littlekatleaf - Tumblr blog

[littlekatleaf]

It’s been a really fucking rough year for my family and I’ve been barely hanging in…. then Pearl Jam decided to save my ass and dropped a new album. I just might make it. Eddie Vedder’s voice man…

[littlekatleaf]

Mood on my bday - grooving like Dan Reynolds as the world burns

[littlekatleaf]

Happy Christmas to those who celebrate... and comfort and joy to all.

O tidings of comfort and joy

Needed a little Christmas Roadrat fluff. 

Come unto Him, ye That are heavy laden And He will give you rest. ~ Handel’s Messiah December always felt like a long month, and this one more than most. Roadhog’d wanted to put the frigid, damp of London behind them, head back to Straya, spend Christmas on the beach and let the sun bake the chill from his bones. But just as they were about to make their escape, a rare storm blew in and all of the airports were closed. Couldn’t find a way out for any amount of money or any attempts at intimidation. And he had tried significant amounts of both. So instead of heat, sand, lapping waves, and pints of Coopers they were stuck in a shitty, drafty hotel room. Nothing else to be found anywhere. Full up for the holiday, apparently. 

Junkrat had been irritatingly cheerful. “Come on, mate - least it beats sleepin’ in the airport. Bed’s clean enough. An’ more comfortable than the floor.”

“Clean enough for what,” Roadhog grumbled. Didn’t want to admit Rat had a point. He was tired. The past several weeks had been shit - heists gone wrong almost as often as gone right, and too many narrow escapes from the cops… Been on the run too long. Needed a break. Both of them. 

Junkrat’d been sniffling and sneezing for a couple of days, clearly coming down with something. Every time Roadhog had asked him about it, he’d shrugged off the concern, said he was fine.  Roadhog had his doubts. Cold weather always got to Rat. Going home would’ve helped.

Now Junkrat was off, who knew where, doing who knew what. Left the room at lunch time and wouldn’t let Roadhog go with him. “Just need to clear me head. Enjoy yer quiet. Be back before ya notice I’m gone.” Which was bullshit, not to put too fine a point on it. Junkrat’s absence was, amazingly enough, more annoying than his presence. The silence louder than his chatter. No way to relax, when more than half of his attention was attuned to the surroundings. Listening for the particular step-tap of Junkrat’s foot and peg. Listening for sirens. Explosions. Commotion. But hearing none of it. 

As he waited, darkness gathered in the corners of the room and spread. Days too short, nights too long. A solitary string of fairy lights outlined the window, someone’s pitiful attempt at holiday cheer. Several of the bulbs were burned out. Bare branches tapped against the window. Wind whistled through a gap between the sill and the jambs. The opposite of festive. Piss-poor excuse for a Christmas. 

Roadhog shook his head at himself. He’d wanted to make something of the day, for a change. Been ages since he’d marked the holiday with anything more than a few extra pints, maybe a joint or two. Then he and Junkrat had been passing the window display at Harrods, with its giant tree decorated with glass baubles and silver tinsel, presents stacked beneath. Junkrat had gazed at the tree for long minutes.“Never had one of them,” he’d said. Just in passing. But there was a wistfulness in his tone and Roadhog had found himself wanting to change that.

Then a door slammed down the hall. There was the step-tap he’d been waiting for, and the sound of slightly off-key whistling. He reached for his paperback, and flicked on the light, anything to make it look like he hadn’t just been sitting there in the dark, waiting. Then the lock clicked, the door swung open and Junkrat blew in with a gust of wind. He was grinning, a tiny pine tree, no bigger than a houseplant in one hand and a bottle of wine in the other. Snow dusted his hair and his shoulders and glistened in his eyelashes. His cheeks and nose were bright red.

“Happy Christmas, Roadie!” He kicked the door shut behind him. “Ain’t much, but beggars can’t be choosers when all the shops are closed.”

 “…”

“Brr, freezing out there!” He rubbed his nose on his sleeve, sniffed. “Not my kinda weather, even though the snow is dead lovely. Makes everything quiet and calm. Like a whole other world, ya know? Hey, think we can actually light a fire in this place?” Junkrat rummaged in one of the drawers and pulled out a corkscrew, then unwrapped two of the plastic cups and poured each full. 

Roadhog finally pushed past his bemusement and crossed the room to the fireplace. To his surprise, it had been laid with wood and kindling, so it didn’t take long before he had a tidy fire going.

Junkrat handed him one of the cups. “Cheers,” he said and took a long drink.

Roadhog drank as well and the wine was smooth, a deep velvet red. It warmed a trail down his throat to curl in his stomach. He sighed and felt himself begin to relax.

Suddenly Junkrat turned away. “Huh-isssh! Isshhew! Huh-issh! Shit! Almost spilled.” 

“Bless you. All right?”

“Course. Just a chill.” He shivered. “Could maybe use some warming?” His smile was both teasing and a little shy.

 Roadhog tugged him close, put his arms around him. He smelled of snow and pine.

“Sorry, still… sneezy…” Rat’s breathing wavered, his eyes fluttered closed. “Issh! Huh-isshah!” 

“Bless,” Roadhog murmured into his hair. Junkrat tilted his head up and their lips met and he tasted winedark and warm. They came together slowly, the fire building between them like a candle in the darkness, a soft glow but burning bright and clear. And after, when they lay curled together in the bed which was, after all, clean enough, Junkrat’s head tucked in the curve of Roadhog’s neck, warmth surrounding them, Roadhog realized he was happy.

[littlekatleaf]

Roll here in my ashes anyway

Needed a little soft, holiday story for the Junkerboys. It's almost Christmas, I must be feeling melancholy.

I wouldn’t know where to start Sweet music playing in the dark Be still, my foolish heart Don’t ruin this on me. ~ Hozier, Almost Sweet Music

Junkrat leans closer to the paper, rubs his eyes, but the tiny print refuses to come into focus. Damn chicken-scratch writing, hand can never keep up with his thoughts. Roadie’s voice echoes in his memory, “Gonna need glasses before you’re thirty if you keep squinting like that.” Bloke’s got a point, as always. He sighs and sits back, giving in to his aching body. When he looks up reason everything’s gone vague and blurry is abruptly clear - light’s changed. Fat clouds’d been lining the horizon now blanket the sky, winter sun too anemic to dent them. 

He glances back down at the launcher, still in pieces, screws and metal bits scattered over the workbench. Not as far as he’d like to be - Chrissie’s coming on soon. Gotta have Roadie’s prezzie ready. It’s close, but detonation speed needs tweaking - don’t want anyone else losing a limb. He scribbles down a last thought then rolls it all up, plans and gun together, and shoves them in the very back of his desk, behind old comics and skin mags, shit Roadie’d not be caught dead reading. He straightens, stretches, spine pops. Stomach rumbling too. How long’s he been at this anyway? Hungry enough likely missed lunch. Maybe dinner too?

As he crosses the threshold between work room and shared living space, he notices a tray on the coffee table. Coffee gone stone cold, same with the eggs and toast. He sticks a forkful in his mouth anyway. Can’t let it go to waste. Breakfast food. Apparently worked all night. Explains a good portion of the headache throbbing in his skull, the leaden ache of his joints getting in on the complaints. Less so the congestion and vague sense he’s gonna need to sneeze. Rubs his nose. Ignores it.

“Oi, Roadie,” he calls. No answer. He frowns. Hog hadn’t mentioned anything, had he? Wouldn’t go on a mission without him. Wouldn’t go hang with Hana or Lúcio, sick as he’s been. Might’ve been trying to downplay it, pass it off as a lingering cold, but Rat noticed. Felt the fever heat at night, heard the crackle in his lungs when he coughed, the edge of a wheeze in his deeper breaths. Bloke’d been sick for a while and didn’t seem to be improving.

Lack of caffeine’s making his thoughts feel slow, his head full of sludge. Must be why he can’t seem to figure where Roadhog might have gone. He’s still trying to puzzle it when there’s a mechanical click and the door whirs and slides open, revealing Roadie, looking somewhat abashed, with Mercy right behind in Avenging Angel mode. Sheila might be a good couple meters shorter than the Hog, and several stone lighter, but way she looks right now, Rat reckons she can take both of them, not even break a sweat, and is more than ready to do so.

“As Mr. Rutledge seems to be incapable of following the simplest of instructions, I appeal to your better judgment, Jamison.” Her tone is clipped, precise. She steers Roadie into the room with a firm hand on his shoulder.

Rat steps back, out of her way, and grins. “Breaking out the surname and suggesting I have anything approximating good judgment? What the bloody hell’d he do?”

“I explicitly told him to return to his quarters to rest. Under no circumstances was he to exert himself in any way until he completes his treatment. Not even ten minutes later, where do I find him?”

Junkrat shrugs. “Not here.” 

“Indeed not. He was outdoors. Working in the garden. With neither jacket nor hat.”

Junkrat shakes his head at Roadhog, struggling not to laugh. Least it’s someone else getting the dressing down for a change. “How very dare you.”

“Just taking care of a couple of things,” Hog protests. “Not a big deal.”

“This is not a joke.” Mercy directs a glare at Junkrat before turning back to Roadhog. She sighs, deeply. “I am not coddling you or some such foolishness,” she says. “I’m trying to save you from yourself. While the infection is relatively mild at the moment, if you don’t take care it will worsen. I would not have you risk the lung function you still have, Mako.”

Roadie ducks his head, rubs the back of his neck, looking for all the world like a child being chastised. “Yes, ma’am,” he says.

“Take all of the antibiotics. Use the inhaler.” She shoves them into his hand and pivots to leave. “And don’t call me ma’am,” she adds, over her shoulder. “Doctor, if you must.” The door whirs open and closed behind her.

Junkrat blows out a breath. “Ain’t like no doctor I ever met.” Not like he’s met many; ‘doctors’ in Junkertown more like glorified butchers, but still.  He raises a brow at Roadhog. “Sheila’s got a point. You look like shit. The fuck you doing out there? Gonna snow any minute and I can feel the fever radiating off you from here.”

“Don’t start with me, Rat,” Roadhog grumbles. “I’m fine. Just need to put the last of the garden to bed before the weather shifts. Been meaning to take care of it for days. Thought I’d be better by now.” He tosses the bottle of meds toward the coffee table and misses. It hits the floor with a rattle. 

Junkrat moves to pick it up but is stopped by Roadhog’s glare. He holds up his hands in mock surrender and backs off. Knows better than to push straight on when he’s like this. Situation needs a little more… subtlety.

Roadhog leans down to retrieve the bottle, and immediately lapses into a fit of jagged coughing.  It drags on, impressively long until finally dwindling away, stealing most of his voice with it. “Fucking hell,” he rasps, breathless. Least it’s enough that he takes a hit from the inhaler without Rat needing to say anything. Probably better he doesn’t. Bloke’s emanating as much pissed off energy as fever.

Instead Junkrat drops a bag of Lúcio’s medicinal tea into a Pachimari shaped mug and fills it at the instant hot tap. He adds a dollop of honey, enough to soothe Roadie’s throat, but woefully small to Rat’s own eyes. Somehow Hoggie lacks a reasonable appreciation for the sweeter things in life. The rising steam smells of cinnamon and clove, comforting as Lù himself. 

Roadhog’s retreated to the couch, resignation clear in the set of his shoulders. He’s taken off his boots. “Ta,” he says, voice glass on gravel, when Rat holds out the peace offering. Makes Rat’s own throat ache to hear. “Doc’s right. I was acting like a bloody idiot. Garden’s gonna be what it is. Not the end of the world.”

“Already been through that once.” Junkrat floats the admittedly sad attempt at a joke. Testing. Predictably no response. Junkrat frowns, then nods. “Ain’t a lotta people smarter than the doc.”

“Just wish I’d gotten the roses wrapped.” Aims the words into his mug and Rat barely catches them. Roadie picks up a novel and disappears behind it. Over his shoulder the trees bend and creak in the wind. A few leaves that had been clinging to the branches tug free and scatter. Above it all the clouds hang, milk white and heavy with snow.

A shiver wants to creep down Junkrat’s spine but he manages to suppress it. Hoggie’s roses ain’t just any flower. Ain’t replaceable. Little bit of home, here in this place that isn’t theirs. Nothing for it; Rat knows what he has to do.

The wind cuts straight through his jacket before the door even slides closed behind him. He grits his teeth against the chattering, squares his shoulders and heads into the garden. Watched Roadie enough times, shouldn’t have a problem. Starts with the roses. Makes sure they’re trimmed and wrapped proper. Gonna keep the roses safe. The memories safe. He’s sniffling before he gets the first one finished, nose threatening to run. Guess he knows what Jack Frost nipping at your nose feels like. Least raking warms him enough that he opens the jacket even as the first flakes of snow drift down. 

By the time he’s done, everything set and settled down to the last twig, the world’s gone dim and silent with snowfall. It’s a lonely peaceful feel, the gathering dark, the swirling flakes, the way the air is sharp but the world is blurred. He sniffs, sleeves his nose, but makes no move to go inside. 

“There you are. Been wondering where you’d got to,” Roadie says.

Junkrat startles. “Gonna kill Hanzo for givin’ you the ninja lessons.”

This time Roadhog huffs the particular laugh means he’s torn between amusement and not wanting to encourage Rat. 

Junkrat wraps his arms around himself and sleeves his nose. Still itching, but knows if he starts sneezing Roadie’ll make him go inside and he’s not ready yet. Luckily Roadhog’s smart enough to have put on more appropriate winter gear. “See ya ain’t risking Mercy’s wrath.”

Feels Roadie smile behind the mask. “Nah. Once is more than enough.” He pauses and the snow drifts down, dusting their shoulders. “Thank you for this, Jamie.” Roughness of his voice now got nothing to do with being sick. 

Junkrat looks up at him, puzzled. “Well ‘course, mate. Couldn’t exactly let them die, could I?” 

“You could.” Roadhog says, still facing the garden. “Did a good job, Rat.” He puts an arm around Junkrat. 

Rat leans into the warmth, then curls forward with a harsh sneeze, hastily muffled in his scarf. Another follows, and a third. “Shit. Jig’s up.”

This time Roadie actually laughs. “Bless you. Better get back inside before Mercy hears you sneezing.”

Later, even in a pair of Roadie’s pjs and wrapped in several of their blankets, Junkrat still shivers. “F-fuckin’ freezin’. Ain’t never gonna be warm again. Barely more’n a corpse. Heat of life already left my bones…” Plays up the whinge, because he can, and muffles a round of sneezing in the blankets.

