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valiantstarlights · 1 year

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[Urban Fantasy Spy AU] Try to Hide Your Hand

Agent Hob Gadling and Tech Officer Dream Endless go on a mission together to extract Agent Ethel Cripps from Fawney Rig.

This is a @dreamlingforukraine fic commission for @seiya-starsniper. ✨️ Thank you for your generosity and your patience 🙇‍♀️ Sorry I went kinda crazy with this. But I had a lot of fun worldbuilding, so 😂

The title is from the song, "You Know My Name" by Chris Cornell, which is the theme song for the James Bond (Craig) film, Casino Royale.

CW: Dark themes because the Burgesses and their goons are the scum of the earth. There will be murder and noncon pet play, but the noncon is only on Burgess and Co.'s part. Dream and Hob are communicating with each other all the time and everything is consensual between the two of them. I promise there's gonna be fluffy fluff in the end. 🙏

Hob sits with his legs spread open, Dream kneeling between them, his dark head of hair resting against the junction of Hob's pelvis and thigh, and he hates it.

To be clear, he doesn't hate Dream. Not right now, anyway.

No, it's the situation they're in that he hates in particular right now.

Agent Ethel Cripps, The Agency's undercover spy assigned to monitor and report on the Burgesses, reached out to Head Office less than a month ago and said she wanted out. She has requested that she be extracted ASAP.

'I'm pregnant,' she said in her encrypted voice mail. She sounded so near to tears that it moved Hob's heart when he first heard her message. 'I want to get out of here.'

According to her file, Agent Cripps has demon blood. It's weak enough that she doesn't have the same strengths and weaknesses as her ancestors, but she still retained the classic half-demon appearance. Her file included a photo of her: a young blonde woman with delicate curving white horns complementing her short bob. She had been smiling in her picture.

Hob hasn't gone on to a mission with her yet since she's only been with The Agency for less than a century, but he heard that she was good at her job, feeding The Agency rare but important information about the Burgesses' human and creature trafficking schedules, resulting in many successful rescue operations.

Thus, her case was deemed urgent and important enough for The Agency to send in two of their best to extract her: a field agent to be the face and the muscle, and a tech officer to make sure the three of them get in and out safely without setting off any alarms, potentially leave listening bugs behind or retrieve important documents, and arrange for transportation, accommodations, and other essential minutiae.

Unfortunately, the two people assigned to take on the mission are Hob Gadling and Dream Endless, and everyone who has been in The Agency for more than a couple of years know that the two of them do not exactly get along.

More unfortunately, they have to pose as a human master and their half-other pet, because it's the standard within the Burgess family. Roderick has his own pet, and so does his remaining son. And so does everyone who is anyone within their ranks.

All half-other pets have either been trafficked from somewhere or were born in captivity. They're effectively modern day slaves.

Hob (a full human with an immortality mutation) has been working for The Agency for around 600 years now. But he remembers the day that certain bombshell was dropped on him and Dream.

Dream (a half-eldritch being along with his siblings, and who has been working for The Agency for longer than Hob has been alive) had sat so still on his side of the table that he could have been mistaken for a statue.

Hob had immediately protested. Slavery of all kinds repulses him, and though he dislikes Dream's guts, he would not have him act as someone lesser than him. Having had to go undercover as a slaver in the 1700s had been his worst mission, and he would rather not repeat the experience.

Death, Dream's older sister and their direct superior, listened to his tirade patiently, before telling him that other avenues have been considered; of course they have. But going undercover as a human master and his half-other pet is the one avenue that guarantees the highest chance of success.

All they had to do is show up at one of the Burgesses' casinos, have Hob win enough rounds with Dream as his 'companion,' commit enough violence where cameras are located, and they would soon be invited to Fawney Rig. Once there, Hob will be invited to play against the captains and the lieutenants. He'll have to win until they get into the same game as Agent Cripps and her human master.

Agent Cripps had not disclosed just who her human master is, which leads The Agency to believe that it might be either Roderick or Randall Burgess. Hob is going to have to win a bazillion games.

"If it's the games you are worried about," Dream said, speaking to him for the first time since they entered the room, "you need not worry. I can count cards, and have quite the skill for card games. We will, of course, have to devise a reliable method of nonverbal signals between the two of us so we can communicate with each other without saying a word; but it shouldn't be too difficult."

"Yeah," Hob spat at him. "Because that's the thing I'm most worried about."

Dream had frowned at him and said, quite stupidly, in Hob's opinion, "What else are you worried about, then?"

Hob had scoffed in disbelief, stood up, excused himself, and headed straight to The Agency's training salles to let out some steam. He imagined he was punching Roderick and Randall Burgess's faces, all the while cursing the day Dream was dropped on his head as a baby because that is the only reasonable explanation why he can be so fucking stupid.

He must have been at it for an hour when he realized that Dream was in the same room as him. He wondered how long the man had been standing there.

"What do you want?" he snapped. He didn't mean to. He's just so, so mad. At Lord Time and Lady Night. Who must have dropped Dream as a child for a minimum of fifty times. "You here to tell me the mission is important? Because yeah, I know."

"I'm here to remind you of your duty to The Agency," Dream told him. "I was under the impression that you didn't need any reminding, and yet, here we are."

Hob snorted and wiped the sweat out of his eyes. "Yeah, right." Like Dream would stoop so low as to take time out of his day to find where Hob is just to insult him. "What's the real reason you're here?"

Dream fidgeted minutely. Anyone else wouldn't have noticed, but Hob did. "I have agreed to go on this mission," he said, "and I would like for you to be my partner."

For a moment, it was so silent in the salles that a pin drop would have sounded like a gunshot.

"You fucking what?" Hob demanded. "Why the fuck would you agree? And why in god's name do you want me to be your partner?"

'You hate my guts,' he didn't say. 'You'd rather go down ten flights of stairs than share an elevator ride with me.'

Dream let out a laborious sigh, like Hob is being the stupid one here. "The mission will require my partner to be indifferent and occasionally cruel to me. I had thought that it would be an easy task for you."

Hob was actually getting a headache from this. "You thought it would be easy-- Dream. You know that kind of play has to be consensual, right? And maybe that's not how Burgess and his goons do it, but it's how it's done, normally. Please tell me you know that."

Dream pursed his lips, no doubt offended by Hob's perceived slight to his intelligence. Whatever. Hob was already so fucking tired. "Would you rather another tech officer accompany you on this mission, then?"

Hob immediately thought of Eleanor, but just as quickly dismissed it. He and Eleanor dated a while back in the 1500s, but she was married now, and going on this mission would be weird for them both. But he's not going to tell Dream all of that, so instead he asked a question of his own. "What about you? Wouldn't you rather go on this mission with another field agent you actually get along with?"

Specifically, Hob was thinking of Corinthian (who is a vampire? Hob isn't sure), who oozes sex appeal every second of his life, and was Dream's favorite field agent for always returning tech in repairable conditions, even if he has to lose an occasional eye for it.

Or heck, maybe even Shaxberd, that stuck-up, mousy-looking simp (who is definitely a were-sewer rat). Hob didn't think he'd do a good job playing as Dream's human master believably, though.

"No," Dream said to his shoes. "You are...adequately competent in what you do, and data shows that the two of us working on this mission together would result in a higher chance of success. It is why my sister called for us in the first place."

