#destcember2022

[demiclar]

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Home - Ao3

Crow returns to his apartment after a harrowing mission, but everything is going wrong. Saint brings him home.

(On Ao3 I have this as two chapters, but it only fits into one #destcember2022 prompt, so you get both chapters in one here on tumblr. Enjoy!)

Crow lets himself into his apartment with an exhausted sigh. His whole body trembles with the effort of just standing, staying upright and making basic, normally undemanding movements after three grueling days in the field. It’s rare that his scouting work becomes so physically abrasive, but he’s spent the last three days in a game of cat and mouse with what felt like an entire legion of Wrathborn. He’d hit them hard only to be ambushed by more when he least expected it. He’d had to send out a distress call to local Guardians to even repel their forces, and had retreated back to a sniper’s perch while the other Guardians pursued Xivu Arath’s minions. He’d had to lay prone to even shoot, his body too shaky for him to even aim his gun standing.

He’d climbed into his ship, wished it to take him to take them to the Tower and let the paracausal forces take over. He’d tossed off his armor and passed out on his bunk for the short ride back. He felt like a dead man walking for the entire trip back to his apartment. He still feels ready to collapse as he pushes the door shut behind him, locking it with trembling fingers.

The silence that meets him isn’t the balm he’s expecting it to be. For the past few weeks, Crow has been spending much of his time at Saint and Osiris’ apartment. Initially, it was to help out. When Osiris was unconscious, Crow would come by to keep Saint company, to take his mind off Osiris for a while. He’d bring food, or help Saint cook or clean. After Osiris woke, it was much of the same. He’d bring food, or offer to help with little chores or errands while Osiris and Saint were loaded down with work.

Now, however, his relationship with Saint and Osiris has grown to something warm and pleasant. That isn’t to say Saint didn’t care for him before, but now when Crow goes over to their apartment, it’s because they’ve invited him over, which they seem to do every other day, if not more often. They teach him to cook meals he’s never eaten before. He and Osiris discuss the Hive, and Crow’s scouting work. With Saint, he talks about the Eliksni, and how they might better help them adjust to life in the city. Saint and Osiris have invited him into their Dawning traditions, sharing meals, exchanging gifts, watching movies, baking cookies. They’re eager to share the festivities with him. One night, after Osiris had been introducing him to a series of city-made wines and Crow had drank a bit too much, Saint had coaxed him into taking the guest room bed for the night. After that, Saint adopted a way of offering the room up for the night, and Crow has begun to feel at home with Saint and Osiris’ roof over his head, their warmth and care surrounding him.

His apartment is so silent compared to theirs. It’s so dark, so cold. As a relatively young Guardian, his salary isn’t great. The best apartment he can afford that’s close enough to the Tower to be manageable is a tiny studio apartment. To the right of the door that leads in and out are the only two rooms enclosed in the apartment, his bathroom, with a rickety old sink that probably hasn’t been tended to since before the Red War, and a shower with shitty water pressure and hot water that only works half the time. The single lightbulb overhead flickers and goes out when he’s trying to shower, and the toilet has a clogging problem. Beside the bathroom is his storage closet, where he keeps all his weapons and armor. To the left of the door is his kitchen, mostly functional given that the most he uses it for is meals that only get about as extravagant as macaroni and cheese, or maybe a quesadilla if he has the time to make it. His bedroom is a loft that sits over the kitchen. The one dazzling feature of the apartment being the massive windows at the end of the space that look out on the city below. Unfortunately, he’s sure the view he doesn’t often have time to appreciate hikes up his rent considerably, and in the winter months, cold seeps through glass, so chilling he has to go to bed under every blanket he owns, and still he shivers.

The cold hits him as soon as he enters. The city outside is covered in a blanket of snow, but Crow can’t find the beauty in it, not when he’s so worn down by stress and exhaustion. He feels like he’s going to snap, or burst into tears. He lets Glint transmat his guns and armor away, grabbing a loaf of bread from the kitchen and checking over it only long enough to confirm it isn’t moldy before he tears a hunk of it off with his teeth. He grabs the half gallon of milk from the fridge and drinks straight from the carton, hoping the minimal sustenance will be enough to get him through his shower and to bed without passing out.

“Crow.” Glint’s voice is gentle when he appears beside Crow. He turns on the light in the loft, adding a layer of illumination where the only light previously had been the dim light in the fridge. Crow caps the milk and shoves it back inside.

“I’m tired, Glint. I just want to shower and go to bed.” He’s covered in dirt and grime. He’ll need to clean his armor before he wears it again, but even with it off his body, his underlayers are matted down by the mess too. Old blood from injuries since healed clings to his skin. The evidence of fighting had marred him so badly the doorman in the lobby had yelped in surprise when they’d spotted him entering. Had Glint not been hovering at his shoulder, they probably would’ve mistaken him for an ax murderer, rather than a Guardian covered in his own blood.

“Okay.” Glint agrees quietly, his voice hesitant. “I’m just worried about you.” Crow can feel it down the bond, but he brushes it aside rather than acknowledging his Ghost and the complex feelings bound up inside him. He’s too exhausted to even consider them.

He heads to the bathroom, stripping off his shirt as he goes. When he leans into the shower to start it, nothing happens when he turns the tap. Crow feels his body stiffen. He cannot deal with this right now. He leans back, looking up towards the showerhead. Just as he moves in front of it, a burst of icy water spurts from the tap, drenching his hair and his face before it stops completely.

“No fucking way.”

He tries the other taps in the apartment. The bathroom sink sputters for a moment but only a few drops come out of it. The same happens in the kitchen, and by the time he returns to the shower to check it again, the icy cold water in his hair has seemed to seep into his scalp. The apartment has never felt so cold around him, and he feels himself shudder. Tears prickle the backs of his eyes.

“Crow.” Glint’s voice sounds again, and he drifts into Crow’s view, his voice pinched in sympathy.

“What?” Crow snaps, unable to fight the vitriol in his tone.

This is just his fucking luck. He should have just stayed in the field, or in his ship. He could have taken a bath in some half frozen lake and slept it off in his sleeping bag, or in his bunk. He wants to crawl up to his bed and pass out but there’s still blood all over his skin and he’s not willing to make a mess that big, not when things are already going this badly.

Faintly, the sound of music reaches his ears, pounding bass followed by cheers and shouts. Stomping feet sound from above the loft, and Crow presses his back to the wall and sinks down to sit on the bathroom floor. He presses the heels of his palms into his eyes, but can’t hold back his tears.

“I’m going to call Saint.” Glint tells him.

“No, Glint, don’t–” His voice is choked with tears. He reaches out to stop his Ghost but Glint flits out of his reach. Within seconds, Crow’s faced with a projection of Saint, smiling towards him.

Saint’s smile disintegrates as soon as he lays eyes on Crow, his mouth falling open with clear concern.

“Crow, are you alright? I thought you’d be asleep by now.” The Titan’s voice is filled with worry. Distantly, Crow can make out Osiris’ voice, but he doesn’t catch his words.

“I’m–” He breaks off, rubbing hard at his eyes as he fights to stop crying. He gasps in a shaking breath against his will, and Saint visibly softens, his whole face pure sympathy and concern. “I just got back from the field and I haven’t slept in days. The water’s not working and it’s freezing in my apartment–”

The bathroom light overhead goes out, plunging Crow into darkness. A sob tears itself from Crow’s throat.

“Crow,” Saint’s voice is honey sweet, filled with warmth so opposite to the cold apartment around him, the tile floor biting into his bare feet and the wall against his back, the icy water still in his hair.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t be bothering you with this, I didn’t mean for Glint to call you I just–”

He breaks off into hiccuping sobs. He has to close his eyes against the image of Saint in front of him.

“Stay there, Crow. I will come and get you.” Saint is already standing by the time Crow opens his eyes.

“No, Saint, you don’t have to–”

“I will. I’m coming, Crow. I’m going to take you home.”

Crow hasn’t managed to stop crying by the time Saint makes it to his apartment. In fact, he hasn’t really managed to do much of anything. The first bit of tears he let slip opened the floodgates to devastating sobs, and in the time that he’s been alone with Glint, Crow has collapsed onto his side on the bathroom floor and cried harder than he has since Spider beat him to death on a regular basis.

He feels like an idiot. He shouldn’t be crying, not over something as little as being deprived of a shower, some broken lights, and loud neighbors. But deep down he gets why he’s crying. He knows it’s about much more than the apartment, and the weight he’s feeling is as much in his control as it is beyond it. He’s exhausted, malnourished and dehydrated from being on the run from Hive for three days. He’s covered in blood and dirt, his adrenaline is crashing, and he’s still hung up on the fear of being stalked like prey. He can’t help that he’s crying. It makes sense that he’s crying.

Still, he hates himself for it. He hates himself for curling up on the bathroom floor, laying shivering on the cold tiles, bare from the waist up. The cold drives into his skin until he’s numb, and he sobs and gasps even as he hears Saint knock on the front door.

“Crow? It’s me. May I come in?”

He sends Glint, because he can’t manage to form words. He peels himself off the floor as his Ghost lets Saint into the apartment, even though Saint has his own key, given to him for emergencies. He’s managed to sit up by the time Saint crouches in the bathroom doorway—the room is so small the two of them would hardly fit together—but the soft look on Saint’s face sends him spiraling straight back into sobs.

“It’s alright, Crow.” Saint reaches out to him and Crow practically throws himself into the Titan’s arms. It says a great deal about how far their trust has come over the months they’ve known each other. Crow can’t think of anyone he’d really embrace without second thought, but Saint’s very being is comfort to Crow, and right now he needs all the comfort he can get.

Saint whispers soothing words to him, gathering Crow into his arms. He lifts him up, off the tile floor, slipping him into his arms like he weighs nothing, and he carries them from the tiny bathroom. Saint carries him up the staircase to the loft. He holds Crow with one arm while he sets a towel on Crow’s bed, no doubt having noticed the blood and dirt covering Crow like a second skin, then he sets Crow down on top of it. He cradles Crow’s face in his hands, his palms heavenly warm against Crow’s skin.

“I will help you into some new clothes, then I will take you home with me, yes?” Saint tells him gently, and Crow nods his assent. “You will wash up once we get there, but I do not want you to be so uncomfortable until then.”

Crow swallows hard, but he nods again. For as long as he’s known Saint, it’s still hard not to be blindsided by his generosity. He takes care of Crow as if he were a member of Saint’s own family, embraced and looked after without condition or expectation. Saint’s thumbs wipe away some of the tears on Crow’s cheeks.

A small stack of clothes appears beside Crow, Glint’s doing, and Saint thanks him even though Crow knows he should be the one thanking him, but Saint is ever patient, and constant with his care. He helps Crow out of his old, dirty layers, steadying him when his body shakes and shudders. He helps Crow dress in the new clothes, sliding thick socks onto his feet, helping him into pants and a sweater. There’s still grime underneath, but while they work, Glint transmats a bag onto the floor and fills it with more clean clothes, pajamas and regular clothes, wool socks and the sweater Saint had gifted to him as a Dawning present.

Once he’s dressed, Saint grabs the bag from the floor before Crow can pick it up, and he offers out a hand to steady Crow as he guides him out of the loft. When Crow tries to thank him, or to tell him that he’s alright, really—though he’s still teary eyed and breathing rough—Saint just holds him a little tighter, and shushes him quietly.

The walk to Saint and Osiris’s apartment isn’t long, but it feels like an eternity to Crow. Normally, Crow can walk over in less than ten  minutes. Their apartment buildings aren’t far apart, though Saint and Osiris’ is worlds nicer than Crow’s. They walk for five minutes at a slow pace before Saint lifts Crow into his arms again, and Crow must’ve started to doze off, because the next thing he knows, he’s enveloped in warm air, and the scent of home, Osiris and Saint’s voices in his ears.

“Crow?” Saint’s voice speaks softly in his ear. “I’m going to put you down now, alright?”

Crow manages a noise of understanding, peeling open his eyes to look around. He’s in Saint and Osiris’ bathroom, the tub already mostly full with steamy water. Osiris sits on the tub’s edge, using his hand to test the water’s temperature. Saint lowers him down, setting him on the bathroom counter. He pushes Crow’s hair from his eyes with a fond, sympathetic smile, and Crow can’t help the way he leans slightly into his hand.

“How are you feeling?” Osiris asks him, just as Crow feels his eyes slip closed. The effort to drag them back open is monumental.

“I’m tired.” He mumbles. “And my head hurts. I feel shaky.”

“You haven’t eaten anything in several hours.” Glint reminds him, and before Crow can bring up his little snack from when he first made it back to the apartment, he goes on. “The bread doesn’t count. You also haven’t slept more than six hours in the past three days, and I can’t correct for something like that without reviving you.”

“You will have a bath, you will eat something, and then you will sleep.” Saint tells him.

“I might fall asleep in the bath.”

Saint laughs quietly. “That’s quite alright.” He says, cradling Crow’s cheek with a hand. “I will look after you.”