Roadhog reaches over, palms his forehead, but gently. “Definitely has not. And don’t be disgusting.” He tosses a box of tissues at Junkrat who can’t free his hands quick enough to catch it. It bounces off his chest.

“This the way you show your appreciation? Some caretaker you are.” Tugs free a handful just in time to catch another, in triplicate. “Fucking hell.”

“Nah. This is the way I show my appreciation.” Hog shifts so Rat can lean against him and begins to knead the tension from his shoulders. Rat sighs as the aching fades, the shivering stills. Feels himself begin to thaw, to drift. As he slides into sleep, he catches the scent of roses, the heat of the sun warming him through. Not the wan halfhearted thing here, but the encompassing burn of Australian summer. Maybe someday they’d go home. Least they had a piece, even if it slept in the winter dark.

[littlekatleaf]

Roll here in my ashes anyway

Needed a little soft, holiday story for the Junkerboys. It's almost Christmas, I must be feeling melancholy.

I wouldn’t know where to start Sweet music playing in the dark Be still, my foolish heart Don’t ruin this on me. ~ Hozier, Almost Sweet Music

Junkrat leans closer to the paper, rubs his eyes, but the tiny print refuses to come into focus. Damn chicken-scratch writing, hand can never keep up with his thoughts. Roadie’s voice echoes in his memory, “Gonna need glasses before you’re thirty if you keep squinting like that.” Bloke’s got a point, as always. He sighs and sits back, giving in to his aching body. When he looks up reason everything’s gone vague and blurry is abruptly clear - light’s changed. Fat clouds’d been lining the horizon now blanket the sky, winter sun too anemic to dent them. 

He glances back down at the launcher, still in pieces, screws and metal bits scattered over the workbench. Not as far as he’d like to be - Chrissie’s coming on soon. Gotta have Roadie’s prezzie ready. It’s close, but detonation speed needs tweaking - don’t want anyone else losing a limb. He scribbles down a last thought then rolls it all up, plans and gun together, and shoves them in the very back of his desk, behind old comics and skin mags, shit Roadie’d not be caught dead reading. He straightens, stretches, spine pops. Stomach rumbling too. How long’s he been at this anyway? Hungry enough likely missed lunch. Maybe dinner too?

As he crosses the threshold between work room and shared living space, he notices a tray on the coffee table. Coffee gone stone cold, same with the eggs and toast. He sticks a forkful in his mouth anyway. Can’t let it go to waste. Breakfast food. Apparently worked all night. Explains a good portion of the headache throbbing in his skull, the leaden ache of his joints getting in on the complaints. Less so the congestion and vague sense he’s gonna need to sneeze. Rubs his nose. Ignores it.

“Oi, Roadie,” he calls. No answer. He frowns. Hog hadn’t mentioned anything, had he? Wouldn’t go on a mission without him. Wouldn’t go hang with Hana or Lúcio, sick as he’s been. Might’ve been trying to downplay it, pass it off as a lingering cold, but Rat noticed. Felt the fever heat at night, heard the crackle in his lungs when he coughed, the edge of a wheeze in his deeper breaths. Bloke’d been sick for a while and didn’t seem to be improving.

Lack of caffeine’s making his thoughts feel slow, his head full of sludge. Must be why he can’t seem to figure where Roadhog might have gone. He’s still trying to puzzle it when there’s a mechanical click and the door whirs and slides open, revealing Roadie, looking somewhat abashed, with Mercy right behind in Avenging Angel mode. Sheila might be a good couple meters shorter than the Hog, and several stone lighter, but way she looks right now, Rat reckons she can take both of them, not even break a sweat, and is more than ready to do so.

“As Mr. Rutledge seems to be incapable of following the simplest of instructions, I appeal to your better judgment, Jamison.” Her tone is clipped, precise. She steers Roadie into the room with a firm hand on his shoulder.

Rat steps back, out of her way, and grins. “Breaking out the surname and suggesting I have anything approximating good judgment? What the bloody hell’d he do?”

“I explicitly told him to return to his quarters to rest. Under no circumstances was he to exert himself in any way until he completes his treatment. Not even ten minutes later, where do I find him?”

Junkrat shrugs. “Not here.” 

“Indeed not. He was outdoors. Working in the garden. With neither jacket nor hat.”

Junkrat shakes his head at Roadhog, struggling not to laugh. Least it’s someone else getting the dressing down for a change. “How very dare you.”

“Just taking care of a couple of things,” Hog protests. “Not a big deal.”

“This is not a joke.” Mercy directs a glare at Junkrat before turning back to Roadhog. She sighs, deeply. “I am not coddling you or some such foolishness,” she says. “I’m trying to save you from yourself. While the infection is relatively mild at the moment, if you don’t take care it will worsen. I would not have you risk the lung function you still have, Mako.”

Roadie ducks his head, rubs the back of his neck, looking for all the world like a child being chastised. “Yes, ma’am,” he says.

“Take all of the antibiotics. Use the inhaler.” She shoves them into his hand and pivots to leave. “And don’t call me ma’am,” she adds, over her shoulder. “Doctor, if you must.” The door whirs open and closed behind her.

Junkrat blows out a breath. “Ain’t like no doctor I ever met.” Not like he’s met many; ‘doctors’ in Junkertown more like glorified butchers, but still.  He raises a brow at Roadhog. “Sheila’s got a point. You look like shit. The fuck you doing out there? Gonna snow any minute and I can feel the fever radiating off you from here.”

“Don’t start with me, Rat,” Roadhog grumbles. “I’m fine. Just need to put the last of the garden to bed before the weather shifts. Been meaning to take care of it for days. Thought I’d be better by now.” He tosses the bottle of meds toward the coffee table and misses. It hits the floor with a rattle. 

Junkrat moves to pick it up but is stopped by Roadhog’s glare. He holds up his hands in mock surrender and backs off. Knows better than to push straight on when he’s like this. Situation needs a little more… subtlety.

Roadhog leans down to retrieve the bottle, and immediately lapses into a fit of jagged coughing.  It drags on, impressively long until finally dwindling away, stealing most of his voice with it. “Fucking hell,” he rasps, breathless. Least it’s enough that he takes a hit from the inhaler without Rat needing to say anything. Probably better he doesn’t. Bloke’s emanating as much pissed off energy as fever.

Instead Junkrat drops a bag of Lúcio’s medicinal tea into a Pachimari shaped mug and fills it at the instant hot tap. He adds a dollop of honey, enough to soothe Roadie’s throat, but woefully small to Rat’s own eyes. Somehow Hoggie lacks a reasonable appreciation for the sweeter things in life. The rising steam smells of cinnamon and clove, comforting as Lù himself. 

Roadhog’s retreated to the couch, resignation clear in the set of his shoulders. He’s taken off his boots. “Ta,” he says, voice glass on gravel, when Rat holds out the peace offering. Makes Rat’s own throat ache to hear. “Doc’s right. I was acting like a bloody idiot. Garden’s gonna be what it is. Not the end of the world.”

“Already been through that once.” Junkrat floats the admittedly sad attempt at a joke. Testing. Predictably no response. Junkrat frowns, then nods. “Ain’t a lotta people smarter than the doc.”

“Just wish I’d gotten the roses wrapped.” Aims the words into his mug and Rat barely catches them. Roadie picks up a novel and disappears behind it. Over his shoulder the trees bend and creak in the wind. A few leaves that had been clinging to the branches tug free and scatter. Above it all the clouds hang, milk white and heavy with snow.

A shiver wants to creep down Junkrat’s spine but he manages to suppress it. Hoggie’s roses ain’t just any flower. Ain’t replaceable. Little bit of home, here in this place that isn’t theirs. Nothing for it; Rat knows what he has to do.

The wind cuts straight through his jacket before the door even slides closed behind him. He grits his teeth against the chattering, squares his shoulders and heads into the garden. Watched Roadie enough times, shouldn’t have a problem. Starts with the roses. Makes sure they’re trimmed and wrapped proper. Gonna keep the roses safe. The memories safe. He’s sniffling before he gets the first one finished, nose threatening to run. Guess he knows what Jack Frost nipping at your nose feels like. Least raking warms him enough that he opens the jacket even as the first flakes of snow drift down. 

By the time he’s done, everything set and settled down to the last twig, the world’s gone dim and silent with snowfall. It’s a lonely peaceful feel, the gathering dark, the swirling flakes, the way the air is sharp but the world is blurred. He sniffs, sleeves his nose, but makes no move to go inside. 

“There you are. Been wondering where you’d got to,” Roadie says.

Junkrat startles. “Gonna kill Hanzo for givin’ you the ninja lessons.”

This time Roadhog huffs the particular laugh means he’s torn between amusement and not wanting to encourage Rat. 

Junkrat wraps his arms around himself and sleeves his nose. Still itching, but knows if he starts sneezing Roadie’ll make him go inside and he’s not ready yet. Luckily Roadhog’s smart enough to have put on more appropriate winter gear. “See ya ain’t risking Mercy’s wrath.”

Feels Roadie smile behind the mask. “Nah. Once is more than enough.” He pauses and the snow drifts down, dusting their shoulders. “Thank you for this, Jamie.” Roughness of his voice now got nothing to do with being sick. 

Junkrat looks up at him, puzzled. “Well ‘course, mate. Couldn’t exactly let them die, could I?” 

“You could.” Roadhog says, still facing the garden. “Did a good job, Rat.” He puts an arm around Junkrat. 

Rat leans into the warmth, then curls forward with a harsh sneeze, hastily muffled in his scarf. Another follows, and a third. “Shit. Jig’s up.”

This time Roadie actually laughs. “Bless you. Better get back inside before Mercy hears you sneezing.”

Later, even in a pair of Roadie’s pjs and wrapped in several of their blankets, Junkrat still shivers. “F-fuckin’ freezin’. Ain’t never gonna be warm again. Barely more’n a corpse. Heat of life already left my bones…” Plays up the whinge, because he can, and muffles a round of sneezing in the blankets.

Roadhog reaches over, palms his forehead, but gently. “Definitely has not. And don’t be disgusting.” He tosses a box of tissues at Junkrat who can’t free his hands quick enough to catch it. It bounces off his chest.

“This the way you show your appreciation? Some caretaker you are.” Tugs free a handful just in time to catch another, in triplicate. “Fucking hell.”

“Nah. This is the way I show my appreciation.” Hog shifts so Rat can lean against him and begins to knead the tension from his shoulders. Rat sighs as the aching fades, the shivering stills. Feels himself begin to thaw, to drift. As he slides into sleep, he catches the scent of roses, the heat of the sun warming him through. Not the wan halfhearted thing here, but the encompassing burn of Australian summer. Maybe someday they’d go home. Least they had a piece, even if it slept in the winter dark.

[littlekatleaf]

The voice, the hair, the hands… the nose…. i am seeing him live on Friday and I cannot wait

[littlekatleaf]

So uh... anyone else losing their shit? January!!!

[littlekatleaf]

Non-1am reblob

Fly down into the endless mysteries

So, what happens when one goes on vacation and instead of checking out Greece ends up checking out the ceiling of the hotel because one is stuck down with The 'vid for the first time ever? One finally finishes the Sandman fic they've been working on for *ahem* ever. Dreamling, with a visit from Desire. @prismaluv - Better late than never? Maybe?

Suddenly the flower Has fire-colored eyes And one of the shadows vanishes. Clearly, now, the flower is a bird. It lifts its head, It lifts the hinges Of its snowy wings, Tossing a moment of light In every direction ~ Mary Oliver, “What is it?”

It’s near enough to last orders when the bell above the pub door rings that Hob almost calls out that they’re finished serving before he looks up and it’s only luck (of some sort, he can’t say good or bad) that stops him. Someone pauses just inside the door, a burning vision of scarlet and gold. Raindrops glitter in their hair and dapple the velvet of their jacket a deeper red and Hob swallows, struck silent. 

An almost-memory teases the edge of his thoughts like a word on the tip of his tongue. Familiarity, though he can’t place why. The sensation is hazy, indistinct, maybe dream rather than memory? A fever dream? For an instant his skin flushes hot. Restlessness burns along his muscles. Longing floods him - for the savor of his father’s venison stew, the curve of Eleanor’s breast under her nightdress, the sparkling notes of Robyn’s laugh, the warm weight of his mother’s arms around him when he was very, very young. Over it all like a watercolor wash a wordless aching to be needed. It clenches his stomach, tightens his chest, snagging the softest parts of him with barbed hooks. Has anyone, ever, honestly needed him, in his particularity? Not for position or role - husband, son, soldier - but his deepest, truest self? If you have to ask… the song on the jukebox echoes his thoughts.

They slide into an open spot at the bar, which seems to have freed up just for them, and give a smile that somehow feels sharp as a knife blade. It cuts; he’s not sure where, but pain slices through him. He resists the urge to retreat, reverts to script. “What’ll you be having?” 

They look at him and their eyes spark amber, feline. “What would you suggest, Robert Gadlen?” Their tone is rich, smooth caramel. He has the unsettling sense they know this isn’t his name. 

“I’d wager you’re one who appreciates the finer things.” His fingers itch to toss back a shot. Or to reach out and touch their cheek, see if their skin is as rosepetal soft as he imagines. Ghost fingers squeeze his heart; yearning shivers through him like the echo of a struck bell. He turns away, ostensibly to pluck a bottle from the line behind him. The Glenmorangie Signet isn’t a whiskey he offers to just anyone, but the liquid is the color of their eyes and tastes as spicy sweet as he imagines their lips would. He pours out a couple drams, striving to ground himself, to focus on the clicking of billiard balls, the murmur of conversation, the movement of breath in his lungs. 

Hob slides the drink across the bar; they reach for it; fingers brush. Feverflush blooms through him again. 

A smirk hovers at the edge of their lips. “Why don’t you join me?” They raise the glass and take a long, slow draught. Hob watches their throat move as they swallow and finds himself wanting to press his lips to the hollow. 

Instead he pours himself a healthy measure of a significantly less expensive whiskey and tosses it back before he can taste it. Even so, he coughs once on the burn. 

“Better?” 

The word implies question, but Hob hears the demand in it and his body responds, muscles going loose. A pleasant blur settles over his senses. He nods and refills the glass. He’s going to need all the help he can get. 

“You don’t want to sit?” Hob could have sworn someone had been beside them just a second ago, but the chair they indicate is empty. 