Hob mouthed 'adequately competent' to himself and incredulously shook his head. "That might be the nicest thing you ever said to me in 600 years, and I still feel insulted."

"Good," Dream quipped. "You should be grateful I didn't give you any more praise than that, else your head become too big to fit through The Agency's doors."

Christ. Hob could already see how many headache pills he's going to have to take if he goes on this mission with Dream.

Not that he has already decided to go.

"Fine," Hob said, and turned his back on Dream to face the training dummy again. Time to wallop Dream's parents for child abuse once more. "I'll think about it."

"Think quickly," Dream said, and also turned to leave. "That is, if you can manage to do so without hurting yourself."

Just to spite him, Hob immediately called Death and agreed to be Dream's partner as soon as Dream left the salles.

And now, a couple of weeks later, in the dungeon below Fawney Rig, Dream is on his knees between Hob's legs, wearing only a black diaphanous robe and bejewelled chains, both functional and decorative, breathing on Hob's (still) clothed dick (thank god), while Hob plays with Roderick and Randall Burgess, along with five of their most trusted advisors. Two have already lost, and they have gone up to their rooms to lick their wounds and perhaps take their anger out on their pets.

Everyone had laughed when Randall shared that thought, and Hob did too, even if he felt sick to his stomach while doing so.

Hob takes a deep breath as subtly as he can. Roderick Burgess is sitting on his immediate right, and he supposes it means that he's sitting in a place of honor, regardless of how dubious that honor is. Next to Roderick is his son Randall, next to Randall is an empty seat where one of the advisors who lost had been sitting, and next to the empty chair is the machine that serves as the croupier.

Hob is surprised the croupier is not a sentient being, but he supposes that even advisors cannot be trusted not to cheat. The game, really, is how best to cheat without seeming to, and so far, Hob thinks he's winning.

Because Hob, personally? He's not that good at cards.

But Dream? Dream is a goddamn shark, and it is only thanks to him that Hob even got this far.

On the other side of the croupier sits an elegant old East Asian woman named Mrs. Chu, to her right is an empty chair where another advisor who lost had been sitting, next to that is a large bruiser of a man named Mr. Melendez, next to him is a walrus-looking guy named Mr. Wallace, and on his right is Hob, who had been going by Mr. Rupert Gadlen for the past couple of weeks.

And of course, all the pets are either on their knees on the floor, or on their master's lap. Dream had signalled to Hob that he'd rather be kneeling on the floor, and Hob signalled an 'okay' back, even as he made a lewd comment to get Dream to drop on his knees.

The group had laughed warmly at him, thinking that he really is one of them. Hob had immediately signalled his apology to Dream right after he sat down.

Also, it turns out, Agent Cripps is posing as the pet of Roderick Burgess himself. So that's fun. She's sitting on his lap with her back towards them, and Hob doesn't know how they're going to signal each other what the plan is, but Dream signalled him to leave it up to him, and so Hob did.

He trusts Dream.

They might dislike each other for a multitude of reasons going back 600 years, but he trusts him when it comes down to it. And he has trusted Dream to win all his games for the past couple of weeks, so he'll trust him this final night.

And then they'll finally be able to go back home and put this entire mess of a mission behind them.

Hob almost shot an entire room full of Fawney Rig security personnel the moment one of the guards clapped a power suppressing shackle around Dream's neck, and he's been gritting his teeth for what seems like two entire weeks straight, thinking about Dream shivering and cold and being treated poorly since this mission has started, so yeah. He's so fucking ready to complete this mission.

Preferably by shooting everyone in sight as a parting gift and burning Fawney Rig to the ground.

But he will not shoot until Dream signals him to.

And Dream has been feeding him information about the other people in the room via Morse Code to his leg during lulls in the game, so Hob knows who the biggest threats are, who is doing poorly financially and can't afford to be reckless and lose, and in what order he should shoot when Dream gives the signal.

Hob replies to Dream with a pat on the head for 'I understand,' a gentle tug on Dream's ear for 'Repeat,' and a firm squeeze on his shoulder for 'Continue?'

The 'continue' sign is mostly for the games. Hob would caress Dream's cheek and press Morse Code on his skin telling him the cards on his hand as well as the cards in the middle of the table, and Dream would squeeze his ankle once for 'yes,' and twice for 'no.'

And then there's an entire separate system on just how much money Hob should bet and how he should come off as: cocky or unsure, neutral or reckless.

Hob may be a little in love with Dream's brain as he had Hob learn all these signals before the mission. Just his brain though. Because Dream as a teacher has a lot of room for improvement. Like, an entire ballroom's worth of room.

Hob places the blame, once again, at Lord and Lady Endless's feet.

"Mr. Gadlen?"

Hob's gaze snaps to Mr. Wallace, the walrus-looking guy to his left, as the man waits for his response.

A quick glance around the table shows that no one has folded yet.

'Yes,' Dream signs. 'Raise.'

"Raise," Hob says obediently, and slides a couple more stacks of chips to the middle of the table after Dream taps out how much he should raise.

"You're pretty ballsy for a newcomer," Randall Burgess says, and pinches his pet's nipple, making them cry out in pain.

His pet is a twenty-something brown-skinned man wearing the same kind of robes as Dream, but in green. He looks miserable and drugged out of his mind, arms chained behind him, his balance on Randall's lap precarious.

Hob bares his teeth in a facsimile of a smile. "Well, you know what they say: no guts, no glory."

"Indeed," Roderick Burgess says to Hob's right. For now, he seems content in ignoring Agent Cripps on his lap, and Hob hates that he's thankful for even that small mercy. "I built this family's fearsome reputation with my own two hands from the ground up, and doing so got me covered in guts."

The remaining advisors chuckles at that, and so Hob does as well.

"That sure would explain your vigor, sir," Hob dares to say. He knows beforehand that Roderick favored boldness and praise from his underlings, and Hob has met a lot of people like him in his previous missions to know just how to play him. Because Roderick might be old for a human, but Hob is many times his elder.

Roderick stares him down for a moment before laughing. Right on cue, his advisors laugh along. "I think you would do well within my ranks, Mr. Gadlen," Roderick says. "Lord knows I need more bold and competent people around me."

Hob has heard the rumors about Roderick killing his other son a couple of years prior for being 'too weak.' He doesn't wonder if it's true. He knows it is.

"I'm flattered," Hob says. "Truly, I am. But I hope you still think well of me after I steal everyone's money tonight."

This time, there were no laugh cues, because everyone genuinely laughed at his audacity.

"Oh, yeah, I like him," Randall tells his father. "I think he'd do well managing the casino in Vegas or our chop shops in Leipzig. Whip the guys into shape and possibly bring in new customers."

Roderick hums and studies Hob over Agent Cripps's shoulder. "What say you, Mr. Gadlen? Joining the Burgess family is one of the best decisions you will ever make in your life, and we don't often ask people to join."

"Why invite me, then, if you don't mind me asking?" Hob asks. "I only wanted to win some cash a couple of weeks ago, and now here I am."

"Talent," Roderick says simply. "I've learned to recognize it over the years, and you have it in spades. And other than that, we can see that your morals align with ours, and that is a rarer thing nowadays. Tell me, have you ever killed a man?"

