#motherhen

[tonyboneysblog]

MOTHER HEN: PART NINE

parings: hawks x mother!reader

wordcount: 2.8k

notes: IF TUMBLR KEEPS PLAYIN WITH THESE MENTIONS IM GOJNB TK LOZE IT AHHHHH- also I missed you cuties🥴

warnings: none!

summary: you, the mother of Fumikage Tokoyami, are just a simple nurse! Who caught the eye of a certain pro.

Truthfully, hawks was having an amazing day.

He could feel the peep in his step, and when he woke up he almost thought some upbeat pep song start playing because he felt like he was in a damn movie.

He almost skips over to Mirko when he sees her, big smile on his face.

Mirko looks over at him skeptically, “what’s got you in such a good mood?”

Hawks hums, “oh nothing, I was only kissed by a beautiful maiden last night around…I don’t know 12:47?”

Mirko smile suddenly drops as she looks towards hawks slowly.

Then she suddenly catches him in the most disgustingly tight hug, “you dirty dog- why didn’t you tell me immediately?!”

“It was spur of the moment?”

Mirko squeezes tighter, “I know for a fact you didn’t make the first move.”

Hawks chuckles and try’s to raise his hand in surrender.

“You know me, full of surprises”

Mirko drops his, “Alright since you won’t tell me the truth I’m going to his you terrible news”

Hawks raises his brows in curiosity, “and that is?”

Mirko sighs, “HPSC decided to call me since you apparently been AWOL all night…”

Hawks rolls his eyes, “what do they want with you, you don’t even work for them.”

“They wanted me to tell you that they needed your excellence immediately- something important apparently.” Mirko crossed her arms looking away from hawks.

Hawks hums, Mirko seems to be in deep thought but he doubts it about the “important” business that the HPSC wants with him.

Mirko pats hawks back, “you sure it was just a kiss last night, birdie?”

Hawks whips his head towards her, “w-what?! Of course I’m sure!”

“I mean- gone all night?” Mirko giggles- “was she really that-“

Hawks cuts Mirko off, “Stop talking.”

It’s not hawks fault he decided to have a good night sleep with his phone turned off.

And maybe on a different day then events would honestly even more romantic than you made.

But your son was also literally attacked by villains- hawks wouldn’t go all, “come on baby” after that.

Speaking of you and Fumikage, the two of your were in the same spot as yesterday.

U.A. had cancelled school for the week after the kids got attacked- even if they didn’t cancel you still wouldn’t allow Fumikage to go back.

You couldn’t tell if Fumikage was okay or messed up in the head. You’d assume they’d go over some type of mental check before they let Fumikage go frolic with hawks somewhere but it also U.A.

Sure it’s the best hero school- but maybe you should’ve made Fumikage go to Shiketesu instead.

Shiketesu kids don’t get attacked by villains almost everyday.

Fumikage was still sleeping next to you when you woke up on the couch, you were slowly hit with all the memories that happened the night before.

like kissing a pro hero.

moment of weakness? perchance.

You check your messages yet they aren’t any from him, he’s probably working anyways.

You called off for at least two days so you were able to keep an eye on Fumikage so you really don’t have an excuse to ignore a text from hawks if he sends one.

Well you’re a grown woman, face your “mistakes” Y/N!

pretty lady

good morning.

maybe it wasn’t a good idea to text hawks on the job- you don’t wanna distract-

bird boy

MORNING Y/N

we’ll nevermind.

pretty lady

so about last night, I’m

sorry for yknow.

bird boy

kissing me?

bird boy

do it again.

bird boy

wait

bird boy

shit how do I unsend messages

you start to giggle, well at least he doesn’t regret it? thought he doesn’t know how to use iMessage.

pretty lady

haha. It okay keep it there

bird boy

yes ma’am

bird boy

I’m abt to be in some meeting. ttyl?

pretty lady

what?

bird boy

ttyl?

bird boy

sorry forgot you were a fossil

not funny, not even Fumikage calls you a fossil.

Aside from spending more time with Fumikage, your day has been quite boring.

and technically you haven’t been spending time with Fumikage because he’s been asleep the whole time.

Your heart aches with worry, Fumikage never really told you about the events yesterday- just that shadow took control.

You didn’t watch too much either, nor call U.A. Because you could already tell the media was ripping them apart just from looking at your timeline.

you know deep down that Fumikage will return to U.A. no matter how worried or how much you hate it. It is his dream school, he worked hard to get in.

You feel as if there’s something deeper affecting Fumikage- deep down in your bones.

And yeah maybe you’re slightly worried for the boy who was kidnapped.

Yeah, no way U.A. is surviving this.

But all you could really do now is focus on Fumikage and his feelings.

the following days were calm, hawks texted you at night mostly about random things or just his small thoughts.

One time he’s asked you if the moon were a rock or planet, he said he got in an argument with Mirko about it.

sadly he didn’t win it.

Fumikage was lounging on the couch, he would be out training but you begged him to rest.

even better news is that the boy who got kidnapped was found, saw the whole thing on the news too.

All might fought the big bad, and he won.

You never had the best opinion on All might but it’s also the number one hero so you can hate him too much.

You personally like best jeanist the most but you’d never tell poor hawks that.

Fumikage suddenly jumps when there’s a knock of the door, you pat his head in an attempt to console him then go to answer the door.

Imagine your surprise when you see the former number one and Fumikages homeroom teacher standing there.

All might smiles slightly, “Evening Ms. Tokoyami.”

you send a smile back, “evening, what bring you two here?”

All Might fiddles with a loose stand on his arm sling, “we came to discuss a matter with you, about Fumikage.”

“Please, come in then.” You open the door more to allow them into your home.

Fumikage perks up at seeing his teacher, “Mr. Aizawa?”

It was weird to see his homeroom teacher look so…clean?

All might and Aizawa sit on the couch infront of you a Fumikage.

“So, what is it that you need to speak about?” You say calmly.

Aizawa speaks up first, explaining on how they wanted to put the hero course students into dorms as some type of better protection.

it made your blood boil.

“So, will you allow Fumikage to-“

“No, I will not.” You reply curtly.

You can hear All Might whisper a small, “well that’s a first.” to Aizawa.

The silence is akward to say the least.

Alll scratches the back of his head, “is there a specific reason?”

“Would you like me to say it allowed, or put it in an email.”

“Preferably aloud?”

You breathe in deeply, “I don’t even know if I want my son in your school anymore. You’ve destroyed all my trust in this school- and if you think your protecting the students then your just plan wrong because the villains have infiltrated the school not once, but twice. Honestly I can’t even comprehend other parents agreeing to this.”

Fumikage messes with his hands anxiously, slightly embarrassed.

“Ma’am, we understand-“

You cut him off, “I seriously doubt that you under my perspective, you’re not a woman nor are you a parent- let only a parent on your own.”

Again the room falls into a tense silence.

until Fumikage speaks up, quietly.

“I think I would enjoy the dorms…”

You look over to Fumikage, surprise evident on your face.

Fumikage doesn’t look at you, “and I like U.A. too- all my friends are there.”

“Alright, then you can go.” You stay with a small smile directed at Fumikage.

“W-what? But you said-“

You grab Fumikages hand softly, “I can’t control what you want or what you do Fumikage. I’m not gonna force you stay here, you are your own person Fumi.”

All might sighs in relief, until you start talking again.

“But I’m not gonna retract anything I said, your school sucks in my opinion.” You sigh.

All might chuckles, “understood.”

You stand up and open the door for them, signifying that you wouldn’t really like them there anymore.

“Have a good rest of your day, Ms. Tokoyami.” Aizawa says as they leave.

When you shut the door you could almost hear all might a Aizawa sighing, almost like they just encountered a near death experience.

Maybe you could’ve been slightly kinder?

No, no, they deserved it.

Suddenly your phone dings with a text, from hawks more specifically.

bird boy

could I come over?

pretty lady

sure, something wrong?

He never replied though, hawks doesn’t actually ever ask to come over though.

Fumikage and hawks seems to be on alright terms as well, you noticed they both got the same drink when hawks dropped him off.

maybe they’re bonding?

Fumikage starts to tug at your shirt, something he never grew out of, holding his phone to you.

It was open to a text thread, someone named shoji.

“Can I go hang out with him?”

You hum, “yes- but come home early, you know I worry more cause of these villains.”

Fumikage pecks your cheek then runs out the house quickly.

well he’s sure excited to hang out with someone.

About ten minutes after you hear hawks knocking at your door, and when you open he looks…tired? exhausted?

“Hey mama bird.” His voice calls tiredly.

You usher him in and close the door, “everything okay?”

Hawks melts into the couch with sigh, “yeah, just a rough day- where’s Fumikage?”

You sit next to him, “He went out with a friend, did you wanna see him?”

“Nah, better he isn’t.” He chuckles softly.

Should you be worried about that?

You rest your head onto the back of the couch, looking at hawks.

“Why’s that?”

“cause I wanted to see just you.” He closes his eyes, he look tireder by the minute.

You giggle, “You can’t see me, your eyes are closed.”

“Close enough.”

You admire hawks features softly, you notice small bumps and nicks in his skin which are always edited out in the magazine.

Your eyes linger on the small marks near his eyes, you’ve always wondered if it were makeup.

So you check.

Your thumb runs over the marks, making hawks eyes squint softly before opening them.

“What’re you doing?”, He says with a mischievous manner.

“Just checking if they’re real.”

“Did I disappoint?”

you smile fondly, “no, never.”

Hawks analyzes every detail your face holds, every mark.

His smile fades, his eyes look heavy.

He grabs your wrist softly, moving them away from his face.

He looks at you as if you hung the stars.

He leans in, you can feel his breath ghost over your lips.

He hands ,which were ungloved prior, intertwine with your as he leans in.

His lips capture your own, his slightly chapped most likely due to always being in the sky.

He leans in farther, like he needs your kiss to breath, to live.

He needs the comfort of your lips to feel better, he needs to remember the taste, the feel, the smell of you.

The way your lips perfectly mold together like clay.

He feels like he’s flying, no cares in the world expect for you.

Hawks can feel your warm hands slip near his torso, his stomach flutters with butterflies.

You hold onto him, lovingly.

hawks places his free hand into your hair, pushing you closer to his lips.

You can hear a small coo coming from hawks, wonder if he chirps.

He loves the sensation, the feeling you give him.