He shouldn’t. He knows he shouldn’t. Warning prickles the hair at his nape.  Heedless, he slides into the seat. Sounds muffle and recede, a bubble of privacy encases them. The air is heavy with the sweet scent of summer peaches.

They tilt their head, take in the room at a glance. “You have built an inviting space, Robert. A place for the lonely to find companionship; a home for those who lack one.”

Their unexpected understanding startles a laugh from him. “It’s my aim,” he says, shrugging. 

“You strike me as someone who has seen and experienced much in your years. Doubtless you understand the importance of family.” Layers of meaning in the words and Hob is off kilter, certain he’s missing nuance. After six centuries of practice he usually has a better grasp of a person. 

“I recognized the need in my first year teaching uni. So many students couldn’t go home for hols…” Kids who couldn’t be themselves; kids who had been rejected for who they were, for who they loved. “I couldn’t be what they lost, but I could create a haven, of a sort.”

“Blood kin plunge their dagger in the most secret corner of our hearts.” Their eyes go distant, shadowed with sadness, but only for a moment and they smile again, bright as sun reflecting from glass shards. “Chosen family can be suture and balm,” they add.

Their fingers brush Hob’s, then trail over his inner wrist. A shiver runs through him and he could swear they also shudder, cheekbones and nose suddenly stained with a light flush. Even as Hob notices, they raise a finger and rub their nose once, twice, then sniff delicately.

“It’s what I hope to provide,” Hob says. Don’t stare, he admonishes himself, but can’t seem to look away. 

“Excuse me.” Their voice pitches up, breath catching. They turn, pulling a linen handkerchief from an inner pocket of their jacket, fold it over their nose and mouth and wait. Hob waits too. 

They breathe in, slow, deep, their shoulders hunch and “Ht’chff! T’chh! Hih-t’shhew!” 

“Bless you.” He hopes the words sound more normal than he feels. He’s fairly certain his face has gone redder than theirs. 

They flash a look of gratitude over their still raised handkerchief and hold up a finger, their eyes losing focus again and drifting closed. Hob forces himself to look away; take another drink.  

Then they hitch a sharp breath and his attention snaps back. Their brows crumple and they stifle two sneezes. A third and fourth follow near on top, escaping their hold with small sounds, and the fifth breaches their defenses completely. “Ht’chesshiew!” They shake their head slightly on the exhale. “Pardon me.” Despite the contrite words, their expression is sly, eyes alight with teasing. 

Hob waves away the apology. “No need; are you quite alright?” They don’t know… do they? How could they? He’s told no one in lifetimes. He’s had too much to drink on an empty stomach. Firelight and shadow are playing tricks on his eyes. He’s imagining things.

“I’m afraid I seem to have come down with a chill.” As if to prove their point, their voice rasps over their words and they muffle a cough in their shoulder. In the aftermath, they suddenly look delicate, vulnerable, in need of protection and Hob wishes, somewhat desperately, for a chill of his own to douse the fire that licks along his skin. 

Then, almost as a prayer answered, a hand comes down on his shoulder, cool and steadying. “I believe this establishment is closed.” Dream’s words are frost-rimed, crackling.

“Good evening to you as well, my brother.” The knifeblade smile is back; their eyes flame. “I could be offended you have not yet introduced me to your … companion.”  They tsk tongue against teeth. “After all of these years. Could you be ashamed of something?”

“No.” Dream offers nothing more, arms crossed over his chest, face still as a carving. Even so, Hob can feel the tension in him.

“Why don’t you join us?” The invitation spills from Hob before he considers the wisdom. He really needs to stop doing that with Endless siblings in pubs. He tries to recover with another drink and he can feel Dream’s coming refusal in the set of his jaw.

Before he speaks, though, his sibling cocks a brow and their teeth glint, putting him in mind of a shark. “Yes, why don’t you?” The challenge couldn’t be clearer if they’d dropped a gauntlet on the bar.

Dream slides a chair between them and sits, stiffly. “Why are you here?”

“Come now, can’t a sibling want to meet their dear brother’s paramour? To have a drink and a friendly chat?”

“Delirium? Maybe. Death? Regularly. Even Despair, occasionally. But not you, Desire.”

Hob holds his expression carefully neutral. Desire - well, that explained things then, if their realm followed the pattern of Dream and Death.

They lean back and away, take a sip of their whiskey, and as they cast their gaze down, dampness shines along their lashes. Sadness flickers in the corner of their quirked lips. “Perhaps not me,” they admit with a sniff. “Perhaps I just needed shelter from the storm.”  Lightning flashes through the windows behind them. Thunder cracks and rolls. They shiver and Hob only stops himself from offering his coat at the last moment. They won’t actually need it, will they? 

“You bring the storm with you,” Dream says, giving no quarter.

They cough a mirthless laugh, and it’s followed instantly by a heavy sneeze, belatedly caught in their handkerchief. “I do,” they agree, blowing their nose. “You are not the only one in the family who appreciates melodrama. And I know an appreciative audience when I see them.” They dip their head to Hob, toss back the last of their whiskey and stand. “Relax, brother mine. I merely wished to see who you find more compelling than one I created. And he is, indeed, delicious. When you exhaust his patience with your eternal melancholy, I do hope you’ll send him my way. In the meantime, maybe loosen the stranglehold you have on your reins.” They lean forward, abrupt as a striking snake and press a kiss to Dream’s cheek and they are gone, only the jangle of the bell as the door closes to mark their movement.

In their absence, the pub seems darker, somehow. Colder. The rain on the windows hisses and branches tap the panes. Hob  blinks. “I… didn’t know you have other siblings,” he says, rather bemusedly. It’s the first thing that comes to mind.

Dream, seemingly equally nonplussed by their unexpected departure, doesn’t reply. 

Hob takes up the empty glasses, Desire’s stained with candyapple lipstick. He resists the urge to run his finger through the gloss as he slides it into the dishwasher. He wants to ask about Desire, ask what they meant ‘the one I created.’ But before he can figure out how to phrase it, there’s an odd squelching sound. 

He looks up to find Dream hunched forward, shoulders practically to his ears as he pinches another sneeze firmly to near silence. “Bless you?” 

“Th-thank you… ht’Gnxxt!” Neither this one or the several that follow seem to offer any relief. Even in the brief pause between contained explosions, he stays hunched into himself, as though he could hide in the middle of the room. 

Hob’s torn between wanting to offer assistance somehow, and just wanting… He compromises, presses a tissue into the hand hovering lightly curled under Dream’s nose, which has gone an endearing pink, and lets his other hand linger on Dream’s back in comfort. Not to feel the muscles tense and relax as another set seizes him. “Httnxxt! N’xxt!  Hih-N’xxtch!”

“Bless…”

“Hih…ht’Issh! Issh! Hih-Isssh!” He gasps a breath, two, and dissolves again. “It’chh!  Ishh!  Issshuhh!” At first he’s careful to keep each fit relatively contained, but as the sneezes keep coming he is gradually overcome, eyes tearing, nose running, and the last couple burst free. “Huhusssh!  Ussshuh!” 

For a long moment, in the silence following the outburst, Hob can only stare at Dream as he blinks fuzzily in the aftermath, undone. “Are you…” He’s not sure how to end the sentence. Finished? Okay? 

“It seems my dear sibling has left me a parting gift,” Dream says, consonants blurred with congestion. 

“Gift?” Hob echoes and his voice cracks like a bloke hitting puberty, before realizing Dream is being sarcastic, of course he is. Why would anyone think that was a gift.

Dream wipes the moisture from his eyes, blows his nose, and studies Hob so closely he feels uncomfortably like an insect under glass. Slowly any lingering hint of embarrassment is replaced with a different flush. His eyes go black and starry and his voice, when he speaks is deep in the way that makes Hob’s knees weak. “Only you know the answer to that, Hob.”

Hob rubs the back of his neck and grins, a little rueful. “Well, if you’re ill, you’d better come to bed.”

[littlekatleaf]

Fly down into the endless mysteries

So, what happens when one goes on vacation and instead of checking out Greece ends up checking out the ceiling of the hotel because one is stuck down with The 'vid for the first time ever? One finally finishes the Sandman fic they've been working on for *ahem* ever. Dreamling, with a visit from Desire. @prismaluv - Better late than never? Maybe?

Suddenly the flower Has fire-colored eyes And one of the shadows vanishes. Clearly, now, the flower is a bird. It lifts its head, It lifts the hinges Of its snowy wings, Tossing a moment of light In every direction ~ Mary Oliver, “What is it?”

It’s near enough to last orders when the bell above the pub door rings that Hob almost calls out that they’re finished serving before he looks up and it’s only luck (of some sort, he can’t say good or bad) that stops him. Someone pauses just inside the door, a burning vision of scarlet and gold. Raindrops glitter in their hair and dapple the velvet of their jacket a deeper red and Hob swallows, struck silent. 

An almost-memory teases the edge of his thoughts like a word on the tip of his tongue. Familiarity, though he can’t place why. The sensation is hazy, indistinct, maybe dream rather than memory? A fever dream? For an instant his skin flushes hot. Restlessness burns along his muscles. Longing floods him - for the savor of his father’s venison stew, the curve of Eleanor’s breast under her nightdress, the sparkling notes of Robyn’s laugh, the warm weight of his mother’s arms around him when he was very, very young. Over it all like a watercolor wash a wordless aching to be needed. It clenches his stomach, tightens his chest, snagging the softest parts of him with barbed hooks. Has anyone, ever, honestly needed him, in his particularity? Not for position or role - husband, son, soldier - but his deepest, truest self? If you have to ask… the song on the jukebox echoes his thoughts.

They slide into an open spot at the bar, which seems to have freed up just for them, and give a smile that somehow feels sharp as a knife blade. It cuts; he’s not sure where, but pain slices through him. He resists the urge to retreat, reverts to script. “What’ll you be having?” 

They look at him and their eyes spark amber, feline. “What would you suggest, Robert Gadlen?” Their tone is rich, smooth caramel. He has the unsettling sense they know this isn’t his name. 

“I’d wager you’re one who appreciates the finer things.” His fingers itch to toss back a shot. Or to reach out and touch their cheek, see if their skin is as rosepetal soft as he imagines. Ghost fingers squeeze his heart; yearning shivers through him like the echo of a struck bell. He turns away, ostensibly to pluck a bottle from the line behind him. The Glenmorangie Signet isn’t a whiskey he offers to just anyone, but the liquid is the color of their eyes and tastes as spicy sweet as he imagines their lips would. He pours out a couple drams, striving to ground himself, to focus on the clicking of billiard balls, the murmur of conversation, the movement of breath in his lungs. 

Hob slides the drink across the bar; they reach for it; fingers brush. Feverflush blooms through him again. 

A smirk hovers at the edge of their lips. “Why don’t you join me?” They raise the glass and take a long, slow draught. Hob watches their throat move as they swallow and finds himself wanting to press his lips to the hollow. 

Instead he pours himself a healthy measure of a significantly less expensive whiskey and tosses it back before he can taste it. Even so, he coughs once on the burn. 

“Better?” 

The word implies question, but Hob hears the demand in it and his body responds, muscles going loose. A pleasant blur settles over his senses. He nods and refills the glass. He’s going to need all the help he can get. 

“You don’t want to sit?” Hob could have sworn someone had been beside them just a second ago, but the chair they indicate is empty. 

He shouldn’t. He knows he shouldn’t. Warning prickles the hair at his nape.  Heedless, he slides into the seat. Sounds muffle and recede, a bubble of privacy encases them. The air is heavy with the sweet scent of summer peaches.

They tilt their head, take in the room at a glance. “You have built an inviting space, Robert. A place for the lonely to find companionship; a home for those who lack one.”

Their unexpected understanding startles a laugh from him. “It’s my aim,” he says, shrugging. 

“You strike me as someone who has seen and experienced much in your years. Doubtless you understand the importance of family.” Layers of meaning in the words and Hob is off kilter, certain he’s missing nuance. After six centuries of practice he usually has a better grasp of a person. 

“I recognized the need in my first year teaching uni. So many students couldn’t go home for hols…” Kids who couldn’t be themselves; kids who had been rejected for who they were, for who they loved. “I couldn’t be what they lost, but I could create a haven, of a sort.”

“Blood kin plunge their dagger in the most secret corner of our hearts.” Their eyes go distant, shadowed with sadness, but only for a moment and they smile again, bright as sun reflecting from glass shards. “Chosen family can be suture and balm,” they add.

Their fingers brush Hob’s, then trail over his inner wrist. A shiver runs through him and he could swear they also shudder, cheekbones and nose suddenly stained with a light flush. Even as Hob notices, they raise a finger and rub their nose once, twice, then sniff delicately.

“It’s what I hope to provide,” Hob says. Don’t stare, he admonishes himself, but can’t seem to look away. 

“Excuse me.” Their voice pitches up, breath catching. They turn, pulling a linen handkerchief from an inner pocket of their jacket, fold it over their nose and mouth and wait. Hob waits too. 

They breathe in, slow, deep, their shoulders hunch and “Ht’chff! T’chh! Hih-t’shhew!” 

“Bless you.” He hopes the words sound more normal than he feels. He’s fairly certain his face has gone redder than theirs. 

They flash a look of gratitude over their still raised handkerchief and hold up a finger, their eyes losing focus again and drifting closed. Hob forces himself to look away; take another drink.  

Then they hitch a sharp breath and his attention snaps back. Their brows crumple and they stifle two sneezes. A third and fourth follow near on top, escaping their hold with small sounds, and the fifth breaches their defenses completely. “Ht’chesshiew!” They shake their head slightly on the exhale. “Pardon me.” Despite the contrite words, their expression is sly, eyes alight with teasing. 

Hob waves away the apology. “No need; are you quite alright?” They don’t know… do they? How could they? He’s told no one in lifetimes. He’s had too much to drink on an empty stomach. Firelight and shadow are playing tricks on his eyes. He’s imagining things.

“I’m afraid I seem to have come down with a chill.” As if to prove their point, their voice rasps over their words and they muffle a cough in their shoulder. In the aftermath, they suddenly look delicate, vulnerable, in need of protection and Hob wishes, somewhat desperately, for a chill of his own to douse the fire that licks along his skin. 

Then, almost as a prayer answered, a hand comes down on his shoulder, cool and steadying. “I believe this establishment is closed.” Dream’s words are frost-rimed, crackling.

“Good evening to you as well, my brother.” The knifeblade smile is back; their eyes flame. “I could be offended you have not yet introduced me to your … companion.”  They tsk tongue against teeth. “After all of these years. Could you be ashamed of something?”