"Yeah," Hob says. He puts a hand on Dream's shoulder, just as Dream puts one hand around his ankle. Hob ready to ask, and Dream ready to give the signal, if need be. "Brief boxing stint in my twenties. A couple of thugs tried to rob me on my way home. Showed them what they were looking for."

Randall, to Hob's disgust, had dragged his pet to sit over his crotch area and was grinding against the man's ass. "How did you kill them?" he asks breathlessly.

Hob looks straight into Randall's eyes as he says his next words. "One of them got his head bashed against a wall. The other's head I cut off using the door of a closet that someone had thrown away."

Randall moans and continues dry humping his pet. Hob does not look away or make a face, but he makes a note to make the fucker's death slow and painful. Have him bleed for hours, maybe.

"Creative," Mrs. Chu says. Her dress made her look like a glittering red insect. "And have you ever went to jail?"

Hob smiles at her. "No, ma'am. And I never sent anyone to jail either. Why let them live for years when you can take their lives away yourself? I'm not one to deprive myself of the thrill of killing."

"Good," Roderick says approvingly. "Very good. I think you're exactly what we're looking for, Mr. Gadlen." Then, unexpectedly, "All in favor of him joining us?"

As it turns out, not everyone was on board. Mr. Melendez, the bruiser type, sitting on Mr. Wallace's left and partially covered by the man's bulk, and who has mostly been keeping silent this whole time, is very much against Hob joining the Burgess family right this second.

He threw his cards on the table, slammed his fist against the table's surface, and made the chips rattle and neatly stacked chip columns fall.

Roderick looks impassively at the man, visibly angered by his previously perfectly arranged chips now a disorganized mess in front of him. "Is there a problem, Federico?"

"A problem?" Federico Melendez repeats. "The problem, Mr. Burgess, is you letting a whelp join the family out of the blue when I had to wait for years to be given an invitation. And have I not proven myself to be better than him? Am I to be replaced?"

"I remember your initiation," Randall sneers at him. "The fact that you took too long to finish only means that you are, deep down, just another weak-willed piece of trash."

This is new information, evidenced by how Dream frantically taps, 'Initiation?' against Hob's thigh.

'IDK,' Hob taps quickly. Hopefully Dream knows what that means.

"Why you snivelling brat--"

"Enough," Roderick says, and looks to Hob. "Mr. Gadlen. Kill this man and you will be considered for our initiation."

As Mr. Melendez rages at Roderick's words this time, Hob squeezes Dream's shoulder. 'Continue?'

Dream hesitates, then squeezes Hob's ankle once. 'Yes.'

Hob smiles grimly, but gamely stands up. "Sure," he says. "I don't know what initiation you're all talking about, but I'm always down to fight someone to the death." To Mr. Melendez, whose first name Hob just learned a minute ago, he says, "Sorry, man, but you heard the boss."

Hob makes quick work of it, and was nauseated to see that, upon turning away from the bloody pulp that had been Mr. Melendez, he is greeted with the sight of everyone at the table in various states of undress, all of them in compromising positions with their pets.

Thankfully, Dream is left to sit and wait for him. If anyone had tried to touch him, Hob knows he'd start shooting every sick bastard in the room regardless of Dream's lack of command.

"Excellent job, Mr. Gadlen," Roderick says from his seat, which has been pushed back to allow Agent Cripps to service him. Hob's trigger finger twitches, but he does not look away. "And what artistry. We've never seen a man so beautifully murdered."

"Never," Mr. Wallace agrees. His pet, an androgynous smoke being, is facing Hob enough that he can see their dark misty tears falling down their face.

"Now he has to go through the initiation, Father," Randall begs. His own pet is bent over, head low on the ground but fists clenched.

"Please, Roderick," Mrs. Chu says. "He will make a good replacement for Federico." Hob cannot see her pet, which he had noticed earlier was some type of dragonoid being, but that's probably for the better.

Mr. Melendez's pet, meanwhile, is currently cowering in the corner of the room. They look to be an anemone-like creature, and had curled in on themselves every time Hob landed a hit on their now deceased owner, implying that Mr. Melendez had been physically hurting them when he was still alive.

Hob bites the insides of his cheek to keep from screaming.

Soon, he tells himself. Soon, I'll rid the world of their slavers.

"Everyone in agreement?" Roderick asks the room at large.

A chorus of 'aye's were heard, and Roderick inclines his head like a benevolent god. "Then we shall commence the initiation."

"What about the game?" Hob asks as he sits back on his chair. What? He's really looking forward to stealing everyone's money (with Dream's help), and using it to fund the therapy bills of every half-other currently in Fawney Rig.

"We can continue after," Roderick assures him. "Now. The initiation."

Hob waits. He could feel Dream put his hands back on him again, ready to signal him. He places his own hand on Dream's shoulder.

"It's nothing nefarious," Roderick says, which just makes Hob certain that it absolutely is. "You need only to fornicate with your pet in front of us, orgasm, and you will be considered as one of us."

Hob stops breathing.

He's pretty sure Dream has stopped breathing as well.

But everyone was looking at him, and not at Dream at the moment, and he has to focus. "What's the catch?" he asks, feeling his heart beating against his throat. He cannot. He will not take Dream against his will.

"No catch," Mrs. Chu tells him. "But we do want a show."

"It's been a while since we've seen a good show," Mr. Wallace agrees. "Not since Randall, I believe?"

Randall laughs. "Yeah. Alex was so pathetic I had to take his pet from him." He shakes his pet's shoulder roughly. "Isn't that right, Paul?"

His pet, Paul, starts crying, and on the ground below him where his tears fell, flowers start to bloom.

Jesus Christ. Hob really is looking forward to killing every single one of them.

"Well, Mr. Gadlen?" Roderick says. "Will you give us a show?"

Hob is sure they'll kill him if he says no. He doesn't need Dream squeezing his ankle once for 'yes' to know that. But still.

'Continue?' he asks Dream.

A harder single squeeze, and he can almost hear the accompanying thought that goes with it. 'Yes, you bloody idiot!'

"Yeah, alright," Hob says. He sure fucking hope Dream knows what he's doing. "Up you get, baby."

Unbeknownst to Hob, Dream had secretly been communicating with Agent Cripps throughout the night. Ethel's long forked tail had been tapping Morse Code against Dream's foot under the table the entire time, and most of the information she gave him he had relayed to Hob.

Dream glances at Ethel now, and sees the fiery determination in her eyes. As Hob lifts him up on the table, Ethel gives him the tiniest of nods, and Dream immediately pinches Hob's arm hard.

The signal to wreak havoc.

A split second later, Dream has dived under the table as both Ethel and Hob draw their guns and kill the most important members of the Burgess family.

It barely lasted a minute.

"Thank you," Ethel says, as the three of them stand in front of the towering inferno that used to be Fawney Rig.

As soon as the last body hit the ground, Ethel had told the androgynous smoke being to teleport Hob into the remaining advisors' rooms, and Hob had done his duty and helped free those two advisors' pets as well.

And when every innocent party is safely outside, Mrs. Chu's half-dragon pet had set the mansion ablaze.

"Don't mention it," Hob tells her. Dream was a little off to the side, making phone calls to rescue personnel, while a group of a dozen or more half-other beings watch as Fawney Rig burns. Most of them were crying and holding on to each other. Hob was glad he managed to get a bunch of blankets so they could wrap themselves in it.

