#hob gadling as a reluctant life coach to an ornery endless

[alteon77]

That Familiar Feeling of Family (or how Hob Gadling ended up as an uncle to his stranger's oftentimes feral children): Chapter 1

It's a pretty universally known thing that families are just strange. As Hob is quickly figuring out, however, this little fact is magnified by AT LEAST a billion when the family in question is Endless.

(A lighthearted story in which Hob Gadling finds out his stranger has married, makes friends with a homicidal maniac/ruler, and manages to become an exemplary uncle to a pack of magically mischievous children. Really, now all he has to do is convince everyone to stop calling his and Dream's weekly meetups "playdates", and then his life would be practically perfect.)

AO3 here, Masterlist here

Hob is running. 

Now, that isn't an unusual occurrence in and of itself. After all, the immortal has been forced to flee many many times in his centuries of existence, and he can say without a speck of arrogance that he's become rather adept at it. But this running is dramatically different for one very large reason. 

A literally large reason. 

In that it's the first occasion, at least as far as he's aware, that he's ever had to try and outsprint a gargantuan bloody dragon. 

Try being the operative term here, because while he is indeed foolishly attempting it, he's also failing miserably if the puff of steamed breath that's tickling his neck is any indication. Which he guesses makes an inordinate amount of sense. Really, has he mentioned already how massive his pursuer is? 

The beast behind him lets out a loud, guttural roar, its feet causing the ground to shake as it chases after him like it's just a giant dog and he's got a half opened packet of hot dogs in his coat pocket. 

Hob idly wonders whether he'll actually die if (probably better to say when) that thing finally catches and devours him. He's never had the misfortune of being consumed before, so he's not quite sure how that will work out for him. What if there's just an arm left? Will it still be him? Will he spend his eternity as nothing more than a single discarded body part that has sentience but no way to speak? 

"Archibald! No! Bad!"

The voice, when it calls out this rather ludicrous admonishment, is definitely that of a child. A little girl if he had to guess, and when he does a quick glance around to see where she might be at (so he can hopefully save her from being eaten) he's shocked to spot her standing near his would-be killer. For a minute, Hob can't make sense of what he's seeing. The girl is in front of the reptilian monster, uncomfortably close to one of its frankly enormous nostrils, and she's pointing a finger at it, wearing the sternest expression on her youthful features that he's ever seen in his life.

The dragon crouches down, hanging its head as if in shame while the child, his possible savior, roundly chastises it. "Archie! You know better. What would Dadda say?"

She softens her scolding, though, by running one of her tiny hands along the leathery snout over its mouth, the same mouth that Hob is completely certain is filled with rows and rows of razor sharp teeth, and he isn't quite sure how to handle this. What’s the protocol here? He feels frozen as he watches the scene unfold before him, not knowing whether he should intervene and usher the girl out of harm's way or whether she’s really in any danger at all, since she seems almost as if…. as if she commands this thing? Like a young Daenerys Targaryen, except for the facts that she looks to be about five and she's clothed in a ridiculously frilly pink dress paired with shiny, immaculately black combat boots.

He's honestly… so confused. But he finds himself moving closer anyway, driven by that curiosity he’s never lost in all of his hundreds of years of living.

The girl seems to gentle towards her… pet? Can a dragon even be called a pet? He's having difficulty thinking of this nightmarish creature as anything so mundane, but even he has to admit that it’s exactly what the hellbeast appears to be regardless. 

"He won't let you… won't let you be a dragon if he… finds out about this."

The dragon, that he's just starting to process must be named Archibald or Archie, since he's heard her say it a couple times, lowers its massive head to nuzzle against the child, a puff of steam unfurling from its nostrils to ruffle her hair as it huffs like it's pouting. She soothes it then, stroking her fingers along its dark scales, the ones that seem shot through with a little sapphire when the brilliant sun from above hits them at just the right angle. 

"I know," she goes on. "I won't tell him, Archie, but no chasing the dreamers. Dadda was ad… ada…" She frowns at this as if she's struggling over the word. 

And Hob, having once had a precious son of his own who sometimes got caught up on pronouncing things, can't help but to offer a quiet, "Adamant?"

The little girl's face lights up, her ocean blue eyes widening at him in something like grateful glee. "Adamant," she repeats slowly. "That's… it."

He takes a minute to study her then, this too young dragon tamer. She's a small child, lovely in that same ethereal, unnatural way that he's always associated with his stranger. Her hair is a mess of riotous raven curls that seem to be coming loose from a single braid plaited at the back of her head, and her complexion is almost translucently pale save for the bright rosy flush on her cheeks. 

"I'm… Hob," he supplies with only a mite of hesitation.

Her smile is almost overwhelming in its joy. "Hi, Hob! I'm Aurora!"

And he opens his mouth then to ask after her parents and where they might be, to question her about the ferocious looking mythological beast that she seems to be in control of, but he isn't afforded the opportunity to do any of those things. Another voice joins them before he can, a melodic, otherworldly one that Hob knows all too well. 

It's his… stranger. 