“No.” Dream offers nothing more, arms crossed over his chest, face still as a carving. Even so, Hob can feel the tension in him.

“Why don’t you join us?” The invitation spills from Hob before he considers the wisdom. He really needs to stop doing that with Endless siblings in pubs. He tries to recover with another drink and he can feel Dream’s coming refusal in the set of his jaw.

Before he speaks, though, his sibling cocks a brow and their teeth glint, putting him in mind of a shark. “Yes, why don’t you?” The challenge couldn’t be clearer if they’d dropped a gauntlet on the bar.

Dream slides a chair between them and sits, stiffly. “Why are you here?”

“Come now, can’t a sibling want to meet their dear brother’s paramour? To have a drink and a friendly chat?”

“Delirium? Maybe. Death? Regularly. Even Despair, occasionally. But not you, Desire.”

Hob holds his expression carefully neutral. Desire - well, that explained things then, if their realm followed the pattern of Dream and Death.

They lean back and away, take a sip of their whiskey, and as they cast their gaze down, dampness shines along their lashes. Sadness flickers in the corner of their quirked lips. “Perhaps not me,” they admit with a sniff. “Perhaps I just needed shelter from the storm.”  Lightning flashes through the windows behind them. Thunder cracks and rolls. They shiver and Hob only stops himself from offering his coat at the last moment. They won’t actually need it, will they? 

“You bring the storm with you,” Dream says, giving no quarter.

They cough a mirthless laugh, and it’s followed instantly by a heavy sneeze, belatedly caught in their handkerchief. “I do,” they agree, blowing their nose. “You are not the only one in the family who appreciates melodrama. And I know an appreciative audience when I see them.” They dip their head to Hob, toss back the last of their whiskey and stand. “Relax, brother mine. I merely wished to see who you find more compelling than one I created. And he is, indeed, delicious. When you exhaust his patience with your eternal melancholy, I do hope you’ll send him my way. In the meantime, maybe loosen the stranglehold you have on your reins.” They lean forward, abrupt as a striking snake and press a kiss to Dream’s cheek and they are gone, only the jangle of the bell as the door closes to mark their movement.

In their absence, the pub seems darker, somehow. Colder. The rain on the windows hisses and branches tap the panes. Hob  blinks. “I… didn’t know you have other siblings,” he says, rather bemusedly. It’s the first thing that comes to mind.

Dream, seemingly equally nonplussed by their unexpected departure, doesn’t reply. 

Hob takes up the empty glasses, Desire’s stained with candyapple lipstick. He resists the urge to run his finger through the gloss as he slides it into the dishwasher. He wants to ask about Desire, ask what they meant ‘the one I created.’ But before he can figure out how to phrase it, there’s an odd squelching sound. 

He looks up to find Dream hunched forward, shoulders practically to his ears as he pinches another sneeze firmly to near silence. “Bless you?” 

“Th-thank you… ht’Gnxxt!” Neither this one or the several that follow seem to offer any relief. Even in the brief pause between contained explosions, he stays hunched into himself, as though he could hide in the middle of the room. 

Hob’s torn between wanting to offer assistance somehow, and just wanting… He compromises, presses a tissue into the hand hovering lightly curled under Dream’s nose, which has gone an endearing pink, and lets his other hand linger on Dream’s back in comfort. Not to feel the muscles tense and relax as another set seizes him. “Httnxxt! N’xxt!  Hih-N’xxtch!”

“Bless…”

“Hih…ht’Issh! Issh! Hih-Isssh!” He gasps a breath, two, and dissolves again. “It’chh!  Ishh!  Issshuhh!” At first he’s careful to keep each fit relatively contained, but as the sneezes keep coming he is gradually overcome, eyes tearing, nose running, and the last couple burst free. “Huhusssh!  Ussshuh!” 

For a long moment, in the silence following the outburst, Hob can only stare at Dream as he blinks fuzzily in the aftermath, undone. “Are you…” He’s not sure how to end the sentence. Finished? Okay? 

“It seems my dear sibling has left me a parting gift,” Dream says, consonants blurred with congestion. 

“Gift?” Hob echoes and his voice cracks like a bloke hitting puberty, before realizing Dream is being sarcastic, of course he is. Why would anyone think that was a gift.

Dream wipes the moisture from his eyes, blows his nose, and studies Hob so closely he feels uncomfortably like an insect under glass. Slowly any lingering hint of embarrassment is replaced with a different flush. His eyes go black and starry and his voice, when he speaks is deep in the way that makes Hob’s knees weak. “Only you know the answer to that, Hob.”

Hob rubs the back of his neck and grins, a little rueful. “Well, if you’re ill, you’d better come to bed.”

[littlekatleaf]

ok luck potato job interview later today…

[littlekatleaf]

From a random reddit post

Thinking of someone with a cold shivering in winter wind. Their companion wraps a scarf around their neck, even covering their nose and mouth to keep them warm. They are no longer freezing, but the fibers are ticking their nose mercilessly.

[littlekatleaf]

[littlekatleaf]

To love what is lovely, and will not last

I come, after a long absence, with Sandman fic. Not exactly what I'd planned, but I've been fiddling with it for so long and everything else has been blocked behind it.... It's almost 3am and I'm calling it done.

To stop time when something wonderful  has touched us as with a match which is lit, and bright, but does not hurt in the common way, but delightfully ~ Mary Oliver, “Snow Geese”

Hob’s alarm beeps insistently, dragging him from the ocean of sleep and washing him onto the shore of waking - blinking, bleary. He grabs for the phone to silence it. Not even out of bed when his thoughts turn to the day’s tasks - marking long overdue, final edits of a journal article and likely several desperate calls from students wanting to earn extra credit. At least he has the solstice party after, as a treat.

Beside him, Morpheus shifts. “Time is it,” he mumbles into the pillow, voice rough, sleep-worn.

“Half six,” Hob says, tugging a shirt over his head. “Gotta get to work.”

“Are you mad? It’s only been three hours.”

As though the words remind his body, Hob yawns, then coughs into his sleeve. “Two hours too long. I’ve got at least three days’ work to pack in before the party.”

Morpheus peers at him. Frowns. “You’re still recovering from your illness. Come back to bed.”

“Don’t fuss; I’m much improved. Nowhere near my death.” Hob pokes him in the ribs, gently. Morpheus obliges with a sound that bears passing resemblance to a chuckle. “Besides the Dean’ll have my job, tenure or no, if I don’t get marks in today.” Hob forces himself to stand before the softness of the sheets and the warmth of Morpheus’s body pull him back. He more than half expects Morpheus to reach for him, attempt to draw him down.

Instead, Morpheus stares rather blankly for a long minute then abruptly turns his back, burrowing deeper into the quilts. Hob sighs. Deeply. He wishes he could say fuck it all and join him, but the fresher flu set him back significantly. No matter what he’d rather, procrastination is right out. Blasted responsibilities.

He consumes an entire pot of coffee which somehow manages to make him edgy without ridding him of tiredness. Cheek propped on fist, he works his way through the stack of final essays and take-home exams and doesn’t allow himself to move from his desk until midday. As he wanders into the kitchen, still trying to decide whether the last student really makes the argument he’s attempting, Hob catches a trailing melody from Morpheus’s studio, the echo of a beat. Something electronic - Paul Van Dyk, maybe? - better for a rave than a Saturday noon, but it’s what Morpheus prefers when he’s painting. Hob smiles; at least one of them is having fun. He pictures Morpheus in his usual pose - scowling at the canvas like it’s personally insulted him, one paintbrush in his hand, another tucked behind his ear, hair wild and paint spattered.  

Hob goes to put his mug into the dishwasher, but finds it still full of clean dishes. Sighing, he adds it to a pile of dirty plates, glasses, and another mug that’s sticky with honey and redolent of mint and chamomile. He frowns. Unusual - Morpheus drinking tea, but Hob supposes the flat is chilly. Luckily the stack doesn’t overbalance and he promises himself he’ll take care of it after the party. Stomach rumbling, he opens the refrigerator to see what leftovers might still be edible and discovers, miracle of all miracles, a sandwich so freshly made the lettuce hasn’t yet wilted. It’s his favorite - brie and green apple - and he instantly forgives Morpheus ignoring the washing up as he takes a huge bite. With fortification, he might just make it to the end of the day.

Finally the third frantic student call is patiently attended to, the last of the marks are uploaded to the university system, the email to his editor is sent into the ether, and Hob feels distinctly lighter. He clatters down stairs to find final party preparations in full swing. Gabriel’s directing Morpheus in proper placement of furniture and decorations, Mako’s checking the sound system for Geordie’s band, and Jamie’s setting up the bar. After two decades of parties, none of them need his instruction, and even his practiced eye can’t find anything out of place. He expects no less, and yet the pride in what they’ve built brings a warmth to his chest. Nothing like mulled wine, holiday songs, good food and friends to pass the longest night and welcome the sun’s return at dawn.

Hob watches as Morpheus, balancing rather precariously on the edge of a chair across the room, attempts to drape a pine garland over the doorway. As he stretches to get the angle just right, his shirt slides up, exposing a pale strip of skin, stark against the black of his jeans. Hob imagines brushing his fingertips over that expanse, making Morpheus shiver under his touch. Suddenly Morpheus flinches, sharp. The chair tips, but he manages to catch himself at the last moment, dropping lightly to the floor. 

“All right?” Hob asks, surprised at the unusual lapse of grace.

Morpheus nods as he passes, heading for the stairs. He doesn’t meet Hob’s gaze. 

Hob turns to follow, but his phone rings. Jilly’s car’s broken down, can someone give her a ride? Never one to look askance at a fortunate turn of events, he gives her Geordie’s number. There’s plenty of room in the band’s van, they’re coming from the same end of town - and if Geordie has been looking for an excuse to talk to her for weeks, well that’s just a lucky coincidence.

“Meddling, are we?” Jamie laughs at Hob’s guilty startle.

He pulls an affronted expression. “I’d never. Nudge, maybe. Hint. A bit. Never meddle.”

Jamie raises an eyebrow. 

Mako tosses a towel at him. “Get back to work and quit giving him shit. After all, worked with us, didn’t it?” 

“Maybe.” But the hint of a smile curls Jamie’s lips and he follows Mako’s orders. “Better get yourself presentable, boss. You know Lena and Emily are gonna be here any minute.” 

Hob looks down, realizing he hasn’t yet changed out of his ancient sweatshirt, then over at the clock above the bar. “Bollocks. Is it possible to be late to your own party?” “For you? Absolutely.” 

“Remind me again why I hired you?”

“Because I make the filthiest martinis.” Jamie grins wolfishly as he tips gin and vermouth into a shaker.

Mako rolls his eyes. “Filthy something anyway.”

“Pot, kettle.” 

Their good-natured bickering follows Hob upstairs where he finds Morpheus in his favorite spot, curled on the window seat. Party or no, he’s wearing his usual grey t-shirt and black jeans. In defiance of the season, his feet are bare. 

“It is beginning to snow,” Morpheus says, not looking away from the gathering dusk where fat flakes of snow are, indeed, swirling down and dusting the grass and trees.

Hob considers whether suggesting Morpheus put on something warmer would make him sound like a nagging mum. Probably would do. “It’s said to bring luck, if the first snowfall of the year happens on the solstice,” he says instead, forcing himself to pay attention to the puzzle of his own attire. He needs something appropriate to the party, but comfortable.

“Might the weather keep your friends from attending the festivities?” Morpheus’s expression is unreadable in the blurry reflection of the window, but the wistfulness of his tone is clear and it takes Hob aback. While Morpheus hasn’t whinged about the annual solstice gathering, and has, point of fact, encouraged Hob to continue the tradition, he has also tended to be solitary since he … retired. Hob hadn’t imagined he would be looking forward to a gathering, no matter the occasion. 

“Not likely. The heavy snow isn’t supposed to come until later tomorrow, and it takes more than a few centimeters to make Lena miss a party. There’ll be plenty of time for people to sober up in the morning and make their way home before the storm really hits.” He doesn’t acknowledge that Morpheus has named them Hob’s friends, as though they are not Morpheus’s as well, but he notes the fact.

“Good. I-I’ve never-” Morpheus’s voice catches on a hitching breath and he curls into himself, pinching a set of sneezes into silence. It takes him a second to recover. “Bless you. Never…?” Hob prompts, when he seems to be lost in thought.

Morpheus blinks back to himself. “N-never -” He sniffles, presses a curled finger under his nose, rubs gently. “- been to a party.” He manages to finish in a rush, then crumples again. “Httnxxt! N’xxt!  Hih-N’xxtch!” He shivers, gooseflesh rising along his arms.

“Bless you. All right?”

“Yes, I’m fine. Just. A passing chill.” 

Unable to resist, Hob pulls a flannel shirt from his wardrobe and holds it out. “I know, I know. It’s got long sleeves and color and everything. But as you may have heard, the weather outside is frightful and this will keep you warm.”

Morpheus heaves a long suffering sigh, then slides the shirt on anyway. The blue is almost exactly the same shade as his eyes, rich and deep as the Aegean Sea. 

“I find it extremely hard to believe that the King of All Night’s Dreaming has never gone to a party,” Hob says. He finally decides on his most ridiculous ugly Christmas jumper -  bright red, covered with black cats in Santa hats - a gift from an American student years ago. 

Morpheus glares at him through watery eyes. “Not one I wished to attend.”

“Not even in the Fey realms?” 

“You will not tempt me to speak a word against the Fey,” Morpheus says archly, then sniffles again, marring the hauteur.

“You sure you’re alright?”

Morpheus nods, but his focus has shifted. “I am…” He’s interrupted by a sneeze, then a second and third tumble after, harsh even muffled in his sleeve. “Ht’Isshuh! Hih-Issshh-isshue!” He takes the tissue Hob offers. “I am, perhaps, coming down with something,” he admits ruefully.

“Perhaps,” Hob echoes, teasing. “A foregone conclusion, considering my state these last days.” He digs through the bottom of the wardrobe. He’s sure there’s a belt in there somewhere. And at least one matching pair of socks.  

“I’m sorry. I had been. Hoping. To attend a party simply as a guest. And to better acquaint myself with those who are important to you.” Morpheus clears his throat, then coughs.

Hob pauses and looks up from his search, startled. “You’re sorry,” he asks, the apology the first thing his brain latches on to. Rare, even now, for Morpheus to apologize for a small matter.

Morpheus shrugs, gaze turned out the window again. “I’ve been telling myself I am not ill, but I can no longer deny it. Promise you’ll tell me stories of the night come morning?”