He wants to stay in your warmth forever, he doesn’t wanna go back to the HPSC, he doesn’t want to do this new mission,

He doesn’t want to sneak into the league.

he just wants you.

Hawks hold you closer, like you’ll disappear until you have to come up for air.

The two of you breathe heavily, slowly coming back down from your little kissing high.

“date me.” He says breathlessly.

You cup his face with your hand, “y-

“What the fuck.”

You and hawks looks towards to door quickly.

“is that the number three hero..?”

only to find your poor son Fumikage and another boy.

mortifying is the only way to describe this situation.

Fumikage turns around to the boy, covering his eyes in what seems to be disappoint.

In return, hawks covers his eyes and retreats into you, covering himself with his wings.

You start laughing, so hard that you can feel your very own six pack growing in.

The boy, which you assume is shoji, starts laughing with you, “hey Fumikage, I didn’t know your stepdad was the number three.”

You laugh even harder, while hawks and Fumikage retreat further.

Later, when the embarrassment and laughter cleared, the four of you sat down at the dining table.

“I didn’t think you’d come home so early Fumi?”

shoji looks at Fumikage, “Fumi?”

“Well mother. I had to come back because I forgot my wallet- I did t know I’d come back and see some…some- some harlot sucking face with my mom!” Fumikages voice grows in pitch with each word.

Hawks gasps, “h-harlot?! And it wasn’t sucking face we didn’t even use tongue!”

Suddenly the table erupts as you sit back and watch.

“Disgusting- you’re illiterate and you can’t keep your hands off my mother!”

“I thought we were bonding Fumikage- remember when you gave me that drink?”

Fumikage shrieks, “I SHOULD’VE LET YOU DIE OF DEHYDRATION.”

“I wasn’t even on the brink of dehydration?!” Hawks says confused.

The small spat continues as you look over towards shoji with an apologetic face.

It was the first time this kid met you and he saw you on a quite personal time…

Shoji throws you a small thumbs up, great kid already.

You can almost hear Fumikage start cawing at hawks.

You try to break up the fight, “Alright— calm down…”

Fumikage sits down and crosses his arms as hawks deflates back into the chair.

“Fumikage..I apologize for kissing on the couch…I’ll take it to my room next time.”

Fumikage squawks, “mom!”

You can see hawks ears go red, his wings puffing.

Fumikage points at him accusatorially, “I know what you’re thinking you…you- you womanizer!”

Hawks gasps dramatically, “I-I’m no womanizer- I happen to like your momma!”

“Point at him too dark shadow!” Dark shadow comes out chanting “womanizer” while pointing at hawks.

Shoji decides to join in as-well…and maybe you too.

hawks sighs in defeat, Fumikage cheers victoriously with shadow.

You expect him to start jumping up and down with shadow as well.

“Shoji- remove the criminal from my home!”

Shoji chuckles, “not doing that..”

You stand up and lead hawks out of the house, you can hear Fumikage and Shoji laughing.

Hawks sits down on the stairs, you sit with.

Hawks sighs, “Not a womanizer.”

You giggle softly, patting his head.

Hawks stays quiet for a minutes wu til speaking up, “so, what’s your answer?”

“To what?”

His ears turn pink, “…d-dating me.”

“I’m surprised that’s even a question.”

“Is that a yes?”

You nod softly, smiling at hawks.

Hawks smiles with you, “can I kiss you again?”

“I’m afraid you won’t be able to stop.”

Hawks wraps his arms around you, “maybe, is that such a problem?”

“Maybe?”

Hawks leans in to kiss you softly, but you pull away.

“Why were you so upset when you came over?” You say while starting to rub soft circles on his hips.

“Not upset anymore.”

You sigh, “You don’t wanna tell me?”

“It’s not that…I just can’t tell you.” Hawks rests his head on your shoulder.

“Jus’ stressed out.”

You crane your head to kiss his temple, “would you like to spend the night?”

Hawks lets out a small laugh, “Fumikage wouldn’t like that.”

“He’ll get over it.” You push away from hawks slowly.

He laughs and follows you in the house, you point towards your bedroom then leave hawks to see Fumikage.

Hawks wanders into your room, it’s nice he thinks.

He removes most of his hero clothes until he realizes he doesn’t have another pair.

You won’t mind if he stole some of your wardrobe, right?

After done telling Fumikage goodnight, who was about to leave to walk Shoji home, you walk into your room to find hawks in your clothes.

how cute?

You make your way to the bed, welcoming its new found comfort.

Hawks seems to be sleeping until he snuggles into your neck, wrapping his arms and wings around you.

Looks like you won’t need a blanket at least?

hawks tries to sleep quickly, big day tomorrow.

infiltrating and gathering information on the league.

he hopes to god you don’t get hurt somehow.

would you be mad at what he’s doing? Or would you clean the blood of his hands.

would you spit on his face or kiss him until he couldn’t breath.

he’s scared for the answer.

Yet he continues to fall farther into you.

TAGLIST!💕

@lost-in-horrorland @boopjuice @validveenus @qardasngan @arminsarlerts @star-the-rabid-dog @bunni-teeth81 @lightsgore @portgasdbruh @camejlo-35 @marsbars09 @tharae514 @yoongiwantsme @kimahrii @pink-jello-fish @l1vvvvv @miy-svz @bumblebeebutter @lacunaanonymoused @emmmeoo

[thechristminutepodcast]

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[dcxdpdabbles]

DCxDP Fic Idea: The Contact, the Butler and the Sly Time Lord

Martha accidentally engaged Bruce to a higher being when he was two.

It sounds terrible, but she hadn't thought that the man wearing the Time ghost costume at her husband's Halloween Gala wasn't wearing a costume and was actually the physical embodiment of Time.

She just thought he took Halloween very seriously.

Mr. Clockwork was charming and didn't care that she had married from the lower level of first class. Her parents were rich, of course, but they weren't old money, and they certainly didn't have a lot of power to speak of.

Because of that, the elites of Gotham thought she wasn't good enough to be in a family such as the Waynes. It was so lovely not to be dragged into conversations that were thinly concealed insults.

Everyone else at the Gala thought Martha had no right to be there with them. Why was she just a few zeros off from being middle class, and wasn't it just so sad that Thomas would stain his family with her?

Secertly, Martha prayed Bruce would do something wild, like marry a girl from Crime Alley or even adopt kids in lower classes to make them all choke on their pearls.

Her son would be one of the most powerful men in a few years, and she couldn't wait to see what kind of hell he would unleash upon them. She would never push, of course, but it would be a nice fantasy to have every time she had to face passive-aggressive comments from ladies told by their fathers they would be a far better Mrs. Wyane.

" Why, hello there. Aren't you the cutest little thing?" Mr. Clockwork coos, smiling down at Bruce. He clung to his mother's skirt, his matching cowboy costume a miniature version of what she was wearing.

The boy had wandered over in the middle of their conversation once he was bored of coloring at his table. Martha couldn't blame her poor baby. There really wasn't much to do for those his age here.

Thomas had stated that children were usually not brought along due to being loud and distracting.

Martha wouldn't hear any of it, insisting her son would be going with them at the party or there would be no party. The majority of the elites believed children should be seen, not heard, and that boiled her blood something fierce.

Thomas had thankfully known when to pick his battles, so he allowed his wife to drag him to a costume store for a family costume to wear. He currently chatting with a group of investors in all his cowboy glory somewhere on the other side of the gala.

"Say thank you, Bruce," She tells her boy, but he only hides his face more, causing the two adults to chuckle. "Do you have kids, Mr.Clockwork?"

"Yes. Two daughters and a son" The man chuckles "All three are a handleful but I love them dearly."

"Oh, how wonderful. Bruce is my only son, but I want to give him siblings," she tells him warmly. She can picture Bruce chasing after his younger siblings dressed up as the Grey Ghost he loves.

She knows Thomas was worried about their chances of having a second child. He was informed not too long ago that he may suffer from secondary infertility. She didn't mind. If they couldn't have a child of their own by blood they could easily adopt.

Martha worked long and hard to provide good orphanages to the city. Maybe one day, a child from there could be her own. She'll have to speak to her orphanage managers- those in charge of the kids- to see if they could help her find one.

They have successfully been getting kids into good homes (At least she thought the number of children constantly changed, and the kids were never seen again, meaning the families that adopted them loved them enough to never return!)

Mr. Clockwork hums "how about giving him a spouse instead? My girls or boy could be a good partner"

Laughing, she assumes he meant her work on bettering the lives of the gay community- in honor of her brother who passed during the AIDs epidemic. "I'm sure Bruce would be happy to hear Mommy found him a husband."

"Is that a yes?" Clockwork eyes' flashed with an emotion that was gone too quick for her to identify.

"Yes, of course. If that is what they both want, I wouldn't mind their marriage at all."

Mr. Clockworks red eyes - contacts? A medical condition?- gleam, and his voice takes on a strange rhythm. "Then so shall it be, my son Danny Fenton shall be married to Bruce Wayne per their Blood Mother and Core Father deal."

Huh. Maybe Mr. Clockwork is a nutcase. Suddenly, she thinks back to her father, who would often tell her that she lived in a delusion because he did not want her to see the horror that Gotham truly is.

Even when you think you're doing good, Gotham has a way of making your work into nightmares.

Was Mr. Clockwork one of those people he warned her about?

Thankfully, he leaves not long after that. He claims he must return to work before his co-workers notice him gone. She doesn't see him for the rest of the night and half wonders if she had been speaking to one of the wait staff they hired as extra help.

Not that she minded, but it made her think his name might not even be Clockwork.

She tells Thomas the story hours after Bruce is put to bed with a candy bucket and the last guests have all slipped home. Thomas is exhausted, having been playing host longer than her because Martha had left around eight to take Bruce trick and treating. Then she got home and put him down for his bedtime.

She got back to the party around eleven but it was a much-needed break from all the hostility that Thomas had been forced to face alone.

"WHAT!?" Thomas booms when she finishes the story. They had just crawled into bed, and Thomas had been rolling to his side for sleep before her words flung him back. "Clockwork!? You're sure you spoke to Clockwork!?"

"Yes, I'm sure."

"What did he look like?"

"Um well he was in costume, but red eyes, blue skin, and he was wearing purple robes." She watches as the blood drains from her husband's face. "What is it darling? Who was he?"

"Oh, this isn't good....Alfred! Alfred!" Thomas frantically calls as if the devil had appeared in their bedroom.

