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virgo-dream · 1 year

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dreamling / explicit / victorian soldiers au / 5 + 1

Five times Sergeant Robert Gadling woke up to Captain Morpheus Apeiron. One time Morpheus woke up to Hob. A very unlucky battalion finds itself in the command of one Captain Morpheus Apeiron. He doesn't seem particularly worried with their survival, but mostly with ending the war as soon as possible. Sergeant Robert Gadling seems to be the only thing keeping all these young and inexperienced soldiers alive. After one particularly heated fight between them, Hob ends up discovering there is much more to his Captain than meets the eye, but is he seeing Morpheus as he truly is, or through the prism of his own desire? read chapter 01 (3.5k+ words) here or on ao3 read chapter 02 (5.7k+ words) here or on ao3 this fic is part of the 1st dreamling nation fic exchange. find other entries here.

It was hard to pick exactly what Sergeant Robert Gadling hates the most about Captain Morpheus Apeiron. The name, for one, had been the subject of many ill-intended jokes during late night drinking sessions and games of cards between soldiers in his battalion. Hob found it infuriatingly posh. It's Greek, I think , an officer said to him, downing a half full glass of beer, to which Hob only replied, of course it is. Bastard probably has a marble statue of himself in some private garden back at his manor . Hob knew for a fact that it was Greek, and knew even more: the Apeiron family was one of the oldest and richest in Britain. They weren't royals because they didn't feel like it, sometime back when the normans invaded England probably. He was glad for it though, because Greek certainly sounded much more difficult than english.

Another thing that was infuriating was the perfectly appropriate way in which he talked. Hob was sure the man had never stepped foot outside the perfectly painted walls of his perfectly painted rich prick house to hear the way real people (because surely a man named Morpheus Apeiron could not be real , right?) actually talk. Or walk and move in a not-so-stilted manner, like someone shoved a flagpole up his arse, twisted it and maybe he liked it, because his back was so straight some of the soldiers suspected that perhaps he wasn't. Much like his perfect little hair, with its perfect little curls that never moved too far from where they were supposed to be; he never moved too far from where he was supposed to be. Never too close to those beneath him, god forbid.

To make matters worse, Captain Apeiron was heartless . He could never spare the men under his command a nice word, some encouragement. He was swift in punishing ill behaviour, relentless in his upkeep of order. He made sure everyone knew exactly where they stood, which clearly would be seven feet below him by the time the war ended. Of course Captain Apeiron would be the one to return home. Those who didn't would be numbers. Captain Apeiron would be a war hero.

That was the subject of yet another shouting match held in the late hours of the night, in their shared quarters. Because of course Hob would have to share the only few hours of peace he could have since the war had begun with the single most infuriating man to ever disgrace the earth with his merciless presence.

"You could have been a little compassionate, couldn't you? Lad's just a kid! Of course he's going to make mistakes!" Hob braved, damn nearly shoving his finger on that perfectly pale face, with those icy blue eyes and lips that spoke only of distaste.

"Sergeant Gadling, you know as well as I that his mistake could cost countless lives had it happened on the battlefield and not in training. Such behaviour must be corrected."

Ah, Jesus fucking Chirst.

"Surely you would know about punishment. You’d eat your morning porridge with the silver spoon you were born with, if you'd ever had anything so simplistic to eat. For some of us, life is already cruel enough."

Hob was sure he heard a sigh, and perhaps saw even a little emotion in his eyes. Otherwise, Captain Apeiron just looked like he was bored. "You mistake your personal grievances with me with the duties of this profession. Perhaps you are the one ill-suited for your position."

Ill-suited?

"You absolute prick– " It was all that managed to escape his lips as Hob finally took matters into his own hands, shoving the other man back. He was so skinny, how anyone thought he could be in the army, let alone come to a real war was beyond Hob. He watched as Morpheus lost his balance, grabbing onto the fabric of Hob's uniform jacket to try and recover it. It just made them both fall, Morpheus with his back to the mattress of the bed behind him and Hob above him, his hands on either side of Morpheus' pretty little head, propping him up so that he wouldn't fall face first into the other man's detestably perfect face.

The silence that set between them was mortifying, for a moment. Hob saw how a curl of dark, soft hair had finally broken free, now resting on Morpheus' forehead, the rest of his hair a dark halo on the sheets. Hob realised he wanted to mess that hair up, as well as that mouth, and… other things.