“Are you feeling that badly? To miss it?” Though Hob had spent a day in bed himself, that was mostly at Morpheus’s insistence. He’d barely had a fever and was fine to muddle through. But Morpheus had badgered him into resting after the intensity of the semester, playing into his own procrastination tendencies too well. 

He brushes a hand over Morpheus’s forehead, then his cheeks. He’s still cool to the touch, though now that Hob’s slowed down enough to pay attention, he notices the shadows pooled under blue eyes, the slight pinch between brows that indicates headache, visible even in the window reflection, remembers the tea mug, the morning distance. Morpheus must have realized he was getting sick even then and hoped to stave it off.

“I don’t wish anyone else to catch this.”

“Just don’t snog other people and they won’t.” 

Morpheus finally turns to face him and glowers. “I would never.”

“I know you wouldn’t. Come on, duck.” Hob shifts, leaning Dream against his side and carding gentle fingers through his ever-messy hair. “Everyone else has already had the crud. Even Jamie, and he never gets sick.”

“Truly?” Morpheus sighs, hope warring with suspicion in his voice. 

Hob does his best impression of innocence. “Would I lie to you?” “Without a doubt, if it gets you what you want.”

“What I want is you. It really is okay.” He leans down, presses a kiss to Morpheus’s temple. “And Mei isn’t coming, thank all that’s holy. She’s the only one who might be bothered.” “You dislike her.” Morpheus says slowly, as though he’s piecing together a puzzle. “It cannot be simply her subject.” Hob shakes his head. “I could forgive her teaching Shakespeare. I could even forgive her enjoying it. But she was unkind to you.” More than once, he doesn’t add. 

“A minor incident,” Morpheus argues, but a faint flush colors his cheeks and when they join the party, he stays close to Hob’s side far longer than usual before retreating to a chair in an out of the way corner, beside the hearth. 

With ease born of long practice, Hob threads his way through the pub, greeting the guests and chatting easily with each, while keeping a sliver of his focus on Morpheus. At first he sits alone, an island in the flow of the crowd. To the untrained eye, he seems distant, uninterested, his face impassive, body carefully rigid. Behind the mask, Hob knows, Morpheus is following the currents of conversations surrounding him. Technically no longer Prince of Stories, they still seem to nourish him.

Hob is all the way across the pub when he catches sight of Lena and Emily pulling chairs up to join Morpheus. Lena’s got a look in her eye that bodes ill for Hob - she knows too many embarrassing stories and never hesitates to share. Before he can intercept them, he’s pulled into a heated debate over whether Irish whiskey or Scotch is superior. By the time he manages to extricate himself, it’s clear that they’ve made themselves comfortable. Not surprising, but what does surprise him is that Morpheus actually seems to be equally comfortable with them. For the first time his body is at ease as he listens intently to something Lena’s saying.

“And that’s why he isn’t allowed to… Oh, oops,” she interrupts herself as Hob comes in earshot, but she doesn’t look even the slightest bit embarrassed. 

“Hello Hob.” A hint of mirth quirks Morpheus’s lips.

Hob directs an exaggerated frown at Lena. “You’d better not be telling him about the pub in Dublin.”

“She wasn’t, but now she must,” Morpheus says, his voice little more than a rasp. His breath catches. Stutters. “Ex-excuse me,” he manages to say, turning away hastily. “Hih…ht’Issh! Issh! Hih-Isssh!”

Lena and Emily chorus blessings and Hob bites his tongue on the urge to ask how he’s feeling; he’d just brush off Hob’s concern, say it’s nothing. An oily feeling of disquiet curls into Hob’s belly anyway. He tells himself firmly to ignore it. “Dammit, Lena, that means I’ll have to tell him about what got us banished from Trinity’s library and I’m not nearly drunk enough for that.”

“The night is young,” Lena says. ”Go get yourself another drink. It’s time for your boyfriend to get to know the real you.”

Morpheus catches his gaze. “I could use a drink as well.”

Hob tosses up his hands in defeat. “All right, all right. Just leave me with a scrap of reputation, yeah?” 

“I make no promises,” Lena says and her grin is wicked. Even as he walks away, Hob is certain he hears Morpheus chuckling under his breath.

“Good turnout,” Jamie says when Hob joins him behind the bar. He’s right - somewhere above fifty people, professors and students mingling with a few of the pub’s regulars. Someone’s pushed tables aside and a few brave (and inebriated) souls are dancing.  Others play cards or darts, and he’s pretty sure he can make out a couple snogging in a darker corner. There’s plenty of food, the plates and cutlery seem well stocked, the music isn’t loud enough to keep people from talking. Everything is in order. Everyone seems to be enjoying themselves. But maybe he should make another circuit of the pub, just to be certain…

“Gabriel’s got it under control, boss. And if anyone starts anything, Mako will handle it. Take the night off for once.”

Hob winces. “Am I that obvious?”

“Let’s just say best you avoid the poker table. Or, actually, fancy a game?” 

“Sod off; you’re on duty,” Hob says, laughing. 

“And so’s Gabe. Enjoy the party. The company.” He looks meaningfully toward the little group by the hearth.

“I will. I am.” It’s true, he realizes. Emily leans forward, gesturing emphatically, managing to interrupt Lena and take the story over herself. Not upset in the least, Lena’s expression is a little proud of her girlfriend’s audacity, and more than a little fond. Morpheus presses a hand over his mouth as he laughs, but even muffled, the abrupt wounded goose honk of it startles both Lena and Emily into giggles as well. His eyes shine, simply reflected firelight. No longer magic and yet… still his Stranger. Once lost, now found. His Friend, who has known him over so many long years, and who he is finally getting to know as well.

Morpheus straightens, moves slightly away from the others. Hob wonders if he’s offended - or hurt - by their reaction. But then he grabs a napkin from the table and his laughter disintegrates into coughing. 

“Poor bloke’s been sick a lot this winter. Better take one of these for him,” Jamie says, handing Hob two steaming mugs of mulled wine. “Tell him feel better soon, yeah?”

“Thanks. I’ll tell him.” Hob forces himself to smile, but the uncomfortable disquiet has returned. He hadn’t paid close attention, but now that Jamie’s pointed it out, he can’t ignore it. Morpheus has been ill on and off since the beginning of the school year. There are a thousand reasons for it - everyone gets sick with new germs and uni is a veritable petri dish; Morpheus hasn’t even had a body for that long, of course it would be vulnerable. But what if it’s worse? He blinks and in the darkness a flash of a body laid out on marble, covered with a sheer cloth and yet he knows who it was… he knows.

“There’s mulled wine? And you didn’t bring us any? Rude,” Lena says.

“Sorry, only two hands,” Hob hands one to Morpheus, then takes a deep drink of his own.  

“Oh, I love this song - dance?” Emily asks as Geordie and the band begin a reel. To Hob’s relief Lena agrees. She takes Emily’s arm and they whirl into the knot of dancers. Morpheus watches them go, still smiling - but the light of the fire casts the angles of his face into strange, deep shadows and Hob drinks again.

“Robert.” Though it’s still rough, Morpheus’s voice is somewhat stronger. There’s a question in it that Hob doesn’t want to answer.

He keeps his eyes on his mug. “Jamie says he hopes you feel better soon.”

“Hob.”

“Do you want to dance, too? I’m not great, but once I finish this drink…” he takes another, longer swallow. “Enough,” Morpheus says, the command no less forceful for coming through a human throat. 

Hob finally looks down to find Morpheus gazing up at him with eyes that no longer swirl with endless constellations, but are still deeper than Hob can fathom. He releases the mug and Morpheus takes his hand, smoothing the pad of his thumb over the inside of Hob’s wrist.

“What has disturbed you?” 

“I… The longest night is not long enough.” 

“No?”

Hob shakes his head. He always wants more time.

Morpheus draws him down, puts an arm around him, rests his head on Hob’s shoulder. “I believe it is true - the first snowfall on Yule is indeed fortunate.”

“Why,” Hob asks into his hair. 

“Because I have good drink. Good music. Good friends. And you. It is enough.” He presses his lips to Hob’s wrist and warmth flows through the contact, through Hob’s whole body until it feels like he glows bright as the flames.

“I suppose it is.”

[littlekatleaf]

Vanillas say what?

[littlekatleaf]

The Leaves Dream Now

This was supposed to be just a little D/reamling short fic and yet here we are, nearly 5k words and a million days later and I'm ending here because if I don't post now it'll be another 5k words and 50 million days. Though it's technically Hob/Dream in my head, it can be platonic if you choose to read it that way. Still deciding if I want to do another part where it's .... less platonic.

Don’t you imagine the leaves dream now How comfortable it will be to touch The earth instead of the  Nothingness of the air and the endless Freshets of wind? … And don’t you hear  The goldenrod whispering goodbye ~ Mary Oliver, Song for Autumn 

Morpheus inhales deeply of the night air as it curls softly around him. It cools the heat of his skin, soothing, reminding him he is free. Still, he feels hollow as a reed and he cannot tell the cause. Perhaps some of his essence lingers in the basement darkness, held in the remains of the sphere. A wave of dizziness makes his head go light and he closes his eyes against it. He takes another breath - fresh air, not stale. His feet are planted firm on wood boards, not cold crystal. His coat hem brushes his calves–he is clothed, no longer stripped bare before one and all. 

“You should wait, my Lord,” Lucienne’s voice carries over waves lapping the pier, though she speaks quietly. “Rest more. Retrieve your tools. Then return.” “You presume to decree what I may or may not do?” Morpheus looks back at her, anger kindling in the center of his chest, steadying him, honing his focus. Apparently grown bold in his absence, she has reached out as though to take hold of his arm, to physically restrain him. He steps back, increasing the distance between them.

She sighs, puts her hand in the pocket of her waistcoat. “Of course not.” No matter how sharp her tone, her expression stays studiously neutral. “I merely point out that you are… not at your best. Your project can wait.”

“I am decades late to our appointed meeting. He has waited long enough.” Morpheus doesn’t consider the roots of his urgency. Refuses to entertain the passing thought that she might speak truth. His entire body aches with exhaustion, alternately shivering and sweating. He pushes the sensations away, refusing to bend to the damnable weakness. “I will make him wait no longer.” 

He kneels at the end of the dock and gazes into the ink dark water. Stars shine above, reflect in the water below, whirl and wheel, and he goes dazed, giddy with their bright cold light and swirls, slides, falls into stars, into water, into the cold currents of liminal space between Dreaming and Waking. 

He falls. The currents push him, pull him, set him spinning, tumbling, down and down. Tendrils trail icy over his hair, his coat, his hands, grasping but not quite holding him. Focus, he must focus on where-when-who, else he may end up off course and lost. He tenses against the cold, closes his eyes to see, WhiteHorse-Now-Hob. Only what he desires, nothing more. His concentration narrows. He sees, currents shift to his will, he straightens and arrow-plummets. 

Morpheus stumbles as he coalesces, staggered by solid ground. Wind stirs his hair, slides cold fingers down the back of his neck. He shivers, and not simply due to the chill air. The White Horse is shuttered. Enclosed in a sheet metal fence. Windows boarded over. Graffiti splashed across the walls. Like so much else it is tainted by his absence. Without his touch, keeping it a place for the two of them through the centuries, the protections crumbled. Too late. He is long too late. And where is Hob? 

A playbill flutters against the fence and Morpheus blinks as he registers. the red painted words right in front of his face. The New Inn. An arrow, pointing right. He tenses against the urge to walk faster, to hope - after all, what are the chances? Their agreement broken, meeting place desolate - his own precipitous departure at their last meeting - why would Hob return? He walks slowly, but still follows the arrows. He must know.

He pauses as he turns a corner and The New Inn comes into sight. It is not a replica of the old, yet there is something of the same substance in it. Sun spills oblique between gathering clouds. It slants across the front of the pub, reflecting from the windows so he cannot see inside. Dusk pools beneath surrounding trees; shadows congregate between buildings. The air smells faintly of fallen apples, sweet and fermented. Rotting. Leaves, crimson, gold, umber rustle dryly above his head. Wrong pub, wrong hour, wrong season, wrong year.

A headache begins to throb behind his eyes, tightening around his forehead, and he gives in to the urge to rub his temples, then pinch the bridge of his nose. Travel to the waking world cost more strength than he has yet regained. He ignores the need gnawing at him. Merely a physical result of his imprisonment, nothing more. He cannot change what is past, his mistakes, his failure - but he can make amends.

Morpheus feels the thread that is Hob in the tapestry of the Dreaming, but he has not - dares not - follow it to be certain of Hob’s location or his mood. Doing so would be neither wise nor kind. At least he knows Hob has not yet sought his elder sister, wherever he is, whatever he feels. He blinks and the ruins of his throne room quake and fall once more, clink of broken glass echoes in his ears. If the very heart of the Dreaming could not survive his… absence, how much less something as ephemeral as friendship. He swallows against a burning in his throat. For the first time in more than seven hundred years he is uncertain of his reception. If, indeed, Hob is here at all. He would be well within his rights to be as far from this place as possible.

Another gust of wind rushes over him, a spatter of rain follows, and Morpheus realizes he delays. Tugging his coat tighter around himself and fisting his hands in his pockets he crosses to the Inn. 

A bell chimes cheerfully as he opens the door. He steps over the threshold and a wave of sound and warmth washes over him. Though the room is relatively small, it feels cozy rather than crowded. People sit around small tables in groups of two or three, laughing and chattering. A couple of larger booths, both full, occupy the corners. Instead of the stale beer and cigarette smoke scent of the White Horse, there’s just a hint of woodsmoke from the fireplace overlaid with something savory simmering unseen in the kitchen. Music plays in the background, fiddles and pipes, an Irish folk tune he hasn’t heard in several hundred years. 

He casts his gaze over the room, searching, barely able to draw full breath until he sees the familiar dark head bent over a scattering of papers and half-full pint of cider at one of the smaller tables, slightly set apart from the rest but closest to the fireplace. Here. He is here. Morpheus feels himself drawn forward, iron filings to magnet. He pauses by the empty chair, and Hob’s pen stills.

Slowly, much too slowly, Hob looks up. Morpheus wants to retreat back into shadow, into the Dreaming. He wants to let himself bask in the warmth of Hob’s presence. He wants to laugh, wants to cry, wants to sit perfectly still and listen to Hob tell him of every moment that has passed in the last hundred and thirty-three years. He wants to say nothing. He wants to say everything. He’s balanced on the edge. 