His coat is longer here, draping down to the ground like something Hob would have worn in his goth punk days back in the eighties, but other than that he seems to have on the same black shirt, black pants, and black boots combo that Hob last saw him in. 

Hob takes a minute to gawk. He isn't ashamed to admit that his stranger is beautiful, all marble skin and high cut cheekbones, his hair a wild disarray of windblown black that sticks up at odd angles, almost as if it's the one part of his appearance that his magic can't seem to render as tame. 

"Aurora, what have I relayed to you concerning Archibald? I was told that he was in dragon form and terrorizing the wolves yet again."

"Dadda," the girl in question starts, sounding very contrite. "He won't do it… anymore."

His stranger's face tightens in what Hob thinks is supposed to be a severe expression, though it's clear he's not quite getting there in his daughter's bubbly presence. 

Wait.

Waaaaaait a minute.

What?

What did....

His… daughter? She'd said Dadda, hadn't she? Hadn’t she…. referred to his stranger by that title? His stranger? His stubborn, broody, took-a-century-to-admit-that-Hob-was-even-his-friend stranger? For a moment, Hob feels like he needs to sit, like he might pass out between the running for his life not ten minutes prior and the revelation that this child could belong…. to…. to Dream. 

Not that Hob ever really calls him that. He’d only gotten the name a few years ago when they'd last met, and while it had been a nice piece of information to have (and long overdue in his humble and frustrated opinion) he’d spent over six hundred years referring to his stranger as just that. And he honestly doesn’t see this habit of his changing anytime soon.

"I believe that is what I was promised when last he engaged in such unruliness," Dream goes on, seemingly oblivious to the panic attack that Hob is having. Truthfully, that shocks Hob not at all.

"He's still a… a baby, Dadda."

And yeah. Hob’s not wrong. She'd assuredly called him Dadda, had just said it again even. 

"Be that as it may, he is not permitted to wreak havoc on the realm or its inhabitants. No matter his age, starshine."

At last, Hob seems to find his voice, and he uses it to let out a small, barely there, "Dadda?"

He flushes a little with embarrassment as soon as the word is out of his mouth, because it sounds… not great. It's definitely not what he imagined himself saying at his next meeting with his oldest friend. But his stranger only goes stock still, his shoulders tensing as he glances towards Hob, his eyes narrowing in something that Hob thinks might actually be confusion.

Which… is all too completely understandable. Although, Hob will confess that he's never thought that his mopey stranger would ever be capable of looking as thoroughly perplexed as he does right this moment.

"Hob Gadling?" Dream questions.

"Is that… Is that your daughter?"

"It is," he allows slowly. "This is Aurora."

And while he introduces them, albeit awkwardly, Hob thinks he detects a fair amount of fatherly pride in the way that Dream puts one elegant, long fingered hand on the girl's shoulder to pull her against his side, in the way that his rather harsh, angular features soften as he smiles down at her. Seeing this, he supposes, might make him happy in any other situation, and it's a nice thing that his rather… er, reserved (i.e. cold, distant, and emotionally repressed, though Hob would never say it aloud) stranger is obviously comfortable enough with him to show it. 

But… this isn't any other situation. This is a rather… big piece of news that Hob's just been walloped over the head with.

“You have a child?” Hob blurts out, his brain processing this revelation so sporadically that it’s almost humiliating. 

Dream's brow furrows. “I believe that I only just conveyed as much to you. Are you…. quite well?”

“I’m sorry. A daughter? I can’t…." Hob struggles to articulate his thoughts, an utterly unsurprising complication given that he's relatively certain that this has to all be some strange fever dream. "Why didn’t you tell me about her the last time we met?”

Dream narrows his eyes again before glancing down at the girl. “Starshine, go and assist Archibald in returning to his dog form.”

Dog form? Dog form? That fire-breathing beast becomes a dog? For some reason, he's picturing Cerberus, with its three terrifying heads and the blood of those unlucky dead who try to escape the Underworld dripping from each of their corresponding fang-toothed maws. Hob wonders idly if the aneurysm he's sure to have soon is going to kill him.

“But Dadda….”

“No. He is forbidden from being a dragon for at least a week. Especially since I now see that he has been chasing the dreamers despite my explicit directive not to do so.”

Pointedly, he looks towards Hob, who in turn swings his gaze to his young, temporarily forgotten, savior. Her eyes have gone wide and pleading, and Hob feels his stomach lurch in guilt. 

"I was… just walking about, old friend."

And that wanker, that enigmatic tosspot (who hadn't even bothered to tell him he had a child) only raises an eyebrow in an expression of such incredulity that Hob knows he's trying to call bullshit without actually speaking the words. "Walking?" 

"Yes. Briskly."

That eyebrow goes somehow higher up on Dream's forehead. "By which you mean you were running."

Hob shakes his head. He's done some shady things in his very long life, but even he's not heartless enough to separate a girl from her… er, pet. "No. Not at all. Just… strolling. Vigorously."

And for some reason, Dream seems amused by this, as if he is aware that Hob is lying and it's humorous to him. “Very well. Three days then, Aurora.”