"No, seriously, thank you," Ethel insists. "I felt like I was going insane back there, and I hated every second that I exposed the two of you to their vile world."

"You can say that again," Hob mutters. "Christ. So Randall killed his own brother?"

Ethel looks around and steps closer to Hob. "No," she says in a low voice. "He made Paul do it. He used to be Alex's companion, but...well... It's one thing to dote on a pet and another to love them."

From within the group of half-others, Hob could see Paul with tear streaks on his face and flowers at his feet, holding onto Mrs. Chu's half-dragonoid who, Hob can see now, has a large acid burn on one side of his face.

Now, Hob never goes back to saying old curse words, but he feels like this is an appropriate time for one. "God's fucking wounds."

At this point, Dream joins them. For some reason, he steps closer to Hob than he normally would. When Hob steps back, Dream steps even closer, and gives Hob the stink-eye while doing it.

Hob doesn't know what the fuck his problem is, but he's too tired to think right now. Let Dream be weird. All he wants is to get back to headquarters and maybe eat some fries and drink a chocolate milkshake.

"Thank you for the rescue, Mr. Endless," Ethel tells Dream. For some reason, she has stepped back from Hob.

Great. Two half-others being weird.

"You are welcome," Dream says. Then, in a more gentle voice, "Will you be keeping the baby?"

"Oh, yes," Ethel says, determined. "I really want to have a baby, but I was told decades ago by The Agency doctors that I would have a hard time getting pregnant. Now that it happened, though..." She laughs, and it only sounds a little bit broken. "My child will know exactly what their father was, but I will teach them to be better. I might have hated everything I witnessed while being the elder Burgess's pet, but I'm proud of myself for managing to survive."

"Are you kidding?" Hob says incredulously. "Agent Cripps, you're a fucking badass. I was in there for six hours tops and I want to drink a gallon of brain bleach. And you lasted for years? Comic book superheroes have nothing on you. You're an actual goddess. I present thee pregnant people food at the foot of your temple."

"Stop flirting with a pregnant woman," Dream snipes beside him as Ethel laughs. It sounded lighter than her previous laugh, though, which had been Hob's goal all along.

"He wouldn't," Ethel tells Dream, her eyes twinkling. "Not when he has you."

"We're not together," Hob says, at the same time Dream says, "He does not have me."

Ethel just smiles at them. "Alright," she says, just as they spot The Agency's helicopters in the distance. "If you say so."

As soon as they drop Ethel and the rest of the half-others who had been kept as pets at Fawney Rig in Medical, Hob and Dream, without a single word, walk together towards Death's office.

Her half-phantasm secretary told them she was in, but that she is currently taking a conference call and would therefore be unavailable for at least another half hour. The secretary then told them that she was going to grab a quick midnight lunch from the cafeteria, and if they want, they could wait.

They nodded tiredly at her as she phased through a wall, and immediately slump on the long couch outside Death's office.

Or, to be more accurate, Dream goes to get a couple of hot bottled tea drinks from a nearby vending machine, bonks Hob's head with one of the bottles to make him take it, and drops gracefully beside him.

Hob, on the other hand, just straight up sits down, exhausted, and slouches like a drunk starfish, his head resting on the wall behind the couch.

As soon as he felt the warm bottle hit him gently on the forehead, he automatically grabs it, then turns his head a little to look at Dream sitting beside him.

He looks tired as well. It had been a draining, two-week long mission, and Hob doesn't think he looks any better himself.

"Do you need aftercare or something?" he asks, because they still may not like each other, but Hob has always been a caring person. And if Dream doesn't like it, then he can suck his dick. Metaphorically speaking, of course.

"Why, are you offering?" Dream asks. It's a testament to how tired he was that his words don't hold the usual sting in them.

Hob grins, unable to stop the fond feelings blooming in his gut and equally unable to stop the fondness from showing on his face. Fawney Rig must have truly driven him nuts. Did he really just think that Dream looks so cute when he's being bitchy?

"Maybe," he says, and Dream catches him with a smile on his face. Dammit. "Why, you wanna cuddle?"

Jesus, Gadling. Get a grip and stop running your mouth.

Dream wheezes. He sounds like a dying goat. "Perhaps," he says. His eyes are twinkling. Hob knows he shouldn't find his laugh endearing, but he does. He probably needs to go to Medical to get his head checked out. Dream gestures to Hob's lap. "May I?"

Hob knows, intellectually, that this is a very dangerous game of chicken they're playing. If they don't stop, Hob is gonna wake up one day with Dream Endless on his bed, lovely in his half-asleep state, Hob with two cups of coffee in his hands (and maybe even an entire breakfast tray heaped with food), and both of them will be wearing wedding rings.

"Sure, go ahead," Hob says, trying to look inviting and possibly only succeeding in looking like a beached jellyfish. "That is, if you're capable of not falling off on your ass."

"You will find," Dream says, as he stands up more elegantly than Hob will ever do in his life, "that I am capable of a great many things." He then plops down unceremoniously on Hob's lap and immediately cuddles up to him.

Despite his words, Hob's arms automatically hold Dream in place to prevent him from falling off. He knows he still smells like blood and gunpowder from earlier, but Dream doesn't seem to mind. "Don't fall asleep on me," he warns Dream.

"Zzzzz," Dream says, like a goddamn bee.

Hob barks out a laugh at that. He's so ridiculous, honestly. Why doesn't he know that? It has literally been centuries since they started working together. He feels like he should know that.

"I hate you," Hob tells him, but his tone is enamored and, strangely enough, having Dream on his lap like this is serving to be a great aftercare for him as well.

"You love me," Dream mumbles, already sounding half-asleep. His knees must be hurting from kneeling most of the night. Hob starts rubbing them gently, but scoffs at Dream's words.

His other hand cards gently through Dream's hair, the motion lulling them both to a deeper, more relaxed state. They're going to have to wake up before Death's secretary comes back, and then debrief with Death. But having Dream in his lap, warm and pliant, feels so good that Hob finds himself closing his eyes as well. "You wish."

'I do,' Dream thinks, before he falls asleep completely, feeling safer than he's ever felt in eons.

Death finds the two of them curled up together on the couch thirty minutes later, and discreetly takes a picture of the two before gently waking them up.

It's regrettable that they have to debrief when they are obviously exhausted, but the earlier it's done, the clearer their memory is.

Dream and Hob peaceably goes into her office and gives their report, but she does not fail to notice how Hob has yet to let go of Dream's hand upon waking. And more than that, Dream is holding Hob's hand with both of his in his own lap. Both of them seem unaware of this new development between them.

Death hides her smile behind her teacup as she sips some calming tea and allows them to continue giving their report.

Bonus:

"Agent Gadling! Do not-- oh, for goodness's sake. If you are incapacitated and captured, I will not hesitate to bench you for a century."

"A century, huh?" Hob's unfairly seductive voice says through the comms. Dream hates it. He always have. And now that Hob knows why he does, he's exploiting Dream's weakness. "You gonna tie me up in bed, too?"

A couple of other tech officers giggle at that. Dream sends a scathing glare towards them, and they quickly scurry away.

"I will tie you next to an anthill."

"Yikes," Hob says cheerfully and ducks behind a wall. "Still not sorry, though. I know you've been wanting to have a petrified pseudodragon egg, so I got you two."

Dream does not swoon. Because that would be undignified.