Hob smiles, equal parts surprised and pleased. “You’re late.” Teasing. True.

Morpheus wants to fly, wants to fall. A small chuckle escapes. “It seems I owe you an apology. I’ve always heard it impolite to keep one’s friends waiting.” Because whatever else they might be, now or before or after, they are, have been, will be friends. 

Welcome emanates from Hob’s entire countenance, no touch of recrimination, and Morpheus allows himself to take the seat across from his friend. “I am sorry,” he says. “If I could have come…” His throat closes and he can force no more words. Cannot bring himself to explain, to speak the truth. If he hadn’t been caught, severed from the Dreaming, from himself; if he hadn’t been powerless… There’s a hot prickling behind his eyes; he rubs his nose against a sudden urge to sneeze.

“What’s a decade or two in the span of centuries.” Hob shrugs. He offers grace, doesn’t ask questions. Instead he launches into the tale of how he became proprietor of the New Inn, from his discovery that the White Horse was to be demolished, to his decision that the town still needed a welcoming place, to his purchase of building and land, to the ribbon cutting ceremony. Never content to do one thing only, Hob tells of how he also became a professor, and shares stories from his classes, vignettes of his student’s lives. Tales of open mic nights and Sunday study sessions. He describes his students, and the pub’s regulars in enough detail that when Morpheus lets his focus expand he can see the web of connection Hob has made here shine bright in the Dreaming.

Hob describes changing technology and a changing world. Everything moving so much faster, everything so much louder and yet he meets it all with unbridled enthusiasm. Time passes and still there is much to learn, to know, to explore. To experience. The flow of his story, of his life, fills a need Morpheus hasn’t yet named. Hasn’t even recognized. 

Finally, Hob raises his pint and discovers the glass empty. “I’m in need of another drink if I’m to keep talking. Can I get you anything?”

Morpheus shakes his head, words still beyond him. Tangled somewhere between throat and tongue. Trapped. They build like water behind a dam. But who do you care about? Who makes your heart sing? Are we truly friends?

Hob hesitates for a moment, eyeing him carefully before moving away to the bar. The shadow of a frown hovers between his brows and his apprehension prickles Morpheus’s awareness. An ephemeral image - not true daydream, more half-formed worry - slips past the barriers Morpheus has erected between them and flashes across his awareness. it’s an image of himself dissipating like smoke as Hob turns away, disappearing as though he had never been. Unreachable for innumerable years, possibly this time never to return. A well-worn fear Hob has turned in his thoughts, year upon year. Loss, of the only one who has witnessed his life across the centuries.

Guilt mingles with exhaustion and his headache grips Morpheus like a fist. Though he’s close to the fire, he shudders with a chill and sneezes, once then again and again, hard fast paroxysms he cannot stifle against the back of his wrist, though he tries. They leave him blinking and bleary.

“Was that you?” Hob asks, glancing at Morpheus over his shoulder.

“I’m afraid so,” he admits. “My apologies,” His breath wavers, the sensation urgent, needful, and he manages to create a handkerchief only at the very last moment. “Hiihhisssh!  Hihisssh! …”  He snags a breath, two, but is overcome again. “Ht’issshhh!” Morpheus raises his head from the fabric to find a steaming mug in front of him, and Hob gazing at him with mingling amusement and concern.

“God bless you. Two apologies in one meeting; a record.” Hob raises a brow, pushes the mug slightly closer and holds out a tissue. “You know, humanity has moved on in the past century or so - from wiping our noses on our sleeves, to germy cloths we stick in our pockets, to tissues which we can use once and throw away.”

Morpheus’s lips twitch. “Indeed. Impressive.” Inclining his head slightly in acknowledgement, he takes the tissue and the mug, closing his hands around the porcelain. The steam smells of cinnamon and clove, honey and a good, strong, whiskey. Though he neither hungers nor thirsts, he sips. The drink is sweet laced with spice and eases the pain in his throat. Warmth curls in his stomach. Maybe from the alcohol, maybe for the fact that Hob gifted it to him. 

Morpheus drinks again, studying Hob intently in turn. He nearly glows with contentment, simple pleasure in being in this place at this moment. He carries himself with ease and confidence - he plays scholar now, but his body is still that of a warrior. Clearly the intervening years have, on balance, been kind to him. Though he looks near as young as he did when they first met, there are fine lines crinkling in the corners of his lips, a few grey hairs scattered in the brown, a weight of wisdom hard won. Even still, questions lurk behind Hob’s eyes.

Silence slips into the space between them, tension crackles, barometric pressure falling before a storm. Hob cants forward and before he can stop himself, Morpheus leans back. “Do you still wish to live?” He asks because he always asks. He asks because he doesn’t wish Hob to ask. He asks because he still wonders, cannot quite believe, that Hob would choose this.

“Is that the question you want to ask me? After all this time? You know my answer - yes. In the best of life, in the worst of life, yes. Always yes. Tell me, Stranger - what is it you truly wish to know?” He doesn’t move, either closer or away, just waits perfectly still, as though to do otherwise might startle Morpheus, send him away again.

“I… I wish…” the word tastes strange on his tongue, piquant and sweet, sparks and candy floss. The odd juxtaposition puts him in mind of his little sister. That and the way the edges of the room, the edges of his thoughts undulate, unsettling. He drinks again, an excuse for his lapse into silence, feeling Hob watching him with those warm, brown eyes that are so unbearably kind. He wishes Hob would turn his gaze away, look anywhere else, because it fills him with wishes he doesn’t know how to speak into existence, tiny bursts of fantasy that flash through his thoughts. I wish I hadn’t been forced to miss our meeting- I wish I hadn’t been so weak- I wish I hadn’t let myself get taken- I wish I knew how to fix this- I wish I took more time, gathered my pieces, shored up my power- I wish I knew you, more of you, all of you, not just glimpses century by century… 

He sniffs, steam and alcohol working against him to tease free another set of sneezes even as he tries to stave them off. He presses a crooked finger under his nose to no avail. “Pardon,” he manages to say before ducking into his sleeve, completely forgetting the tissue in the suddenness of the need. “H-h… Ihd’shht! … Hih-shht!....” He teeters, breathless, waiting, wanting but the third sneeze dangles just out of reach. He sniffs, sniffs again, but can neither find release nor relief.

“Bless you?” Hob says, a ghost of laughter in the question.

Morpheus attempts a scowl, but something shifts and he’s suddenly wrenched forward with the missing third. “Huh’RIshoo!” It scrapes his throat, uncomfortably loud even muffled as it is.

Concern flashes over Hob’s expression, almost too quick to catch before he smooths it back to light good humor. “What’s that? You wish to be somewhere away from this crowd, somewhere quiet with such luxurious amenities as a lumpy sofa, an unlimited supply of the good tissues, and perhaps some cold medicine that won’t actually cure you but will at least get you high enough that you forget how shit you feel? Well you’re in luck, mate. My flat is just above, and has all that and a bottle of whiskey better than anything they serve in this dive.”

Morpheus obliges him with the edge of a smile. “Perhaps you’d better speak to the proprietor about his choice of whiskey.”

“Perhaps I had.” Hob actually laughs but then goes serious. “Come, Stranger, will you not join me?”

The invitation feels like an open hand, extended. Morpheous allows himself to imagine for a moment taking the offering, following Hob upstairs into a space that is unmistakably his. Imagines himself welcomed despite his absence, his distance, his failures. He imagines a possibility that will never be. Because he knows what will happen, should he give in to the desire. Knows the path that will follow, and what’s worse, knows the ending of the path.

He should take his leave, return to his realm and his duty left so long untended. Rebuild from the ruins. He has the answer he came for; he has offered his apology to Hob. He should walk away from this… this temptation. But he cannot keep himself from longing for another way. 

As Morpheus wavers, torn between yearning and experience, between exhaustion and duty, Hob gathers his papers, pockets his pen, pushes back from the table, and stands. “You don’t need to stay long. Just a drink and a bit of quiet, until the storm clears?”

Lightning flashes in the window beside them, a roll of thunder follows, loud enough to be heard over the music. Tree branches toss wind-lashed, leaves flurry, swirl to the ground and something brittle and dry cracks in Morpheus’s chest. The thought of going out into the driving rain, getting soaked before traversing the liminal lands, sends a chill catpawing up his spine and he shivers, blows his nose. “Very well. For a brief time.”

Hob grins, glint of triumph in his eyes, then gone. He calls a farewell to the bartender and waves to a couple of patrons as he passes. “Picked a fine day to visit, middle of a storm. Several decades late as you already are, you might have waited for nicer weather.” Both teasing and not, he leads Morpheus through the pub and up a dark stairwell. The treads creak under Hob’s feet, but remain silent at Morpheus’s passing. 

Another brilliant flash and in the span between light and sound, Morpheus doubts. Does he dare trust this man enough to be in a place of his dominion, at his request? Does he truly believe that were Hob to understand the extent of both his usual power and current vulnerability that Hob would not take advantage? When others had done so for less?

Thunder cracks, wind whines at the window. Hob manages to unlock the door without dropping either his papers or the rest of the pint he’d brought with him. Light spills from the doorway, enticing. “Make yourself comfortable; I’m just going to put these away.” Hob toes off his shoes, then heads down the hall. “And please ignore the mess, it’s the maid’s century off,” he adds over his shoulder, sounding not at all concerned about what Morpheus might think. Unable to resist, finally, a place of shelter from the storm, Morpheus crosses the threshold.

Despite Hob’s warning, there is little disarray in the living room. While a jacket is tossed over the back of a chair, the coffee table is covered with student essays, scholarly journals, and a couple of mostly empty mugs, and the couch holds a rumpled blanket, a bed pillow and more student essays, the atmosphere is comfortable. Lived in. The radiator clicks and hisses, rain rattles on the roof, and as he rifles through cabinets, Hob hums one of the songs that had been playing in the pub below, slightly off key.

Morpheus finds himself drawn to one of Hob’s bookshelves, to see what storytellers he has chosen to bring with him. First editions press close to pulp fiction, shelved by some plan known only to Hob. Text books and poetry. Walt Whitman and Oscar Wilde, Audre Lorde and Octavia Butler, Adrienne Rich and Michel Foucault. He runs his finger along the spines, slides a book free and flips it open, letting the words flow through him - November, no one comes./ But I come, trying/ to breathe that word/ into the well’s ear/ which should make the leaves fly up/ like a green jet… They taste of deep red wine, dark chocolate, of frost and snowfall. 

Unfortunately, the book is dusty, and he is struck with the urge to sneeze. He’s still trying to find the tissue he’d stuck in one of his pockets when the first crests. He stifles it into silence with an effort. The next hits faster, and the third breaks free just enough to shudder his frame. “Hnxt!  H’ntxxsh!” He finally is able to blow his nose but instead of quelling the sensation, it only grows. He scrubs his nose roughly, which doesn’t help either. His breathing catches and he’s stuck in limbo, both wanting to sneeze again and fighting it. 

“Thought I had a bit of Lemsip, but looks like I’m out.” Hob says, pulling Morpheus’s attention from his struggle. “Which isn’t much of a loss, honestly, considering it tastes like hot lemonade and does fuck all. Got paracetamol, though, if you’ve fever.”

“There… is no need; I am not ill.” Easier to claim this than explain the fullness of the situation. But speaking upsets the tenuous control he’s managed, he ducks into his sleeve again, and the sneezes convulse him.  “Hihisssh!…Hih’isssh!  H-hissshih!”  He’s painfully aware of making both a liar and a spectacle of himself. If only he could stop sneezing long enough to return to the Dreaming.. “H-hih’Risshh! Isssh! Issshhuh!”  He stumbles slightly, off balance and out of breath. It takes him more than a moment to recover and realize Hob has a hand on his back, gentling him like a feral creature.

“Good gods, man. Bless you. Ill or no, something is wrong.” Hob’s hand is a star, burning against his skin.  Each point of contact a separate slice of pain, as though a festering wound lanced to release poison. He flinches away from the touch before he can stop himself - and regrets it immediately as Hob looks as though he’d been slapped.

“Perhaps there is. Something wrong,” he allows, permitting Hob to urge him onto the couch, this time without touch, and to settle on the other end, a respectable distance between their bodies. Morpheus draws his knees to his chest and wraps his arms around them, attempting to distract himself from the way his back still burns in the shape of Hob’s hand. A long silence falls, broken only by the rumble of the storm outside and the hiss of the radiator.

“I waited for you, you know.”  Hob says finally, sounding more subdued than Morpheus has heard since 1689. “All day.”

Morpheus glances at him, but his gaze is turned to the window, to the streaks of raindrops and distant flashing lightning.

“Every time the door opened, I startled. Must’ve looked half mad.” He snorts a laugh, at the memory. At himself. “Waited all night, too. After they kicked me out and closed up I loitered in the parking lot like a derelict.” He runs his hands through his hair, frowning slightly. “I was so sure you’d come, so sure I was right.” He sighs. “As the days passed… weeks… years… being right mattered less. And I was not so certain anymore. 

“As time passed, I realized that I had hoped you were lonely,” he looks at Morpheus sidelong and his lips quirk, rueful. “I wouldn’t want you to feel so, truly. But I was and, like a fool, I hoped you might be as well. So I wouldn’t be alone in it.” Hob scrubs his hands over his face and somewhere a clock strikes the hour. “I spoke out of turn. I should not have done so. I, too, am sorry.”

“You have nothing for which to apologize, Hob Gadling. I would have come to you, were it possible. Unfortunately I was… detained.” The minute he speaks the words, he wants to take them back. He has no plan to explain his absence to Hob. He doesn’t wish to admit the truth, but even less does he wish to lie - so he had thought to say nothing. But he could not - could not - allow Hob to blame himself for Morpheus’s own failure. 

“Detained? What do you mean?” Hob’s focus snaps to Morpheus and he resists the urge to look away. As though, like a child, not to see is to be unseen. 

“I was held against my will. For some time.” Between one heartbeat and the next Hob’s living room wavers, goes dark, silent. Warmth bleeds away; he shivers. The world is muffled, closed behind crystal and magics. His skin crawls with the memory of eyes upon him, constantly watching. His breaths come short and sharp, seeking air he technically doesn’t need but still cannot get. He rubs a hand over his chest, then worries at the frayed edge of his sleeve. He’s coming unraveled.

Hob goes pale. “For fuck’s sake. How much time?”

Morpheus swallows, coughs carefully in his sleeve. “One hundred and thirty three years.” His voice rasps.