She claps gleefully (like she's just won something grand) before wandering out of earshot to presumably tend to her dragon/dog, and Morpheus grants Hob a small smile when she's gone. "You need not have lied on that vile monstrosity's behalf, Hob Gadling."

"I didn't-"

"You indeed did. This is my realm. I know all that transpires within its borders."

There's a loud pop from where the girl and the dragon are, and when Hob swings his gaze over towards them, he sees a great quantity of smoke clearing rapidly away. 

"Obviously not, or else you'd know it was on your daughter's behalf that I stretched the truth a bit," Hob snarks back.

Aurora steps out of the cloud before plopping down on the ground, followed immediately by a small, fluffy… thing that comes running out from behind her, yapping loudly. Hob winces, thinking that he almost prefers that menacing roar from earlier to the high-pitched noise it's making now.  

"You utterly discarded the truth in this case, friend."

Hob crosses his arms over his chest in a defensive gesture. He can admit to feeling a little… well, hurt that Dream obviously hadn't bothered to inform him of his child, and despite that being referred to as a friend by this brooding pillock does make him slightly less upset, he's still angry. 

"Pets are important to children. I didn't want to see her lose one to your temper."

Little Aurora pulls a sketchbook and a container of pencils from the bag that Hob is absolutely positive she hadn't had with her before. Humming, she munches happily on something that Hob thinks might be crackers, and he is suddenly aware of the fact that someone must have taken the time to pack these for her. Hob, to preserve what little bit of his sanity he has remaining, is going to assume that it was this child's mother who'd done so since he can't for the life of him imagine this eternal god-like entity before him puttering around a kitchen and preparing snacks like a normal bloke. That might be more unbelievable than the dragon as far as Hob's concerned.

"Ah. I see," Dream tells him, and it sounds almost as if he's trying to be… kind? "Let me set your mind at ease then, Hob Gadling. Even were I willing to hurt my daughter and do away with that ghastly creature, my wife would never allow such a thing. So, you need not worry over the matter."

Hob feels himself go rigid. Did he just say….. "Wait a minute? Wife?"

"You are soon to wake, Hob."

"Oh, no, no, no," Hob protests, putting his hands up, palm out, towards Dream. "You need to explain to me what you mean by wife."

It's no use, though. Between one blink and the next, Hob is lurching from his sleep, the image of his stranger smirking at him still fresh in his mind. His breathing is heavy, and he's soaked through with sweat, enough so that he knows he's going to have to change the sheets today. Wearily, he scrubs a tired hand over his face, and he tells himself that all of that must have been some strange fever dream, after all. 

Reaching out for the bottle of water he keeps by his bed, Hob is alarmed to see a piece of paper folded and tucked there. He snatches it up, opening the thick parchment to reveal an array of hearts drawn and colored in what he thinks might be twenty different shades of crayon. The message at the bottom is done in a messy, childish scrawl, and it reads:

Deer Mr. Hob. It wuz nise to sea u. Visit agin turmeric, pleeze. 

And Hob Gadling, who'd once won immortality just with the questionable skill of being able to run his mouth, finds that in this case, he can only stare blankly at the invitation in complete silence.

NEXT CHAPTER

[alteon77]

That Familiar Feeling of Family (or how Hob Gadling ended up as an uncle to his stranger's oftentimes feral children): Chapter 2

It's a pretty universally known thing that families are just strange. As Hob is quickly figuring out, however, this little fact is magnified by AT LEAST a billion when the family in question is Endless.

(A lighthearted story in which Hob Gadling finds out his stranger has married, makes friends with a homicidal maniac/ruler, and manages to become an exemplary uncle to a pack of magically mischievous children. Really, now all he has to do is convince everyone to stop calling his and Dream's weekly meetups "playdates", and then his life will be practically perfect.)

Chapter One here, AO3 here, Masterlist here

In the year 1689, Hob Gadling stumbles into the Tavern of the White Horse dressed in little more than disgusting rags. It doesn't shock him that almost immediately he finds himself having an altercation with the guard they'd placed at the door precisely to keep Hob's type out. But what does shock him is that it's his stranger who intervenes, a passionate fury told on his finely chiseled face that Hob is honestly too tired (and hungry) to overly examine much at the moment. 

"This man is my guest," his stranger says, an authority in his voice that Hob, even in his current state of starvation, guesses is nice enough. With the strange reversal of fortune that Hob's spent the past few decades dealing with, it's reassuring to have someone, anyone, stick up for him. Even if that someone is the enigmatic devil who'd both blessed and cursed Hob with eternal life. 

When he collapses into a chair across from his host for the evening, Hob digs into the bread, consuming it so quickly that he has to remind himself to chew, to breathe as his stomach cramps with its desire to have food in it. And his stranger, usually a bit… well, prudish, only sits back and listens as Hob speaks of his woes, seemingly uncaring of Hob's lack of manners or the solid finger-breadth thick layer of filth covering him. 

Of course, his stranger remains as aloof as he's always been. The cut of his clothing is finely done, making both him and Hob appear as if they're sitting on exact opposite sides of the table in more ways than one given the tattered remnants of Hob's own rags as they hang loose about his body. Though he is also patient this night, speaking pleasantly and pityingly despite that their conversation mainly consists of Hob mumbling things at him around a mouth full of food.