He unties one of Crow’s shoes and pulls it off his foot. Crow reaches down to help, but he’s hardly untied the laces of his other shoe before Saint gently guides his hand away to do the rest himself. He pulls off Crow’s other shoe, then his socks, and pulls his sweater up, over his head.

“I will go heat up some food. Would you like soup? I believe we have some leftovers.” Osiris turns off the faucet once the tub is full, rising to his feet.

“Soup sounds great.” Crow lifts his head, offering both Saint and Osiris a weak smile. “Thank you for doing this.”

Osiris sets a hand on Crow’s knee, while Saint reaches out to hold his shoulder.

“You will always have a home here, Crow.” Osiris tells him, then gives him a smile. “Try one of the bath bombs, I believe you’ll find them enjoyable.”

A genuine smile crosses Crow’s face despite his exhaustion. A few days ago, Saint and Osiris fell into a debate of whether or not bath bombs were enjoyable, with Osiris for and Saint against, both eager to have Crow serve as a tiebreaker.

“I will.” Crow agrees.

“I will leave you to undress. I will come back to help you once you are ready, if that’s alright?” Saint asks him.

“I can–” Crow breaks off. Part of him wants to refuse, the part of him that needs to take care of himself and not show weakness, but his exhaustion is clinging to his bones, pressing down on him like lead weights. He’s not sure if he could even manage a whole bath on his own. He’s not sure he trusts himself not to fall asleep and drown. “Okay.” He agrees, giving Saint a small nod. “Thank you.”

Saint and Osiris leave the bathroom and Crow eases himself off the counter. He picks out a bath bomb from Osiris’ collection and sets it beside the tub, then slips out of the rest of his clothes. When he eases himself into the tub, the water is hot at first, but as he gets his aching limbs under the heat of the water, a sigh melts out of him, and he lays back against the end of the tub, his eyes slipping closed.

He luxuriates in the heat for a few moments before he retrieves his bath bomb and sets it in the water. It fizzes to life, filling the air with a citrusy scent, and Crow watches it dissolve. It clouds the water until it's opaque, but it makes his skin feel smooth and soft, and it might be the comfort in the face if his stress and exhaustion, but he’s pretty sure he agrees with Osiris on the subject.

Crow’s eyes are nearly closing when a gentle knock sounds on the door.

“Come in,” he calls, and Saint pokes his head in. Crow gives him a tired smile. “I’m so ready to fall asleep right now.”

Saint smiles back, stepping inside and closing the door behind him. “Baths often have that effect.”

Crow’s whole body feels relaxed. His head still aches slightly, and his body still feels weak from hunger, but the utter anguish and stress that had driven him to tears earlier has faded in the face of Saint and Osiris’ care. His headache already seems to be subsiding when Saint sits on the edge of the tub beside him, tilting his head back to use a bowl to pour warm water over his hair.

Saint washes his hair, running his fingers over Crow’s scalp until Crow practically melts from the touch. He scrubs the blood from Crow’s face and neck, his arms, and his back, and Crow tends to the rest. By the time he’s clean, he feels ready to collapse, but Saint slips out and Crow forces himself to stay awake. He drains the tub and rinses himself off under the shower before he dresses in the pajamas Glint had packed him. When he makes it out to the kitchen, Osiris has a steaming bowl of soup ready for him, and Crow feels more loved than he’s ever been in his entire life.

“Thank you.” He tells Osiris as he sits down at the breakfast bar in front of the bowl of soup. He imagines he will have to tell them the whole story later, not on their insistence but on his own desire to explain, but neither Osiris or Saint ask him about it. They need no explanation, no reason for the warmth and comfort they provide. They offer it without question and Crow drinks it in.

Osiris smiles at him, and Saint wraps a blanket around Crow’s shoulders, hugging him through it.

Saint repeats Osiris’ words as he holds Crow close. “You will always have a home here.”

#destiny 2 #destiny game #destiny fanfiction #destcember2022 #destcember #destiny osiris #destiny saint 14 #destiny crow #demiwrites

[poorlytunedukulele]

Prompt 12 - Countdown

December 31, 2678, The Last City, Earth

TEN!

Cayde loved new year’s parties.  He loved the meaninglessness of them.  Sure, there was all of the spend time with your loved ones and holiday cheer and all that, but really, why were they celebrating?  Just because they wanted to.

NINE!

All of the dumb traditions- getting around and counting down the seconds to midnight like it was a special occasion, like it hadn’t turned Midnight on January First every year since someone started keeping track of Midnights and January Firsts.

EIGHT!

The gift-giving, like you couldn’t just give someone a gift on any other day of the year- the trees, the decorations.  The holidays were really just an excuse.  A beautiful, indulgent excuse to have some fun, dance and sing and be honest with your affections with the comfort of tradition to hide behind.  There was no reason to celebrate the holidays except for wanting to.

SEVEN!

There was no reason for Cayde to be at this party.  There were almost a hundred people crammed into this bar, loud and riotous, and he only actually knew one of them.

SIX!

But the person here was Andal, who’d looked at him with puppy dog eyes and explained how it would be really rude for him to not show up after his Warlock friend invited him, but the party was going to be so boring if he went alone-

FIVE!

Cayde couldn’t say no to that, right?  Even if the bar was loud and crowded, Andal was hanging on his arm and he was smiling, hair all in disarray from the dancing and face flushed from the champagne.

FOUR!

And he had to admit to himself that he was having a good time.  The alcohol wasn’t hurting things, but honestly he could have fun stuck in the bottom of a well, as long as Andal was there with him.  They didn't even need jokes- they'd just accidentally make eye contact and they'd be cracking up,

THREE!

So, here he was, in a loud bar, counting down to an arbitrary moment in time, drinking over-sweet champagne and leaning on Andal.  It was all gloriously meaningless.

But why did he feel like he had to do something?  Why was he nervous?

TWO!

He wanted to just dismiss it, but he’d learned a lot of hard lessons about listening to his gut.  Was it the countdown?  Tricking his brain into a sense of anticipation?  They weren’t really counting down to anything, after all.  The clock would go from 11:59 to 00:00 on the wall and everyone would cheer.

Oh.

ONE!

That’s not all that happened at midnight, he remembered.

Cayde didn’t think.  He just acted.

HAPPY NEW YEARS!

He leaned in and kissed Andal full on the mouth.

He pulled away almost immediately, regret beginning to penetrate through the alcohol- why did he do that?

Andal’s hand was on the back of his neck, pulling him back in.  The crowd had erupted into cacophony, but Cayde suddenly didn’t have much attention to spare on the outside world.  Andal’s hand was Solar-hot on his plating.

Andal plonked his glass down on the bar with violence.  His free hand immediately went to Cayde’s back, pulling him closer, and Cayde was only half on his barstool and it didn’t matter. Andal tasted like… well, Cayde was an Exo, so his brain catalogued the ethanol and gamma-decalactone and amylase before his mind said champagne and Human.

Then Andal angled a bit deeper and Cayde’s senses were overwhelmed with honey and cinnamon.  Burning and sweet, like a shot of spiced whiskey.  There was more as their Light mingled- every bit of Andal that Cayde had learned to associate with home: scratchy-warm wool blankets, the smell of desert creosote, the rib-aching sigh after a laughing fit.  His entire universe was the wiry muscles under his fingers and the mouth on his.

Cayde had lost all sense of time when they finally pulled apart.  Andal’s face was ruddy under his tan, his eyes shining like stars.  He leaned back and reached for his abandoned champagne.  “Damn, Spades, if I knew you could kiss like that I’d have made a move years ago.”

Cayde loved holiday parties.

AO3 Linky!

#destcember #destcember2022 #destiny #destiny 2 #destiny the game #destiny fanfiction #cayde-6 #andal brask #candal #that's it #that is officially as far as I go #sappy romance? all day. #deep and fulfilling emotional connections? hell yeah. #kissin? you're on thin ice mister

[destcember2022]

The world only seems to get more complicated these days.  As Darkness looms on our horizon, we find ourselves asking questions: What do we fight for?  Who is our real enemy here?  What does this all mean?

One thing remains clear, even as the paradigms shift before our eyes: our fate lies among the stars.

Destcember is a drawing and writing challenge based on the Destiny universe. This year the stars have revealed 31 prompts (one for each day of December) but remember: we write our own maps. Take inspiration wherever you find it- and at whatever pace you see fit. Write about original or cannon characters, do prompts out of order, skip them where you don’t see that spark- just be sure to have fun!

Please use the #destcember2022 tag and leave a prompt number.  

Be Brave!

Prompt list under the cut!

1)     Sleeping In

2)     Class Warfare

3)     Worm

4)     Eavesdropping

5)     Sin

6)     Saintly Virtues

7)     Music? Something… Classical.

8)     Trespasser

9)     Mistakes Were Made

10)  The Ghost of You

11)  Merriment

12)  Countdown

13)  Roadtrip

14)  Modern Myths

15)  Kell

16)  Missing Moment

17)  Throne World

18)  Volatile

19)  Weaving, Unraveling

20)  Sight for Sore Eyes

21)  Breaking News!

22)  Gambit

23)  Home

24)  Spring Cleaning

25)  Memories

26)  The Harder They Fall

27)  Baby, It’s Cold Outside

28)  Symbology

29)  Torn

30)  Arts and Crafts

31)  New Year’s Resolution

#destcember #destcember2022 #destiny #destiny the game #destiny 2 #art challenge #drawing challenge #fic challenge #writing challenge

[demiclar]

Kell

Kell - Ao3

Osiris meets with the Kell of the House of Light.

The first time Osiris meets the Kell of the House of Light, Saint is at his side. They invite him and his daughter to their home for dinner, and the meal is light and amicable. Eido bombards him with questions on nearly everything, but she stays away from the personal or difficult topics well enough that he can relax into it. He takes comfort in the familiarity of sharing knowledge with such an eager student, though Eido quickly proves herself different from Ikora. Overall, Osiris' meeting with the Kell is agreeable for someone who might be little more than an acquaintance, perhaps a friend that is not particularly close, but for someone who has done as much for Saint as Misraaks has, it does not suffice. 

Osiris makes a point to seek him out. Saint has talked a great deal of his friend, and of the Kell’s deeds during the time Osiris was unconscious. It’s clear their bond is strong, and Osiris is well aware his partner makes frequent trips into the Eliksni quarter. Osiris can see how beneficial the friendship is for Saint, the way Misraaks kept him stable in the face of Osiris’ capture and condition. He’s eternally grateful for everything the Kell has done for his partner, and that is a fact he needs to make known.

He finds Misraaks in the Eliksni quarter on a cold afternoon. Osiris is bundled up in a thick coat, a hat, gloves, and a scarf, rubbing his hands together to keep them warm in the winter chill. Misraaks catches sight of him outside the Ether Tank, speaking with members of his House before his eyes fall on Osiris and he excuses himself with a few words of Eliksni.

“Osiris,” the Kell inclines his head. “I greet you in the Light.”

“Misraaks.” Osiris nods in return. “It’s good to see you.”

“Is there something I can do for you?” The Kell asks, already attentive, his eyes bright with inquisition. “Is the situation with the Warmind–”

“All is being handled appropriately, I can assure you.” Osiris promises, lifting his hands. “However, I have a growing suspicion your input may be required soon. I hoped to meet with you before the conflict requires your attention.”

“The Vanguard has kept me informed on the situation, however I would be grateful for any further insight you could provide.” Misraaks lifts one of his primary arms to gesture towards a fire pit burning in an open space beyond the Ether Tank, and Osiris follows him as they begin to amble over.

“I would be happy to tell you what I can, but that is not the reason for my visit.” They pause before the fire and Osiris holds his hands out towards the burning warmth, letting the sensation seep through his gloves and into his chilled fingers. Misraaks mirrors his position with his four hands.

“I don’t follow.” He sends Osiris a curious look, confused, but without suspicion, which is more than Osiris feels he deserves on most days.

“I wanted to speak to you about Saint.” Osiris tells him, and Misraak’s expression relaxes into understanding.

“I see.” He waits patiently for Osiris to elaborate, and Osiris peels his gloves from his hands and slips them into his pockets. The winter air has left his skin dry and cracked, no amount of Saint’s doting reminders to moisturize and apply lotion has been able to revitalize his hands. He rubs his fingers over his dry knuckles, staring into the flames for a moment.

“You’ve done a great deal for him.” Osiris meets Misraak’s eyes once more. “More than could ever be expected of you, especially considering his past.”

“Saint has done a great deal for my people.” The Kell looks out over his House with soft eyes. “It was difficult for him to come to terms with the view many Eliksni hold of him, but since then he has shown nothing but devotion to the House of Light. I am indebted to him for this.”

“I don’t believe you helped him because you felt indebted to him.”

Misraaks’ chin dips slightly, and he offers Osiris a smile beneath his mask, the corners of his eyes crinkling enough for Osiris to see. “Perhaps not.”