It came as no surprise (to himself) that he'd risk his own life by kissing the air out of Morpheus' lungs, his elbows resting on the mattress, and his hands making quick work of ruining that soft, shiny hair. What did surprise him was how Morpheus hummed against his lips, and how those lithe, pianist fingers cradled Hob's waist.

Morpheus did not have a flagpole shoved up his arse, Hob came to find out. What he did have was the most beautiful voice when it wasn't shouting orders, but moaning his name softly, over and over again. And even when his eyes were rimmed with tears, he did not beg for mercy, even though Hob offered it. His legs seemed to be made to wrap around Hob's waist, fingernails designed to scratch red lines of want on Hob's back. And when they were finally done, Morpheus was asleep almost instantly. Which was good, of course. It wouldn't do them any good to talk about this. And it was cold that night. Sharing the bed was just the obvious choice.

The next morning, when Hob woke up, Morpheus was already dressed, hair fixed into its usual place. Except for one little curl that seemed to always escape his well trained fingers. Morpheus' back seemed a little less straight too.

II.

Hob did not know Morpheus to be particularly kind hearted. It was definitely not one of his most shining personality traits, and any goodness there might lay beyond the icy tundra of his crystal clear blue eyes seemed far out of reach, available only to one mad enough to brave the coldness of that terrain in the hopes to maybe, just maybe, find a heart out there somewhere.

What Hob did know him to be was kingly.

It was in the way Morpheus carried himself, or the way his voice would travel any distance to reach the ears of those whose message it was meant for (he really did have the most impressive baritone and projection, which made Hob think that maybe he'd be more fit to command a band than a battalion). Hob could hear Morpheus ordering his soldiers around from any distance, could tell how the air shifted when he entered a room, how Morpheus would tilt his head ever so slightly and the world would tilt in accordance so as not to shift his view. It was possible that gravity itself would rather shift on its axis than upset such a detestably pretty forehead. One Hob knew looked even prettier when it wasn't filled with worry or upset.

The point is: Morpheus does not care for others. He doesn't lower himself to their level, he doesn't reach out, he. Does not. Care. He is incapable of it (but Hob sometimes hoped he was) and he won't change. Not for the battalion, not for Hob of all people. For no one.

So why was it that of all living things, Morpheus would care for a bird ?

Hob was comfortably cocooned under his blankets, curled up with his arms holding onto his pillow, trying to find some semblance of a sense of security. This was definitely not his first fight, but it never did get easier to sleep at night. In fact, his sleep seemed to get lighter each day that went by. It was rather inconvenient, really. The rain falling outside did help in lulling him to sleep; he had something to tune out the noise in his mind, to try and transport him back home, at least for the duration of the night. The rain reminded him of the little village he’d grown up in, of playing in the mud and getting his boots soaked with rainwater, of his siblings and his mom and—

caw!! caw!!

Nowhere in his village did he ever hear anything as unnerving as the cawing sound now ripping through his ears. His eyes shot open as the loud shrieking seemed to tear through the tent, and he could only imagine the look in Morpheus’ face, having his beauty sleep disturbed.

“God’s wounds, what is that sound ?” Was all that Hob managed to get out of his mouth as he sat up and turned to look at Morpheus’ bed, which was surprisingly empty. Hob’s brows furrowed in confusion, and he could see that Morpheus’ uniform jacket and boots also seemed to be missing. It sent a shiver down his spine, a sudden worry taking over him; what if something happened to him? What if for once he was sleeping heavy as a rock and he didn’t hear someone coming in and taking Morpheus? What if he’s hurt? What if—

His nervous chain of thoughts is broken the moment a completely rain soaked Morpheus makes his way back into the tent. His boots are filthy with mud, and his white sleeping shirt is heavy with rain, fabric rendered see-through as it clinged to his chest. Hob had to hold himself back from audibly gasping at the sight, mostly because it seemed so unreal . It made no sense for it to be happening. Why would Morpheus step out in the middle of the night, during such heavy rain? It seemed that Morpheus wasn’t expecting to see Hob awake either.

They both stared at each other for a long moment, as if neither knew how to proceed in a situation so bizarre (and weirdly attractive, Hob would later recall it as such). “Apologies, Robert. I did not mean to wake you.”