As the meal concludes, Hob is almost… ashamed of the way he doesn't want to leave his stranger's presence. In the years of stormy, utterly bleak upheaval that Hob has known recently, Dream is a bit like a lighthouse on a distant shore, the brightness of him cutting through all the gloom so that Hob is nearly afraid to venture out alone into the gale force winds and darkness of his life now. 

But he does so anyway. 

This is, after all, their arrangement. They meet once every hundred years. No more. No less. 

So Hob stumbles from the tavern, drowsy from his full belly, and finds an alley in which to promptly pass out. For the first time in years, he sleeps deeply. Astoundingly deeply, he'd say. Or he would say, he supposes, were he not practically unconscious and all. In his dreams, he finds himself on a path, its way dotted on each side with large, sprawling trees whose branches hang low with apples, shiny and red and perfect. He plucks one for himself, and despite that he knows he's still full, that he's just gorged himself on a rather large quantity of food during his centennial meeting with his stranger, Hob can't seem to resist taking a bite. 

He moans. It's otherworldly in its perfection, juicy and firm, the taste sweet with just the smallest hint of tartness to it. He chews what's in his mouth, savoring every last masticated piece of it before he swallows. 

When he wakes, the memory of his dream's warmth is still lingering on his skin, and for a moment, it almost feels as if the bright sunshine of that place has followed him here. It's not to last, though. Hob, as an immortal, knows all too well that that's the nature of living. Nothing is forever. 

Well, except for him, apparently. And his stranger. 

Still, the next night it rains, and the deluge that soaks him is bitterly cold. Hob finds another alley, tucking himself as far under the small overhang of a butcher's shop door as he can in some futile effort to stay dry and hopefully avoid freezing to death. It won't kill him, but the thawing of icy limbs is bloody painful, which makes him… reticent to experience such a thing if he can avoid it.  

Sleep takes him again, and he's somewhat surprised to find himself back on that same path from the night before. This time, though, he's starving, and he has three apples before he ventures out from the canopy of trees into a meadow so that he can feel the sun on his skin, can let it warm him in anticipation of how chilled he's sure to be when he's pulled from his slumber to face the harsh reality of his real life. 

A week later, Hob starts thinking that something… odd is going on. His days are still miserable, but his nights are… peaceful, wondrous even, the serene calm he finds in them mending his mind and his body. He aches less. The vicious hunger pains in his belly plague him no longer, as if the apples he consumes in his dreams are sustaining him somehow. But that can't be, can it? How addle-brained has he gone that he's even considering that as a possibility?  

Nonetheless, when next he sleeps, he notices the addition of plum and orange trees. After that, there are pomegranates and pears. And then… one night there's an entire table set with a feast fit for a king. 

And Hob knows he should question this unexpected good fortune after the dismal dreariness of decades of bad luck, but he decides not to. He instead partakes of the bounties he is given and thanks whatever deity strikes his fancy for these gifts of plenty. Even though he is aware that this strange kindness is only a dream. 

PRESENT DAY...

The next night, Hob isn't surprised to find the girl waiting for him.

Aurora is in an embroidered lavender dress made of something like silk or taffeta, the iridescent skirt of it swishing just above the tops of her black boots, boots that Hob's relatively sure are just miniature versions of the ones he'd noticed his stranger wearing the day before. Her pitch black hair is plaited back, though there are a few wayward curls that have worked free and dangle in front of her face. She seems to pay them no mind, however, unbothered by the sure annoyance of them in the way that only children can ever seem to manage. 

"Hi, Mr. Hob!" Aurora greets cheerfully, offering him a brilliant smile as she reaches out to take hold of his hand, using her grasp to pull him with her as she walks. "My mommy sent me to get you."

"Your… mommy?" He doesn't quite know if it's nervousness that he's feeling at the prospect of meeting the newly discovered (to him anyway) Mrs. Stranger. Will she be like Dream? Maybe worse? Maybe more haughty and inhuman? Could she end up hating Hob for being as normal as he is? Might she even try and dissuade Dream from seeing him again?

"Yep. She said Dadda needed a playdate."

Then again, with an answer like that, Hob tells himself that he could be possibly worrying over absolutely nothing. If she's brought him here to see Dream, then obviously it's not to stop them from meeting. Or having a playdate. Which… Playdate? Hob fights his wince, because he can unfortunately imagine the scowl on Dream's face when he hears that particular descriptor applied to their every century gatherings. 

"Well, we're not really due our next get-together for about 98 years," he tells Aurora, careful to emphasize the words get-together so that she might use those in lieu of the term playdate.

"But why?" she asks, glancing up at him with more than a bit of confusion in her shimmery blue eyes, and Hob doesn't understand why exactly they're so… twinkly. He peers down at her, studying them.

"What do you mean?" is his murmured question, and he thinks that… Wait. Are those stars? Does she have literal stars shining out from her eyes?