“Your friendship has helped him. When you helped him search for me, all the times you visited him while I was unconscious, you’ve kept him grounded. One might not see it from an outsider’s perspective, but Saint would wear thin without community, especially considering the circumstances. You gave him something to rely on, and something to be a part of. I cannot thank you enough.”

Misraaks shakes his head, his eyes drifting to the fire. “You do not need to thank me.” He lifts his eyes to Osiris’ once more. “I have heard a great deal of you. I understand you advocated for my people far before humanity was willing to see the Eliksni in a positive light. I suspect had it not been for your influence, Saint would never have grown to accept me and my House. For this, I should be thanking you.”

“That is not necessary.” Osiris promises, and he and the Kell share a smile at their own likeness. Osiris’ gaze returns to the fire, the rippling flames transfixing his eyes. “I’m afraid I don’t have a great deal to offer you at the moment, but I will aid the House of Light in whatever way I can moving forward.” He holds back the mention of Savathûn and the harm she caused, the stinging desire to right the wrongs she did while she wore his skin. He suspects Misraaks knows this already. Regardless of the Witch Queen, he suspects his devotion is enough.

“It is good to see you well, Osiris.” Misraaks tells him. “For now, all I request of you is that you ask for help when you require it. That act alone will serve my House, I’m certain of it.”

Osiris feels himself smile, and he gives Misraaks a small nod. “Consider it done.”

#Destiny #destiny 2 #destiny fanfiction #destcember2022 #destcember #destiny osiris #destiny saint 14 #destiny o14 #destiny mithrax #o14 #demiwrites

[demiclar]

Eavesdropping

Eavesdropping - Ao3

Osiris listens in on one of Saint's conversations.

-----

There are moments where Osiris lingers, unable to move. He stands concealed between the bookshelves of his former student’s library, listening to her speak of secrets to her agents. Everything in him wants to announce his presence and yet he stands in silence. He remembers every moment Savathûn did the same thing and his body forces itself into stillness. When Ikora finds him minutes later, trembling against one of her many bookcases, he manages to find the words to tell her he had not meant to eavesdrop. He begs her pardon and tries to apologize but Ikora keeps so few secrets from him now, there is no harm done by his listening in. It is a kindness and a trust he feels he has not earned, because there is a part of him that will always believe he is to blame for Savathûn’s capture of him. His own foolishness is to blame for Savathûn’s victories, for the death of so many people.

Osiris hates to eavesdrop because Savathûn utilized the practice as a method of war. Before her, Osiris would have eavesdropped if it was beneficial to him. He never denied information, no matter the form it came to him in. Turning away darker informants and discolored sources of information was a task left to those with a stronger moral code, not something Osiris ever concerned himself with. Now, he cringes to hear even a word that isn’t directed at him.

He informs the Commander the door to his office is not quite soundproof, and that he should remedy that immediately. He tells Ikora her study is not nearly secure enough. None of it is enough. They look at him the way one views a hypochondriac, with veiled disdain and pity. Once bitten and twice shy, he worries constantly.

It has threatened to drive him to a breaking point. Despite the happiness that just comes with being awake, being alive after everything Savathûn did to him, he carries pain and trauma with him. It is a constant weight, and sometimes it overcomes him. It is a mix of a great deal of things, the memory of pain, of Savathûn pulling through his memories, reaching into his mind. He remembers how it felt to lose himself in her vast knowledge, something that had once seemed like a boon, only for him to realize too late it was like stepping from a spacecraft without a tether.

He is not without support, Saint and Crow do a great deal. Ikora helps where she can. He has spoken a great deal with Eris. When Osiris feels the talons of Savathûn’s claws on his very mind, Crow sits with him, and it comforts something in him to know that he understands something of what Osiris is reliving. Saint holds him when he feels adrift, wraps his Light around him when he aches for everything he’s lost, when he feels consumed by Darkness. Still, his problems will not be solved by comforting gestures.

Weeks after he first woke, Osiris lies alone in his bed, the sounds of voices drifting under the bedroom door. He does not want to listen, and yet he does so anyways. He cannot help it.

“How are you?” It’s Crow’s voice, more frequently heard around the apartment than Osiris’ own, when he spends so many hours in silence. “I know we’ve all been worried about Osiris, but it must be an adjustment for you, too. And taking care of him hasn’t been easy for you.”

“It is the only thing I want.” Osiris’ partner responds. He can hear noises beyond the door, a mug being set down on the counter. “But, you are right. It is far from easy. I hate to see him in pain. There is much he still struggles with. He is afraid, sometimes of eating, sometimes of sleeping, sometimes of being alone, sometimes of being in my company.” He can hear Saint’s labored sigh, even when he tries to temper it. Osiris feels his gut twist. He is a burden, a pain, nothing but a drain of Saint’s time and energy. He is a resource sink and a parasite, nothing but a broken man grasping at the threads of his former life. It would have been kinder to his partner if he’d never woken at all.

“I do not understand all of it.” Saint continues, his words reaching Osiris even in the face of his self-loathing spiral. “But that does not matter. None of it. I would endure a thousand struggles to be with him, and he is getting better. Do you remember when you made him laugh yesterday, little bird?” The reverence in his voice halts every thought in Osiris’ mind. “I’ve not seen him smile like that in centuries.”

They’d been out in the city. With the winter falling over the landscape, Saint has been persistent in getting them into the holiday spirit. Osiris’ strength had finally allowed a longer outing, so they’d bundled themselves up in coats and scarves and ventured out into the cold. They’d bought hot apple cider from a street vendor and watched a group of human children teach a group of Eliksni children about snowball fights, leading them into what had turned from a fight to a war. Shrieks of laughter and giggles had filled the park, and Osiris, Saint, and Crow had looked on with smiles on their faces. Osiris had felt warm all over. He’d sipped his cider and smiled at the children until Crow had cracked a joke that had caused Osiris to laugh, to actually laugh, real and unforced for the first time in what felt like forever. When was the last time he had reason to laugh?

“To see him smile, to watch him laugh, you see his wit now, don’t you?” He can hear the smile in Saint’s voice now, warm and loving, fondness that makes every part of Osiris feel embraced and warm. “That is my Osiris. My phoenix. He is brilliant. Even the Witch Queen could not extinguish his flame.” Osiris draws in a deep breath, he feels himself slip from the bed, his body seeming to move of its own accord.

“I am well.” Saint tells Crow, and Osiris can hear the truth of it in his tone.

He pads to the bedroom door, opening it before he can second guess himself. Saint and Crow turn as soon as he steps out, and it isn’t until he sees the worry in Saint’s face that he realizes there are tears in his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he breathes, wiping at his eyes. “I didn’t mean to eavesdrop–”

Saint’s worry fades into a knowing smile, and then he’s standing in front of Osiris, his hands on Osiris’ shoulders. Osiris feels another wave of tears force themselves out of his eyes.

“I love you.” He croaks as Saint gathers him into his arms. Saint presses a kiss to the top of Osiris’ head. “I love you.” His words are twisted by tears, tense and shaking, and Saint shushes him gently.

“I know, my love.” Saint breathes. He holds Osiris close, running his hands over his back and pressing kisses to his head, to his brow. “I love you, too.”

#destiny game #destiny 2 #destiny o14 #destiny osiris #destiny saint 14 #destcember2022 #destcember #destiny fanfiction #demiwrites

[demiclar]

Class Warfare

Class Warfare - Ao3

Osiris comes to the defense of his new Ghost.

(This fic exists in an AU I was playing around with over the summer where Fynch bonds with Osiris as his new Ghost after the events of The Witch Queen. Hope you enjoy it!)

Destcember Day 2 - Class Warfare

------

Fynch was immediately taken with the Eliksni of the Last City. Osiris noticed it instantly. After Osiris woke and was healed thanks to the combined efforts of his new Ghost and the Kell of the House of Light, he was quick to notice how drawn Fynch was to the House. They visited the Eliksni quarter often. Osiris was still healing both in mind and body—though Fynch did make the latter a great deal easier—and he found it eased some of the stressors that plagued his mind to be among the House of Light, to help them as they had helped him.

Saint was similarly drawn to the Eliksni quarter, as were Crow and Glint. Osiris could understand why. Even with the difficulty surrounding his first impression to the House of Light, they’d become a steadfast support for Saint in the difficult months that had followed, dealing with Savathûn’s deception and Osiris’ comatose state, Mithrax and the others had been there for Saint in a way few others could. It was only natural that he would remain close to them even after Osiris woke, but what surprised Osiris was the attachment the other members of his little flock had to the quarter.

Geppetto’s feelings were closely related to Saint’s, and to Osiris’ own. The House of Light had taken care of her and her Guardian during a dark time, the Eliksni also had a way of seeing Ghosts as their own beings, not so tightly coupled with their Guardian partners as some of the people of the city seemed to believe. Crow’s attachment was similarly understandable. The Eliksni had been both protectors and abusers to Crow in his lifetime. Spider had been his captor on the Shore, and that certainly introduced a layer of tension into their time in the Eliksni quarter, but many of his men had worked to shield Crow from his brutality in the same way he had tried to protect them. Of the group of them, he had the best hold on the language, and could often be seen speaking among them in both English and Eliksni.

Glint and Fynch offered a new perspective, however. Even bonded with Osiris, Fynch still found the Tower and the Guardians within to be unreceptive to him. Whenever they ventured in, Fynch would conceal himself within Osiris’ light, the feeling of being unwelcome creeping down their bond from Fynch’s side. Osiris did his best to reassure the Ghost, but as long as the Ghost still bore his chitin shell and green eye, the Guardians would not forget who he’d once pledged himself to.

At first, the Eliksni of the House of Light had given him similar looks. It had taken the explanation of who Fynch was—Osiris’ Ghost, but more specifically one of the key players in the defeat of Savathûn—for their suspicion to be replaced by trust. Once it was, Fynch had relaxed into their company. The feelings of discomfort, of being unwelcome or different had gradually lessened, until Osiris could no longer feel them through the bond that linked them together. Glint, he realized, had a similar experience. Among other Guardians and Ghosts, there were still those that felt Crow should not have been revived, that Uldren Sov did not deserve the Traveler’s blessing, and that Glint had betrayed the Tower and the City by bestowing it upon Crow. The Eliksni quarter offered them both an escape from the creeping class warfare that deemed them both as different, or evil, agents of Darkness and ill will to the Traveler.

Unfortunately, it was never completely safe.

Osiris was on his knees, his hands in the cool earth, his knees cushioned on a foam panel as he tended the garden beside a number of Eliskni and human workers. Crow was at his side, picking weeds from the dirt around the growing plants. He was immersed in his work, relaxed in the domesticity of his task when he felt a pinprick of Light from the other side of the quarter. He lifted his head on instinct, only for an overwhelming sense of fear to pour down the bond between himself and his Ghost.

It was so intense it was nauseating, and Osiris drove his fingers into the damp Earth as he shuddered at the sensation, stimuli pouring into his being. Fynch suddenly reached for him with utter desperation Osiris had never felt before, sending his every perception down the bond as he tried to bring them close together.

“Please!” Osiris heard his Ghost saying. “You don’t understand! I’m not one of them, I helped the Guardian fight her, I–”

He saw the flash of an armored Guardian looming above him, felt the clench of a fist around his body—around Fynch’s body. Distantly, Osiris felt Crow’s hand on his shoulder, but his focus had moved into his Light.

Osiris reached for his Ghost, fought to pull him back from the being inducing such fear in him, to draw him into his Light and protect him the way he needed to, but something held Fynch in place. Paracausal power wrapped around Fynch’s shell and rallied, but Osiris would not lose another Ghost, certainly not like this.

His own Light roared in response, and Osiris was on his feet in an instant, crossing the Eliksni quarter at a sprint.

“I helped save Osiris! The Guardian, the Young Wolf, they trust me, please—”

Osiris could find his Ghost without his senses. He needed no sight to guide him, he didn’t need the sound of his cries, the nauseating fear was enough, the power of the Light that linked them together. Osiris ran.

He spotted the Guardian in front of him, sunlight reflecting blindingly off of his armor, a Titan held Fynch aloft in his fist, paracausal power dripping from his fingers and holding Osiris’ Ghost in a vise grip.

“Let him go!” Osiris felt his own Light surge in him, it rallied in defense of his Ghost, to fight tooth and nail if need be, but at the sight of him, the Titan balked.

The instant the grip of the Titan’s power lessened around Fynch, the Ghost broke free of his fingers, hurtling towards Osiris. He paused before the Titan, his Light raging through his veins, Crow just a step behind. Osiris cupped Fynch in a palm for a moment, looking him over to confirm what he was feeling with his Light—that the Ghost was scared, but unharmed—before he guided him behind him. He could feel through their bond when Crow’s fingers brushed over Fynch, protectively pulling the Ghost close.