Their servant and sometimes lover comes racing into the room, carrying a loaded shotgun. Ever since Thomas had met him overseas when he hired the British man as a personal bodyguard, he fell hard and fast for Alfred but he still deeply loved Martha.

He had sent Martha a letter detailing his feelings for his guard, and only after she had given him permission did he pursue the butler. Alfred had insisted on meeting Thomas' wife to prove that she was okay with him having a lover, so he had followed Wayne back home.

Then he simply never left.

Maybe because he was the best butler Wayne ever had, with his regal training and service in her royal highness' army, but she thinks that her own developed feelings for Alfred convince him to remain.

Alfred insisted that he was only a servant and thus could not be added to their marriage besides a bed partner occasionally. Still, Martha hoped one day they could convince him otherwise.

Bruce already saw him as a second father.

He looks at the pair, dressed in their nightwear in a rather enticing position (Thomas had grabbed Martha by her shoulder, to look into her eyes but that left them rather entangled on the bed) with no visible threat, and raises one brow.

Before he can say anything Thomas is all but rolling out of bed in a frantic leap. He tangles up in the blankets, falling gracelessly over the edge in failing limbs "Martha made a deal with Clockwork!"

At once, Alfred's handsome face drains of blood. "Oh dear, Martha darling, you made a grave mistake."

She can only blink at the men in confusion. "Who is Clockwork?"

"He has many names, but I knew him as Merlin," Alfred informed her evenly. He took her hand in his, the tremble in his fingers revealing his unease. " He had shown interest in Master Thomas before and was the one I protected him from. I barely fought him off and only due to outsmarting him. I would not be able to do it again a second time."

What?

"He is also known as a Fae or incubus in some circles. The kind that steals you away for fun." Thomas babbled from where he was pacing next to the bed, eyes franticly glancing about as if the bogggie man was about to leap out at him from the shadows.

For a moment, Martha wondered why her husband, a man of science and medicine who had never been superstitious, believed this Clockwork was some...some creature of myths.

"Martha, love, what did he ask of you?" Alfred questioned, bringing her hand to his lips as though kissing them would confirm she was safe before him.

"He asked for Bruce to marry his son."

"Oh, gods!" Thomas fretted, speeding up, his long strides becoming far more frantic. "Please say you didn't say yes."

"I-thought it was a joke, I didn't see anything wrong with it, I- said yes."

Alfred closed his eyes, looking like a man who had just been informed his death sentence had been signed by the Queen. "Then all we can do now is pray."

Years later, as Alfred is dusting the portrait of his deceased loves. He allowed his hand to trace the cover of Martha's painted smile and Thomas' strong jaw, mind filled with stolen kisses and sweet nothings that were ripped away that fateful night.

He is still struck by their loss. Every now and then, the knowledge of their death creeps in during his most mundane activities. It's like a kick to the chest every time.

Oh, how he misses them.

Ding Dong

The front doorbell jolts him out of his memories so violently it takes the aged Butler a moment or two to get a hold of his senses. He puts down the duster, climbs down the latter, and quickly makes his way to the door.

Stopping to fix his suit coat, he throws it open with a prepared smile. He expects extra help from the catering company Master Bruce hired for Wayne's annual Halloween Gala.

He was not expecting the two men, one looking nervous around Master Bruce's age and the other sly. His age is hard to gauge, but it may be due to time not affecting him as it did mortals.

Alfred's blood freezes at the sight of those cunning red eyes and smirk. "Merlin."

"Alfred Pennyworth." The demon chuckles. "I prefer Clockwork, as you know, but it's good to see you remember me. Most humans are prone to forgetting in their limited age."

"What are you doing here?"

"Why I came to fulfill the deal between Martha Wayne nee Kane and I"

"Martha is dead. Your contact is void."

Clockwork chuckles again, the sound as deadly as poison. "The contact lives as long as all those involved in it live. You know this."

Alfred presses the panic button on his wristwatch, knowing it sends a message to everyone in the manor to evacuate immediately. He will not live through this battle, but hopefully, it will give Master Bruce time to escape. "You will not lay a hand on Master Bruce."

"Come now, Alfred. We are to be in-laws. Our sons are joining in holy matrimony. Why the hostility-"

"Excuse me what?" The other man-demon? Ghost? Higher-being? cuts in, looking at Clockwork with brows knitted into a frown. "What did you mean holy matrimony?"

"Danny, you're getting married," Clockwork says with a cheerful wave.

"The hell I am!" The man barks, flushing red with anger. Alfred can hardly believe he just yelled at the monster. "I am not marrying some random guy!"

"It is the way things must go for the good of mankind-"

"Oh, go suck on a lemon! We both know that whole "this is fate" is bull!"

"You are embarrassing me in front of our new in-laws, younn man" Clockwork actually waves a finger at the fully grown human. "This is my one chance to marry you off to a good man. We both know that you can't attract a mate on your own."

"What!? Yes, I can! I've had girlfriends and boyfriends before!"

"And yet, no spouse! No wedding! Not even a ring!"

"Moby Dick, I knew this bonding fishing trip was a lie! You can't make me get married because of some contact you made when I was three!"

"It's not permanent! Martha Wayne said If that is what they both want, I wouldn't mind their marriage at all. This means you both must want to be together after one year of marriage. See if you like it, and if you don't, I can always find you a new husband."

"This isn't returning a jacket to a store! I can't just see if I like being married Clockwork!" The man hissed running a hand through his hair. "We're going home. I'm so sorry for bothering you today Mr. Alfred."

Alfred blinks at the young man's sheepish smile, wondering if ti's a trick. "No bother at all."

"Danny, if you leave without marriage, Bruce Wayne will die in an hour due to breaking our contract," Clockwork says, crossing his arms. "Honestly, your sisters were far more mature regarding their marriages."

Danny punches him in the face with a glowing hand. The higher being falls like a sack of bricks.

"Right, I'm going to drop this one off at a nursing home, and then I'll return to marry Bruce. Only so the contact doesn't kill him, and I swear I'll only visit every once in a while until our year is up." Throwing- Merlin, holy shit- over his shoulder as if though he weighed nothing, Danny waves at Alfred and scurries away, vanishing into a green portal.

Alfred is left standing at the doorway, utterly flabbergasted. Distantly, he wonders if the hollowing wind is actually Martha laughing herself silly in the afterlife.

Carefully, he reaches up for his com, switching it on to the sound of his family's frantic bickering. They were all worried about him since he sent the alarm and were fighting about following policy or saving him.

"Master Bruce," He says faintly silencing the coms "Please come to have your suit fitted as soon as you can."

"What for?" His son asks, likely looking for a coded message, but Alfred doesn't have the mental capacity to make one.

"Your wedding, sir. It's tonight, courtesy of your mother."

The coms explode into chaos.

[p1nkshield]

Dick: If I’m anything I’m like the fun, cool uncle right? Totally like a cool uncle with a mysterious past.

Tim: uh…

Damian: No. if anything you are the most motherly person among us.

Dick: Okay, Dami. Are you sure you don’t feel that way because you’re my youngest brother?

Damian: No, it is because you keep photos of my paintings in your camera roll to show to anyone near. Willing or otherwise.

Dick: that’s just brotherly pride! I-

Duke: you always have snacks.

Dick: that’s because I hang out with Wally! I’m not th-

Jason: You also dole out nicknames quicker than the flash.

Dick: Et tu brute? I’m hurt you would dogpile on me like this. Also, there is nothing more brotherly then giving out nicknames!

Jason: yeah but they’re never antagonistic, they’re always cutesy.

Dick: …Tim? Don’t tell me you’ll betray me too!

Tim: uh, well… you do kinda tell me to rest in a very mom tone when I’m going without sleep for too long.

Dick: mom tone? I do not have a mom tone!

Damian: you have one currently.

Dick: D:

[puppetmaster13u]

Prompt 80

 So Dan knows that there’s heroes that have gone back in time, he’s aware of that fact. But he doesn’t exactly care and has more important things to worry about. Like the fact that Danny and Ellie are now three years old, right when he’s moving, though maybe that’s a blessing in disguise seeing as the GIW are searching for them in Amity. 

  But still, he has more important things to worry about than the speedster vibrating five feet away from him. Like making sure Ellie and Danny are alright to visit (ugh) Peepaw Clocky while he goes to work. 

  Ms. Mercy is not messing around, which he appreciates in a workspace, but he has to wait for another opening in the daycare before he can bring his, as far as everyone else is aware, siblings who he got emergency custody of. 

  What with how Jazz is interning in Gotham, they figured Metropolis would be safer. Now if the speedster would stop following him, he would really appreciate it. He’s literally just an intern under Ms Mercy as an assistant, not even one of the scientists, and it’s not like his timeline of the end of the world exists anymore! 

[saintshigaraki]

very clear image of barou wrapping his own scarf around your neck bc you forgot yours and he’s grumbling the whole time calling you an idiot while he carefully tucks the tail of it into your coat. you ask him for a kiss after which he obliges embarrassingly quickly. he does this in front of the whole team btw

[leiatroublecat]

LawLu Law turns into a motherhen when Luffy gets hurt.

He would check and treat every littly scratch all while shouting how dumb and reckless Luffy is and grumbling that if he had followed his plan that wouldn´t have happened. (yeah, no. We all know that Laws plans are not as good as he thinks.)

He also hates it when other doctors take care of the younger captain. (Law: "They are just incompetent." grumble) The only one that he is okay with is Chopper, but only when he himself can´t treat Luffy for any reason. And even then he would look after Luffy later. (Law: "I´m just making sure that that idiot didn´t just remove the band aid." blushing)

[witchofthesouls]

I would love to see you write some more culture differences between the bots and humans. If you wouldn’t mind :0 I wish we saw some in TFP

Same here. I love seeing world-building and deep lore, especially with other fantasy/sci-fi civilizations.

TFP gave us so much and so little at the same time. It's like going to a restaurant, you have a drink and great appetizers, so you're constantly waiting for the entrée that isn't coming!

TFP is also really fascinating when looking at it with the lens of the caste system and its deep roots within and among the 'bots, even their reduced circumstances. I get the feeling that Optimus is way more casual in way with his team than what the decorum would demand, even with his barriers.

The Autobots would find human cityscapes as quaint. Even the dense sprawls of megacities with towering high rises are paltry reminder of what they're used to.

Cybertron was a planet where its wilds had been tamed. Either reshaped or completely stripped. The Wastelands is/was an apt name for the baren landscapes outside the established city-states.