She blinks, and it snaps him out of his scrutiny like she's just clapped in front of his face and ordered him to focus. "You and Dadda are friends."

"Yes?" He doesn't quite know where she's going with this, but she seems very determined in whatever she's getting at.

"Daniel is my friend, and I see him every we… every week for a playdate."

Oh, no no no. There's that word again. Playdate. He wonders briefly if he should just firmly instruct her not to use it. Would she heed his advice? Is that even his place?

"Your dadda," Hob begins, still not sure how he feels about that word being used in reference to his stranger. "He decided we should have a meeting every century."

"But you're friends."

"Yes. I believe so."

"Mommy said you were."

Even he's not stupid enough to argue with a child about his or her mother and what they've said. When his Robyn had been a small lad, Eleanor's words had been law to the boy, so powerful that his son often acted like they were the building blocks of reality itself. "Oh. Silly me. Then of course we are."

"I think I need to have a talk with my dadda about how he should behave with his friends, then." She sounds resigned, vaguely exasperated, as if she has to do this often with her father. And somehow, Hob thinks that if she were to have that talk, his stranger might actually… listen? It’s an odd thing to consider, this slip of a girl lecturing the unsociable (to put it mildly) Dream of the Endless on how to properly conduct a friendship. Not that Hob doesn't think his stranger couldn't use a healthy dose of lecturing on the matter, since his abilities regarding it are frankly the worst of any he's ever came across.  

"He's very nice," she goes on, and Hob has to forcibly stop himself from laughing at that. Dream? Nice? Hob decides he won't touch that one with a three hundred meter pole. Not in front of Dream's actual child anyway. When Hob gets a chance to properly speak to him, however, he might have a few things to say about his stranger's niceness. Or lack thereof. "And he really tries to always be good, but he… doesn't get it right sometimes."

Sometimes? Pfft. That's an understatement if he's ever heard one, the radioactive icing on a cake made of this poor, naive girl's dross.

Wisely, he doesn't say that either. Instead he asks, "Did your mother tell you that as well?"

"No. But she says that Dadda has as much emotional intell… intell…"

"Intelligence?"

"Yes! She says he has as much of that as the bottoms of my boots do." Aurora frowns like she's thinking over her words very seriously. "Is that something that shoe bottoms have lots of?"

"What? Emotional intelligence?"

"Mmm-hmm."

And Hob really doesn't know how to answer that. He feels like it would be disloyal to Dream were he to confess to this child how… clueless her father is when it comes to interacting with others. Though he wonders why it should strike him as disloyal or why he should have any sense of loyalty at all, since apparently Dream is a repressed git who couldn't even be bothered to tell Hob, his friend by his own admission, that he'd married and had a child. "Er…"

"So… no."

"I dunno, honestly," Hob lies. He refuses to allow himself any guilt about it, either, because sometimes lies are acceptable, especially when they might spare a young child's feelings. "Maybe? Maybe not? I'm not a mum, so I don't even pretend to have any of their mysterious wisdom."

"You might be right, Mr. Hob," Aurora declares after a minute. "My mommy is very smart. And funny. Though Dadda says her sense of humor is horrid."

Ha. Hob bets his stick in the mud personification of a friend understands humor about as well as Hob himself understands how thermodynamic fusion works. And he can imagine that any woman married to Dream would probably benefit from being able to laugh at just what in the hell she'd gotten herself into by wedding and bedding such a standoffish clodpole. 

But he's not going to say that either. The truth is that he's… upset with Dream currently, and he'd rather save all of his anger for when they finally get to have their one on one playdate. He shakes his head, like by doing so he can shake that term from his mind. Not playdate. Meeting. Gathering. Encounter. Literally, he needs to refer to it as anything else besides a playdate. 

Hob tears his gaze away from Aurora, taking a moment to look around wherever they're at, a luxury he hadn't been afforded the day before since he'd been… well, running for his life and all. 

And what he sees there nearly takes his breath away.

He… He knows this place.

Trees line either side of the path they're on, their limbs stretching out over it like a canopy. Amidst the emerald green leaves, apples hang low and heavy, their heft making some of the thinner branches droop, and the scent of the fruit fills up the air, causing his mouth to water with the memory of it. 

It hasn’t changed at all in the centuries since Hob used to find refuge here.

"This is the or…orchard," Aurora supplies, reaching up on her tiptoes to snatch one of the perfect red globes in her free hand before rubbing it on her dress and handing it to him. "You can eat it. The trees are happy to have the weight of them off their arms, and I do it all the time while I'm waiting for cookies to finish baking."

The trees don't… mind? Do they speak here? Is there anything about this place or the being who runs it that's even close to ordinary? But of course not. Hob's known for a long time that his stranger isn't anything close to normal, so he supposes it makes sense that Dream's home would likely be just as outlandish as everything else about him.

"Cookies?" he questions, taking the offering from her, his stomach twisting in remembrance. "Does your dadda… make you those?"

Her eyebrows raise high on her forehead, a look of such childish incredulity on her face that Hob automatically assumes the answer to be a giant no, which is… sort of a relief. The mental image of his stranger wearing a bright pink apron and matching oven mitts while waiting impatiently for a timer to go off is one that could likely make his brain explode in sheer absurdity. 