Osiris didn’t remember what he said to the Titan. By the time the words of anger and reprimand were out of his mouth, Saint and Mithrax were at his side and they were beginning to draw a crowd of onlookers. The Titan left the Eliksni quarter without delay, and Osiris coaxed his raging Light to calm. When he finally turned round, he found Fynch cradled in Crow’s hand, pressed to his collarbone, wrapped in the warmth of the Hunter’s Light. Saint’s hand settled on Osiris’ shoulder. Crow met his gaze with worried eyes.

“Fynch.”

His Ghost turned to face him, his shell drawn close around him.

“I–I’m sorry.” He stammered, “I didn’t mean to–”

Osiris reached out a hand. His movements telegraphed through their bond, he drew his Ghost close, cradling him in his hands with warmth rather than aggression.

“You have nothing to apologize for.” He lifted Fynch to press his forehead to his Ghost’s frame, even when the prongs of his shell were hard and sharp against his skin. “That Guardian should not have touched you.”

“But I look like–”

“It doesn’t matter.” Osiris cut in. He pulled back enough to look Fynch in the eye. “You’ve more than earned your place here. You deserve to live in peace.”

“But I–”

“Fynch.” It was Crow who interrupted him this time, setting a hand on Osiris’s shoulder and stepping close until he, Osiris, and Saint formed a protective little circle around the Ghost. He cupped his hand around Osiris’, holding Fynch in an open grip. “It doesn’t matter what you look like.”

Fynch’s shell seemed to droop around him, and he gave them a small nod. He pressed himself into Osiris and Crow’s hands.

“Thank you.” He murmured. “I’m sorry.”

Osiris leaned forward to press a kiss to his shell. The Hive chitin was rough against his skin, but the Ghost had never had an ounce of malintent towards him. He wreathed their bond in affection and care and felt Fynch sink into his touch, gratitude coupled with exhaustion shuddering out of Fynch’s side of the bond.

Osiris held him close. “No apologies.”

#destiny 2 #destiny game #destiny fanfiction #destcember2022 #destcember #destiny osiris #destiny crow #destiny fynch #destiny season of plunder #demiwrites

[poorlytunedukulele]

Prompt 8 - Trespasser

October 08, 2841; near Old Cairo, Egypt, Earth

How funny it was that such important events could happen on such ordinary days.

Andal and Cayde were after Filchis, a Kings Captain.  There was a decent bounty on her head.  Normally, low-raking Captains were below the Vanguard's notice- but this one had managed to actually kill a few Guardians.  Her head was already on a pike, as far as the brass was concerned.

Andal and Cayde headed to the lair where Filchis was supposedly working- cautious, because Filchis had killed two Guardians, but not too cautious, because... well, Filchis was a Captain and Cayde and Andal were Cayde and Andal.

They arrived at the hideout to find it in disarray.  Doors wide open, broken Shanks scattered all around.

"Turf war?" Cayde guessed hopefully.  Perhaps a rival Fallen had already killed Filchis and this would be an easy bounty to collect.

But there were no Fallen in the hideout, neither Filchis's crew nor her rivals'.  There were plenty of dead bodies, but as Sundance glumly reported, Filchis wasn't among them.

Exactly why wasn't evident until they stumbled upon him.

It was a control room of sorts.  More of a control alcove.  A control breakfast nook.  There were no doors that could be closed (a poor planning decision in Andal's opinion- just anyone could walk up and start messing with things).  A few terminals had been haphazardly shoved into the corners.  At one of them, with their back turned to the hallway, was an upright figure in a House of Kings cloak.  Andal almost drew his weapon before the person let out a frustrated sigh and tapped at one of the screens with a five-fingered hand.  They were human- and apparently the cause of the abundance of Fallen corpses around.

Andal kept himself from drawing, but he must have made a noise of surprise.  The person turned.  The brief glimpse of an Exo face (black, with red highlights and cerulean eyes) was all Andal needed to confirm that they weren't a threat.  Too late he saw the gun in the stranger's hand.  The Exo automatically aimed and let out a spread. 

Andal dodged.  Two of the bullets missed him, but one ricocheted off of his chestplate and a sting told him the other had penetrated the weaker armor between his shoulder and his neck.  There was a beat of silence as all of the Guardians froze- the stranger's gun rigid and still, no longer tracking Andal's motion- Cayde taken by surprise, Andal with his hand at his hip.

The echo of the gunshot reverberated.  There was a heartbeat of stillness as everyone sized each other up, waiting to see what the others would do-

Then Cayde straightened, crossing his arms.  "Four-burst?" he said skeptically.  "Really?  Excessive."

"Got you, didn't it?" the trespasser replied in a raspy baritone.  The spell was broken- Andal let his hand drift away from his cannon and the trespasser holstered his gun in turn.

It finally seemed to occur to the stranger that shooting someone was something you should apologize for.  "Sorry," he said, businesslike.  He still turned back to the terminal he was working on.

"We're looking for a Captain by the name of Filchis," Cayde said, taking the lead.  "Haven't seen her around, have ya?"

"Filchis?" the other Exo replied, optics flicking from the terminal to Cayde's face, then back.  "She's not here.  I waited 'till she was gone before I broke in.  I'm not after her."

"Bigger fish to fry?" Andal guessed.

The Exo's expression darkened.  "Vokril," he muttered.

"King Baron," Sundance said in recognition.  "Got a hefty bounty on his head."

The trespasser didn't immediately reply, still lost in his data.

"You're not after the bounty," Andal reasoned. 

"It's... personal," was all the other Hunter said.

Andal took a critical look at the Fallen corpses on the floor and came to a conclusion.  "Well, you know, I certainly wouldn't object to some more help on this hunt.  Especially not from someone as skilled in... infiltration as you."  Infiltration seemed a good word to describe the havoc the Exo has wrought here.  "And hey, we'd be willing to split the bounty.  If you're willing to split the one on Vokril for our help with him."

Cayde interjected.  "Not like you were gonna pick it up anyway, right?"

The trespasser just frowned at them for a moment before an orange Ghost appeared and bonked him on the head in chastisement.  "You help them kill one Captain, then they help you kill Vokril and you'll get paid for it," the Ghost said.  

"Alright," the trespasser said, sounding resigned.  "You're the boss."

"Good man," Andal said, stepping forward to shake the stranger's hand.  "I'm Andal Brask.  This is my packmate, Cayde-6."

The Exo nodded at Andal's words and took his hand.  "Shiro-4."

AO3 Linky!

#destcember #destcember2022 #destiny #destiny the game #destiny 2 #destiny fanfiction #andal brask #cayde-6 #shiro-4 #andal seeing a new hunter: #is it for me? #picking up kinderguardians like stray kittens

[demiclar]

Memories

Memories - Ao3

Osiris and Saint celebrate the coming of a new year. 

Osiris’ mind is clouded with memories. He cannot help but remember all the years that have passed him by, clouded with unhappiness. He has spent so many years alone. First, it was only Sagira that kept him aware of the years that passed. Once he met other Lightbearers and found community with them, there was a period of time where he was not quite alone. Celebrations of the new year found him in the company of friends or acquaintances for some years, until his exile and he was left unbearably alone. He and Sagira stopped celebrating the coming of a new year while they traversed the Infinite Forest. Eventually, they stopped discussing it altogether. Now, to wake up and know that years passed between his capture and rescue is chilling. The thought plagues his mind as the clock ticks down towards midnight.

Noise reaches Osiris’ ears, the merriment of their guests, muffled by the door to Osiris’ study. He stands inside, alone. His breaths shudder in and out of his lungs, his hands braced on the desk before him. There is nothing specific in his mind, a mass of fears built up from the emotional state of the evening. The high energy of the guests, the flurry of activity that comes with trying to host them in his home, all of it leaves Osiris overstimulated and tense, overwhelmed by everything around him.

But his study is at least a refuge of quiet. He keeps the lights off as he stands inside, his gaze drifting over the city beyond the window. Fat, fluffy snowflakes drift down outside, catching the light of the street lamps and revealing themselves to Osiris’ eyes through the dark of night. Osiris watches them fall, mesmerized.

It’s true that he has been captured, it’s true that he has been alone, but there are people that care about him. The evidence—however overwhelming at times—is all around him, in the form of the guests in his house. The clock will not reach midnight before their concern will grow, and someone will come looking for him, a concerned representative sent by the party. That representative will likely be Saint. Osiris feels the ghost of a smile form on his lips. For the occasion, his lover had donned a pair of glasses made in the shape of the new year, the numbers making the construction so asymmetrical and awkward neither Osiris nor Crow could resist teasing him when he’d first put them on. Even thinking of them brings a smile to Osiris’ lips.

A quiet knock on the door draws him from his thoughts.

“Osiris?” Saint opens the door enough to peek inside.

“I’m here.” He calls, watching his lover’s optics shift and dim as they adjust to the low light. He reaches out, taking Saint’s hand and guiding him inside. His lover shuts the door gently once he’s inside, looking down at Osiris, his face pinched with worry.

“Are you alright?” He glances around the room. “It’s very dark in here.”

Osiris smiles. He sets his hands on Saint’s arms, then slips his arms around Saint’s torso, stepping close to press his head to Saint’s chest, his arms wrapping around Saint. The Titan returns his embrace immediately, resting his head atop Osiris’.

“I’m fine.” Osiris promises, “I was a bit overwhelmed, that’s all. I’m doing much better now.”

Saint hums against him. He presses his lips to Osiris’ knit hat. Saint has practically showered Osiris with all manner of winter clothing since he awoke, fighting the winter chill having become more difficult due to the strength he lost during his capture and unconsciousness, his weight and muscle mass proving difficult to regain. Osiris now has an entire shelf of sweaters in their closet, much to Saint's delight.

“I am sorry, I should have considered that this might be difficult for you.” Saint tells him, his words murmured into Osiris’ hat. His arms still hold Osiris close, and Osiris presses his nose into Saint’s sweater, inhaling the scent of him. “I had thought that being around friends might be a welcome change.”

“It is, Saint.” Osiris draws back enough to cup Saint’s cheek in his hand, offering him a loving smile. “It is wonderful. I am glad they’re here. It’s only the noise that overwhelmed me, and that feeling has passed.”

Even in the darkness, he can see the concern coloring Saint’s features. He leans forward, pressing a kiss to his cheeks, to the center of his face, where his nose would sit if he were human, then to his lips. He rests his forehead against Saint’s.

“I’m alright.” He tells Saint. Saint’s hands creep up to his shoulders. One comes to rest on his chest, and Osiris breathes into Saint’s palm, letting his partner feel the rise and fall of his chest beneath his hand. He understands the need for reassurance and confirmation that he is well and alive. Osiris is still plagued by the same fears. He still wakes from nightmares, reaching blindly across their bed to feel his lover when he forgets about the Sundial and the success he eventually found with it. When Saint relaxes enough to look assured that Osiris is telling the truth, he offers a bit more.

“I could not help but think of all the New Year’s I spent alone.” He tells Saint quietly. He smooths his hands over Saint’s sweater, then lifts his eyes back to Saint’s optics. “I have no intention of being alone again.”

Saint gives him a smile colored by melancholy from old aches, but warm with hope and new light. He presses his forehead to Osiris’.

“Neither do I.”

His lips are mere millimeters from Osiris’ when a knock sounds on the door. The pair of them freeze, their eyes finding one another in the darkness.

“Osiris? Saint?” It’s Crow’s voice, calling out through the door. “It’s almost midnight. We’re opening the champagne.”

Their eyes flick to the door when Crow speaks, and Saint draws back just a hair, watching him once again.

“It would be rude to miss our own party.” Osiris points out.

Saint’s features shift into a sort of pout, and Osiris feels himself smile. “I think I would quite enjoy spending the new year alone with you, but I fear you’re right.”

Osiris leans forward, dropping a quick peck to Saint’s lips, a preview for what he will get at midnight, then he reaches for the door.

“Worry not, my love.” He tells Saint, reaching out to take his hand. “I will be yours for many new years to come, I promise you.”

Saint gives him a look of pure want, and pure warmth, but Osiris opens the door and they slip out together. The champagne is poured and distributed and they count down the seconds to the new year in each other’s arms. When the clock strikes midnight and Osiris feels Saint’s lips on his own, he knows there’s nowhere he’d rather be.

#destiny #destiny game #destiny 2 #destiny o14 #destiny osiris #destiny saint 14 #destcember2022 #destcember #demiwrites

[demiclar]

Trespasser

Trespasser - Ao3

Shiro-4 meets his Nightmares aboard the Leviathan.

(I am once again asking Bungie for more Shiro-4 content. Please.)

The Leviathan makes his skin crawl. He’s not even out of his ship before it makes him feel as though there are spiders walking across his skin, synthetic and silicone as it is. Being here isn’t even his job. The Vanguard has already moved on from the Leviathan. Guardians still return to it from time to time, but it's mostly empty when Shiro lands on the front steps.

Not empty enough, he can’t help but think.