It wasn't just a large difference in public transport and zoning and sheer scale. It was also the functional design and architecture.

City-states mimicked the layouts of Titans' ground alt-modes. They didn't sprawl outward. Those had set perimeters based on Titans' outer defenses. Instead, the cities expanded up or down.

It wasn't limited to just a parking structure or secretive bases. Whole levels housed entire communities of what castes resided there: occupations, hospitals, sewage, refineries, restaurants, entertainment, and so much. Some mecha go without ever seeing the sunlight or feel real wind, especially those at the lowest of the system. The lowest castes are set all the way at the bottom, among ancient tech and dilapidated buildings. Sorting and recycling what could be kept and what must be sent back to the upper levels.

The concept of "open to the public" would confuse the Autobots. The Golden Age operated its society under the strict overview of a caste system, which expanded to "where" and "what" individuals of a caste could access.

Monster truck rallies fall under bloodsport to them. Bulkhead once scavenged money to watch and do small bets at high-stakes drift racing and lower-tier gladiator matches below the ground. Mecha still had to pay entrance fees to it.

Parks were under the Artisanal caste. Blending murals of legends, careful tending to fauna that are functionally extinct that was tailored to the agreed aesthetic, live music from specific pupils of masters, playing on instruments that merged with the gardens, so it was difficult to tell what was a tool and a plant or animal. And entry to any of it was only allowed for certain castes.

Universities were thriving, self-contained communities, and major points of power. No one off the list would be allowed into its grounds. All visitors and short-term guests were deeply screened and monitored. There is no such thing as "dropping by." Everything is meticulously planned and prepared. Unless a faculty member personally vouches for a guest, they must heed the numerous rules or a risk permanent banning.

Academia had long since been territorial over its talents and quality of its programs and people. They refuse to allow anyone outside its jurisdiction to bully one of its own. No matter the rank or caste, it will close its inescapable jaws around an outsider.

The fact that someone could go to a private university and simply jog upon its grounds is mind-boggling to the 'bots.

As well as libraries and their courses and workshops. So anyone can go? Anyone?! Everyone has access to the knowledge!? Can anyone simply go join a seminar on local gardening? Anyone can just go to a playground and start swinging or playing basketball or flying a kite or dancing to music? Anyone?

Bulkhead had a lot of questions for Jack and Raf since they're locals compared to Miko.

"So anyone can go?"

"Yeah. I used to spend my recess looking up bird anatomy and Ancient Greece and Egypt."

"You had a thing for ancient civilizations?" Raf asked.

"Doesn't everyone?" Jack shrugged. "Pharoahs and gladiators and old gods? We ate that up with mystery books or Goosebumps."

"I read Sherlock Holmes and the Chronicles of Narnia."

"Those are classics. Hey, did you get into The Lo-"

"Hold up," Bulkhead cut in, crouched down and leaning more forward, as if sharing a secret and quietly ask, "So anyone?"

"Yes. Anyone." Jack repeated, rapidly firing off each point with a finger. "Their family. Their friends. Their classmates. Their coworkers. Their pe-"

"Even, let's say, a construction worker. He could just go inside and pick up, I don't know, quantum physics? Anatomy of any frames? Gardening?"

"Sure." Raf squinted and moved to wipe off his glasses with his sleeves. "Clubs and people like to donate more to expand the base. Some of the college professors even leave early editions of their textbooks." Raf readjusted his glasses and beamed. "It's for easier access people and for an industrial copier."

"Oh..." There was a wealth of meaning in that small noise.

"You..." Jack struggled on the concept. Perhaps giant metal aliens didn't need books and could download information from their own internet. "You don't have libraries or schools?"

"No. We did." Bulkhead sighed. "I just wasn't allowed into them."

Out of all of them, Miko would be the to come the closest to understanding them in some ways. 出る杭は打たれる. The nail that sticks out gets hammered in.

As a transfer student from Japan, Miko does have instances of culture clashes with her American classmates and host family.

She's loud. She knows that. But Americans are a different breed with no restraint. In some ways, admirable. In others, incredibly frustrating.

Miko is used to a far heavier workload with long hours after-school and a busy city life. Jasper qualifies between a small and large town that she can't walk around easily on her own with the blazing heat and bitter cold nights and the lack of a car or a bike.

Detention in the US is a joke to her. Stay in school after it's over? She's used to doing that back at home with clubs and cleaning it. On a Saturday? Same thing. Some clubs back home ran long hours over the weekend. Do homework? She already finished it during lunch or between classes because she wants all the other time to herself and the 'bots.

Because Bulkhead gets a realization just how free the kids' social mobility is, he tries to get on Miko over her scrapping at school and her assignments, especially after Ratchet's high jacking their science projects resulted in failure. And that was another strange blow since Ratchet is a medic and a scientist. She's smart and quick and can be rough around the edges and so everywhere, and, to him, Miko deserves everything she could want in her short life. (And wasn't that also a terrifying concept to grasp? To just live and die under a single vorn?)

At first, Miko was getting annoyed because it's similar to the well-meaning nagging her host family does, but she reads the worry he has, and they have to really sit down and speak and soothe over his misunderstandings.

It comes as a huge surprise to her that Bulkhead can just download a language into him. Context and colloquialisms would be missing, and he needs work because he's a mix between extreme formality and, much to her delight, yakuza. And it's all because of her own frustration that English is her second language.

[lovemadethemdoit]

not to be like that but the "protective bradley 'rooster' bradshaw" tag on ao3 needs more hangster fics

[nikolai-alexi]

Imagine if you will:

James heading back the to castle after quidditch practice. He’s alone, naturally, since he stays late to run solo drills until it’s too dark to see anything at all. But as he’s walking up to the castle, there’s a little flicker of light by the Black Lake that catches his eye, and he’s never been able to let curiosity go, has he? The saying is curiosity killed the cat, not the stag.

So he follows it. Until he happens upon one Regulus Arcturus Black, back against a boulder, ankle set over his thigh, with an adorable look of concentration, and a bloody needle in his hand and ink pots floating nearby.

“Oh absolutely not,” James huffs, summoning the needle straight out of Regulus’ hand and vanishing the ink, “I’m not doing this again. Sirius’ obsession was bad enough!”

Regulus doesn’t even have time to react before he’s being near frog marched up to the castle, by James Potter of all people, up the stairs, into the Gryffindor Common Room, and deposited onto Sirius’ bed, who looks just as startled about the whole situation as Regulus himself is.

“Give your brother a proper tattoo, will you, Sirius?” James huffs, moodily, “He was trying to give himself a bloody stick and poke by the Lake. By the Lake! Of all places! Merlin, Regulus, you’d think you wanted to give yourself an infection,”

Sirius is howling with laughter, and Regulus is still flabbergasted by the entire situation. There he was, trying to be a rebel like his brother and suddenly he’s being abducted by James Potter for not doing it right?

As Sirius’ laughter dies down, there’s a moment of silence in the dorm room where James’ face goes deathly pale.

“Prongs?” Remus asks slowly, “You alright, mate?”

James’ eyes are full of horror when he looks up at Remus, “Merlin’s balls,” he whispers, “I’m turning into my mother,”

Regulus gets a tattoo of a cat sleeping on top of library books on his ankle by his brother, who lectures him mercilessly about his bad tattoo etiquette. James makes him promise to not muck about with stick and pokes in unsanitary places. Remus and Peter tease James endlessly about his mother-henning, to which James responds by throwing literally anything in arms reach at the both of them.

Later on, none of them will ever spill the secret about how Sirius and Regulus rekindled their relationship. All anyone ever finds out is it’s something to do with tattoos, which helps so much when Sirius and Regulus are both covered head to toe in them. James even let’s Regulus give him a proper stick and poke years down the line. And if it happens to be a stag with a cat climbing in its antlers, well, that’s his own business, thank you very much.

[archiveofpiaandkathi]

Lily Evans: I got bullied by my sister, because I am a witch and she is not.

Sirius and Regulus Black: Our parents abused us.

Remus Lupin: When I was five years old I was bitten by a werewolf and therefore had no friends and a limited childhood.

James Potter, certified motherhen: This people deserve the world. I have to protect them at any cost!

[coldarena]

Please, I need to know at least a crumb of a Hillbilly thought 🙏

i have enuff thoughts and hcs on hillbilly jones to fill a library. its mainly me muggin the pple who only consider him in relation to ack ack and not the rest of him. or writing him as sullen or self hating??? bit tekky (especially before the whole 'he killed one of his own enlisted boys after being made lt' situation). this man took a guitar to a warzone he's actually so unserious. no helmet just vibes.

[fanworldbuildingfun]

Tonight I have two moods:

·         Desmond angst with Bleeding Effect

·         And Desmond being reborn as Al Mualim’s surprise kid

(note of warning: these are NOT in the same universe) (Unless?)

1.       Desmond angst with Bleeding Effect

So. This one leans heavily into feeling of entrapment that never went away after Abstergo. Desmond DID technically go from being used as Animus subject to being used as Animus subject. Admittedly, he did swap the relatively comfy accommodations for relatively better company (listen. Listen I may not dig the ascetic glass-n-white style Abstergo rocks, but I can appreciate that the room looked like a good hotel room). But that negate the fact that he, technically, had no real choice in either scenario

And here, instead of learning to trust Lucy/Shawn/Rebecca, Desmond instead clings to the memories of his ancestors. After all, they have neither any way nor any reason to use him, right?

He’s amicable with the team. Jokes sometimes, has lighthearted impersonal talks – basically, treats them as colleagues at most. But whatever vulnerability there is, is shown to the people he sees during Bleeds

So leaning against where he sees a ghostly Ezio sitting on his bed, or laying on the floor where he can see barely-there shades of throw pillows and rugs that normally sit in Altaïr’s office? It’s comforting. And so is the skritch of quill on parchment as Altaïr writes… Something

To Desmond, it’s not real

But for his ancestors, from the moment they held the Apple in their hands? The shadowy form of Desmond is very much real. Ezio can feel the press of Desmond’s body against his side. Altair can see how the pillows dip under Desmond’s weight

And Desmond probably wouldn’t have said half the things he did if he realized that the ghostly Connor who was making his own arrows across from him was listening. That they all listened. And could do precisely nothing

2.       Desmond as Al Mualim’s surprise kid

This is a complete and utter crack taken seriously(-ish). No one can prove Al Mualim never had any lovers, in or out of the garden. And he is not THAT old, by our standards (the man is killed at 56. Only 56!)