“Over a century…” Hob’s voice is so low he might be talking only to himself.

“I do not measure time as you do.” Again he speaks without considering. 

“You don’t…” Hob shakes his head, lurches to his feet. “I promised you whiskey and I get the sense I’m going to need it as well, momentarily.” He disappears around a corner, but his voice floats back with the sound of cabinets opening, a bottle being opened, liquid poured. “When did you get free? How?  Are you - ” He cuts himself off mid-question. “Of course you aren’t. Stupid to ask. Just… why?” 

“A mistake. They expected - hoped for -  someone else. Desired something I could not give.”

Hob strides back, thrusts a glass into Morpheus’s hand. “A mistake? A mistake?” His tone is sharp with disbelief and his anger cuts at Morpheus. “A mistake is crossing the street against the light. Losing a glove. Forgetting an appointment. Kidnapping is not a mistake.”

“No, I suppose not.” Morpheus keeps his tone mild and Hob tosses back half of his drink in one go. 

He calms himself with a visible effort, and when he sits on the couch again he’s nearer than before. Close enough that Morpheus can feel the heat of him. Can hear the faint thump of his heart. “What happened to you, my friend?”

Morpheus sips and the alcohol tastes of smoke and ash, dust and ruin, on his tongue. He has told no one the entirety of it. Not even Lucienne. Pieces, of course, she knows. She had mourned Jessamy as deeply as Morpheus himself. She knows better than any other the damage to the Dreaming. But there are things he cannot bring himself to burden her with. And things he is not certain he can speak aloud.

“Sharing wounds with another can help allow them to close,” Hob says. “Eleanor told me that, once upon a time. And I have unburdened my soul to you many times. Please, let me return the favor.” In his words echo the feel of welcome, of invitation, of grace offered freely, open palm and Morpheus finds himself helpless against it.

“To understand what befell me, you must know who, what, I am.”  He steels himself, unfolds, and allows his form to shift, to draw in shadows, to draw in cloud and stars. “I am Dream of the Endless,” he says and his voice carries the echo of thunder in the distance. “Lord of Dreams and Nightmares. In this aspect I am called Morpheus.

“In 1916 an occultist and his Order, in an ill-thought plot to summon and imprison my sister, Death, captured me, instead. Though had they captured her, they would yet fail - she does not return anyone from the Sunless Lands, even one who is most beloved, even when he is lost before his time. And she does not respond well to threat.” It’s a little easier, now that he’s begun. He tells of his exhaustion, returning home from a quest that had taxed him near beyond endurance, of being drawn off course and stolen away, of waking in the darkness, encircled in magic and quartz, cut off from dreams and the Dreaming. He tells of Jessamy’s death, ripped from her life so violently and how he could do nothing. He tells of being unable to reach his power, his magic, himself, how his kingdom fell to ruin and how he could do nothing. He tells of hearing the voices of panic and pain in the waking world, and how he could do nothing. He tells how the cries for succor echoed in his head, how they still do. 

He talks until his voice wears thin, and thinner, to no more than a whisper, “I should have done something…” and then he falls silent. At some point Hob has laid one hand on Morpheus shoulder. This time the contact does not burn, but is a balm. Hob says nothing, but draws him close, and Morpheus leans his head on Hob’s shoulder. The radiator has clicked off. The worst of the storm has blown past. They just sit, and the quiet wraps around them like a quilt. Soft. Gentle. 

At last Morpheus takes a breath and begins to draw himself together, carefully pulling scattered threads back to center, weaving his control in place. “Thank you, Hob Gadling. For your hospitality, and your kindness. I am in your debt.”

“Nonsense. We are friends. Friends don’t keep tally.” He allows Morpheus to sit up, to put distance between them again. “You don’t need to go.”

“It’s late,” Morpheus says as a clock chimes midnight. Even as he stands, he realizes he’s going to sneeze again. He curls in on himself, shivering. “Hihisssh!…Hih’isssh!  H-hissshih!” He’s still trying to decide if he’s done sneezing when he feels arms wrap around him. He stiffens, but then Hob begins to rub his back.

“Bless you. At least stay until the rain stops. You need rest.”

“Very well, just until the rain stops.”

[littlekatleaf]

The Leaves Dream Now

This was supposed to be just a little D/reamling short fic and yet here we are, nearly 5k words and a million days later and I'm ending here because if I don't post now it'll be another 5k words and 50 million days. Though it's technically Hob/Dream in my head, it can be platonic if you choose to read it that way. Still deciding if I want to do another part where it's .... less platonic.

Don’t you imagine the leaves dream now How comfortable it will be to touch The earth instead of the  Nothingness of the air and the endless Freshets of wind? … And don’t you hear  The goldenrod whispering goodbye ~ Mary Oliver, Song for Autumn 

Morpheus inhales deeply of the night air as it curls softly around him. It cools the heat of his skin, soothing, reminding him he is free. Still, he feels hollow as a reed and he cannot tell the cause. Perhaps some of his essence lingers in the basement darkness, held in the remains of the sphere. A wave of dizziness makes his head go light and he closes his eyes against it. He takes another breath - fresh air, not stale. His feet are planted firm on wood boards, not cold crystal. His coat hem brushes his calves–he is clothed, no longer stripped bare before one and all. 

“You should wait, my Lord,” Lucienne’s voice carries over waves lapping the pier, though she speaks quietly. “Rest more. Retrieve your tools. Then return.” “You presume to decree what I may or may not do?” Morpheus looks back at her, anger kindling in the center of his chest, steadying him, honing his focus. Apparently grown bold in his absence, she has reached out as though to take hold of his arm, to physically restrain him. He steps back, increasing the distance between them.

She sighs, puts her hand in the pocket of her waistcoat. “Of course not.” No matter how sharp her tone, her expression stays studiously neutral. “I merely point out that you are… not at your best. Your project can wait.”

“I am decades late to our appointed meeting. He has waited long enough.” Morpheus doesn’t consider the roots of his urgency. Refuses to entertain the passing thought that she might speak truth. His entire body aches with exhaustion, alternately shivering and sweating. He pushes the sensations away, refusing to bend to the damnable weakness. “I will make him wait no longer.” 

He kneels at the end of the dock and gazes into the ink dark water. Stars shine above, reflect in the water below, whirl and wheel, and he goes dazed, giddy with their bright cold light and swirls, slides, falls into stars, into water, into the cold currents of liminal space between Dreaming and Waking. 

He falls. The currents push him, pull him, set him spinning, tumbling, down and down. Tendrils trail icy over his hair, his coat, his hands, grasping but not quite holding him. Focus, he must focus on where-when-who, else he may end up off course and lost. He tenses against the cold, closes his eyes to see, WhiteHorse-Now-Hob. Only what he desires, nothing more. His concentration narrows. He sees, currents shift to his will, he straightens and arrow-plummets. 

Morpheus stumbles as he coalesces, staggered by solid ground. Wind stirs his hair, slides cold fingers down the back of his neck. He shivers, and not simply due to the chill air. The White Horse is shuttered. Enclosed in a sheet metal fence. Windows boarded over. Graffiti splashed across the walls. Like so much else it is tainted by his absence. Without his touch, keeping it a place for the two of them through the centuries, the protections crumbled. Too late. He is long too late. And where is Hob? 

A playbill flutters against the fence and Morpheus blinks as he registers. the red painted words right in front of his face. The New Inn. An arrow, pointing right. He tenses against the urge to walk faster, to hope - after all, what are the chances? Their agreement broken, meeting place desolate - his own precipitous departure at their last meeting - why would Hob return? He walks slowly, but still follows the arrows. He must know.

He pauses as he turns a corner and The New Inn comes into sight. It is not a replica of the old, yet there is something of the same substance in it. Sun spills oblique between gathering clouds. It slants across the front of the pub, reflecting from the windows so he cannot see inside. Dusk pools beneath surrounding trees; shadows congregate between buildings. The air smells faintly of fallen apples, sweet and fermented. Rotting. Leaves, crimson, gold, umber rustle dryly above his head. Wrong pub, wrong hour, wrong season, wrong year.

A headache begins to throb behind his eyes, tightening around his forehead, and he gives in to the urge to rub his temples, then pinch the bridge of his nose. Travel to the waking world cost more strength than he has yet regained. He ignores the need gnawing at him. Merely a physical result of his imprisonment, nothing more. He cannot change what is past, his mistakes, his failure - but he can make amends.

Morpheus feels the thread that is Hob in the tapestry of the Dreaming, but he has not - dares not - follow it to be certain of Hob’s location or his mood. Doing so would be neither wise nor kind. At least he knows Hob has not yet sought his elder sister, wherever he is, whatever he feels. He blinks and the ruins of his throne room quake and fall once more, clink of broken glass echoes in his ears. If the very heart of the Dreaming could not survive his… absence, how much less something as ephemeral as friendship. He swallows against a burning in his throat. For the first time in more than seven hundred years he is uncertain of his reception. If, indeed, Hob is here at all. He would be well within his rights to be as far from this place as possible.

Another gust of wind rushes over him, a spatter of rain follows, and Morpheus realizes he delays. Tugging his coat tighter around himself and fisting his hands in his pockets he crosses to the Inn. 

A bell chimes cheerfully as he opens the door. He steps over the threshold and a wave of sound and warmth washes over him. Though the room is relatively small, it feels cozy rather than crowded. People sit around small tables in groups of two or three, laughing and chattering. A couple of larger booths, both full, occupy the corners. Instead of the stale beer and cigarette smoke scent of the White Horse, there’s just a hint of woodsmoke from the fireplace overlaid with something savory simmering unseen in the kitchen. Music plays in the background, fiddles and pipes, an Irish folk tune he hasn’t heard in several hundred years. 

He casts his gaze over the room, searching, barely able to draw full breath until he sees the familiar dark head bent over a scattering of papers and half-full pint of cider at one of the smaller tables, slightly set apart from the rest but closest to the fireplace. Here. He is here. Morpheus feels himself drawn forward, iron filings to magnet. He pauses by the empty chair, and Hob’s pen stills.

Slowly, much too slowly, Hob looks up. Morpheus wants to retreat back into shadow, into the Dreaming. He wants to let himself bask in the warmth of Hob’s presence. He wants to laugh, wants to cry, wants to sit perfectly still and listen to Hob tell him of every moment that has passed in the last hundred and thirty-three years. He wants to say nothing. He wants to say everything. He’s balanced on the edge. 

Hob smiles, equal parts surprised and pleased. “You’re late.” Teasing. True.

Morpheus wants to fly, wants to fall. A small chuckle escapes. “It seems I owe you an apology. I’ve always heard it impolite to keep one’s friends waiting.” Because whatever else they might be, now or before or after, they are, have been, will be friends. 

Welcome emanates from Hob’s entire countenance, no touch of recrimination, and Morpheus allows himself to take the seat across from his friend. “I am sorry,” he says. “If I could have come…” His throat closes and he can force no more words. Cannot bring himself to explain, to speak the truth. If he hadn’t been caught, severed from the Dreaming, from himself; if he hadn’t been powerless… There’s a hot prickling behind his eyes; he rubs his nose against a sudden urge to sneeze.

“What’s a decade or two in the span of centuries.” Hob shrugs. He offers grace, doesn’t ask questions. Instead he launches into the tale of how he became proprietor of the New Inn, from his discovery that the White Horse was to be demolished, to his decision that the town still needed a welcoming place, to his purchase of building and land, to the ribbon cutting ceremony. Never content to do one thing only, Hob tells of how he also became a professor, and shares stories from his classes, vignettes of his student’s lives. Tales of open mic nights and Sunday study sessions. He describes his students, and the pub’s regulars in enough detail that when Morpheus lets his focus expand he can see the web of connection Hob has made here shine bright in the Dreaming.

Hob describes changing technology and a changing world. Everything moving so much faster, everything so much louder and yet he meets it all with unbridled enthusiasm. Time passes and still there is much to learn, to know, to explore. To experience. The flow of his story, of his life, fills a need Morpheus hasn’t yet named. Hasn’t even recognized. 

Finally, Hob raises his pint and discovers the glass empty. “I’m in need of another drink if I’m to keep talking. Can I get you anything?”

Morpheus shakes his head, words still beyond him. Tangled somewhere between throat and tongue. Trapped. They build like water behind a dam. But who do you care about? Who makes your heart sing? Are we truly friends?

Hob hesitates for a moment, eyeing him carefully before moving away to the bar. The shadow of a frown hovers between his brows and his apprehension prickles Morpheus’s awareness. An ephemeral image - not true daydream, more half-formed worry - slips past the barriers Morpheus has erected between them and flashes across his awareness. it’s an image of himself dissipating like smoke as Hob turns away, disappearing as though he had never been. Unreachable for innumerable years, possibly this time never to return. A well-worn fear Hob has turned in his thoughts, year upon year. Loss, of the only one who has witnessed his life across the centuries.

Guilt mingles with exhaustion and his headache grips Morpheus like a fist. Though he’s close to the fire, he shudders with a chill and sneezes, once then again and again, hard fast paroxysms he cannot stifle against the back of his wrist, though he tries. They leave him blinking and bleary.

“Was that you?” Hob asks, glancing at Morpheus over his shoulder.

“I’m afraid so,” he admits. “My apologies,” His breath wavers, the sensation urgent, needful, and he manages to create a handkerchief only at the very last moment. “Hiihhisssh!  Hihisssh! …”  He snags a breath, two, but is overcome again. “Ht’issshhh!” Morpheus raises his head from the fabric to find a steaming mug in front of him, and Hob gazing at him with mingling amusement and concern.

“God bless you. Two apologies in one meeting; a record.” Hob raises a brow, pushes the mug slightly closer and holds out a tissue. “You know, humanity has moved on in the past century or so - from wiping our noses on our sleeves, to germy cloths we stick in our pockets, to tissues which we can use once and throw away.”

Morpheus’s lips twitch. “Indeed. Impressive.” Inclining his head slightly in acknowledgement, he takes the tissue and the mug, closing his hands around the porcelain. The steam smells of cinnamon and clove, honey and a good, strong, whiskey. Though he neither hungers nor thirsts, he sips. The drink is sweet laced with spice and eases the pain in his throat. Warmth curls in his stomach. Maybe from the alcohol, maybe for the fact that Hob gifted it to him. 

