the rest of the restaurant, a simple act once one has gotten used to it. 

“Your disagreement,” Zavala answers, and Shaxx and Saladin share a smile. Rather than Shaxx gloating about Saladin having finally admitted defeat, the pair seem to have settled into an agreement, that both were justified in their emotions and that there is no use allowing it to divide them further. Though striking, it's a breath of fresh air to Zavala. Still, he isn’t above teasing them for the centuries before such reconciliation was reached. “I thought your pride would be the death of me.”

Zavala reaches for the bread roll, pulling it open with his fingers and spreading a clot of butter over it with his knife. He eats it and sips his wine while Saladin and Shaxx share another smile. 

“We all have our vices,” Saladin says, and Zavala watches him over the rim of his wine glass. 

“Indeed,” he deadpans. Shaxx laughs again.

“You made a valiant effort towards bringing us back together over the years,” Shaxx tells him, reaching out to squeeze his shoulder. For years, Zavala had tried to play the peacemaker, trying to bring the three of them together, to counsel Shaxx and Saladin into an agreement, all to no avail. Tease all he might, there’s something deeply soothing about the three of them being together once more, something that reestablishes the support structure that had splintered beneath him. “I’m sure we both appreciate the effort, even if we had to find our way ourselves.”

Saladin might’ve been the one to finally apologize—as he should have, though Zavala can understand and sympathize with both their positions—but Shaxx had still done a great deal in releasing his anger when he did. It would have been understandable for Shaxx to rage at Saladin, to seethe in all his anger for the lost time. Why had his apology not come sooner? What had they given up when holding onto their anger? What had Saladin taken from them? But Shaxx hadn’t dwelled on those ideas. Instead, he’d forgiven Saladin without complaint. Afterwards, he’d trained with Zavala—nearly beating him to a bloody pulp, until Zavala had tapped out of being Shaxx’s corporeal punching bag—then, he’d come back to them with open arms.

“And I’m glad you did.” Zavala looks down at his wine glass. “For your sakes, certainly, but also for mine.”

Shaxx squeezes his shoulder, his thumb rubbing into the space below Zavala’s collarbone, the contact firm and grounding. The longer they wait for the battle with the Witness, the more Zavala sees Caiatl’s armada above the city and Queen Mara’s forces amassing around them, the more the tension builds. Being so close to his allies should be a relief, reaffirming the belief that they are ready to face what’s ahead, but Zavala can’t help but think that with all their preparation, they will still be incapable of holding the line against their opponents. 

Saladin reaches out as well, his hand settling on Zavala’s arm on his other side, his face stony with a mix of sympathy and determination. 

“You are not alone in this battle,” he promises, then nods to Shaxx. “And even if this had not come to pass, we would both be here for you regardless.” 

Shaxx nods his agreement and they lapse into silence, Zavala’s eyes down on the table as he turns his wine glass slowly between his fingers. Their hands stay on him until he straightens, drawing in a deep breath and mastering himself, touching Shaxx’s hand with his own in a silent communication of thanks before the touch falls away. 

“When this is all over, and the Empress’s forces are no longer needed, what will happen to you?” Shaxx breaks the silence after a long moment, his eyes on Saladin. It would be another point of resentment he’d feel if Zavala were in his place, after so long of being at odds with his old mentor, when they finally reconcile he could be soon pulled beyond their reach.

“That will depend on the Empress.” Saladin takes a sip from his wine. “I suspect the Cabal will not wish to settle on Earth, perhaps not even within the system. They may wish to search for any remnants of their people, or find a system of their own. Regardless, Caiatl owns my life. She may require that I go with them, or she might release me from service.”

“Would you stay?” Shaxx asks. “If you had the choice?”

Saladin is silent for a long moment. “I don’t know,” he confesses at last. “The Cabal have accepted me as one of their own, and yet, it feels wrong to leave Sol behind.”

“I’m sure whatever decision you make will be the right one,” Zavala tells him, and Saladin smiles.

“Thank you.” He lifts his glass towards Shaxx. “And don’t you get too comfortable, you aren’t rid of me yet.”

Shaxx’s laughter booms through the room again, and Zavala smiles into his wine, feeling more relaxed than he has in a long time.

Chapter Text

“What the fuck is that?” 

Marcus drops a heavy metal board onto a pair of sawhorses in the center of his workshop while Enoch lifts a brow from his spot on Marcus’s rolling stool, a data tablet in his hand. When Marcus had told him to meet him here, Enoch had assumed it was just because he wanted to see him, or maybe to get his help on his latest Sparrow because he needed another pair of hands that his various machines couldn’t fill in for. That’s usually how it goes, or one of them ends pressed to the workbench, the pair of them with hungry mouths and searching hands. This, however, seems far from a normal visit between the two of them. Marcus has a wild look in his eyes, a bright grin lighting up his face, his movements quick as he grabs his nearest case of tools and rolls it over towards the board.