But he never did plan to sire a child. There was no time nor desire had for one

Except, no one thought to tell whatever Isu-bull went on with the Temple that

So in 1174, he gets “blessed” with a child from his preferred Flower who had never, to point, had a pregnancy. Ever *thoughtfully sprinkles in some more Isu bullshit because the lady genuinely never had it be an issue*

One may think Al Mualim would be the kind of man who would be a distant parent, or just forbid anyone from speaking of him having a child. But nope. Instead, Al Mualim goes completely Rodrigo Borgia over his newborn daughter

[tallowfallow]

I used to have the meanest cat. One of the things she would do is sit on your chest and stare at you while you sleep. It was incredibly unnerving to wake up to at 2am to a Creature looking down at you. It took a while for us to realize that Kitty (rip Kitty I miss you) was actually worried. She'd only ever do it to the kids of the family and she could never sleep until you woke up and told her to get off of you. When you did, she'd settle in close, still watching until she fell asleep too.

I really love the fandom's decision that Izzy is a mean cat in human form because now I'm imagining this:

A crew member, let's say Lucius for funsies, wakes up in the middle of the night, unnerved by the sense of eyes watching them. He's on the deck, with the rest of the crew and it takes him a second to realize there's no reason a large shadow is hovering over him. When his eyes adjust, he realizes in absolute horror that Izzy Hands is sitting next to them, his legs folded butterfly style and his sword on his hip.

Lucius and Izzy stare at each other for a long while. Lucius assumes that this is his last moments on earth before Izzy decides to slit his throat and leave him for dead. He wonders if he should pray to God but decides that God probably isn't too pleased with all the gay stuff and decides he isn't going to pray to a God that won't appreciate it.

Then Izzy speaks, his voice low and monotone. "You made a noise."

Lucius blinks. Is that why he's being murdered?

Izzy continued. "In your sleep. You made a noise, like you were going to choke."

"O-Oh?"

"Don't make noises like that."

"I'm sorry, I-I didn't know--"

"You sounded like you were going to stop breathing."

Something clicks in Lucius' head. Izzy isn't angry, he's... he almost doesn't want to say it but he's worried?

He's about to open his mouth to assure Izzy that he's fine (and hopefully avoid his ire so he can continue that way) when Izzy's hand shoots down and slams onto his chest. Lucius tenses up for a moment before he realizes what Izzy is doing.

So instead of screaming like he had planned, Lucius takes several deep breathes, watching the tension smoothing out of Izzy's face as his chest rises and falls. After a moment, Izzy glares at his face, moving his gloved hand up to Lucius' throat. He presses lightly at the pulse point, like he's checking to make sure Lucius is actually alive and not just a corpse faking it. A few seconds pass before Izzy takes his hand back and moves to stand.

He dusts off his legs and points at a stunned Lucius. "Don't make that noise. It's concerning."

'I was concerned.' Lucius hears so he nods. "I'll try not to. Sorry, Izzy."

Izzy mutters something which sounds a bit irritated but begins walking back to his post. Lucius can't really believe what just happened. And he just... Izzy... Okay. Okay it is way too early for this. Lucius will deal with all that in the morning, he's going back to bed and hopefully he won't make a weird noise that irritates (concerns) Izzy.

So he settles back into bed, scoots close to his Pete and is about to drift back off when there's another noise.

Swede makes a strange sound, a bit like a snore and Lucius hears a long-suffering 'motherfucker!' in the distance before Izzy is rushing over to Swede, who's tucked tightly into his favourite barrel.

Aw, Izzy, Lucius thinks before he can stop himself.

[scifrey]

Keepsakes:

A Hospital Bracelet: Comfort

Status: Ongoing Ficlet collection; unbeta’d

Series: the Hob Adherent series

Fandom: The Sandman (TV 2022) Includes some comics canon, and some cameos from the wider Gaiman-verse (including the Good Omens and Lucifer television shows), but it’s not necessary to know to enjoy the story.

Rating: Mature. There are discussions of medical torture and wounds in this chapter. Please curate your experience accordingly.

Warnings: Discussions of violence. Some whump and hurt/comfort.

Relationships:  Morpheus | Dream of the Endless/Hob Gadling, Eleanor | Hob Gadling’s Wife/Hob Gadling (past)

Characters: Dream of the Endless | Morpheus, Hob Gadling, Delirium of the Endless, Death of the Endless, Dream of the Endless | Daniel Hall, Destruction of the Endless, Desire of the Endless, Despair of the Endless, Destiny of the Endless, Matthew the Raven

Directly follows the previous part, A HOSPITAL BRACELET: HURT

READ ON AO3 OR READ BELOW:

A Hospital Bracelet: Comfort

Inspired by a prompt from @hummingbird231 on Tumblr.

“Let me in!” Matthew shouts. “I’mma peck his eyes out myself, the stupid, noble fuckface.”

The noise is enough to rouse Hob. He who opens an eye to take in the vision of Matthew buffeting at the small window in the hall-side door with gimlet-eyed fury. He is resplendent in his little neon-blue coat that declares him a Service Animal Do Not Pet.

The door pushes open, and a startled-looking nurse immediately flattens himself against it. “I’ve never heard a crow speak in full sentences–”

“Raven!” Matthew and Morpheus correct together. 

Morph flows into the room with all his magnificent, royal fury, dragging his sleek wheeled suitcase behind him and practically flinging it into the corner. He must have come straight from the airport.

“Get out,” Morph snarls at the nurse, and before Hob can even work up the spit to scold him for his manners, the fellow is off like a shot.

Morph locks the door behind him. Matthew lands on the bed rail behind Hob’s head and actually does peck him. But it’s just once, on his bare cheek, and gently.

“Ow,” Hob moans softly.

“You deserve worse,” Matthew complains, fluffing up in agitation.

“You are foolish,” Morph adds, as he drags a chair right up against the side of the hospital bed. He sounds so wrecked that anyone would think that Morpheus was the one who was in a car crash. “Jumping in filthy, frigid water, Robert! With a hole in your head!”

“I had to try to save her,” is all Hob says.

“Foolish,” Morph repeats. He takes Hob’s nearest hand between his own and presses his forehead against it, bowing into the bed. It causes the thin, plasticky hospital bracelet to rub against Hob’s road-rash, but he doesn’t say anything about it, too happy to have the warmth of his husband against his skin. “I know you cannot die, erasti, but I will kill you myself if you do this to me again.”

“Hey,” Hob croaks. “Not my fault.”

“He sounds worse than me, boss, get him some water,” Matthew says, hopping over to the bedside table where someone has left a pitcher, a cup, and a paper straw.

Morph pours, and Hob takes the opportunity to look around the room. Besides registering that he was now in a hospital, he hasn’t had much time awake in here to take in his situation. He’s been drifting in and out of consciousness since the ambulance, swapping so frequently between this bed and a soft bit of meadow Fiddler’s Green that they’ve sort of blended together in his scrambled brains.

God’s bones, he hopes he doesn’t have permanent brain damage. Or memory loss. 

Matthew extends a wing and holds the straw still as Morph uses one of his hands to hold the cup, and another to help prop Hob upright enough to drink without spilling all over himself. He knows enough to go slow, to take it in little sips, and is grateful for Morph’s patience as he wets his throat.

"I won't be able to stay awake for too long, duckie," Hob says when Morph sets the cup aside. Hob fiddles with the morphine pump button on the side of the gurney but doesn't press it yet. "But I'm glad you're here."

"Hob," Morph says, miserable. He lifts Hob's bandaged hand and presses a long, slow kiss around the bruised flesh of the IV port.

"I am fine," Hob reassures him. He wants to brush his hand through Morph's hair, more wild than usual, undoubtedly from his fretting. He wants to smooth it down, and then smooth down Matthew's ruffled feathers. He wants to put them all back to rights, so this can be behind them.

But it hurts too much to move, so he lets his head flop back, carefully resting on his intact right side, and takes in the hospital room. This is the longest stretch he's been awake so far, and he's been here… hours? Days? Hob's not actually sure.

There was surgery at some point, he remembers that. Daniel had come to keep him company on the Green while he’d been under anesthesia.

It’s probably only been about twenty four hours, considering the fact that Morph would have had to make his way back from the convention in Glasgow, then hired a cab to bring him to Hob in… whatever hospital they're in. An eye-flick at the window on the far wall offers Hob a view of pastureland and a small garden, dotted with other patients, close to the building. So definitely not in London. They must be close to where the crash happened.

Good. Small hospitals in out-of-the-way places are easier to vanish from, and the doctors are less likely to want to perform expensive and unnecessary tests. They’re easier to bribe off with cash, too.

While he and Morph aren't wealthy, they live comfortably enough that their health insurance is sizeable, if only for exact situations like these where a private room and a dedicated nursing team would make it easier to explain away their strange physical conditions. Like surviving a bullet grazing past one's head and taking out a chunk of skull the size of a golf ball, and not dying from it.

"Beg to differ. You got a hole in your head, Hobsie," Matthew argues, hopping down to roost on Hob's belly, pretty much the only part of him that doesn't hurt right now. "And a wrenched shoulder, a broken ankle, and your hands look like you went ten rounds with a hellcat."

"And all of that will heal," Hob assures the bird. Then he squeezes his husband's hand in his. "Though if your mom wants to speed things up for me this time, duck, I wouldn't say no."

He tries to wink at Morph while he says it, but it comes out as a wince instead, which seems to upset Morph even more.

"I should never have gone," Morph says, his voice little more than a broken rumble. The way Matthew scoffs makes it clear that this is already well-trod path between them.

"You couldn't have known, boss," Matthew reassures Morph, but it falls on deaf ears.

"I ought to have," Morph growls. "I was King of all Dreams, I should have—I shouldn't have been surprised—I—"

"Hey, hey," Hob says gently. He uses his grip on his husband’s hand to slowly pull his hand up so Hob can kiss his knuckles. "Shhh. You're not Dream of the Endless anymore. There's no way you could have seen her fantasies."

"Maybe I was hasty in abdicating," Morph says in a miserable, red-eyed rush. He fits his free hand against the side of Hob’s face without the crisscrossing bandages, soothing the little spot where Matthew had poked Hob with his beak. "If I had remained in my role for a few more years, I could—"

"No," Hob says firmly. "No, we're not playing what ifs. And you're not going to beat yourself up for not seeing something coming every time something happens to us. This is what human life is, duckie. It's just rolling with the punches as they come, getting back up, dusting yourself off, and moving forward."