"You risked capture to get me a couple of petrified pseudodragon eggs," he says in his sternest voice. Not the sexy stern voice that Hob likes, but the I'm-gonna-beat-your-ass-and-send-your-soul-straight-to-Hell voice. He shakes his head. His boyfriend is just so fucking stupid sometimes. "You are aware I cannot simply sit on them to get them to hatch?"

A hail of gunfire interrupts Hob's laughter. Dream watches on the screen, heart in his throat, how Hob evades his pursuers, runs down a garbage-strewn alley, and hitches a ride on a passing delivery truck.

He lets out a breath he doesn't know he's been holding. "I hate you," Dream tells him, so he knows. He must always be reminded.

Hob, through the hidden camera pinned on his lapel, shows Dream the two jet black pseudodragon eggs he got from the villain of the week's evil lair. One of them is pure black, and the other has a line of white running down the middle of its shell. "You love me."

#urban fantasy spy AU #this is a 6k words fic (!!!)#which is definitely more than the required 2k words #dreamling #the sandman #my writing #dreamlingforukraine #good job my thumbs #the rest of my fingers also contributed so 👏👏👏#i'm very normal about this AU obviously 😂

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delta-pavonis · 1 year

Text

Fic Update: You create me against your lips Chapters 15 and 16

banner artwork by the superlative @teejaystumbles

Chapter 15: we're gonna have a good time

Chapter 16: something always turns into nothing

Dreamling (Dream of the Endless/Hob Gadling) || Rated E || In Progress Hellknight!Hob, Hellknight Hob, Alternate Universe, Dream is a little dark (as a treat), D/s, dom/sub, dom!Dream, sub!Hob, BDSM, anal sex, anal fingering, oral sex, deep throating, come swallowing, overstimulation, multiple orgasms, bathing, bath sex, biting, bite kink, painplay, breathplay, impact play, bloodplay, restraint, rimming, face fucking, subspace, breeding kink, discussion of mpreg, aftercare, eldritch Dream, Nightmare, spoilers for Seasons of Mists, spoilers for Brief Lives, spoilers for The Song of Orpheus, happy ending (eventually), a totally different take on Hob as a knight, additional warnings in author’s notes for each chapter

What Hob had not known, could not have known, upon waking after his encounter with the merged form of Dream and Nightmare, was that that night was the last time he would sleep. He lies in bed now – their bed, he can say in the quiet of his mind without doubt now – enjoying some rest. But he cannot sleep. Not like he used to. He is too close to the Dreaming now. When Hob closes his eyes the susurrations of the Dreaming become more obvious. Hob cannot track or hear individual dreamers, but if he listens closely he can sometimes get particularly salient pictures or feelings or sounds. As Dream and Rose have helped him figure out, this often corresponds with something that affects large portions of the human population: religious holidays, natural disasters, even movies or music that reach global status, these are things that Hob can glean from his new connection to the Dreaming. Being a human himself, it seems that his senses are limited to humans, at least for the moment. Dream has no idea how Hob’s capabilities might change in the future. Because nothing like this has ever happened before. Not in ten billion years.

#Dreamling #Hellknight Hob #Hellknight!Hob #Hob Gadling #Dream of the Endless #Dreamling AU #The Sandman AU #Pavonis writes

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cuubism · 1 year

Note

Scraping off a random draft note from months ago and passing it to you, a prompt for first meeting being Hob finding Dream on a sidewalk, collapsed and nearly unconscious (inspired by how Neverwhere starts, the rest unrelated). So either canon universe where Dream escaped from his imprisonment but was too weak to reach the dreaming and collapsed on the street, he stole some clothes on the way so he doesn't look completely insane, but his clothes are random as hell and he does not look good. It's his first meeting with Hob, and his only request before fainting is no human agencies. (<Whatever that would mean < Hob as he actually takes this person home and listens to his request)

Or an au where human Hob literally finds human Dream collapsed on the street and similarly gets Dream to his apartment. Either way, the fun, and main, part is Hob picking a complete stranger of the street without contacting the police or taking him to the hospital, who might or might not be a cosmic entity, and takes him fucking home :) Nourishing back to health shenanigans ensure.

I'm remembering now our Hob picking up clueless human-for-a-bet Dream at the bus station AU, which I'd forgotten about despite having spoken of it only yesterday. This can go much the same way I'd imagine. Truly only Hob would be nuts enough to just pick up a clearly odd and eldritch being off the road like "guess this stray animal is my responsibility now". He's like "this is either a cult victim or a literal demon, guess I'll find out." No self-preservation skills, Hob.

Dream after his two weeks of recuperation wherein he had to learn such horrors as texting, getting dressed by hand, and holding conversations he can't just disappear from, finally returning to the Dreaming like "you have my thanks, Hob Gadling, this favor shall not be forgotten" and then just fucking ascending back into the sky while Hob's like shit I knew trying LSD that time was a bad call..

#ask #magnusbae #dreamling headcanons for emotional wellbeing

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scifrey · 2 years

Text

Cling Fast: Chapter Eight

By Losyark

The Sandman (Netflix with some sprinkling of comics canon, and Gaiman Cinematic-Literary Universe canon)

Dreamling (Hob Gadling x Dream of the Endless | Morpheus)

Unfinished (tentatively 10 chapters)

PG-13 (for now)

Unbeta’d

For the first time in six hundred and seventy-two years, Hob is genuinely angry at Morpheus.

He shoves his way out of bed, flinging off the covers and not caring where they land.

Around Hob, the sand drops to the carpet all at once, like the heavy rain of a late-summer tempest. He spares a thought for the age of the carpets, how much damage the abrasive grains will cause the fine, fragile weave. But already the sand is glittering away, rising just a little before sparking into golden non-existence, like dust motes dancing in a sunbeam.

“Doc Bob?” the walkie crackles. “We heard shouting, are you–”

Hob lunges for the two-way radio, aiming a threatening finger at Morpheus (who is still slightly more eldritch smoke-monster than person-shaped), a very clear order to Stay put and stay silent!

“Fine, sorry,” Hob lies down the line. “Harriet just startled me.”

"Roger. Bob, the sound feed's gone funny, it sounds like we're catching a conversation from some amateur radio or something. And the picture keeps snowing over. We may have to film Bob laying down to sleep again."

"We're fine, we're fine! I'll reset the equipment, hold on," Hob says. Then he grabs down the camera and mic and shuts them both off roughly, then throws his wrapper over them for good measure.

He looks up at Harriet, still frozen in the doorway.

Good.

He’d hate to have to chase her down.

God help him, he hates how wary of him she is, but Hob was a soldier and a sellsword. He’s been a bandit, and a thief, and when it’s necessary, a murderer. Hob uses her momentary surprise to his advantage, darting in behind her and closing the door quickly but softly enough that the noise doesn’t carry over the radio. He twists the key in the lock, and then tosses it to Morpheus.

The god of sleep catches it, his expression unreadable, and sets it on the bedside table.

Now Harriet looks terrified.

He hates it.

He hates being this.

He thought he'd left this behind.

One of the ADs asks: “Do you need us to–?”

And Harriet opens her mouth to say yes, please, help, but Hob gets his hand clamped over her mouth, fingers digging into her jaw, so all that escapes is a little gasp.