"No, Mr. Hob. Minnie does the cookies."

"Minnie?"

She grins, standing on her tiptoes again to snatch an apple for herself. "Minnie is one of my favorites. She cooks alllll day and sometimes she even lets me help!"

Minnie… cooks. All day long, apparently. Why is he not surprised that his stranger seems to have his own chef here? His reluctance to consume any food over the centuries certainly makes more sense now. Why in the world would his stranger have eaten at The White Horse when he got to come home to a chef ready to prepare his meals however he liked. 

"Are there… other fruits here?" he questions, unsure as to whether or not he wants the answer given what it might confirm for him, but certain that he has to know regardless. 

"Yep," she supplies. "Oranges and plums and some other kinds I don't like very much."

"Pomegranates and pears, I'd imagine."

"How'd you… know that, Mr Hob?"

"A guess is all." His heart is thudding in his chest though, the realization of why he'd likely had that dream so frequently making his stomach twist in emotion. 

That awkward, aloof…. tosspot. Hob doesn't have a doubt in his mind that Dream had been aware of his escape to this place. Hell and damnation, there's even the chance that he'd started directing him here in some weird show of affection, despite that the plonker hadn't seemed to know what affection was back in those days. Stunned, he thinks over Aurora's declaration earlier that Dream was nice, that he tried to be good.

And kind of hates that she might possibly have been… Well, right.

Not that Hob is an idiot about it. He knows that his stranger isn't exactly a teddy bear or anything. His impression of Dream has always been that the otherworldly entity doesn't seem to much care about others, that the problems of humans are just… insignificant to him, probably as uninteresting as ants milling about on a picnic blanket while they march towards a basket in hopes of plunder. However, to think Dream might have done something so… considerate for Hob, no matter how clueless his stranger can be, makes him feel heavy and light all at the same time, as if he's both touched and overwhelmed by the sentiment inherent in Dream's actions. 

He hasn't the time to think very long on it, however. Aurora, seemingly energetic in a way that Hob has never seen from her father Dream, takes his hand again to lead him further into this odd world. She's quite clearly a tactile child, brushing those fingers of hers not tucked against his palm over blades of grass and flowers along the path while they walk. She hums a tune under her breath like she's talking to the flora they pass, and it's almost as if they're answering, their petals unfurling at her touch, the tightly budded blooms blossoming when she gets near. Still, for as tactile as she surely is, she's also very, very chatty, managing to pepper him with a multitude of questions even as she lavishes attention on the greenery. 

"Do you have a cat?" is her first one, given when she glances expectantly up at him. "Dadda likes cats best, I think."

"No."

"A dog? Like Archibald?" A smile lights up her face. "Does yours turn into a dragon too?"

Not bloody likely, Hob wants to say. It's not that he's a coward, per se, but more that he still has enough of a sense of self preservation to make the idea of even getting near another dragon a properly terrifying one. "No dogs either."

She scrunches her face up like she's trying to think of what other nonhuman companion Hob might have. "A… turtle?" she tries, looking dubious at her own suggestion.

"I don't have any pets, lambkin." He freezes suddenly, sorrow fogging up his mind for a moment. Lambkin. That endearment. It's what he had called his son when he was a little lad, and Hob hadn't meant to say it just then. It had been an unthinking term of affection, one that had rolled off his tongue by sheer instinct. 

When he chances a glance at Aurora, he's alarmed to see that the stars in her eyes have dimmed slightly. "I'm sorry, Mr. Hob."

He can't help his frown. This child doesn't know that the loss of his son still hurts him, that sometimes he remembers Robyn's smiling face and his heart clenches tight in grief. "For what?"

"For making you sad," she offers quietly, and that sense of panic washes over him for only a few seconds before he finds himself feeling… warm and comforted, like someone's given his mind a hug. It's disconcerting but also… pleasant? 

Could this girl… be seeing his thoughts? It seems as if she asks far too many questions for that to be a possibility, but… Hob is well aware that Dream is capable of something similar, that he seems to know everyone. And yet he still doesn't hesitate to verbally inquire after the events of Hob's latest century whenever they speak. 

Aurora appears crestfallen, like she's worried that she's misstepped or said something she ought not have, and Hob forces himself to focus on that instead of the turbulent what if's banging about in his head. 

"You didn't make me sad," he rushes to reassure her. "I made myself sad."

"But… why?" Her expression is one of such confusion that Hob could almost laugh if he didn't fear it might hurt her feelings.

"Well, I didn't mean to. It was an accident."

"I'm still sorry you feel that way." And she seems so… genuine, so sweet in that way of innocent children, that Hob finds himself grinning at her for it.

He wants to say something funny, something charming that'll draw a giggle out of her, but they step out of the orchard then, and the sight before him is too staggering in its wonder for Hob to really concentrate on anything else. 

It's… beautiful. Magnificent. So incredibly astounding that he… he feels almost as if he cannot breathe from the sheer splendor of it, like the transcendence of it has bypassed his brain and wormed its way into his body instead. 