Morph runs his thumb back and forth over Hob’s temple, the place where Hob’s started to bleach and colour his hair into a charming grey stripe.

“This is Desire’s doing,” Morph grumps.

“I doubt that,” Hob soothes him. “Desire doesn’t give a shit about your old rivalry any more. Stop looking for people to blame. Jill’s already dead, poor thing. There’s no one else.”

“Poor thing,” Matthew snorts.

“Well, I feel sorry for her,” Hob says. “Imagine, going through what she did, losing her mum, and then figuring out that some other bastard gets eternal life and you don’t, she didn’t, and it’s not fair—that’s enough to drive anyone mad. Believe me. I should know.”

“Yes, speaking of knowing, how did she?” Morph snarls.

Hob tells him.

It just makes Morph angrier. “Lucifer, that flamboyant, self absorbed–”

“Cut it out,” Hob barks, trotting out his Professor Gadlen voice. 

Matthew startles enough to puff up, and Morph jerks back, stung. His face falls from surprise to hurt. Morph draws his hands away and curls into a ball on the hospital chair, and Hob wishes he could chase after him. But even raising his IV’d hand to follow tugs and burns painfully, and Hob hisses and drops it to the bed instead.

Matthew looks like he’s about to say something, but Hob shoots him a warning glare, and the raven snaps his beak shut.

“Morph, babe,” Hob says gently. “I’m not mad at you. I just need you to stop thinking that this is anyone’s fault but hers. I know you feel lost and aimless because there is no one to punish, and no one to blame, and no one to yell at—it’s hard to have all that anger in you and nowhere for it to go. I get it. But you gotta let it go.”

He holds up his hand and Morpheus pounces on it, clinging like Hob is floating in the sea and he is the only life raft.

“Erasti,” Morph breathes, and his lower lashes sparkle with unshed tears. Where once they glowed sliver, mercurial as stardust, they’re now just regular old saltwater… but no less beautiful. “I was… I was so frightened.”

“Me too,” Hob assures him. “But nothing was going to keep me there. Nothing will ever keep me from you.”

“I couldn’t… the… glass… I couldn’t stop thinking about…” His sentence devolves into panicky little breaths, and, by god, does Hob wish he was the kind of immortal creature that heals quickly, so he could be over all of this nonsense and out of the hospital already. That he was able to fold Morph in his embrace and kiss away every one of his terrible fears and memories.

For half a moment, he enjoys the extremely bitter irony of not being a vampire.

“Here, come up here,” Hob says, wiggling as much as his bound shoulder and casted foot will allow. He makes a small gutter of space between his side and the rail of the bed. 

Matthew rides him out, waiting until Morph has folded his skinny arse on the mattress, and then picks his way over Hob’s chest to hunker down on the pillow, right behind Morph’s upturned shoulder. He lays his head over Morph’s pulse and watches Hob with worried black eyes. Morpheus presses himself so close to Hob it’s like he’s trying to crawl through his skin.

“I can’t do this without you,” Morph warbles.

“And you never will. No one is ever going to take me away from you.”

“Dee said that when you didn’t show up for class, he went to check on you. He said it looked like someone dragged you out of the flat, and Destiny gave us the CCTV footage and you were so limp, and so alone, all I could think about was… the… the basement…”

The glass prison, Hob realizes. Being trapped while a demented human demanded boons and power that are not within you to give.

“That’s fair, duck, I would think of that first, too.”

“And then I… I didn’t know… I’m powerless now, Hob. I can’t–”

“Shhh, shhh, you’re not powerless. You’re here. Right here. Right now. Right where I need you to be.”

“I had to rely on my family to find you. To save you.”

“And they did. That’s what family is for.”

“I felt so helpless.”

Hob decides it’s worth the pain and effort to stop up Morph’s mouth with his own. The kiss starts desperate, dislodging Matthew, who flaps back to Hob’s belly, but Hob is able to slow it down into something sweet and reassuring.

“You’re not useless, you’re not powerless, and you’re not helpless,” Hob reminds his husband, in between lingering pecks. “Even if you did not have your siblings to turn to, I don’t doubt for a second that you would have found me. Not one second, do you hear me, beloved?”

“You suffered,” Morph whispers, so soft it’s nearly lost under the beep and whirr of the machines around Hob. “And I was not there to make it stop.”

“I’m not suffering now,” Hob says gently and kisses him one last time. “I am safe, thanks to you.”

Morpheus mumbles something, but it’s buried between Hob’s neck and pillow, and he doesn’t catch it.

“I’m going to reup my meds. All this moving around has me in agonies.”

Morph sits up. “Erasti, you should not have let me–”

“Nah,” Hob says, reaching over Morph to press the button to release a dose of his husband’s namesake drug into his IV. “I’m much happier with you here. Stay ‘till I fall asleep?” Hob asks, pleased when Morph both against the mattress to keep him company.

#

"It wasn’t me, you know," a voice drawls from the window-side of Hob's bed, the next time he regains consciousness. 

"Hmm?" Hob asks, working to get his eyes gummy open.

The little birdie weight on Hob’s stomach is gone, as is the press of Morph next to him.

He reaches out, wincing, but finds Despair in the hospital chair next to him, and not Morph.

"They've gone to fetch tea," Despair says, with thin grey glee. "Hospital tea is the worst kind of tea."

Hob rolls his head the other way—or, at least as far as the wad of bandaging on the ventilated side of his head allows—and Desire winks from the narrow sofa under the window. They're lounging like it's a luxurious settee from a golden age starlet's dressing room, instead of the sagging, pokey thing it is.

"I didn't know that the woman had such designs. I would not have…" Desire makes a disgusted sound. "I’ve laid my quarrel with your husband to rest. It’s no fun, now that he’s a boring old human.”

“I’m making an effort not to be offended,” Hob sing-songs, then coughs against his dry mouth. Despair helps him get some pillows behind his back to sit up, and to take a few sips of water.

Desire only rolls their golden eyes. “I did not set the woman on you to punish him."

"I know," Hob says.

Desire pouts petulantly. "He doesn't trust me."

"He doesn't trust anyone," Hob offers gently. "Don't take it personally."

"He must trust you," Despair says. Hob knows that she’s saying it to hook anxiety and resentment into him, and that she can’t help it. It’s just who she is. He doesn’t let the barbs break skin.

"He loves me, which is not the same,” Hob corrects kindly. “There are still things he doesn't trust me with. I think maybe the only person he really trusts is Daniel. Maybe Matthew."

"But you are his spouse," Desire says, the confusion drawing them out of their sulk. "Surely he trusts you."

"To an extent," Hob says affably. He wishes he could shrug but he knows that it will just hurt, so he doesn't. "I'm not offended by it. He's been hurt a lot in his life—hey, look at me, Desire, don't pout, I'm not calling you out here—he's been hurt because he loved too much, too fast, and too completely. And he’s had the trust that this kind of love engenders broken a lot. Then to top it off, he naively believed that humanity was the sum of all its best parts–and it is, it can be–but he’s been disabused of that by some very awful humans doing very awful things to him. And to one another. And now that he's just human, he lives in dread of the day that I’ll succumb to the same thing every other lover he’s had has succumbed to–that I’ll find the size and intensity of his love too much of a burden. And that eventually I’ll resent him, or get bored of him, and send him off."

Desire bursts into howling, hysterical laughter. "You? You? Fall out of love with our darling Moron Morph? Ha! Better to think you could piss on the sun to put it out!"

"Colourful," Hob chuckles. "But accurate. He needs to settle into that realization himself. I can't do it for him. And," Hob adds, as Desire’s expression turns mischievous and thoughtful. “Don’t you go meddling either. Let him sink into it naturally.”

“My darling little brother,” Desire drawls. “I am Desire of the Endless. There is literally no force in existence more natural than I.”

Hob just levels them a flat, unimpressed look.

“Oh fine,” Desire says, throwing up their hands. They flip around on the sofa, irritable, laying on it head down with their long, long legs propped against the wall under the window, crossed at the ankle. “Spoilsport.”

“Thank you.” Hob turns his attention to the other twin. “And how are you, darling Despair?”

“Wonderful,” she effuses with a sated sigh. “I love hospitals.”

Hob grins at her. Some people might be put off by another’s joy in people’s misery, but that’s literally who Despair is. The sun rises in the east, water is wet, and Despair of the Endless revels in suffering. He’s just happy she’s happy.

“Your lovely hair,” Despair moans theatrically, brushing her hand through the ends of it visible on the side of his head. “You must be sad.”

“Of course. But it’ll grow back,” Hob assures her. He tries to reach up to tug on his ear, the little tick that has given away his embarrassment since he was a wee boy, and his mam caught him in a lie, but the motion pulls on the bandages on his shoulder, and he drops his hand to the bed instead.

“Of course it will,” Desire adds, grinning with their tongue between their teeth. “Handsome Hobsie.”

The urge to tug his ear grows stronger. "Where's Delirium?"

"She had her turn to sit with you while you slept through the drug-haze," Despair says. 

"She's out pestering the nurses right now," Desire adds, gesturing at the door as if whatever Del was up to was simply childish nonsense, not worth remarking on. "Confusing them into allowing you a discharge tomorrow. After that, the files will simply vanish."

"The head nurse will berate herself for weeks," Despair adds with relish.

"That's… really thoughtful," Hob offers with a blink. "Thanks, guys."

"It's almost as if we love you, little brother," Desire drawls, stretching and rising to their feet, amused by the way Hob's gaze latches onto the bulge in their anatomically-impossibly-tight trousers, which of course they had done on purpose to fluster him.

"Destruction will pick you up tomorrow afternoon," Despair says, rising as well and setting the chair in just the right place to trip anyone coming into the room. "Oh! Morph should learn to drive."

"Oh, no, he absolutely should not," Hob rejoinders. "Not if he doesn't want to end up in one of these beds himself."

"But he'd be so bad at it," Despair points out, full of hope.

#

Morph returns with two cups of truly wretched tea, and informs Hob that Del’s pulled some unseen strings to get him released into Morph’s care. Apparently she’s convinced the hospital that Hob is being moved to a posh, ultra-private clinic under specialist supervision.

“So private it only has one bed!” Matthew jokes, and Hob tries not to wince at the volume of his caws. It’s not the raven’s fault that Hob is having problems regulating his sensory input due to a traumatic brain injury.