A figure waits for him on the steps, wreathed in deep red, a familiar Exo. He crosses his arms over his chest, giving Shiro a nod.

“Been waiting for you to show up.”

“Yeah?” Shiro mounts the steps, feigning disinterest. If the nightmare really is just some manifestation of his thoughts and fears, it must already know it’s exactly who Shiro is here to see. “Why’s that?”

Cayde doesn’t follow when Shiro passes him. He stands still on the steps until Shiro pauses and looks back. Everything in him tells him to run, not to look back and to leave the Leviathan now and never think of it again, but he doesn’t. He stops, turning back to face his old friend.

“He was here.”

Cayde’s face has shifted into glaring anger. The Darkness seems to swell around him, acid and burning, like the Witness is trying to mimic the power of Shiro’s friend.

“Why did you let him–”

“I didn’t–” It’s a shock how fast the Nightmare gets to him, how quickly Shiro’s walking back towards him. He forces himself to pause, to take a deep breath. “He’s not Uldren, and I didn’t let him come here. He doesn’t answer to me.”

“Why not?”

A new voice sounds behind him, and Shiro jerks in surprise, turning stumbling a step back before he can be boxed in. Andal Brask glares at him, a sniper rifle on his back, his cloak, the one that later became Cayde’s, hanging from his shoulders, the hood drawn over his head.

“Cayde and I aren’t there anymore. What happened to the Vanguard Dare? Why aren’t you organizing the Hunters?” Andal presses. He descends the steps towards Shiro, his brows pinched.

“That’s not–” He nearly stumbles on the steps, hurrying to back up as Andal advances faster than expected. He can feel the mass of writhing Darkness flowing from him, overwhelming Shiro in its potency. “That wasn’t Cayde’s Dare. The Vanguard position isn’t mine to take, he didn’t want that for me.”

“Guess what, pal, you don’t get that luxury.”

Another voice behind him, another Hunter at his back. Tevis Larsen stalks towards him.

“You think because you’re the last of us, you get to stop trying? You get to leave the Hunters to fend for themselves?” Tevis continues. His anger is the sharpest of all of them, edged with icy cold. “That’s not how this works, Shiro. You don’t get to abandon them.”

“You gave up on the Traveler.” Shiro snarls at Tevis, his own arc Light crackling in response to the Void he can almost feel from his friend.

“I didn’t give up on humanity.”

“Right, you went to the Black Garden and let the Vex destroy you.” Shiro can’t help his anger. These are his friends, he doesn’t want to fight with them and yet it’s all he can do. Their Darkness wraps around his heart, turning it black with vitriol.

“And what did you do?” Tevis challenges. “Run off to the Iron Temple so you could live with Saladin?”

Cayde’s face appears beside Tevis, a sneer on his lips. “And he left you, too. Didn’t he?”

The words threaten to cleave a hole into Shiro’s already aching chest. If he wasn’t already alight with anger, he’d have gone silent, but instead he roars in response.

“He didn’t–”

“Why didn’t you take the gig?” Andal’s voice silences him, silences all three of them. He always had that weight.

He’s standing high on the steps, looming over the three of them, cold and somber as he watches. For a moment, the hazy red seems to fade out of him, flesh and hard leather taking shape beneath. For a moment, he seems real, and grief floods Shiro’s circuits. For a moment he can only stare.

“I didn’t want to be locked up. Not after what happened to all of you.”

“Is it really so different from the life you live now?” Andal asks. “You don’t live in a tower, you live in a temple, but you’re still trapped. How often do you leave? You run scouting missions for nothing. There’s nothing of value there, you’re not protecting anyone. Shaw Han is there for the new Lights, what do you do?”

“Are you really going to let him lead the Hunters?” Cayde’s voice brushes icy talons over Shiro’s body. He knows exactly who Cayde means.

“He’s not Uldren.” He grits out.

“He has Uldren’s memories.” Tevis points out. “He knows exactly what he did, why he did it, how he did it. Is he really someone new?”

“I don’t get to make that choice.”

“You would if you were Hunter Vanguard.” Cayde says, and Shiro whirls on him, reaching out to shove him, only for his hands to slip straight through the Nightmare.

“You didn’t want that for me!” He snaps, advancing on his last friend. “You made your Dare so that I wouldn’t have to. You never gave me reason to kill you. I never wanted you to die.”

“But I’m dead.” Cayde tells him, that cruel sneer back on his lips. “Right?”

Shiro feels his face fall. He can’t help the sadness that overwhelms him, the desire to plead with these Nightmares, with the Witness to relent. His friends might be dead but this is worse than death. This is excruciating pain, souring their memories into something only Shiro could ever recognize because his mind is the one that made them. He knows what they are, he knows they're not real, that his friends would never speak like this, but they string their lies around him until he's caught in the Witness' web. He lets them wrap him in their spider's silk, and doesn't fight it.

“You’re hiding behind excuses.” Andal tells him. He’s closer now, just a step or two above the three of them. “It doesn’t matter what Cayde wanted for you. When I lost the Dare, I took the position. I didn’t want it, no one wants it, but it’s a job that needed to be done. You let the Hunters fall to ruin for your own selfish reasons. You’re a coward.”

The fight drains out of him, the cold of Andal’s words flooding his body.

“I can’t lead them.” Shiro whispers. He never could.

“You’re a coward.” Andal tells him again. “You are worthless, alone, and unwanted.” Shiro meets eyes of burning red as his friend closes in on him. “And it’s all you’ll ever be.”

#destiny game #destiny 2 #destiny fanfiction #destcember2022 #destcember #destiny shiro-4 #Destiny Cayde-6 #Destiny Season of the Haunted #demiwrites

[demiclar]

Volatile

Volatile - Ao3

On the fourth anniversary of Cayde's death, the Guardian goes to Drifter seeking comfort.

The Guardian didn’t see it coming until the day was almost over. They didn’t realize why today was any different from another day, they didn’t understand why it deserved a second thought. They didn’t understand why today was any different than yesterday until they exited a mission report to the Vanguard database and the realization slammed into them. The late Hunter Vanguard’s face looked up at them from the home page of the database, unblinking, his obituary linked below. Guilt became a living, breathing thing that had taken residence in their core and it clawed its way up to wrap around their throat and all they could do was flip the data tablet they’d been holding to face down, the face of their old friend disappearing from their sight, but lingering in their mind.

They couldn’t push the thoughts to the back of their mind. They needed to repel an attack on the Ketch, with Spider and Mithrax and Drifter on comms, they needed to focus, but they couldn’t. How hadn’t they realized until now? How had the knowledge slipped away from them so much? It felt like they’d stepped back into that walk of life they’d been caught in four years ago, lawlessness and piracy reigning supreme. They shrugged off the weight of the Vanguard and the order that they normally answered to, the rules that normally defined their engagements. It was just as it had been after Cayde had died, when they bit their tongue and didn’t snap about the moral injustices they saw raging around them because they had bigger things to deal with. They liked it as much now as they had then, and they were eager to get off the ketch as soon as they could.

Drifter was waiting for them when their ship dropped them off in the annex. They’d come down here to avoid the noise and bustle of the hangar, and the open light of the courtyard, but part of them wanted to see the rogue, too. He was leaning against the wall at the entrance to the hallway that would lead up to his little shop, and their eyes met from across the distance between them. The Guardian couldn’t hold his eyes.

They made their way towards him, and Drifter walked by their side as they made their way back towards his shop. The grate was already drawn shut, but he unlocked it for them, drawing it open and allowing them inside. He shut it behind them and the Guardian turned, standing in the middle of the space like they were stranded in the ocean. They met Drifter’s gaze with tired eyes. 

“I figured out what day it is.” They told him weakly, and Drifter nodded, his arms crossed over his chest.

“Was wondering when that was gonna hit.” He told them. He jerked his chin and they followed him to a table tucked into the back of the space. He pushed aside a pile of data tablets and scraps of paper, and they seated themselves on heavy crates he’d drawn up to serve as chairs. “You wanna talk about it?”

“I don’t know.” The Guardian breathed.

When they’d first seen the picture, they’d felt nothing. Cayde had been their friend, and losing him had been hard. Their grief had taken a long time to process, unhealthy coping mechanisms giving way to real catharsis and slow healing. It felt like it had taken them ages to finally get over their emotions, but all of that felt so far away now. They’d stared at the picture for a long moment and their brain had supplied them with information like it would in any scenario. That was Cayde, he’d been their mentor. He’d died in their arms and they’d brought his killers to justice. They’d waded through the emotional toll of the consequences of their actions. That much was over now. 

But after that, after they hadn’t felt gut-wrenching sadness and the bone deep ache that had seemed to haunt their every move on the Tangled Shore. They’d felt guilt. Cayde had died in their arms. They’d heard his last words with their very ears, felt the heat of his oils seeping into their armor. Their ears had rung with the raspyness of his coughs, they’d stared into his eyes as the light faded from them. Why did they feel nothing? How could they? 

It felt like an insult to everything he was, everything they’d known and loved that the Guardian could look at him, could know full well he’d died on this day four years ago and they felt nothing. 

The guilt had been more painful than the grief. And they’d had to rush into battle immediately after. They couldn’t think, couldn’t process anything, they just had to fight like they’d always been made to and that had hurt more than seeing the picture had. This battle they didn’t quite believe in, this struggle they didn’t understand. 

“You doin’ okay with it?” Drifter asked, leaning towards them over the table. The Guardian shrugged.

“I don’t know.” They said again, because were they? They didn’t feel sad, but they couldn’t hope to explain the flood of tumultuous emotions running through their body. They didn’t know how they were doing or what they were feeling. They didn’t know if they were okay.

Drifter leaned back a little, and he crossed his arms on the table’s surface, like he was settling in to wait for them. The Guardian let out their breath in a quiet sigh. 

“I feel guilty.” They said at last, lifting their eyes to his.

“Because you survived?” 

They pressed their lips together. The sentiment was one they were familiar with. In the time immediately after Cayde’s death, they’d grappled with the fact that they were alive—that they were falling to ruin and losing their grip on just about everything they thought made them who they were—and Cayde was dead. They’d wished it had been the other way around, wished they’d given their life so that Cayde might live. It had been more than just their guilt, though. At times it had been a selfish desire, but they shook their head to Drifter.

“No.” They murmured. “Because I didn’t realize. I didn’t remember why today was special and I just forgot about all of it. Even when I finally realized and I saw his picture on the Vanguard database, I didn’t feel sad, I just felt guilty that I’d forgotten.”

Their breathing had quickened, and they pressed their hands against the edge of the table, drawing in a deep breath. 

“He died in my arms. That’s not something I should forget, ever.”

Drifter’s face pinched into a frown, and he reached out across the table to set a hand on their arm.

“It’s been four years.” He told them quietly. “You’re allowed to move on. It doesn’t mean you’ve forgotten about him, or that he meant anything less to you.”

The Guardian pressed their head into their palm, but they nodded.

“I know, and you’re right, but what makes it worse is that Cayde really isn’t what I’m worried about right now.” They pressed their middle finger and thumb into their temples, leaning onto their elbow. “I think about him for a little while but I always start thinking about something else. I’m worried about Crow. And Spider. He shouldn’t be here.”

“I know, kid.” Drifter promised. 

As soon as the Guardian had realized where Drifter intended to take Spider, they’d opened up a private channel to the rogue and snapped at him about the decision for nearly half an hour. It had taken Drifter a painstakingly long time to convince them why they needed Spider for the time being, but they were worried about Crow, and about the Eliksni Spider would no doubt be taking advantage of during his time in the Bonza district. To introduce a kingpin into the City’s most vulnerable population? It was a recipe for exploitation and ruin. The Guardian knew it, even if they could use Spider, even if he was an asylum seeker and it was the City’s responsibility to provide him with amnesty given they’d set the precedent for aiding Eliksni after they’d taken in the House of Light. It didn’t nullify the Guardian’s suspicions, and it didn’t make them want to tear Spider’s head from his shoulders any less.

“You feel guilty for moving on?” Drifter’s voice pulled them from their thoughts. The Guardian nodded.

“There are a lot of people that remember Cayde differently than I do.” They murmured. “They think I shouldn’t accept Crow, that I shouldn’t have rescued him from Spider, or that I should have killed him to finish what I started. I know Cayde wouldn’t want that, but I can’t help but feel a little guilty about it, for letting go of what Uldren did and realizing that maybe a revenge quest wasn’t the best idea.”

“Hey, you did a lot of good taking down that lunatic when you did.” Drifter cut in. “The Reef wouldn’t have been able to stabilize itself without Uldren in the ground.” Drifter’s tone suddenly softened. “But killing for revenge rarely seems to accomplish what folks think it will.”

The Guardian felt themself go silent, and Drifter let out a slow sigh, reaching over the table to hold their shoulder. 

“Listen, kid. You don’t deserve to feel guilty for moving on, but I get why you do.” He squeezed their shoulder. “Anything that traumatic is bound to leave a mark, we both know it did. Even if healing is what you want, realizing that you’re doing it can be hard to process. It feels like you’re letting him go, like he’s suddenly not important to you, but that’s not true.”