“No shit , Morpheus.” He wasn’t sure what made him say that. All he knew is that he couldn’t stop staring at Morpheus’ open jacket, the soaked shirt, his hair, wet and glistening, the dirty boots, the clasped hands—

“I would ask you to refrain from addressing me in such a manner.” Clearly, this was real. Only in reality could Morpheus be such a prick as to reprimand Hob from stating the obvious. Hob let out a sigh, but before he could say anything else that would be read as offensive, the same shrieking sound that had woken him was now coming from inside Morpheus’ hands. Hob watched as he opened his hands slowly to reveal a little black ball he now could tell was a bird, that Morpheus was bringing up and closer to his own face. “Hush, little one. There is no need to cry out anymore.”

Again, Hob wasn’t sure what he was looking at. Was that… Morpheus shushing a bird? And the bird obeyed? Of course it did, who wouldn’t! Had Morpheus ever asked Hob to shut up like that, he would have done it in a split second, no objections. It seemed not even the rain would be able to drive those thoughts away.

“It is a raven. It was outside in the rain.”

“Oh.”

“He must have gotten lost from his mother. He would have died in rain as heavy as this.”

“I see.” It’s a he ? How does he know the bird is a boy?

“I will tend to it now. I must warn you that even though he is little, his lungs seem to be at full capacity. He will protest.”

“That’s… that’s fine. Do what you have to do, just—“ that whole situation was already absurd enough as it was, so Hob wasn’t exactly worried about crossing any lines there. All lines seemed to be suspended for the time being. He got up from his bed, and started rummaging through the trunk at the foot of his bed. “You need to change into something dry. You’re going to catch a cold if you stay like that.”

It was Morpheus’ turn to be surprised. “I appreciate your concern, Robert, but I have clothing of my own.”

“Which you clearly won’t go looking for, given that you’ve been standing there with a baby bird devil in your hands since you stepped in here.” The bird cawed in protest, but Hob wasn’t about to argue with a bird. He had not reached that level of insanity yet. He pulled out a cream nightshirt from the trunk, handing it over to Morpheus and reaching out to take the bird from his hands. “Get changed, I don’t want you catching a cold.”

Morpheus hesitated, but didn’t seem to be in the mood to argue with Hob. He handed the bird over, who at first seemed to not agree with the exchange, but was immediately happy about it once it settled in Hob’s warm palms. Hob sighed, watching the little ball of pitch black feathers point two beady eyes up at him, studying his face curiously. “You can stay here, but only if you promise to not do that awful shrieking you were doing, alright mate? This isn’t a bed and breakfast.”

Hob was certain he’d heard a chuckle coming from Morpheus’ direction. When he looked up, it was to see Morpheus’ body in all of its bared glory, some white skin lit by soft candlelight, still damp with rain, probably cold, a cold Hob could help melt away. And he wanted to, too. Wanted to reach out and touch, but now there was a tiny bird in his hands and he couldn’t help but resent it, even if just for a moment, even if just a little bit.

Different from most nights, they didn’t fight. They also didn’t have sex. Hob watched as Morpheus tended to the bird, being gentle and caring in a way he didn’t think was possible for the other man, but that now was clear that it was possible, that Morpheus had a heart, that he cared .

It took Hob an awfully long time to fall asleep again. He wanted to commit the image of a rain soaked Morpheus to memory, along with him wearing Hob’s nightshirt. He wanted it to fuel his dreams

III.

It was not uncommon for Hob to have nightmares. He had them more frequently now, during the war. It felt counterproductive, in a way: he was already facing so many horrors during the day, surely his mind could give him a break at night, right? Clearly not.

Hob had heard, many times over, the awful stories his relatives told of previous wars. He came from a family of soldiers, generations upon generations of them. None had managed to get out and make a better life for themselves, and now Hob seemed to be on the way to tread the exact same path. He tried not to think too much of it, of why his name meant he'd always be the companion, always the sword in someone else's fight. He tried to think of the life he'd get to live after. Certainly, this could be his last fight, right? Perhaps longing for a better future would make living in a horrid present less difficult. Those were the thoughts of his waking, rational mind. At night, when he closed his eyes to sleep, that was not what he saw.

Piles of bodies. Faces he knew, people he loved. The smell of gunpowder and blood, pained screams, torn fabric. Torn skin. Broken bones. And Hob, just standing there, unmoving, as the world around him seemed to burn. Screaming, but not a single sound coming off his mouth. Feeling the fire burning him too. To be forgotten, turned to ash. He would face the same destiny so many of his ancestors did. Hob would die on the battlefield, buried and forgotten, if his body even made it home.

“…hob?”