There's lush grass almost as far as the eye can see, a riotous multitude of fragrant, vibrant flowers dotting it. Their colors, deep crimsons and violets, oranges and yellows, are lovely, almost unreal in how crisp they are, in how heady their scents are. The entirety of the greenery ends just on the banks of a great body of water. A river, maybe? He can make out the blue of it from here, a perfect cerulean that glimmers sporadically with light when the sun's rays hit it just so, making it almost appear like it’s sparkling. 

A ship bobs gently in place, rocking to and fro where it floats. And he thinks he spots a… wooly mammoth on its deck? But that would be utterly ridiculous, right? Then again, given what he's came across already in this topsy turvy world of Dream's, Hob tells himself that on further consideration, it very likely is a wooly mammoth there that's strolling the planks, barking out orders at its helm as if it's the vessel's fluffy captain. Which, weird as this is to witness, Hob’s just grateful that it’s not another bloody dragon so near to him.

He continues his perusal, taking his fascinated gaze from the ship and its crew. Stretching over the river is a giant bridge, one of several it seems, but this one is unique in that he's pretty sure he recognizes it. Just like the Golden Bridge in Vietnam, massive sculpted hands seem to cradle the structure itself, the tips of the carved fingers resting near the railings like they're holding it aloft in midair.

But all of this, as lovely as it is, doesn't even begin to compare to the castle, his stranger's castle. And yeah, Hob's never seen such a prideful symbol of status in all his long life, so he knows that it must be where the most prideful bastard he's ever had the pleasure of meeting has to live. 

It stands tall across the water's edge, looming imposingly on what appears to be a verdant island, the shimmer in the stone it's built of causing it to look like a glittering diamond nestled atop rich green velvet. When they walk closer, Hob can make out more details in the architecture. The designs of this castle are ornate, meticulously done, and Hob is reminded of Grecian temples and Renaissance cathedrals. 

There are huge sculptures, finely wrought despite their size, and Hob takes note of a large Buddha statue flanking a giant portion of the structure's left side. The wider towers are capped with onion domes like the kind seen on Russian churches or Islamic mosques, their metal roofs gleaming in the sun, but the thinner towers have spires atop them. The overall style is Gothic, from the pointed arches to the peek of a flying buttress off to the right. In truth, however, Hob doesn't think he could pin down a main influence if he tried, except to say that opulence seems to be what his stranger had been going for. It makes sense in the grand scheme of things, given that Dream himself had told Hob that he'd existed for longer than humans had. How does a being like that relate to just one time? One place? Instead, this show of status reminds him of nothing so much as a collection, like it's just been made of all the things Dream simply… enjoys, as if he'd wandered through the market of humanity's history, snatching the bits and bobbles he found pleasing to bring them back here and cobble them all together, creating a fantastical marvel in the process.

Then again, Hob has the feeling that he could probably say that about this entire world of Dream's. 

"I assume that's yours," he drawls, finally shifting his gaze from the castle to Aurora. 

"Indeed it is, Hob Gadling."

Hob feels himself go still at the sound of his stranger speaking, and he turns back to say something, to greet him, to respond with anything more eloquent than the highly embarrassing dadda he'd uttered when last he'd addressed Dream.

Not that he really gets the chance, however, since Aurora chooses that moment to let go of his hand and make a beeline to where her father's standing. 

"Dadda!" she yells, excitement like a living thing in her tone as Dream readily sweeps her up into his arms. Aurora settles into his hold, perching on his slim hip while she leans forward to plant a kiss on his angular cheek, and the whole scene kind of…. softens him a bit in Hob's eyes. For centuries, this pale, powerful entity has been so untouchable to Hob, so unrelatable, but watching Aurora giggle and press yet another kiss to his stranger's cheekbone is almost humanizing to see. 

Hob would never actually say it aloud, but here Dream is almost like any other bloke, just some simple (albeit gloomily dressed) chap with a family of his own and a child that he obviously adores.

"Hello, my starshine. Why ever are you out here alone? Given that Archibald is confined to the palace and you need not chase him in an effort to keep him from trouble, I assumed you'd be with your mother."

"Mommy said it was okay. She said we're going to have tea today!"

Dream raises an eyebrow, blatantly studying the girl. "I see. And was this to be before or after she sent you to collect Hob Gadling?"

Now, Hob knows that Aurora was, in fact, sent to collect him, but he also knows enough to keep his mouth firmly shut about it, especially since Dream looks like he's sniffing out some plot against him like it's a truffle and he's a prized truffle hog. Furthermore, Hob has yet to meet Mrs. Stranger, and he thinks it would be a poor first introduction to bring tidings that he had been the one to tip her ornery husband off about her plan, even if he doesn't actually understand what said plan is. 

"Er… hi?" Hob offers instead, immediately fighting the urge to  groan at his apparent inability to speak plainly in Dream's presence these days. He hasn't really been nervous around his stranger since that second meeting in 1489 when he'd been afraid that he'd made a deal with a devil, and he doesn't quite comprehend why he should feel so tongue tied at present. Maybe because he's learning that he didn't know his oldest friend as well as he thought? Maybe because Dream seems so… different now that he's nearly unrecognizable? Maybe even because he's peeled back a layer of the mopey onion that is Dream's personality and found it might actually be… somewhat soft in the middle?