Morpheus drinks again, studying Hob intently in turn. He nearly glows with contentment, simple pleasure in being in this place at this moment. He carries himself with ease and confidence - he plays scholar now, but his body is still that of a warrior. Clearly the intervening years have, on balance, been kind to him. Though he looks near as young as he did when they first met, there are fine lines crinkling in the corners of his lips, a few grey hairs scattered in the brown, a weight of wisdom hard won. Even still, questions lurk behind Hob’s eyes.

Silence slips into the space between them, tension crackles, barometric pressure falling before a storm. Hob cants forward and before he can stop himself, Morpheus leans back. “Do you still wish to live?” He asks because he always asks. He asks because he doesn’t wish Hob to ask. He asks because he still wonders, cannot quite believe, that Hob would choose this.

“Is that the question you want to ask me? After all this time? You know my answer - yes. In the best of life, in the worst of life, yes. Always yes. Tell me, Stranger - what is it you truly wish to know?” He doesn’t move, either closer or away, just waits perfectly still, as though to do otherwise might startle Morpheus, send him away again.

“I… I wish…” the word tastes strange on his tongue, piquant and sweet, sparks and candy floss. The odd juxtaposition puts him in mind of his little sister. That and the way the edges of the room, the edges of his thoughts undulate, unsettling. He drinks again, an excuse for his lapse into silence, feeling Hob watching him with those warm, brown eyes that are so unbearably kind. He wishes Hob would turn his gaze away, look anywhere else, because it fills him with wishes he doesn’t know how to speak into existence, tiny bursts of fantasy that flash through his thoughts. I wish I hadn’t been forced to miss our meeting- I wish I hadn’t been so weak- I wish I hadn’t let myself get taken- I wish I knew how to fix this- I wish I took more time, gathered my pieces, shored up my power- I wish I knew you, more of you, all of you, not just glimpses century by century… 

He sniffs, steam and alcohol working against him to tease free another set of sneezes even as he tries to stave them off. He presses a crooked finger under his nose to no avail. “Pardon,” he manages to say before ducking into his sleeve, completely forgetting the tissue in the suddenness of the need. “H-h… Ihd’shht! … Hih-shht!....” He teeters, breathless, waiting, wanting but the third sneeze dangles just out of reach. He sniffs, sniffs again, but can neither find release nor relief.

“Bless you?” Hob says, a ghost of laughter in the question.

Morpheus attempts a scowl, but something shifts and he’s suddenly wrenched forward with the missing third. “Huh’RIshoo!” It scrapes his throat, uncomfortably loud even muffled as it is.

Concern flashes over Hob’s expression, almost too quick to catch before he smooths it back to light good humor. “What’s that? You wish to be somewhere away from this crowd, somewhere quiet with such luxurious amenities as a lumpy sofa, an unlimited supply of the good tissues, and perhaps some cold medicine that won’t actually cure you but will at least get you high enough that you forget how shit you feel? Well you’re in luck, mate. My flat is just above, and has all that and a bottle of whiskey better than anything they serve in this dive.”

Morpheus obliges him with the edge of a smile. “Perhaps you’d better speak to the proprietor about his choice of whiskey.”

“Perhaps I had.” Hob actually laughs but then goes serious. “Come, Stranger, will you not join me?”

The invitation feels like an open hand, extended. Morpheous allows himself to imagine for a moment taking the offering, following Hob upstairs into a space that is unmistakably his. Imagines himself welcomed despite his absence, his distance, his failures. He imagines a possibility that will never be. Because he knows what will happen, should he give in to the desire. Knows the path that will follow, and what’s worse, knows the ending of the path.

He should take his leave, return to his realm and his duty left so long untended. Rebuild from the ruins. He has the answer he came for; he has offered his apology to Hob. He should walk away from this… this temptation. But he cannot keep himself from longing for another way. 

As Morpheus wavers, torn between yearning and experience, between exhaustion and duty, Hob gathers his papers, pockets his pen, pushes back from the table, and stands. “You don’t need to stay long. Just a drink and a bit of quiet, until the storm clears?”

Lightning flashes in the window beside them, a roll of thunder follows, loud enough to be heard over the music. Tree branches toss wind-lashed, leaves flurry, swirl to the ground and something brittle and dry cracks in Morpheus’s chest. The thought of going out into the driving rain, getting soaked before traversing the liminal lands, sends a chill catpawing up his spine and he shivers, blows his nose. “Very well. For a brief time.”

Hob grins, glint of triumph in his eyes, then gone. He calls a farewell to the bartender and waves to a couple of patrons as he passes. “Picked a fine day to visit, middle of a storm. Several decades late as you already are, you might have waited for nicer weather.” Both teasing and not, he leads Morpheus through the pub and up a dark stairwell. The treads creak under Hob’s feet, but remain silent at Morpheus’s passing. 

Another brilliant flash and in the span between light and sound, Morpheus doubts. Does he dare trust this man enough to be in a place of his dominion, at his request? Does he truly believe that were Hob to understand the extent of both his usual power and current vulnerability that Hob would not take advantage? When others had done so for less?

Thunder cracks, wind whines at the window. Hob manages to unlock the door without dropping either his papers or the rest of the pint he’d brought with him. Light spills from the doorway, enticing. “Make yourself comfortable; I’m just going to put these away.” Hob toes off his shoes, then heads down the hall. “And please ignore the mess, it’s the maid’s century off,” he adds over his shoulder, sounding not at all concerned about what Morpheus might think. Unable to resist, finally, a place of shelter from the storm, Morpheus crosses the threshold.

Despite Hob’s warning, there is little disarray in the living room. While a jacket is tossed over the back of a chair, the coffee table is covered with student essays, scholarly journals, and a couple of mostly empty mugs, and the couch holds a rumpled blanket, a bed pillow and more student essays, the atmosphere is comfortable. Lived in. The radiator clicks and hisses, rain rattles on the roof, and as he rifles through cabinets, Hob hums one of the songs that had been playing in the pub below, slightly off key.

Morpheus finds himself drawn to one of Hob’s bookshelves, to see what storytellers he has chosen to bring with him. First editions press close to pulp fiction, shelved by some plan known only to Hob. Text books and poetry. Walt Whitman and Oscar Wilde, Audre Lorde and Octavia Butler, Adrienne Rich and Michel Foucault. He runs his finger along the spines, slides a book free and flips it open, letting the words flow through him - November, no one comes./ But I come, trying/ to breathe that word/ into the well’s ear/ which should make the leaves fly up/ like a green jet… They taste of deep red wine, dark chocolate, of frost and snowfall. 

Unfortunately, the book is dusty, and he is struck with the urge to sneeze. He’s still trying to find the tissue he’d stuck in one of his pockets when the first crests. He stifles it into silence with an effort. The next hits faster, and the third breaks free just enough to shudder his frame. “Hnxt!  H’ntxxsh!” He finally is able to blow his nose but instead of quelling the sensation, it only grows. He scrubs his nose roughly, which doesn’t help either. His breathing catches and he’s stuck in limbo, both wanting to sneeze again and fighting it. 

“Thought I had a bit of Lemsip, but looks like I’m out.” Hob says, pulling Morpheus’s attention from his struggle. “Which isn’t much of a loss, honestly, considering it tastes like hot lemonade and does fuck all. Got paracetamol, though, if you’ve fever.”

“There… is no need; I am not ill.” Easier to claim this than explain the fullness of the situation. But speaking upsets the tenuous control he’s managed, he ducks into his sleeve again, and the sneezes convulse him.  “Hihisssh!…Hih’isssh!  H-hissshih!”  He’s painfully aware of making both a liar and a spectacle of himself. If only he could stop sneezing long enough to return to the Dreaming.. “H-hih’Risshh! Isssh! Issshhuh!”  He stumbles slightly, off balance and out of breath. It takes him more than a moment to recover and realize Hob has a hand on his back, gentling him like a feral creature.

“Good gods, man. Bless you. Ill or no, something is wrong.” Hob’s hand is a star, burning against his skin.  Each point of contact a separate slice of pain, as though a festering wound lanced to release poison. He flinches away from the touch before he can stop himself - and regrets it immediately as Hob looks as though he’d been slapped.

“Perhaps there is. Something wrong,” he allows, permitting Hob to urge him onto the couch, this time without touch, and to settle on the other end, a respectable distance between their bodies. Morpheus draws his knees to his chest and wraps his arms around them, attempting to distract himself from the way his back still burns in the shape of Hob’s hand. A long silence falls, broken only by the rumble of the storm outside and the hiss of the radiator.

“I waited for you, you know.”  Hob says finally, sounding more subdued than Morpheus has heard since 1689. “All day.”

Morpheus glances at him, but his gaze is turned to the window, to the streaks of raindrops and distant flashing lightning.

“Every time the door opened, I startled. Must’ve looked half mad.” He snorts a laugh, at the memory. At himself. “Waited all night, too. After they kicked me out and closed up I loitered in the parking lot like a derelict.” He runs his hands through his hair, frowning slightly. “I was so sure you’d come, so sure I was right.” He sighs. “As the days passed… weeks… years… being right mattered less. And I was not so certain anymore. 

“As time passed, I realized that I had hoped you were lonely,” he looks at Morpheus sidelong and his lips quirk, rueful. “I wouldn’t want you to feel so, truly. But I was and, like a fool, I hoped you might be as well. So I wouldn’t be alone in it.” Hob scrubs his hands over his face and somewhere a clock strikes the hour. “I spoke out of turn. I should not have done so. I, too, am sorry.”

“You have nothing for which to apologize, Hob Gadling. I would have come to you, were it possible. Unfortunately I was… detained.” The minute he speaks the words, he wants to take them back. He has no plan to explain his absence to Hob. He doesn’t wish to admit the truth, but even less does he wish to lie - so he had thought to say nothing. But he could not - could not - allow Hob to blame himself for Morpheus’s own failure. 

“Detained? What do you mean?” Hob’s focus snaps to Morpheus and he resists the urge to look away. As though, like a child, not to see is to be unseen. 

“I was held against my will. For some time.” Between one heartbeat and the next Hob’s living room wavers, goes dark, silent. Warmth bleeds away; he shivers. The world is muffled, closed behind crystal and magics. His skin crawls with the memory of eyes upon him, constantly watching. His breaths come short and sharp, seeking air he technically doesn’t need but still cannot get. He rubs a hand over his chest, then worries at the frayed edge of his sleeve. He’s coming unraveled.

Hob goes pale. “For fuck’s sake. How much time?”

Morpheus swallows, coughs carefully in his sleeve. “One hundred and thirty three years.” His voice rasps.

“Over a century…” Hob’s voice is so low he might be talking only to himself.

“I do not measure time as you do.” Again he speaks without considering. 

“You don’t…” Hob shakes his head, lurches to his feet. “I promised you whiskey and I get the sense I’m going to need it as well, momentarily.” He disappears around a corner, but his voice floats back with the sound of cabinets opening, a bottle being opened, liquid poured. “When did you get free? How?  Are you - ” He cuts himself off mid-question. “Of course you aren’t. Stupid to ask. Just… why?” 

“A mistake. They expected - hoped for -  someone else. Desired something I could not give.”

Hob strides back, thrusts a glass into Morpheus’s hand. “A mistake? A mistake?” His tone is sharp with disbelief and his anger cuts at Morpheus. “A mistake is crossing the street against the light. Losing a glove. Forgetting an appointment. Kidnapping is not a mistake.”

“No, I suppose not.” Morpheus keeps his tone mild and Hob tosses back half of his drink in one go. 

He calms himself with a visible effort, and when he sits on the couch again he’s nearer than before. Close enough that Morpheus can feel the heat of him. Can hear the faint thump of his heart. “What happened to you, my friend?”

Morpheus sips and the alcohol tastes of smoke and ash, dust and ruin, on his tongue. He has told no one the entirety of it. Not even Lucienne. Pieces, of course, she knows. She had mourned Jessamy as deeply as Morpheus himself. She knows better than any other the damage to the Dreaming. But there are things he cannot bring himself to burden her with. And things he is not certain he can speak aloud.

“Sharing wounds with another can help allow them to close,” Hob says. “Eleanor told me that, once upon a time. And I have unburdened my soul to you many times. Please, let me return the favor.” In his words echo the feel of welcome, of invitation, of grace offered freely, open palm and Morpheus finds himself helpless against it.

“To understand what befell me, you must know who, what, I am.”  He steels himself, unfolds, and allows his form to shift, to draw in shadows, to draw in cloud and stars. “I am Dream of the Endless,” he says and his voice carries the echo of thunder in the distance. “Lord of Dreams and Nightmares. In this aspect I am called Morpheus.

“In 1916 an occultist and his Order, in an ill-thought plot to summon and imprison my sister, Death, captured me, instead. Though had they captured her, they would yet fail - she does not return anyone from the Sunless Lands, even one who is most beloved, even when he is lost before his time. And she does not respond well to threat.” It’s a little easier, now that he’s begun. He tells of his exhaustion, returning home from a quest that had taxed him near beyond endurance, of being drawn off course and stolen away, of waking in the darkness, encircled in magic and quartz, cut off from dreams and the Dreaming. He tells of Jessamy’s death, ripped from her life so violently and how he could do nothing. He tells of being unable to reach his power, his magic, himself, how his kingdom fell to ruin and how he could do nothing. He tells of hearing the voices of panic and pain in the waking world, and how he could do nothing. He tells how the cries for succor echoed in his head, how they still do. 

He talks until his voice wears thin, and thinner, to no more than a whisper, “I should have done something…” and then he falls silent. At some point Hob has laid one hand on Morpheus shoulder. This time the contact does not burn, but is a balm. Hob says nothing, but draws him close, and Morpheus leans his head on Hob’s shoulder. The radiator has clicked off. The worst of the storm has blown past. They just sit, and the quiet wraps around them like a quilt. Soft. Gentle. 

At last Morpheus takes a breath and begins to draw himself together, carefully pulling scattered threads back to center, weaving his control in place. “Thank you, Hob Gadling. For your hospitality, and your kindness. I am in your debt.”

“Nonsense. We are friends. Friends don’t keep tally.” He allows Morpheus to sit up, to put distance between them again. “You don’t need to go.”

“It’s late,” Morpheus says as a clock chimes midnight. Even as he stands, he realizes he’s going to sneeze again. He curls in on himself, shivering. “Hihisssh!…Hih’isssh!  H-hissshih!” He’s still trying to decide if he’s done sneezing when he feels arms wrap around him. He stiffens, but then Hob begins to rub his back.

“Bless you. At least stay until the rain stops. You need rest.”

“Very well, just until the rain stops.”

[littlekatleaf]

There’s gonna be a second season and I am so excite