Hob heard someone call out for him. From where he stood, he could see a pair of blue eyes shining among the ashes. A face nearly completely covered in dirt, lips tinted red with blood. Hob wanted to reach out for him, wanted to grab him and pull him closer, maybe run away, go somewhere far away where the war could not find them. Where no one could find them.

“…hob!”

He still couldn’t move. His voice still failed him. Hob could now see the owner of those blue eyes clearly, the body on top of the pile, still alive, still breathing.

“…hob, please—“

An enemy soldier stood beside Morpheus’ body, pointing the gun to his chest. Hob’s body remained paralysed, the horror of what he was about to witness dawning on him. Morpheus didn’t move. Hob couldn’t even close his eyes. The bullet made its way into Morpheus’ chest—

"Hob!"

His eyes shot open, ears picking up the very end of his own screaming voice. He felt his throat burning, heart racing far past its capacity. His hair was soaked with sweat, his body trembled viciously. That was not what caught his attention.

"You're alright, Hob… I'm here with you. I've got you."

Morpheus must have woken up from Hob's screams. That was the easy part to piece together. What was difficult to understand, however, was the feeling of his arm under Hob, holding him in a gentle embrace. Those artful fingers brushing damp hair away from his forehead, running gently through his hair. His dark, full brows knitted close together, eyes filled with worry, on the verge of tears. Hob had never heard his voice sound so soft, caring beyond recognition.

"You are safe. We are in our tent. We’re not under attack." He spoke in a way that sounded like a mantra, like he intended to break Hob of an awful spell by bringing him into a kinder, gentler one. All Hob could do was look at him, eyes wide with wonder, surprised by the kindness being presented to him so freely and unashamedly.

It gave Hob enough courage to place a hand on Morpheus' cheek, almost to see if he was really real and if this wasn't, in fact, a dream. It did feel real, but his nightmares felt that way too sometimes. "...d..don't. go."

"I won't. Unless you ask me to." There was an assuredness to his voice that made Hob relax in his embrace, allowing himself to hold Morpheus too, to keep him close. He tucked his face on Morpheus' neck, taking in his smell, trying to ground himself somehow.

“…t-they were all dead, Morpheus— all of them, I— just stood there I couldn’t move and I-“

Morpheus shushed him, and Hob could feel those long, gentle fingers running through his sweat-damp hair. It almost felt like he was hallucinating. Hob felt as if he was stuck somewhere between dream and reality, sleep still trying to claim his mind, even though his body begged him to get up and run. It was terrifying, the idea that this all could just be a dream within a dream. A horrible, cruel loop that would take him right back to being paralysed in the battlefield, surrounded by the bodies of the soldiers he swore to deliver back home to their families, to seeing Morpheus being shot.

“Hob, listen to me. Focus on my voice.” Morpheus’ touch grounded him, and his voice helped weaken the grip of the nightmares troubling Hob. He knew for a fact that his mind could not emulate the softness of Morpheus’ skin, or his intoxicating scent, much less the softened version of his baritone register. “Everyone is alright, Hob. You are alright. I will not allow for any harm to come to you. You have my word.”

Morpheus would protect him. Would guarantee his safety. That was something Hob never expected to hear from him, a man he‘d judged a monster. A judgement that apparently spilled onto Hob’s sleeping mind.

“—I watched them murder you, Morpheus.”

Morpheus was silent for a moment, looking down at a Hob with those big, blue eyes he had seen staring at him in Hob’s own dream. The same eyes that had the life stolen from them just moments before in the battlefield of his unconscious mind. Then, Hob saw something that truly made him question reality: Morpheus smiled at him. A gentle, soft smile, barely there, but still. A smile from Morpheus. For Hob. And the beauty of it was so devastating, so raw and divine Hob felt his heart skip a beat.

“I am here with you, and I shall stay by your side for as long as you need me to. No one will hurt me. I’m sure you would not allow it.”

Hob nodded, even if he wasn’t completely sure he believed everything he’d just heard. He knew Morpheus would sooner get them all killed than do anything to ensure their safety. But this wasn’t his captain speaking to him, he realised. This was a lover’s promise.

“Try to go back to sleep. I will keep watch.”

The last thing he remembered was the feeling of a kiss being planted on the top of his head before sleep took him once more. He had pleasant dreams.

#dreamling #dreamling fic #the sandman #the sandman fic #the sandman fanfic #dream of the endless #morpheus #hob gadling #dream x hob #morpheus x hob #ao3 fanfic #dreamling nation #dreamling nation fic exchange

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