“No, we’re good,” Hob says into the walkie, not taking his eyes from Harriet, talking slow and calm. “No point waiting up Glenn. Give me like, an hour to get everything sorted out here and I get everything back online for you, okay? Then we can go again?”

“Okay. Radio if you have any trouble.”

“Rodger that. Over and out,” Hob says. Then, one handed, he twists the radio off, and tosses it to Morpheus, too. He doesn’t really care that Morpheus doesn’t even try to catch it. It thumps to the bed.

“You,” he snarls at the anthropomorphic asshole in the sheets. “Do not move, do you understand me?”

“You dare to–”

“Yes I fucking dare!” Hob snaps. “There are cameras you absolute lunatic. Are you trying to get me strapped down onto a lab table for the next century?! Do. Not. Move.”

“I disrupted the feed,” Morpheus reassures him.

“Ooooohhh, you disrupted the feed,” Hob mocks. “But you couldn’t warn me we were still awake?! That’s low.”

Morpheus seems to consider Hob’s words and his rage, and primly settles against the headboard, with his legs tangled in the sheets and a come fuck me set to his liquid spine. He looks pointedly human now, down to his glacial blue eyes. He’s wearing just a slithery black wrapper, dangling sensually from one shoulder and exposing a swath of his marble-pale torso, and it’s so wretchedly unfair that Morpheus has done this, this to him, and still Hob wants to throw him down into the sheets and make him scream for mercy.

Hob then turns his attention to Harriet. He’s not squeezing hard enough to hurt her, he hopes. But she’s still bulge-eyed and red-faced, hands clutching at his wrist, nails crusted with the day’s flour digging into his flesh.

“I’m sorry,” he says with a genuine shudder of revulsion at his own beastly behavior. “I’m so sorry.” He lets her go slowly, one finger at a time, making sure that she has her feet under her.

As soon as he does, Harriet–rightly–shoves away from him so hard that she slams into the wall behind her.

“Wh-what is that,” she asks, head jerking at the bed.

“He won’t hurt you,” Hob says soothingly. “Though I’m seriously thinking about kicking his ass.”

“As if you could,” Morpheus sneers.

“You’re on thin enough ice as it is, friend,” Hob spits at the creature lounging haughtily amid the blankets like a brazen seductress. “Do not piss me off any more.”

Again, Morpheus seems to genuinely consider Hob’s anger, and quiets down. Hob would never describe it as meekly or guiltily, but there’s definitely some recognition that Hob’s fury is not ill-placed.

Harriet backs herself into the corner beside the hearth, which Hob recognizes as the move of someone too terrified and too innocent to know that boxing yourself in is a spectacularly bad idea. She snatches up one of the iron pokers from the idiosyncratic Victorian set that set dec had left behind, and points it at Hob’s heart.

He stays where he is, hands loose and out to the sides. He’s wearing a nightshirt and nothing else, he’s got nowhere to hide a weapon, and he makes that clear.

“And… and what are you?” Harriet warbles, her lips bloodless and her throat tight. Hob seriously hopes that she doesn’t scream, because that will bring Glenn running and that’s the last thing they need. “I… I heard you say… dead wife’s bed… centuries…”

“I’m…” Hob hesitates, looking back at Morpheus, who lifts his hand, palm up, helpfully. “No! Absolutely not. Do not throw sand in her face, oh my god. Let me just… think this through.”

“What is there to think about? She is starting to suspect, even now. I promised I would protect you from discovery, and I shall do so.”

“Protect me,” Hob scoffs, low and dangerous. “Protect me? This–this!--this is how you protect me? God’s balls Morpheus, I thought we were asleep. I thought we were in the Dreaming!"

“We are in the Waking, Hob.”

“Yeah, no shit, Sherlock!”

"The what?" Harriet asks shakily, eyes filling with tears and chin wobbling.

“Oh, oh, shit, okay, listen–sit, please Harriet,” Hob says gently. “You can hold onto the poker if you want, that’s fine, I won’t take it away from you. And I’ll stay over here.”

He sildles over to the foot of the bed and sits, palms up and out, see? Harmless.

“Will you… will you hurt me?” Harriet asks, sitting without taking her eyes off them.

“No, I promise,” Hob says as earnestly as possible. “And I’m sorry again for grabbing you. That was badly done.”

“Will you unlock the door?” Harriet whispers.

“Soon,” Hob promises. “Once we get this whole mess sorted.”

“Will you tell her?” Morpheus asks, sitting up and draping himself along Hob’s back indolently, hooking his sharp chin of Hob’s shoulder to study Harriet.

Hob gives into the full-body shudder that this engenders, and then shoves the clingy asshole off.

“If you��re trying to be sweet so I won’t be mad at you, and it’s only making it worse,” Hob warns him.

“Tell me what?” Harriet asks. The poker has drooped a little bit in her curiosity.

“Telling her may make it easier on set,” Morpheus sulks. “If you will not let me watch your back, she could.”

Hob gapes at Morpheus. “And whose fault is it that I’m even doing this stupid show in the first place? Don’t you get it? I am here because you said you thought it would help me. Being a hair away from being exposed at every turn has me scared shitless, but I’m doing it because you asked me to. It’s a nightmare, Morpheus, this whole experience has been both a dream and a nightmare, and I am doing my best to learn the lesson you want me to. I am trying to listen.”

“You have not been exposed. Your secret is still yours.” He cuts his eyes to Harriet, watching their quarrel with all the intense confusion of the scholar that she is, trying to decipher what they mean. “And I can ensure it stays that way.”

“Yeah, but for how long?” Hob goans. “This world, the pace of technology. Sooner or later somebody’s gonna–” he gestures at Harriet. "Do you not understand how much that terrifies me? Fucking hell, you're the king of nightmares! How can you not? You spent a hundred years trapped in a fucking Christmas Bauble. And I hate that it happened to you, I hate Burgess with every pit and fiber of my soul, and I live in a constant low-grade terror that it's going to happen to me too."

“I will not let that happen. You are mine, and none shall take you from me.”

Hob laughs flatly. “You have a shit way of showing that, my friend. I’m yours, sure, but you only want to play with your little toy once a century.”

Hob feels like he's earned a little self-pity, okay? As a treat.

“This… this was not meant to be a nightmare, Hob,” Morpheus says slowly, realization and regret warring on his face. He drops his prideful sneering and in a blink, is completely clothed again, sitting fully upright, proper and contrite. “I only wanted you to experience the release that you have been subconsciously craving. The peace.”

Hob regrets the cruel, petty way he lashes out as soon as the words tumble from his mouth, but he says them anyway: “And what, once I’d grieved and gotten over my mortal family, you could slide in and replace them, huh? Is that what this is? Is this why you were half-dressed and clinging to me in Eleanor's bed…”

"This is a reproduction, she never—"

"Is this why, when you haven't said a thing, you haven't… you haven't given me a single sign," his voice cracks on the word.

“Hob, no, I have—” Morpheus gasps.

In for a penny and all that. If he’s going to lose Morpheus, loose everything over this, he might as well earn it, right? Might as well finally be honest. With his friend and himself.

“Is that the only reason you’re here? In this bed with me? Is it? Because you’re jealous?” Morpheus flinches ever so subtly, and Hob knows he’s punctured his walls, delivering a gaping wound. Now to stick his finger in it. “Eleanor’s been dead for four hundred years, you prick. Godswounds, is that why walked out of our meeting in 1589? You wouldn’t look at me sideways, but I dared to go off and be happy with a human so I had to be punished? So you had to flounc le away and rail that twinky little gobshite Shaxbeard in revenge? You’re pathetic.”