Dream is still a repressed wanker, granted, but Hob considers the possibility that Dream could be a kind, repressed wanker at the end of the day. And the realization of that is more than a bit shocking. 

"Greetings, Hob Gadling," his stranger says, taking a moment to spare Hob a glance. "Am I to assume my wife invited you for tea?"

"Um…" Hob trails off, wondering how in the ever loving hell he's supposed to answer that.

"No Dadda," Aurora cuts in, giggling again. Hob lets out a slow breath in relief. Twice over now he owes his savior for her rescue of him. "I invited him for tea. It was my first real invitation."

"And your mother assisted you, no doubt?"

"Nope. I wanted you to have a playdate."

Oof. She used the word, which is exactly what Hob had been fearing since he'd heard her utter it that initial time. To Hob's surprise, though, Dream doesn't correct her. Instead, he appears as if he's attempting to suss out whether or not his daughter is telling the truth. Which… she likely isn't, if Hob had to guess. 

"Aurora, are you being dishonest?"

She wilts slightly, her eyes going downcast. "No?"

Hob decides then and there that he's going to have to teach this girl the fine art of dishonesty at some point in the future, because her skills in it are sadly lacking. She is, simply put, abysmal at lying. 

"Perhaps it would be best for you to try that anew," is Dream's command, though it's gentle enough that Hob is almost proud of his stranger for it. Has having a child changed Dream that much? Has it allowed him such empathy and love that he is tempering his response to avoid shaming his daughter? 

And Hob is certain that it would indeed shame this girl to be caught. It's plain to see that this child loves her father tremendously, and she's a sweet thing, likely not given to untruths. He opens his mouth to intervene, to have the focus turned on him, only to find out rather quickly that he's not going to have to bother with doing that after all. 

"I love you, Dadda," Aurora tells Dream sweetly, and by the softening in his stranger's features, Hob can see that it's… working? What? How? Never in a million years would he have thought to witness this pouting, emotionally constipated entity felled so completely by an adorable little girl. Granted, she's an adorable little girl who seems to know how to play her father like a Stradivarius, but Hob thinks it's fair to find himself stunned by it nonetheless.

"As I do you, my starshine." Dream drops a kiss atop her head where she's snuggling against him, her tiny face buried in his neck, and they appear comfortable in this embrace, as if they cuddle like this frequently. Almost in a daze, Hob thinks that if he had his phone with him, he'd take a picture of what he's seeing. They're just so precious together that it puts a lump in his throat, one that he swallows down with great difficulty. 

Dream is apparently not as fooled by this cute distraction as Hob had assumed, though, which is evidenced by his next words. "I will, however, have the truth in this matter, daughter mine."

"Dadda, I'm tired," she murmurs. "And you're being rude to your friend. Mommy would call this a bad example."

Hob almost chokes while he tries to smother his laugh at that, especially when his pale stranger merely sighs heavily, his parental exasperation so ordinary and relatable that Hob thinks the mirth threatening to burst out of him on witnessing it is entirely understandable.

"Of course. I should hate if your ability to socialize were jeopardized by any behavior of mine." And… is it Hob's imagination, or is that comment as dry as the Sahara? He doesn't think he's ever heard so much sarcasm laced in a single sentence before. "Hob Gadling, will you join us for tea? I am certain my wife is expecting you."

He doesn't seem angry upon offering this, which surprises Hob. It's quite obvious that this little girl and her mum had absolutely been conspiring together, and despite Aurora's cuteness, Hob had thought there'd be more…. of a temper tantrum? Maybe a bit of storming off into the rain while both Aurora and Hob yelled after him about the virtues of friendship? He can't help but to think that, though. Unbidden, he remembers chasing his stranger when he'd left (i.e. fled) their meeting in 1889, insisting that they were friends, cursing himself the whole while for startling the obstinate, irritable entity by offering him companionship. Which is all to say that Dream assuredly has priors, doesn't he? And who better than Hob knows how ornery his stranger gets when faced with such terrible things as affection and feelings. 

"Come on, Mr Hob," Aurora pipes up, sounding mysteriously no longer tired, which is just further proof that she had been pretending in front of her father only minutes earlier. "You're my very first guest, and it would make me sad if you didn't accept my invitation."

Not that Hob had even been considering not going, but that just cinches the deal for him. After all, it's never been in his nature to say no to a child, especially when that child is as kind and seemingly goodhearted as this one.

And if a shudder goes through him at that realization, if he suddenly feels like that portends some kind of hilarious doom for him, then Hob brushes the feeling aside. It's just a spot of tea with a wildly charming, powerful little girl and her dramatically less charming but probably more powerful father. What, Hob wonders, could really go wrong?

It isn't until two hours later that Hob finds out the answer to that question. And it's… not great. Because as it turns out, a whole lot can (and does) go wrong during Hob and Dream's playdate.