He looked the Guardian in the eyes, giving them a sympathetic smile. “You’re allowed to heal, Guardian. It doesn’t make anyone worth anything less, you hear? You’d better listen because I’ve known a lot of people and you’re the most self-sacrificing piece of shit I’ve ever met.” He pushed their shoulder lightly, and the Guardian laughed quietly. “You’re worth a hell of a lot, and you don’t deserve to be guilty for healing.” His hand slipped to the back of their neck, holding them with surprising tenderness. “Believe me, Hero. Trust.”

#destiny 2 #destcember2022 #destcember #destiny drifter #destiny guardians #destiny fanfiction #demiwrites

[demiclar]

Saintly Virtues

Saintly Virtues - Ao3

Osiris struggles to stay afloat in light of recent events, but Saint is there to help him.

(Hi! Spoilers below for the newest season, also this references this lore tab on Saint and Osiris. I've actually placed this a few hours after the events of that lore tab, so spoiler warnings for that as well. Enjoy!)

Saint does not allow Osiris to feel alone. It is perhaps the greatest blessing Osiris could receive. He fretted for the first few days after Osiris awoke, imploring him to stay in bed, to not test his strength so soon after so long being held under by the Witch Queen’s power. He relaxed his hold the more restless Osiris became, and though he coaxes Osiris to rest and reminds him of the importance of taking breaks, he does not try to keep Osiris from his studies. Perhaps he understands they are something he needs. They are more important to him than food and water.

He makes a point to accompany Osiris whenever he can, even if they are not in close quarters. When Osiris retreats to his study to pour over his reports, anything he can get his hands on that concerns Neptune and the power Savathûn knew of there, Saint putters around the apartment. Osiris can hear him as he works, never too loud, or distracting, but it is clear there is life in the apartment with him. Saint makes him tea, or does chores, or his own tasks. He plays music softly in the other room, loud enough for Osiris to hear but not enough to impede his focus.

When Osiris is away from the apartment, Saint visits him when he can. If it’s near mealtimes, he’ll bring Osiris food, or suggest that Osiris and whomever he is with return to the apartment with him for dinner. Ikora has already come over to their apartment twice in the last week, and Osiris is fully aware of how busy she is, but Saint is difficult to refuse when he means so well.

In his younger years, Osiris might’ve found it imposing. He might have been uneasy, or felt that Saint was asking for more than Osiris would give, but that is far from what Osiris feels now. He drinks tea with Saint when either of them think to make it. He eats dinner with Saint whenever he can manage it, and savors falling asleep and waking up beside his partner. Just knowing Saint is there, that Osiris isn’t alone, that he isn’t lost in Savathûn’s mind or his own helps soothe something in him.

Still, just knowing Saint is near isn’t always enough. The lack of findings on Neptune worries him. He itches with the need for information, the need to be believed. It tears at him, weathers his already thin patience into nothing. Stress builds and builds until he knows he’s going to snap. He’s already screamed and shouted, thrown his tablets and books and reports from his desk in fury. The anger has since faded. He’s whispered his fears out to Saint, but now they threaten to consume him.

Saint finds him in his study, seated before his desk, the afternoon light that had filtered through the window long since gone. His head is in his hands, his shoulders shaking with the force of his heaving breaths. He flinches at the sound of Saint’s footsteps, looking back only to confirm he is not an attacker. He needs to move his desk. Having the door behind him only ignites his unease. There are a great many things causing Osiris unease at the moment, tears stinging the backs of his eyes.

Saint sinks to his knees beside Osiris’ chair, placing a hand on his thigh. Osiris doesn’t want to look at him. He doesn’t want his partner to see how broken he’s become.

“Is it Neptune?” Saint asks, his voice a low rumble beside him. The fact that Saint knows exactly what’s driven him so far into desperation, what’s rendered him this shattered drives a knife into Osiris’ chest. Tears spill from his eyes. Osiris presses his hand to his mouth, but he cannot muffle the sound of the sob that breaks out of him.

“There’s nothing.” Osiris chokes out. “They can find nothing. Caiatl’s warriors, Ikora’s Hidden, the Guardians I’ve sent–” He breaks off with another sob, and Saint rises to his feet, using Osiris’ shoulders to swivel his chair away from his desk. He offers his hands to his partner.

“Come.” Osiris takes his hand. Saint draws him to his feet, then into the same firm embrace he’d held him in hours earlier. His grip is strong and grounding, comforting as Osiris buries his tears into the fabric of Saint’s poncho.

“I know there’s something there.” He whispers once he’s regained his breath. Saint’s hands trace over his back, running up and down soothingly.

“I believe you.” He promises.

“I know she saw something. I know it can help us. I just wish–” He sniffles, drawing back enough to wipe at his eyes. Saint presses a kiss to his temple.

“Is it possible whatever she saw could be concealed? Perhaps there’s something there that we cannot see.” Saint suggests, thoughtful, offering Osiris the granule of hope he so desperately needs. He’s too exhausted to even reach out and take it.

“I don’t know.” He whispers.

“Ikora tells me when the Guardian was in Savathûn’s throne world, they would often have to use Darkness to reveal the unseen, things Savathûn had forgotten.”

“That’s a throne world, it’s different.” Anger enters his tone again, fighting to breach through layers of exhaustion.

“Yes, but perhaps Neptune could hold something similar? Is there any way for Darkness to hide–”

“I don’t know.” Osiris breaks from Saint’s grasp, pressing his hands to his eyes immediately, he walks away from Saint, facing the wall. His partner stands still. The anger fades as soon as it arose, and when Osiris lowers his hands, he feels filled with remorse. “I’m sorry. I didn't mean to snap.”

Saint gives him a sad smile, reaching out a hand again. Osiris takes it, and Saint runs his thumb over Osiris’ fingers, staring down at them.

“You have every right to get angry.” He tells Osiris. He lifts his gaze to Osiris’ eyes. “While you were asleep, I used to wonder about what it would be like when you woke. I expected you to be consumed by anger, and grief. I wondered how you would react to discovering Savathûn was already dead, I wondered if it would deprive you of closure. There are so many things we’ve hardly discussed–”

“I’m not ready.” Osiris’s eyes fall, and he feels himself squeeze Saint’s hand. He isn’t wrong about the Witch Queen. Just thinking about the battles that went on while he was unconscious is overwhelming enough that he wants to scream, or bury himself so deep in the Earth nothing will reach him. He’s tried to turn his anger on Xivu Arath, to push it into his desire for vengeance for Sagira, but he cannot let go of the pain Savathûn inflicted upon him any more than he can let go of any of the fears she left him with. In a way, her death is a mercy, but it is also a curse. There is no one left to even remember the entirety of what was done to Osiris, not when his own memory has turned so fickly. Did he even see something on Neptune? Was there really something there? Or were the memories fed to him by Savathûn to lead him astray?

“I know.” Saint breathes. "You will take all the time you need." He takes a step towards the kitchen, out of Osiris’ study. He doesn’t let go of Osiris’ hand. “I thought I’d make tea.” He tells him. “Will you join me?”

Osiris pushes the Witch Queen from his mind and wipes his eyes. He gives Saint a small nod. “Certainly.”

#destiny 2 #destiny fanfiction #destiny game #destiny saint 14 #destiny osiris #destcember2022 #destcember #destiny o14 #demiwrites

[demiclar]

Sin

Sin - AO3 

Shiro-4 explores the Eliksni quarter with Saint-14.

------

Shiro-4 stands at the edge of the Eliksni quarter of the Last City, watching. Until now, the quarter was a place he had only heard about. A place he had seen only through the Vanguard reports and the media feeds he picks through when the feelings of isolation swell and Felwinter Peak feels as lonely and remote as it is. There’s something perverse about those interactions, he realizes now, seeing this place, this home through the lens of cameras. Thousands of miles away, he would catch glimpses of the Eliksni of the House of Light, the people that lived here, living amongst humanity in relative peace. He would shudder to think about the Eliksni that live near to him, and the territorial tensions that his life is ruled by. To have an Eliknsi at his door could be the start of a territorial war in Old Russia, yet here, there can be peace. The disconnect isn’t lost on him.

He stares until he notices a figure walking towards him, another Exo, tall and broad. The man wears silver armor, adorned with purple accolades to match his glowing helm. Shiro-4 inclines his head to Saint-14 as the Titan comes to stand beside him.

“Saint, I heard about Osiris. It’s good to know he’s awake.”

The Titan hums in agreement. “Yes. He is doing very well, considering the circumstances. I cannot seem to convince him to pause in his work, but that is Osiris.” Saint has never been one to remove his helmet in public, so Shiro can’t see his face, but he can make out the smile in his voice, in the tilt of his head and the way he nods to Shiro. “Have you come for the meetings?”

Since Osiris woke and told the Vanguard of the power Savathûn knew of on Neptune, the secrets she’d kept hidden in her mind, inadvertently allowing Osiris access to them through their bonded consciousnesses, the Vanguard has begun to assemble. Shiro has sent out calls to Hunter scouts near and far, from those who study and observe the Hive to those who patrol the outer reaches of the solar system. Gathering every bit of information available on Neptune has proved to be no simple task, but Shiro has done his best to compile it for the Vanguard. The next week is to be a series of meetings dedicated to devising the Vanguard’s plans moving forward. Shiro has already begun to wonder if some of those plans will include the election of a new Hunter Vanguard.

“Yes.” He answers, giving Saint a nod, “and to visit Saladin.”

Since he left the Iron Temple to join the Ulurant and their warriors, Shiro has made a point to visit him whenever he can, even if that means journeying the City after he’s avoided it for so long. He still hasn’t let go of the tensions he still feels just being in the City, the feeling of vulnerability he gets just being near the Tower after Cayde’s death has yet to fade, even after the years that have passed.

“Have you been to the Quarter before?” Saint’s helm looks on towards the Eliksni scattered about the space. Shiro shakes his head, and Saint offers him another tilt of his head, his Light warming with encouragement beside Shiro. It’s as if he can feel the unease keeping Shiro rooted in place, though through his Light, he might be able to. “Come. I will introduce you.”

He’s mostly content to watch from afar, but the idea of meeting any of the Eliksni fills him with dread and the hot, acid punch of fear. The idea of speaking face to face with the Kell, perhaps, whom Shiro has come to understand Saint is quite close to makes him more unsettled than he is going into battle, because this is not a fight he’s allowed to win.

“Saint, I don’t–” He breaks off when the Titan looks back at him, already leading the way further into the quarter. He pulls the hood of his cloak a little further over his eyes, and suddenly wonders if the stitched together house banners make some kind of political statement in a place like this. “Maybe you could just show me the place. Save meeting anyone for later.”

Saint watches him for a moment, considering Shiro as he tries not to shift on his feet, or reach out to hold his cloak. He crosses his arms instead, holding onto his biceps and feeling the synthetic muscles flex beneath his hands.

“Very well.” Saint tells him after a moment. He pauses, waiting for Shiro to follow him.

He deliberates for a moment before he does, following Saint down into the quarter. They walk among rubble, passing Eliksni that pay them no mind, besides the occasional wave or greeting to Saint. He walks close enough to feel Saint’s Light, a steady presence beside him as he tries to calm his own rippling unease.

“How did you–” Shiro breaks off, letting out a huff of breath. He pauses beside a heap of rubble, far off from any Eliksni that might be listening in. “How did you do this? How did you come to trust them like this?”

He feels the frustration rising in him, threatening to boil over. He’s been on edge since he left the Temple to come to the City in the first place. Now, walking through the Eliksni quarter with the Kellbreaker, part of him wants to laugh at the ridiculous irony of it, that he’s the one who can’t relax, while Saint seems perfectly at home.

“It was not an easy process.” Saint tells him, his voice soft. “But the old houses are gone. It took me far too long to realize that.”

“Tell that to the Devils trying to take the Temple.” Shiro grouses. The Eliksni around Felwinter have taken notice of Saladin’s absence, getting braver and braver as they venture closer and closer to Felwinter Peak. Shiro only felt safe leaving it under the guard of the wolves and nearly a hundred Redjacks patrolling the peak, all armed with sensors to inform Shiro the moment anything slips past their perimeter.

“Shiro.” Saint’s tone hardens, drawing Shiro’s attention. “These are not the Devils.”

“And the Devils are just fighting for survival, I know.” Shiro’s breath sighs out of him. He’s not stupid, and he’s been a scout long enough to know the Eliksni attack for resources, they scavenge and scrounge in order to live and supply themselves. They’re not after the Temple because it’s a Lightbearer stronghold, but because of the resources contained within.

He shakes his head, perching on some of the rubble piled nearby. He stares out over the quarter, Saint watching him intently.

“I understand.” Saint tells him as the silence is beginning to stretch. “You’re afraid. Fear is not something one can let go of at a moment’s notice.”