“You’re mine,” Morpheus says darkly. He’s losing coherence again, his eyes spreading into dark galaxies, his clothing rising like an angry cat’s fur, whispering out at the edges and crackling like thunderheads.

Harriet mewls and cowers back in her chair.

Hob turns on the bed, and grabs Morpheus’ face between his palms. The building thunderstorm drops in his surprise, limp and damp. Morpheus blinks in surprise, his eyes dropping to Hob's mouth, and oh no, abso-fucking-lutely not.

“So why didn't you ever say so, you daft arsehole?” Hob says. “Christ on his Cross and God in his Heaven, Morpheus, Dream, I have been yours since you walked over to me in that tavern in 1389 and told me you’d see me in a hundred years. How do you not get that? You made me Immortal–”

“Death made you–”

“Shut up! You know what I mean! You made me Immortal and you have access to everyone’s dreams. You know I would have happily given you my body in payment. And then, when you assured me that my soul was safe from hell, I would have given you that, too. If you’d only asked.”

Morpheus looks wrecked. Tears shine at the bottom of his lids, his mouth is red from biting his lips, his cheeks flushed with shame.

“My friend, I–” Morpheus stops, but then looks away, as if it would cost his pride too much to continue.

Hob wants to comfort him, to undo all that he’s said and all the daggers he’s thrown. But he won’t reach for his friend’s hand. Not now. Not if Morpheus refuses to meet him halfway.

The King of Dreams and Nightmares isn’t the only proud man in the room.

“Morpheus, you mean the world to me,” Hob says softly. “But you are such a selfish, arrogant, prideful anthropomorphic personification that I don’t know what to do right now. You’ve hurt my feelings and betrayed me in the worst way I could possibly fear, whether you meant to or not. And now you can’t even tell me you're sorry to my face.”

"Hob…"

Hob drops his hands away from Morpheus' cheeks to scrub his own. “And to think," Hob says, with damp wistfulness, as he tugs on his ear. "I was letting myself fall in love with you.”

Morpheus stiffens, like Hob has slapped him. Like the confession is the greatest insult imaginable to a being of fantasy and fright. It probably is. After all, it took the bastard two hundred years and then some to even admit that he wanted Hob for a friend.

“Get out,” Hob says wearily. “And stay away until I’m ready to forgive you. This dream is over.”

Morpheus dissolves.

And Harriet faints.

Hob unlocks the door. Harriet, still shaky and blinking dumbly around herself, steps out into the hall.

“You can go,” Hob says. “I won’t keep you. Or, you can stay while I redo the shot that my dipshit friend ruined, and then I can explain. Whichever you prefer."

Harriet hesitates.

"Will you wait?”

Harriet nods, and slides down the wall to rest.

“Okay.”

Hob goes back inside, and straightens the covers. He puts on his wrapper, cap, and slippers. He puts the poker back. He replaces the camera and mic, and turns them on. He puts the key back in the door, and returns the walkie to the little table out of frame and confers with the ADs. He goes through the motions of readying himself for bed again. He lays down, waits for a count of sixty, then gets up and rearranges his pillows so it looks like he is still in bed. They can edit it all together later.

Then he goes back into the hall.

He’s not sure why, but he’s surprised Harriet’s still there.

Professional curiosity, maybe. And Hob has certainly made a curiosity of himself.

“I don’t know about you,” Hob says, crouching down into Harriet’s eyeline. “But I’m desperate for a cuppa.”

Harriet huffs wobbily. “S’against the rules.”

“Don’t care,” Hob says. He offers her his hand to help her up. She looks at it, looks up at his face, and then back down at his hand.

She pulls herself to her feet without his help.

He doesn’t blame her.

For a moment, he thinks she might try to hit him. Or something.

Instead, she runs her hands through her hair, fixing the fallen strands back into their thick grey bun, and says: “Come on. I always smuggle in some PG Tips.”

He follows her placidly to the kitchen, projecting harmless vibes as hard as possible. He feels like a big, dirty brute, trying to jam himself back into the civilized veneer of his professor skin.

They pass through the Tudor-era kitchen set with all the non-functioning props, and through to the Edwardian one that the family after the Gadlens had added on to the back of the house. The Craft Services team has left all of their gear overnight, so there’s running water and an electric kettle, and even cold milk in a little bar fridge humming away in the corner.

Harriet seems to need a moment to collect herself, so Hob sits at the folding table in the corner and keeps his trap shut as she goes through the motions of making them a pot. There are no cameras and no microphones in this part of the house, thank goodness.

“Well,” Hob says, when the pot is on the table and Harriet is seated opposite him. “How’s that for a lover’s quarrel?”

Harriet laughs shakily. She’s hunched down on her stool, hands wrapped around her mug like it can keep her world from tilting even further off its axis.

“I can’t believe Glenn slept through all that shouting,” Hob ventures, when Harriet doesn’t reply.

“I can,” she snorts. “Sleeps like the dead, does Glenn Davies. Snores like a hog, too, which is why I have it in my contract that if we do these sleeping scenes, I don’t have to share a bed with him any more.”

Hob snorts into his mug, splashing tea on the back of hand.

“That… thing. That man,” Harriet ventures gravely, as Hob wipes his hand on a bit of the wrapper the camera won’t see. “What was he?”

"His secrets aren't mine to give away," Hob says slowly. "But he's a… good being. I can't say he's a force for good or a force for evil, beucase he's not. He's just… he's a force. He's neutral, like the the sun is neutral—it can give life, or it can kill, but never on purpose."

Harriet sips her tea, digesting this. "But he's not human?"

"No."

"Are you?"

Hob hesitates. Then he says, "Yes. Sort of. I used to be."

"Are you a… a vampire?"

A burst of cackling laughter surprises Hob as much as Harriet. "Sorry, sorry," he says. "It's sort of like a private joke-slash-trauma. No, I'm not a vampire. I'm… well, totally and completely human, except that I don't age, and I don't die. I heal a little faster than the average too, but you know, not by much. A broken leg takes pretty much the same amount of time to recover from for me as for you."

Hob can see the moment when the balance between academic curiosity and existential fear begins to tip in favor of the former. Harriet takes a scalding gulp of tea and sits forward, studying his face.

"How old are you?"

Hob smirks. "Thirty-three."

Harriet rolls her eyes. "Fine. How many years have you been thirty three?"

"Celebrated my six hundred and seventy second birthday last May Day," Hob offers, answering her real question. "The calendars don't match up any more, but mam said I was a spring rabbit, and it seemed as good a date to pick as any."

“Why does he call you Hob?”

“Short for Robert. My youngest brother had trouble with his ��r’s. It stuck.”

“And how much younger than you is your youngest brother?” Harriet asks shrewdly

“John Gadling died in 1372. Tetanus, we’d call it now. Then it was just a fetid wound.”

"He said that no one else knew your secret?"

"No one still alive today. There as an occultist, found a sketch of us from our 1689 meeting titled The Devil and the Wandering Jew," Hob laughs. "I looked bad. He looked worse."

"And you're… you're Robert Gadlen the Third," Harriet says slowly, as if everything she overheard is just coming together for her now.