As Hob and Morph grimace their way through the appalling tea, Matthew pulls the chart off the foot of the bed and painstakingly flips through it, reading the most interesting bits aloud.

“Three-dee printed disk of human bone fitted into your skull, isn’t it a wonder what they can do with technology nowadays, with a skin graft to cover the wound…”

“Where did you learn to read the chart?” Hob asks.

“I was a cop, wasn’t I?” Matthew says with his version of a shrug. “Got lots of practice hanging around in hospital rooms with vi–witnesses and the like.”

Hob tries not to be offended that Matthew thinks he’ll be triggered by the word ‘victim’.

“Oh!” Matthew snorts, “They took the skin from your ass! You’re a real and genuine asshat now!”

Hob groans and shifts on the bed. “No wonder I can’t get comfortable.”

“Are you in a great deal of pain, erasti?”

“Only from this tea,” Hob jokes, handing it back to Morph.

Morph looks like he wants to protest, but instead just takes the tea and sets it aside. 

“Sorry,” Hob fumbles, unsure how to parse Morph’s quiet thoughtfulness. “I… I didn’t mean to insult–”

“No, no,” Morph murmurs. “It is just…”

Matthew mantles and, after a moment, finishes Morph’s thought with: “We’re just worried about you, Hobsie. You seem a bit–”

“Am I slurring?” Hob interrupts, fear surging up his spin. “Do I sound funny? Is my brain scrambled, I mean, I sound fine to me, but am I–”

“You are perfectly intelligible, erasti,” Morph reassures him. “Only, you are being… unexpectedly genial.”

“What?”

“Your good mood is freaking us out,” Matthew clarifies.  

Hob takes a moment to parse what they mean. “Wait, you’re worried because I’m not acting traumatized enough?” Morph takes his IV’d hands between both of his, looking theatrically sympathetic and worried. “Oh, come on! I’m fine.”

“There’s a hole in your head,” Matthew says gently.

“And they filled it with science fiction medical shit,” Hob grouses. “I can’t die.”

Morph looks hesitant to speak his mind, which, perhaps, a first for him. At least for as long as Hob has known him. Which is damn near seven hundred years, now. But he clearly has something he wants to say. It’s written all over his face like a ticking time bomb.

“Go on,” Hob says. “Spit it out, already.”

Morph blinks hard. Gently, he begins with: “You once told me that your greatest nightmare was to be captured and experimented upon. Despair told me what was done, and–”

“Stop.” Bile, hot and sour, rushes up Hob’s throat. He swallows hard against it, refusing, refusing to let that woman hurt him any more. He squeezes Morph’s hand hard enough to probably hurt.

Morph stops.

“No,” Hob says firmly, screwing his eyes shut, forcing his breathing to remain steady, to not speed up, to not betray his…no. No. “No. We’re not… no.”

“Okay,” Matthew says, wobbling over the blanket to press his head comfortingly against Hob’s heart. “It’s okay.”

“I’m fine,” Hob says, pushing him off gently. “I just don’t see what good dwelling on it will do. It’s over. I’m fine.”

Morph and Matthew exchange a look that makes it clear that they don’t believe him. It settles like a nettling irritant under his skin.

“You know, I fucking hate it when you guys conspire,” Hob snaps. “Makes me feel like a third wheel in my own fucking marriage, sometimes.”

Morph doesn’t outwardly react to Hob’s words, but the shine in his glacier-blue eyes gets brighter, his entire vibe closing off.

“Yeah, I guess that’s my cue to fuck off,” Matthew says, voice pinched.

“Wait, Matthew, I didn’t mean–” Hob starts, but doesn’t finish, as Matthew’s already leapt into the air and, in the span of two wingbeats, vanished into the Dreaming. Hob turns to look at Morph. He wishes he could cross his arms across this chest. “What?”

“Excellently done, erasti,” Morph says, and sarcasm oozes like sludge from every syllable.

“Well, I do feel that way, sometimes,” Hob snaps. 

“Then why have you not said so before now?” Morph challenges. “Why bring it up only to weaponize it right when we’re all feeling at our most vulnerable? Do you seek to hurt us the way you have been hurt? Or in recompense for my failure to protect–”

“No,” Hob interrupts hastily, shame flooding his body and dousing the prickly standoffishness. “I’m sorry. I am. That wasn’t fair. My brain-to-mouth filter must have been in the glob of grey-matter that fell onto the van floor. I’m sorry.”

Morph sniffs, clearly not ready to forgive Hob yet, and that’s fair. That’s fair. He’s going to have to grovel to Matthew, too. “Was your emotional intelligence in that glob as well?”

“Ouch,” Hob laughs, but it’s thin and strained. “Okay, I deserved that.”

“Hob, we were scared for you. We are still frightened of what complications may arise from what occurred. Will you not concede that our fears are well founded, at least?”

Hob chews on that for a moment, and while he thinks that it’s all ridiculous, that it’s nothing, he won’t deny Morph the right to feel what he feels. 

“No, yeah, of course,” Hob says softly. “I’ll… I’ll do better.”

“You do not need to do better at trying to lie to yourself and us about your mental state,” Morph warns him. “You need to allow yourself to process what happened and experience it.”

Hob makes a sour face at that. “Right now?”

“No, of course not in this immediate moment…” Morph heaves a sigh.

“Okay. Later,” Hob says, meaning not ever.

Morph eyes him like he knows, but lets it drop. After a few long moments of awkward, frustrated silence, Morph says, “What else was in that glob of grey matter, do you suppose?”

He’s trying for a joke, and Hob’s replying laughter is too forced, but neither of them remark on it.

“I dunno. Why don’t you quiz me?”

“In what year did we first meet?”

“2019,” Hob says promptly, just for the way Morph’s face transforms with shock and dismay, only to curl into sly amusement.

“Ah, you jest.”

“Of course I jest. 1389, June 7th. Best day of my life.”  He uses their entwined fingers to pull Morph’s hand to his mouth for a quick kiss. “Give me a hard one.”

“Hƿæt ƿæs þīn earste inƿætling þū me?”

“I č ierēamde þīn ēagan for dæᵹ,” Hob replies.

"Menteur. Je suis revenu en arrière et j'ai regardé tes rêves à propos de moi après que nous soyons devenus amants."

"D'accord, j'ai rêvé de tes yeux et de te pencher au-dessus de la table, juste là, au milieu de the White Horse."

“Kinē sōhaṇē śabada. Tusīṁ mērē nāla kivēṁ rōmānsa karadē hō, isa la'ī.” 

“Tusīṁ saca magi'ā, rōmānsa nahīṁ,” Hob says with a cheeky wink, feeling much more himself now that they were back to flirting.

“That’s not truth either!” Morph blurts out. “Þú virðir mig. Þú óttaðist mig.”

“Ég hef aldrei óttast þig.”

“I glóssa sou eínai asiménia ópos pánta. Den nomízo óti écheis chásei kamía glóssa.”

“Ti anakoúfisi,” Hob says, with a sigh, and indeed it is a relief. Whatever it was what made Hob Hob, that formed his personality, and his memories, and his core identity, seem to be intact. 

#

Hob’s not entirely certain he trusts Destiny of the Endless to drive any more than Morpheus, considering he’s never seen the entity’s eyes through the curtain of his hipster-emo hair. But it’s Destiny who greets them from the driver’s seat of Dee’s junky little Jeep hatchback. As Dee lifts Hob from the wheelchair into the back seat, Hob supposes it makes sense for the big strong burly Endless to be the one to manhandle him around while his motor function is still shot. Still, he thinks he might prefer the one who’s lived among humans to be the one navigating.

“We will arrive at the New Inn safely,” Destiny sniffs as Morph scoots in the other rear door, and gets Hob buckled in.

Hob is reminded sharply that his in-laws can read his surface thoughts, so long as they pertain to their sphere of influence. A spike of annoyance flashes through him, but Hob shoves it down. It doesn’t matter.

“Fair enough, fair enough,” Hob laughs lightly, instead, trying to keep the mood light. 

He’s already exhausted from their little escape. Okay, so said ‘escape’ is agonizingly slow, in broad daylight, and under the approval and supervision of a bunch of people who won’t remember it afterwards, but perhaps they were a bit hasty in getting him out of there so fast. He really does wish he’d been able to bring some of that lovely IV-strength morphine with him. 

Destruction climbs into the front.  “All set?”

“Yeah,” Hob says. “Good as it’s gonna get, at least. You know, it’s sweet of all of you to check in on me, but I’ll be fine.”

Matthew lands on Morph’s lap, and they exchange a skeptical glance as Morph shuts his door, and Destiny pulls away from the hospital carriageway.

“What?” Hob chuckles, leaning as far back in the seat as it allows to cradle his poor head, broken ankle propped on the wheel well. “Really, I’m fine!”

“Boss,” Dee says, turning awkwardly around in the passenger seat. “Not to make, you know, light of it, but you were drugged, abducted, imprisoned, medically violated, shot, and then in a horrific car wreck. You’re allowed to be not fine. Anybody would be not-fine.”

“I was not-fine after only two of those things happened to me,” Morph says softly.

“That was a whole century, though,” Hob says. “I was only gone a day. Twenty-four hours at most.”

“A short duration of torture lasts does not make it any less torturous.”

“Torture!” Hob echoes, with a forced guffaw. “Come on, guys.”

Morpheus lays a gentle hand on Hob’s thigh, and somehow the usually comforting gesture feels condescending this time. “Erasti, waking nightmares have been spawned by less. There is no shame in–”

“Stop pestering me,” Hob snaps, shoving Morph’s hand off, his good mood starting to strain.

“Hobsie, come on,” Matthew says, scrambling up Morph’s arm to perch on his shoulder and preen Hob’s visible hair under the bandages. “I thought you didn’t buy into the toxic masculinity bullshi–”

“I said I’m fine!” Hob snarls. “So leave it.”

Matthew jerks back with a startled squawk, landing on his back in Morph’s hastily cupped hands. No one else says anything, but the silence that descends on the car is thick with I told you so. Four pairs of eyes drill into Hob accusingly, worriedly; even Destiny's, while he still somehow manages to keep them on the road. Or so Hob assumes, cause he can’t see them.

“Ow,” Hob says, his head throbbing so hard that he sees dark spots in his vision.

Morph sets Matthew to rights. The raven faces away from Hob on Morph’s lap, Morph helping him groom his feathers smooth with stiff, pale fingers. Hob immediately feels like an arse.