“So?” Shiro presses, “how did you do it?”

Saint looks out over the Eliksni quarter, considering it from behind his Kellbreaker’s helm. “It is not something I have entirely forgotten.” He says, even as his Light holds steady.  “You do not forget fear, instead, you learn something new.” His gaze returns to Shiro and he straightens, brushing off the vulnerable air after a moment. “Come again when you are ready. There are lessons I will teach you, if you are willing to learn.”

Anxiety twists in Shiro’s gut, old and familiar, but Shiro looks past it. His eyes sweep over the Eliksni in the distance, tending to gardens, speaking with one another, laughing, living. There isn’t a weapon in sight, and the whole space exudes a sort of warmth Shiro has never associated with an Eliksni settlement before. He lifts his eyes back to Saint’s after a long moment.

“Okay.” He breathes, “I will.”

#destiny game #destiny 2 #destiny fanfiction #destcember2022 #destcember #destiny shiro-4 #destiny saint 14 #demiwrites

[demiclar]

Sleeping In

Sleeping In - Ao3

Osiris finds there are things worth waking up for.

(Season of Plunder Finale spoilers!)

Osiris’ body demanded rest. The potion Mithrax had given him had afforded him the strength to fight off the last dredges of Savathûn’s power, to finally wake after so long lingering below the surface, but now, his body required rest more than anything. His former state had not been restful. As much had become apparent in the time after he’d initially woken, after he’d slipped between sleep and wakefulness enough times to realize his body was weak and in need of a great deal of rehabilitation. After his time as Savathûn’s captive, his comatose state after his rescue had been about survival. He had not healed, or rested, his body had done what it needed to keep him alive, but could manage little else. Now, he was healing.

He spent much of his time sleeping. He found his bed—if he had managed to leave it in the first place—soon after he and Saint had dinner. He didn’t rise until nearly noon, a far cry from the sleep schedules he was used to functioning on during the height of his research. His waking hours were like the moments of sunlight in an Alaskan winter, late to arrive and early to leave. Before his exile from the city, it had felt like there were weeks where he’d have no sleep at all, and now it almost seemed that all he did was sleep. The new needs would be alarming if his body were not responding so positively to it. With Saint ensuring he ate and drank all he could, his strength was returning to him in force, his stability and hazy, clouded memories along with it.

He’d told Saint and the Vanguard what he could of Savathûn’s memories. He told them of the power on Neptune, the secret she knew of there, and whatever else he could make of her thoughts that had clouded his head as his own. He would understand them all in time, he hoped, but there were other, more pressing matters to attend to. There were other reasons not to sleep in.

The first time Osiris had met Crow had not been a formal meeting. He’d been pulled from sleep when the sun was filtering through the curtains, warm morning light brushing over his skin. He’d dozed under it until noise had drawn him out of half-sleep, quiet conversation muted through the door to his and Saint’s bedroom. He couldn’t make out their words, but he’d recognized their voices easily enough. Saint, and the voice of Uldren Sov, the former Prince of the Reef. But that, Osiris knew, was not correct. His tone was kinder, more relaxed, settled in a way Osiris had never heard out of the Prince. It was not his voice Osiris heard, but rather the voice of Crow, the man he’d seen through Savathûn’s eyes, and heard of through Saint’s stories. Savathûn had led him astray when she’d donned her disguise of Osiris’ skin, but still Crow had committed himself to helping Saint, to rescuing Osiris.

Those were not the thoughts on his mind as their words filtered under the door. Rather, Osiris listened to the affection in his Titan’s voice as he rose from their bed and dressed. As weak as he was, finding out how much support had rallied around Saint while Osiris had been captured and unconscious filled Osiris with a new kind of strength. Gratitude welled up in him, as warm as the solar of his Light, since passed. To know that there were others caring for Saint, helping him through his darkest nights settled something in Osiris’ very soul. They had not left even after Osiris had woken, and that too meant the world to him. Crow, Osiris knew, had given more than most.

They did not notice him when he first opened the door to emerge. He watched them from within the doorway. Crow was in the kitchen, making himself a mug of coffee with ease enough to show he’d done so many times before, talking animatedly as he worked. Osiris’ Titan sat at the breakfast bar in front of him, his attention rapt on the Hunter in front of him. A soft smile lit his face, while Crow grinned, recounting a story. It was only when he turned round to set his mug beside the coffee maker that he caught sight of Osiris in the doorway. His grin faded into shock, his body going still.

“Osiris.” He breathed.

Osiris felt himself smile. “Crow.”

That too, had been enough.

Since then, Osiris wakes to find Crow in the apartment on more days than not. He eats meals with them, or keeps them informed on the various Vanguard actions and the goings on beyond Earth. Osiris will often emerge from his study after the few hours of the day he’s devoted to his studies and to recalling Savathûn’s memories to find Saint and Crow in the kitchen together, laughing as Saint tries to teach Crow to make something or other, and Crow ends up making a mess of himself and the kitchen, but a good meal always finds its way to the table.

The scene Osiris walks into this evening is no different. Crow’s laughter reaches him through the study door, slightly ajar, and Osiris rises, feeling himself smile at the noise. He and Crow were not initially close, but the care Saint holds for him has allowed Osiris to warm to him in what feels like a mere matter of moments.

“Wait, wait,” Crow's voice holds a pleading edge, but any desperation seems to dissipate as he laughs between words. “You can’t leave, I don’t know how to–”

Osiris steps into the hallway, approaching the kitchen. When he rounds the corner, he finds Crow standing at the counter, a heap of dough wrapped around a rolling pin.

“Why is it so sticky?”

Saint throws his head back and laughs, and Osiris feels himself smile. The Titan pulls a tub of flour closer to Crow and the cutting board he’s working at, then sets his hands on Crow’s shoulders, standing just to his left.

“Use the flour, it will make it less sticky.” He advises, then turns. His face brightens when he catches sight of Osiris. “Ah, Osiris!” He steps away from Crow to reach for Osiris instead, landing a quick peck on Osiris’ lips. “Perhaps you could supervise? I must change.”

“Certainly.” Osiris smiles, but he cups Saint’s face with his hand before the Titan can step away, leaning back up for another, slower kiss. Saint drinks in the contact, as he has every touch they’ve shared since Osiris awoke. When they break apart, he leaves Osiris with a kiss to his brow, and Osiris is still smiling when he takes up a seat at the breakfast bar in front of Crow. “Pizza tonight?”

The Hunter grins, working to rub flour into the dough still stuck to the rolling pin, hoping to dislodge it from the wood. “Maybe.” He says, his lips twisting in effort. “If I can get this off.” He lifts his eyes to Osiris. “How were your studies?”

“Things are going well.” He answers, “I’ve been corresponding with the Ghost in Savathûn’s Throne World, Fynch. He’s been able to provide some insight into some events the Vanguard reports left unclear.”

Crow nods. “That’s good. I’ve heard the Guardian really likes him. They—” he breaks off, frowning in distaste as he gets the pizza dough off the rolling pin only for it to stick itself to the cutting board instead.

“My apologies,” Osiris gives him a sympathetic smile, “I should have told you to flour the cutting board.”

Crow shakes his head, taking a pinch of flour in one hand and setting to work with the other, pulling the pizza dough off the wooden surface.

“I can see why the Guardian likes him.” Osiris continues, “he was timid in our first few conversations, but he seems to be growing more comfortable with me as time has gone on. He has a keen eye for his surroundings.”

Crow nods thoughtfully. “I’ve heard that about him. I guess I was a little worried that you two might get off on the wrong foot at first, with Savathûn.” He lifts his eyes to Osiris’ once more, his gaze assessing.

Osiris purses his lips. “The issue of Savathûn is…complicated.” He murmurs. “Since seeing her memories, it’s given me a perspective I…” He trails off. Crow is still watching him from the counter, but Osiris shakes his head with a small sigh. “I’m not sure what to make of it.” He confesses.

Crow looks down, his eyes falling to the lump of dough in front of him. He works flour into it with methodical slowness. “I get that, I think. Savathûn was a mentor to me, and when the Traveler blessed her, she did so many awful things, but it was hard for me to view her as completely evil.”

“There is no good or evil.” He murmurs, his gaze following Crow’s. “Only the Vex have that kind of determinism, and for what reason, we don’t properly understand.”

Silence stretches between them until Saint emerges from the bedroom, immediately frowning at the changed atmosphere.

“What happened?” He asks, reentering the kitchen, a warm sweater replacing the armor he’d worn earlier while he’d helped Mithrax in the Eliksni quarter. “You did not burn something, did you?”

Crow recoils immediately at the accusation. “That was one time!” He protests, and Osiris recalls the most eventful ten minutes since he first woke at home, when Crow accidentally set a loaf of bread on fire with his solar light and very nearly set the rest of the kitchen aflame trying to put it out. He relaxes as Saint pats his shoulder, insisting he was only joking. “It was my fault.” He says, his voice quieter. “I brought up Savathûn.”

Saint makes a short huff of distaste. “I cannot leave for two minutes without the two of you discussing that witch.”

“It’s important that we discuss her.” Osiris points out. “Understanding her actions is paramount.”

“I know.” Saint responds, softening immediately. He rounds the counter to the breakfast bar, pressing a kiss to Osiris’ temple. “I only meant to say, there is a time and place to discuss Savathûn, and I do not wish to have her in my home again.”

“I know.” Osiris echoes. He presses a kiss to Saint’s lips before the Titan looks over at Crow.

“Did you preheat the oven?”

Crow lifts his hands, caked in pizza dough and flour.

“You want me to touch the oven?” Saint rolls his eyes, but his scoff is colored by fondness rather than irritation, and when he returns to the kitchen, Crow laughs when he ruffles his hair.

“Glint, if you would—”

“On it!” The Ghost appears in the air, zipping to the oven and directing a beam of light at it. They fall back into work quickly, the lingering darkness cleared from the air.

Osiris instructs Crow while he rolls out the pizza and shifts it to the stone before he covers it in sauce and cheese, layering their toppings on in different sections. Once it's in the oven, Saint washes and chops vegetables, and they get their meal on the table with no mishaps, accidents or fires. When they sit down to eat, Osiris lifts his water glass in a toast, smiling at the other two seated at the table with him.

“Thank you.” He tells them, “for more than just making dinner.”

Saint and Crow return his toast, and Osiris enjoys another evening awake, alive, and safe after so long.

#destcember2022 #destcember #destiny game #destiny fanfiction #destiny crow #destiny osiris #destiny saint 14 #destiny season of plunder #destiny o14 #demiwrites

[poorlytunedukulele]

Prompt 6 - Saintly Virtues

October 27, 2958; Infinite Forest, Mercury

“This didn’t take so long last time,” Sagira complained.

“Shhh,” Veera said.  “Let her focus.”

Azra leaned on the wall, her forehead resting on her curled fists.  The Vex simulation tingled slightly where her hands were pressed against it.

Saint-14’s Light was there, but it was so faint.  Osiris’s Light had been a constellation, a shining spotlight- Saint was just a twinkle in the mists.  She searched and searched but never quite found.  They’d been here for nearly fifteen minutes.

“If we were closer in physical proximity-“ Osiris started.

This time, Azra shushed him.   She drew together her eyebrows and breathed deeply, putting all of her focus on her Lightsense.  Behind her, the two Warlocks stood out in bright, obvious sensations – banners in the wind, the Sun like a spotlight, laser fire- volcano ash and neon lights.  The weight of their impatience pressed on her.  Osiris was impatient to finally reunite with his partner, Veera was impatient with Osiris’s interruptions.

Azra drew in another breath and dove deeper- she could feel Saint, like the shocking cold water from a spring, fields of lavender, the iridescent sheen of feathers, the wonder of the possibility of the spaces between the stars-

There- the source of it all, the epicenter.  Like a quiet, slow fountain.  It wasn’t the shape she was expecting, but it was there.

“Got it,” Spark said. They had coordinates.

Azra leaned back and opened her eyes- a little shocked to realize that she was glowing faintly. Untempered, unfocused light glimmered beneath the skin of her hands like she was Awoken.

“Interesting. Marshalling your Light helps you focus this sense?” Osiris asked.

“The Light reacts to its surroundings,” Azra said.  “More Light, stronger reaction.”

“Good point,” Osiris said. “But please- let us continue.”

Azra quelled her inner spark and unholstered her Mythoclast.  There was no saying what simulation they’d be walking into.  “We all ready?”

 -

Oh.  It was this place again.  A dark future (though one thoroughly averted now that Panoptes was gone).  Veera gasped at the picture of the Sun hanging dead in the sky.  Azra cast it a glance, but quickly moved her attention elsewhere.  The ground here was absolutely littered with dead Vex.  They were heaped in mounds.  Their frames choked the narrower passages between the rocks.

“This seems like Saint,” Sagira said confidently.  The Vex did seem to be generally more crushed and smashed than shot.  Those that did show weapons damage had been dispatched at close-range with a shotgun.