"I'm Robert Gadlen the First through to the Sixth," Hob says genially, and spreads his arms. "They're all me."

Harriet looks at him, really looks at him, and he can see her comparing him to the portraits. Then, at length, the grim shock of the evening gives way to her usual easy geniality. She laughs.

"What?" Hob asks.

"Oh my god, you're an idiot," Harriet sorts. "What kind of stupid immortal uses variations of their own name over and over again?"

Hob laughs too, and it feels good, feels like it's breaking up some of the lingering anger and hurt, shattering it into moon dust to float away on a giggle.

"I know, right?" Hob says. "That really bit me in arse."

"I'll say!"

When they calm themselves, Harriet peppers him with a hundred thousand questions—did they get the food right, were Elizabeth's teeth really that rotted and black, what did he mean when he said they only met his friend once every hundred years, did he meet Shakespeare, has he really been mourning Elenor and Robyn this whole time? Is he okay?—until one of the AD's startles them by rapping on the servant's door.

"Doc Bob? Doc Hari?"

"Yeah?" Hob calls.

"Can you guys go to bed, please? It's late, and we're miserable, and we can't sleep until you do, and if you don't sleep we'll have to do this all again tomorrow night, please—"

"We're going, Toni," Harriet calls back. "Sorry!"

"Sweet dreams," Hob adds, then stills and presses his fingers to his lips.

That's how he always bid goodbye to Morpheus in the Dreaming. A cheeky little farewell, and maybe a reminder to his friend to be kind to the dreamers in his care, and to maybe be kind to himself as well.

And now…

"Is it true, what you said?" Harriet asks Hob helps her tidy away the dishes and hide the evidence that she'd snuck in the contraband.

"About what?"

"Was it a lover's quarrel?"

Hob takes a moment to think about his answer, running the dishtowel over and over around the outside of the clean mug in his hands. "I don't know," Hob admits. "I've always admired him. Always found him attractive. If he'd asked, any time in the last six centuries, I would have said yes in a heartbeat. But I barely know him. We've been hanging out one night a week for a year, and more often than that in my dreams, and I… I don't feel like I know a thing about how he thinks, or feels, or how he sees me. He's just so much more than we are, I just don't… I don't think he can love like we do."

"I don't know," Harriet says. "He's the, what did you call him, the anthropomorphic personification of all dreams and nightmares?"

Panic jolts through Hob. "I didn't—"

"Not at this table, no, but you certain sniped enough at him upstairs that I put it together. They call me Doctor for a reason, son."

Hob wrinkles his nose at the endearment. "I am fully six centuries your elder, madam," he protests with a little theatre.

Harriet laughs. "All that age and no wisdom yet, hmm."

"What does that mean?"

"I mean I think that the living embodiment of human dreams might know a little something about love, don't you think?"

“He doesn’t feel that way about me,” Hob says sadly, setting down the cup on the table with the rest of its mates. “You know, I don’t think he has the ability to feel that away about anybody.”

Harriet pats his elbow comfortingly, and Hob smiles down at her, pleased to see that she isn’t scared of him anymore, at least.

The ludicrously large bouquet appears on set at lunch time. No one's sure who delivered it, but a PA found it on the front step, with an elaborate hand written card addressed to 'Doc Bob' in terribly fancy penmanship, and sealed with scarlet wax. There's a bird stamped into the seal.

"A crow?" the PA asks as he hands Hob the flowers in the middle of garden, where the weather is fine enough that they've set up the lunch tables under the apple tree.

"A raven," Hob corrects distractedly. The bouquet is three times the size of his head, standing in a sharp vase of black onyx that seems to swallow the sunlight around them. Hob's aware that he's the centre of everyone's attention, but all he cares about is the letter.

He pops the seal gently, and unfolds the ridiculously luxurious cardstock.

Inside, there is tidy little quote:

Forgive me, Valentine; if hearty sorrow

Be a sufficient ransom for offence,

I tender 't here; I do as truly suffer

As e'er I did commit.

"Fucking Shakespeare," Hob chuckles, folding the letter up and slipping it into his doublet.

"What's this then?" Glenn asks as he ambles over to appreciate the gift. "Who's this from?"

"Secret admirer," Harriet says, with a twinkle in her eye.

"For our Bobby Boy?"

"Seems like," Harriet says.

"No, no, that's not right," Hob mutters. "He doesn't… this isn't—"

"For somebody who you say doesn't feel love the way we do," Harriet interrupts him. "He sure seems apologetic and enthusiastic."

"What?"

"You accused him of not giving you any signs," Harriet explains. Then she points at the bouquet. "But look. Lily of the valley, that's a hope for a rebirth of a relationships, white tulips too for peace and and an entreaty for forgiveness, forget-me-nots is in the name of course, white orchids for sincerity, red carnations for a wounded heart. Harebell for grief. Hawthorne for hope. Hazel for reconciliation. And so many roses! Pink for hope despite past conflict and hardships, yellow for friendship, red for passion, desire, romance! White for peace, and beside one another they mean unity. And here, these are for longing, they're—"

"Camellias," Hob says, the words punching out of him. He hands the bouquet to Glenn and grabs Harriet's shoulders. "What do daffodils mean?"

"Regard," Harriet answers, amused.

"And what about the… the opposite if foxglove. It looks the same, but isn't."

"Foxgloves?" Harriet repeats, thinking it over. "Oh, gillyflowers."

"Yes!" Hob says, and he may sound a bit desperate and crazed, because Glenn is starting to look concerned. "What are those?"

"Bound together by mutual and equal affection."

Hob swallows so hard his throat clicks. "Ivy?"

"Fidelity," Harriet says gently, cupping Hob's cheeks in her palms. She's grinning fit to burst, moisture collecting in the corner of her eyes. Happy tears. "Marriage."

"He made me a crown," Hob breathes, and under his feet, the world shifts sharply. He clutches Harriet to stay upright. "I asked for a crown and he made me a…" Flower language is a thing, Hob thinks, his heart climbing into his mouth. I never followed it but… but if anyone is a swooning Victorian maiden it's Morpheus, and he… he is the literal God of Repressed Symbolism, isn't he and I…

"Oh, fuck," is what Hob says out loud.

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purplesauris · 1 year

Text

Trying to Recognize Myself (When I Feel I’ve Been Replaced)

Rating: Explicit

Pairing: Dream of the Endless/Hob Gadling

Hob has lived a very, very long life.

He's proud of it too, though he can't brag about it to anyone but his partner (who is partially the reason he's immortal in the first place). And part of being so old, having lived so long while fancying and vying for an eldritch's attention, is that he attracts a particular crowd. A crowd he's had plenty of time to get used to, that he relates to more than he relates to humans sometimes, but one he attempts to keep some distance from.

He might be mired in the supernatural, but even he has a limit to how much trouble he'll let come to him.

Despite that, he has quite a few good friends all mixed up in the occult, from Johanna Constantine (who looks exactly like her ancestor) in the exorcism business to the twins that infrequently show up to the New Inn, mostly on full moons, and offer to lay down a few simple wards in exchange for Hob keeping the pub open past the witching hour. He likes those two best, mostly because they conduct themselves well and don't try to drag Hob any deeper than he's shown interest in going.

Right now, he really wishes the supernatural being accosting him were as deferential as the twins.