“I don’t know,” he tells Enoch, and he sounds far too excited for Enoch’s comfort. 

The board is only a couple of inches thick, unfinished metal a dull gray, almost featureless save for a row of engines at the rear, another set exposed along its sides a third of the way up, and a set of vents across the top side, halfway up. Marcus picks over a set of tools for a minute, testing out what tool will fit into what socket until he huffs in frustration, setting them aside. He leaves the board only long enough to unbox another tool from one of the tool case’s lower drawers, one who’s end morphs to suit whatever purpose he needs it to by mapping out the surface before it. It’s nanotechnology, easily the most expensive thing in the entire workshop. Enoch has never seen Marcus take it out so lightly. Whatever this thing is, it’s important.

“Whoever built this is using some advanced tech,” Marcus mumbles, and Enoch watches as he undoes the fastens that binds the two sides of the board together, tugging on a pair of gloves before he pries to top plating off, setting it on his workbench. He whistles at the machinery revealed underneath. 

“Look at you,” he murmurs, his hands on his hips, his smile still bright.

“You really don’t know what this is?” Enoch can’t resist rising from the stool, moving over to stand beside Marcus as they look down at the board, an intricate web of machinery laid out carefully within the board. “Traveler, Marcus, this thing is fully fueled.”

The fuel tank inside is reinforced, like most tanks inside sparrows. They’re built with sturdy materials to withstand stray bullets or explosives, but Enoch can see from the indicator running alongside it that it’s filled up. The tank itself runs at least half the length of the board, stretched out over the top half and molded perfectly into the open space there. Marcus waves off his concern. 

“When have I ever not been careful?” he asks, certainly rhetorical given that Enoch could talk for hours about Marcus’s carelessness, or the times when his excitement overrules everything else and he abandons caution to the wind. Like now, taking apart a machine he doesn’t know all while the fuel tank is full and all the machinery looks intact enough to kill him. And people still call Enoch’s boyfriend a genius. 

But convincing Marcus to be cautious isn’t a battle he’s likely to win, certainly not when he’s this excited. Not for the first time, Enoch wonders how Marcus ever could have lived long enough to prove himself to the Traveler without a Ghost in his first life. But then again, it was Marcus's brilliance that got them through the Red War, so anything is possible. 

“Where did it come from, Marcus?” Enoch watches as Marcus runs his fingers over the fuel lines between the engines and the tank, peering down at the levitation generators below.

“Eva gave it to me.” 

“And she didn’t tell you what it was?”

“She told me she guessed I was the best person to figure it out.” Marcus crouches down, studying how a set of two circles connect to the board’s inner mechanics. Some kind of control, Enoch guesses. He makes sure he’s a safe distance away. “You know that board Nimbus rides? The Cloudstrider on Neptune? I think it’s one of those.”

“So it came from Neomuna?” Enoch considers the board a little more thoughtfully. It doesn’t look like Neomuna tech. It’s sleek and sophisticated, but there’s something that feels distinctly from Earth. Maybe the shape of the engines, or the way the fuel lines flow into the gaskets. 

“No, Eva said the shipment went through the Spider. When I tracked him down, he said it came from the Concordat.”

Enoch’s mouth falls open. After Lysander and the Concordat were defeated at Bannerfall and ousted from the Consensus, Enoch didn’t think they were dead or gone, but the fact that they’re back and reaching out to the Guardians now, right when the Witness is breathing down their necks means something. 

“The Concordat is giving you gifts?”

“Not me .” Marcus stands back up, pausing in his investigation long enough to look at Enoch. “They sent a ton of these things. The shipment is for all the Guardians, Eva just wanted someone to give them a test run before she started handing ‘em out. Didi convinced me to open it before I took it for a ride. Just in case.”

If the Concordat is trying to make friends, it would be a bad idea to send a shipment of bombs to the Tower for the Guardian Games, but Enoch isn’t one to object to a note of caution. He gives Didi an appreciative nod from where she hovers over Marcus’s shoulder. 

“So, you haven’t tested it, then?” He’s done enough patrols to have seen Nimbus racing on their board on Neptune. He and probably every other racer in the league has looked at the Cloudstrider with awe and more than a little jealousy, Marcus not excluded. The idea of having one of the boards, of being able to ride one, is exhilarating. 

Marcus grin is back, turning on him in full force.

“I thought you might be curious,” he says, giving the board one last once over before he retrieves the top plating. “You wanna go take it for a spin?”