“This is old,” Spark pointed out.  The Vex chassis were half-covered with drifting sand.  Azra turned her gaze up the slope- it seemed the battle had progressed from here up and into a structure a few hundred meters away.  The Vex all faced that direction, reaching out and caught on their own piles of frames.

That was also where the Light felt the strongest.  Azra was losing hope that this story would have a happy ending.  The Light was uncollected, like a Sunspot, burning stubborn persistence.  It didn’t feel like a living person.

Ever-cautious, Azra went first.  The piles of Vex were so bad she had to jump over them at times, landing with a knee-jarring thud whenever there was rock under the sand.  The two Warlocks followed a bit more elegantly.  They traced their way along the wall until Azra found a gap big enough to slip through.

It was a beautiful sight- the Light gathered like fairy-motes, slowly twisting and dancing on unfelt breezes. Its illumination revealed more piles of Vex- there was hardly a clear space on the floor.  It also illuminated the body.

Saint-14 was dead.  His Light burned, but he was gone.  

“Is this some kind of simulation?” Sagira asked.

“No,” Azra said.  “No, the body’s real.  Vex simulation doesn’t react to the Light like real matter does.” He floated there, purple ribbons rippling.  The Vex had placed him in a position of honor, on a plinth, floating above the destruction below.

Osiris walked up the steps and then stood there, staring.

“I am sorry,” Veera said gently.

Azra caught her elbow before she could more to physically comfort the older Warlock.  “Let’s give him some space, yeah?”

Veera looked back to Osiris. He stood there, perhaps a bit stiff and stony, but not at all looking like someone on the verge of a breakdown.  But Azra knew that even if he didn’t look it, he was still feeling things.  The sour and sweet grief that was beginning to blossom made Azra’s heart clench.  

She tugged on Veera’s arm a bit more firmly and the Warlock followed.  They squeezed back through the gap in the wall and stood in the open, under the dead sun.  The view outside was upsetting now; Saint certainly hadn’t gone easy.  These piles of frames were from his last stand.

It wasn’t until they were clear from Osiris’s well of emotion that Azra realized she was feeling some loss of her own.  Well, not her own own.  Her Ghost was upset.

“His Ghost’s name was Geppetto,” Spark said quietly.  “She was a friend of mine.  Before I raised you.”

There was more than one person to grieve, here.  Azra didn’t have to say anything.  She just tilted her head until it bumped him where he floated.  

“We never got much chance, but… I think you would have liked Saint,” Spark said.  “He was so… good.  He was a good person.  He really cared about people.”

“I had considered that this might end in tragedy,” Veera said.  “It has been decades since anyone had contact with Saint-14.”  She stepped closer to put a hand on Azra’s shoulder. “Still, I am sorry it ended like this.”

“It hasn’t ended,” Spark said.  That was how he dealt with the grief, the despair- he found the bright spot in it. He found something meaningful.  He gathered himself up and made himself believe the words.  “We take everything they gave us and we give it back to other people.  His legacy lives on.”  Spark had been inspired by Saint-14’s bravery, his compassion, his good humor. And hadn’t he in turn inspired is own Guardian to those same ideals?  Hadn’t she used that to help people, to inspire them as well?

Their thoughts were interrupted by Osiris’s approach.  The Warlock was still stony-faced in shock.  He should have been prepared for this, too, Azra thought, but… it was hard when it was someone you loved.

Osiris held out a datachip, almost disdainfully.  “He left this.  I have no use for it.”

Azra took it automatically. She felt like she should say something- the man just saw the body of his lifelong partner, after all.  But all of the platitudes that came to mind were so… shallow.  He wouldn’t want to share his pain with anyone he wasn’t close with- trying to soothe that pain felt dismissive somehow.  It wasn’t her place.  

Azra settled on an accepting nod and a promise.  “You know I’m here if you ever need anything.  Anything.  I know-” her own voice caught.  “Andal was already dead when I got out of the Vault.  It’s just… I know.”  The pain was a unique one, altered but not dimmed by the distance.  Regret clung to the Light like a waterlogged shirt.

Osiris’s posture loosened, just a little bit.  Azra made eye contact with Sagira and raised her eyebrows pointedly.  Even if he needed help, even if he knew she’d offer it, would his ego let him call?

“We’ll keep it in mind, I promise,” Sagira said.  

Osiris turned.  Azra let him start back down the slope.  

“It seems a bit rude, does it not?” Veera murmured.

Azra shrugged.  “He’s a private person.  He’ll get all bristly if you poke at him.  If he wants someone to talk to… well, in all honesty, it probably ain’t going to be you or me.”  She considered the shape of him as it grew smaller in the distance.  “But at least he knows there isn’t pressure from us. Some people don’t deal with incessant badgering as well as I do.”

“Well then, what’s on the chip?” Veera’s Ghost asked.  “Why didn’t Osiris want it?”

Azra watched the old Warlock open a portal and step through it.  They had the coordinates, now, they could come back any time they wanted. She turned her attention to the drive Osiris had handed her.

Spark lit it up.  The main file on it was a weapon schematic.  “A gun,” he reported.  He projected a model of it for the benefit of the Guardians.  “The Perfect Paradox, his shotgun.”

Azra’s face scrunched thoughtfully.  “I… recognize this.”

“Saint-14 was purportedly legendary with his shotgun,” Veera pointed out.  “Have you seen it before?”

“No, like…” Azra turned the projection over in her hands.  There were a few differences, cosmetic mostly, but… “I designed this. My Pack had a gunsmithing contest once. Shiro won, naturally, but this was my entry.”  Sturdy, clean, no-nonsense, with a hooked stock and iron sights.  She’d crafted it to be as rugged as possible.  You could club a Minotaur to death with it and it still would never jam.

“Perhaps he found the design somewhere,” Veera suggested.

“I don’t see how,” Azra said.  “I never published it.”

“He had the gun before you were Raised,” Spark said.  “You’re right- it is the same model.  I never connected the dots before.  How did he get a gun you made before you were alive to make it?”

 -

"It's Praedyth's rifle," Azra explained. "He… left it here somehow."

"I was going to say it belonged to someone else," Ghost commented. "This is remarkably similar in design to the Exo Stranger's rifle."

Azra's eyebrows came together in confusion. "No, I recognize it. As far as I understood, it was a custom project. No duplicates."

Ghost spun and hit the rifle with another scan. "And I recognize it, too. I'm sure of it."

Veera spoke up. "So we have more impossibilities on our hands. Is that really a surprise?"

 -

Azra just shrugged and handed the data chip over to Veera.  “You take it. I still have my own copy of the schematics.  Besides, I’m not much one for shotguns.”

“What does this mean?” Veera asked.

Spark clicked a few times. It didn’t make sense- but then again, when did things ever make sense?  “Maybe, somehow, this isn’t the last we’ll see of Saint-14.”

AO3 Linky!

#destiny #destiny 2 #destiny the game #destiny fanfiction #destcember #destcember2022 #osiris #saint-14 #kind of #hey his character and legacy were considered it counts #i wonder if Osiris is going to deal with this in a healthy manner

[demiclar]

Merriment

Merriment - Ao3

Saint, Crow, and Osiris discuss Dawning traditions.

“Crow, do you have any Dawning traditions?”

“Hm?” Crow lifts his head up from the data tablet he’d been absorbed in, a scouting report displayed on the screen in front of him and a mug of hot chocolate held in his hand. From the kitchen, Osiris leans against Saint, matching mugs in their own hands. Saint trails his free hand up and down Osiris’ back.

“We were discussing our Dawning traditions.” Saint tells him. “Hanging lights, drinking hot chocolate, walking around the City on particular evenings, and we were wondering if you had traditions of your own, ones you might wish to share with us.”

“Oh.” Crow feels a hint of color heat his cheeks. “I don’t know.” This isn’t his first Dawning in the City, but to say that he’d celebrated the others feels like a stretch. “Glint and I put lights up in our ship last year, but I wouldn’t really call that a tradition.”

“You could make it a tradition.” Saint suggests, “have you done it again this year?”

Crow shrugs. “I didn’t really think of it to be honest. I don’t think Glint and I really have traditions. We don’t do anything that feels that important.”

“Traditions do not have to be large, extravagant deeds.” Saint tells him. He steps away from Osiris to lean on the counter across from where Crow sits at the breakfast bar. He and Osiris swap positions without the need for words, Osiris following him over, his hand splaying on Saint’s back over his sweater, his touch trailing up and down. “They can be anything that brings you joy, anything that you enjoy enough to repeat.”

Crow glances between him and Osiris, and when he doesn’t speak, Osiris smiles.

“It does not need to be complicated.” Osiris promises. “When the city was first being established, Saint and I had a tradition where we would wear matching hats and watch the sunrise from the mountains.” A smile spreads over his lips. “If we were feeling particularly lazy, we would just wear the hats.”

“And you do that every year?” Crow asks. Glint drifts down from where he’d been hovering over Crow’s shoulder, settling in his hands as he sets his mug aside.

The two share a look rife with tension, but Saint wraps an arm around Osiris’ shoulders and draws him close.

“When we can, yes.” Saint presses a kiss to Osiris’ brow, his voice lowering. “There is no use in regretting the past.” He murmurs, and Osiris closes his eyes as he leans into Saint’s shoulder.

“I try to be in the Dreaming City on the day of my resurrection.” Crow tells them quietly. “I kept the sheet that Glint found me under, I bring it with me and try to find a quiet place to sit and think. It feels different now that I know who I was before, but I don’t think I want to stop doing it.” He brushes his fingers over Glint’s shell, his Ghost pressing himself close to Crow’s skin.

“Do you enjoy it?” Saint asks. He shifts away from the counter to draw Osiris into a proper embrace, and Crow feels a familiar burst of warmth to know they trust him enough to allow him to see such intimate moments.

“It makes me feel settled.” He says. “When I was on the shore, it reminded me that people cared enough to lay me to rest and leave behind nice things for me. Back then, it meant I was worth something.”

Osiris leans away from Saint’s touch enough to take Crow’s hand over the counter. He doesn’t need words to know what Osiris is telling him, that he’s worth something now, too. Glint breathes the same sentiment through their bond, rising out of Crow’s hands to press against his cheek. Glint’s unconditional love is still shocking to Crow, still something he’s not sure he really deserves, but he can feel it through Glint’s Light like it’s the most concrete fact of the universe. Glint will love him, always. No matter what he does, he will always be worth something to his Ghost.

Crow’s grip tightens on Osiris’ hand, but with his free hand he cradles Glint against his cheek. He sends the same unconditional love down their bond. He can hardly fathom his Ghost doing anything that he might disagree with, but there’s nothing that could make him lose Crow’s care and affection.

“There is a tradition I think we should share with you.” Saint tells him after a moment. “It is very simple.”

Glint butts his shell against Crow’s forehead, a final act of care and love before he disappears into the Light, leaving Crow to Saint and Osiris.

Saint takes Osiris by the hand and rounds the corner. Osiris draws Crow with him and together they make their way to the couch. Saint drops down onto the corner of the sectional, Osiris beside him and together they help Crow down atop them. Crow settles himself on Saint’s chest while Osiris curls up at their sides, and Saint spreads a blanket over the three of them.

“While I’m certainly not complaining,” Osiris begins. He presses his nose into Crow’s sweater at his shoulder and breathes him in. “I’m not sure I would call this a tradition.”

“Nonsense.” Saint declares. “It is something we enjoy, is it not? We like it enough to repeat it at least once during the holiday season.”

“More than once, I would say.” Osiris tells him. Crow hides his smile in Saint’s sweater. He hasn’t been romantically involved with the two of them for very long, but this activity is one he’s quite familiar with. He’s pretty sure Saint drags them all to cuddle on the couch every day they have time for it.

“Do we not wear our matching hats more than just the day we see the sunrise?” Osiris doesn’t respond, and Saint presses a kiss to his head, gathering him and Crow close. “Perhaps it is not a tradition in the usual sense, but it is something I enjoy, particularly around the holidays. An act of Dawning merriment, if you will.”

Osiris huffs a quiet laugh, his arm looping around Crow’s waist.

“I suppose that is acceptable.” He presses a kiss to Saint’s jaw, then his cheek. “Who am I to deprive my love of his happiness?”

“I think that would be a pretty cruel thing to do.” Crow tells him, pulling himself closer to Saint until he can press a kiss to the Titan’s throat.

“Yes, I believe so.” Osiris presses a kiss to Crow’s cheek, then to Saint’s lips. “Happy Dawning, Saint.”

#destiny 2 #destiny fanfiction #destcember2022 #destcember #destiny osiris #destiny crow #destiny saint 14 #demiwrites

[destcember2022]

Thank you to everyone who participated in this year’s Destcember!  It was an honor to see all of the creative directions people went with the prompts.  Feel free to continue to use them however you wish into 2023 and beyond!

Happy New Year, Guardians, and Be Brave!

#destcember #destcember2022