But everyone is finally quiet, so he closes his eyes and rests the intact part of his skull on the cool window and closes his eyes, and tries to banish the vision of the needle coming toward him, over, and over, and over again.

#

Death and Delirium are waiting for them at the flat, and Hob tries not to be irritated by it.

He’s not a fucking child, he doesn’t need babysitting.

Hob is handed off like a grouchy baton, Destruction setting him gently on the sofa, Death covering him with the hand-knit blanket from the back of it. Delirium twines the stem of a flower—drooping, partially managed echinacea, which otherwise would be a sweet wish to get well soon—through the bandages around his head. Destiny reviews the uses of the medication the nurses had discharged Hob with in the kitchen, with Matthew and Morph.

“Brought you a present,” Death says. She holds up a stunningly beautiful art-nouveau style stoppered pitcher in emerald-green glass. It’s filled with what appears to be an ever-swirling golden storm of Dream Sand.  "And it's not addictive, like opiates or morphine."

"Well, not that much more," Despair says, from where she's appeared on the armchair next to the sofa.

"Tsk, this is so tacky," Desire says, grabbing his wrist without even asking Hob, and cutting away the hospital bracelet with one blood-red, razor-sharp nail. It drops to the floor with an anti-climactic flutter. "There."

Hob recoils from their touch, overwhelmed and feeling very much that he wants to be left alone. And also, very much, that he is desirous of a shower. He feels objectively disgusting under all the sweat and grime and reek of the hospital.

"Well, I'm not washing your back, Hobsie," Desire purrs. "Though if you got permission from Mister Morose, I think I could be persuaded to give you a sponge bath." With a seductive gesture, they're suddenly dressed in an extremely frilly, extremely skimpy candystriper costume.

"Bath?" Death pipes up from behind the sofa, where she was in discussion about security of the flat with Destruction. "Absolutely not. You’ll get your cast wet, and water in your cuts, and soap in your brain, and that can’t be good, even if it won’t kill you.” 

“They put a skin graft over the hole,” Hob grumps. “Nothing can get in my brain.”

“They took it from his ass!” Matthew chirrups from the kitchen. “So Hobsie’s a real asshat now.”

“Yes, thank you,” Hob growls. “Ha ha ha. That gets much funnier the more you tell it.”

Matthew mantles and harrumphs, puffing up like a particularly irritated soot sprite. “Hey, I’m just trying to lighten the mood around here.”

“There’s no mood,” Hob says. The bandages itch. The adhesive is pulling uncomfortably on his hair, and he just feels so gross. He wants to brush his teeth, but he doubts any of the Endless will even let him piss in peace.

Despair smiles. “There’s definitely a mood.”

“AGGresSioN aNd uNUsUAl CoMbATiveNESS is A sIgN oF TrAuMaTIc bRaIn InJuRY. HaVe yOUr puPiLs ReTuRnEd to THE sAmE SiZe, oR—” Delirium floats far too close to Hob, peering into his face, the tip of her nose touching his.

"Okay, that's enough! Everyone out, out!" Hob snarls. Silence falls like an atom bomb. The assemblage of his in-laws all turn to blink at him with expressions ranging from amused to offended. "Please, I am exhausted. I appreciate your concern but please go. Please."

"Of course," Death says, graciously, as if it were her idea and not because Hob just bit off the collective heads off of six of the most powerful entities in existence. "We must let Dream have his time with our littlest brother, as he is still too young to step into the Waking."

"No," Hob moans. "No, I beg you. I don't want to be coddled in the Dreaming either, I just—" But then he's talking to an empty room.

Well, not quite empty.

Morph and Matthew are still in the kitchen. Morph has a pill bottle in each hand, and a raven on his shoulder, and a look of intense scrutiny on his face as he pointedly does not divert his attention from the medication.

Matthew shoots a few looks between Hob and Morph, and then spreads his wings.

"Yeah, good luck with that, bossman," Matthew says, and launches himself off of Morph and through the open window, into the sky.

"Fuck," Hob says with feeling, punching the sofa cushion beside his thigh. And then, once more, "Fuck!"

Which of course makes his head start to ache and his vision dance, and his stomach roil.

He wants to scream, and puke, and pass out, all at once. Instead he does his best to throw off the blanket, and shove himself furiously to his feet.

"Do not stand," Morph says, setting down the bottles and crossing the flat in floor-eating strides. He scoops up the discarded bracelet and shoves it in his pocket, then puts his hands carefully on Hob's arms. He tries to guide Hob back down onto the sofa.

"I'm not fucking made of glass!"

"I never said that you were."

"Stop treating me like it!"

Sneering bitchily, Morph obligingly releases Hob's arms. But Hob's honestly still struggling with his balance, and he wobbles, then steps down hard on his airboot. He yelps as his broken ankle screams its protest.

Morph simply crosses his arms and glares at Hob, unimpressed.

Hob grits his teeth, firms his chin, and gives him back a glare of his own, determined not to budge. He takes deep breaths through his nose to push through the pain.

A small part of himself is calling Hob a stubborn fool, and reminding him that he’s only hurting himself by pushing away everyone, by trying to power through instead of taking the rest that he needs, but laying down hurts in a way that Hob can’t describe. 

It’s not physical, it’s… it’s in his head, in a part of his brain that the bullet didn’t scramble, and he’s so stupidly tempted to poke through the wound on his scalp, get his finger in there, hook into the place where the fear is writhing and yank it out, make it quiet, make it stop–

Laying down is too much like surrendering.

It’s like willingly putting himself on that table again and just letting—no.

Hob’s stomach interrupts their silent standoff with a frankly mortifying gurgle.

“You must sit. And then I will bring you something to eat, and your medications. They must be taken on a full stomach.”

Hob only lifts his chin and grits his jaw harder.

“You are being a brat.”

That gets a rise out of Hob. “Don’t bring your cute little BDSM terms into this, this isn’t the bedroom, I’m not… I’m not being sassy so I can get spanked,” Hob says, so offended that Morph would take something that is supposed to be fun, and intimate, and weaponize it against him like that, when he’s already feeling so–so…

Go on, he thinks viciously at himself. Put a name to what you’re feeling. Be a grownup about it.

No.

No, because if he names it, if he acknowledges it, then he has to feel it, and if he has to feel it then he has to admit to it, to deal with it, and he’s not ready to… not ready to…

“Erasti, sit.”

“No.”

“Hob Gadling!” Morph snarls, drawing himself up, clearly at the end of his patience. His voice booms deep and resonant: “Cease your whinging and do as I command!”

Hob plops down on the sofa, glaring mutinously all the while. Not because Morph commanded him to do so. Because he chose to do so. Because his ankle was really, really starting to hurt.

Yes.

That’s it.

“Now, please,” Morph begs, deflating a little but still ramrod-straight with his agitation. “Please, my beloved, just allow me to help you.”

“I don’t need help, I just need… I just need to get back to normal,” Hob says helplessly, and he hates how small and desperate it comes out. “I just want everything to go back to the way it was, before she… before…”

He squinches his eyes shut and shakes his head hard to dispel the sense memory of cheap scratchy cuffs at his wrists, and a hard table against his back, the prick of a needle in the bend of his elbow, the revoltingly violating touch against the intimate curve of his neck—

Which of course makes his head throb again, his stomach heave, his world slide. The discomfort in his gut increases, both starving after days of little sustenance and no solid food, and so nauseous that he’s afraid that even the smell of food may make him heave.

He wants tea.

He wants a bath.

He wants to cry.

“And you will, erasti, I promise. Things will return to normal. But you must allow yourself the time to heal. Body and mind.”

Hob scowls, even as he drags the knit blanket over his lap. He’s aware that it looks like he’s trying to hide himself in it. Or armor himself. He just needs something to do with his hands, he feels so useless. “There’s nothing wrong with my mind.”

“I never said there was anything wrong–” Morph starts and then stops. He heaves out a bone-deep, growling sigh of frustration and scrubs his long fingers through his already-wild hair.  “You were not this difficult when you cracked your rib.”

“Yeah, well, I wasn’t strapped down to a fucking lab table then, was I?” Hob sneers, and then actually claps a palm over his own traitorous mouth.

Morph, in response, looks utterly stricken.

“Oh, no, no, duckie,” Hob says, voice and hands suddenly trembling as he drops them away from his face. “I didn’t… please don’t worry… I…” He blinks hard, refusing, refusing to give in to the—to the…

His stomach gurgles again.

It spurs Morph into action, sending him back to the kitchen, where he takes a moment at the counter to not-so-subtly wipe the tears from his eyes. Then he’s pulling a baking sheet from the oven, plating up something that fills the flat with the divine scents of buttery pastry, savory spices, and rich gravy.

The nausea Hob feared doesn’t rear its head. Instead, his stomach just growls louder.

Morph putters a bit more, setting things out on the tea tray, opening and closing the fridge door, but Hob is too busy flexing his hands on his knees and counting out some calming deep breaths.

Face dry and once more rearranged into something less wrought, Morph returns to the sofa with a glass of water, a bottle of pills, a meal-replacement shake, and a plate with two little wonky, misshapen pasties. He sets the tray on the coffee table within reach of where Hob’s slumped in the corner of the sofa, and takes the chair beside it.

“Did you make these?” Hob asks softly.

“Destruction did this morning, and if you say one word about how terribly formed they are, I do believe it will send him into paroxysms of melancholy.”

“I’m not going to get food poisoning, am I?”

“No,” Moph says. “Only the outsides are queer.”

Hob doesn’t move.

“They are venison.” Morph says it in such an achingly tender, hopeful voice that Hob’s eyes burn.

Something huge and hot and harrowing surges to life in his chest, stoppering up his breath. Hob leans back into the corner of the sofa and presses the heels of his hands against his eyes. “This is too much,” Hob gasps. 

“This is how I show you how much I love you.”

“Duck?”

“Because this is how you show me,” Morph says, in a soft tone that nonetheless conveys his belief that he’s married an idiot.

“How…?”

"Do you think I am unaware that your love language is acts of service?" Morph asks, sitting forward to lay a calming, claiming hand over the crown of Hob’s bandaged head, just shy of the wound over his ear. "Especially when it comes to the provision of victuals?"

Hob feels his face flush. He didn't realize his little kink had been that obvious. Or that he'd been quite so transparent. "Awww, you know my love language, babe?” Hob teases, without looking up, trying to get his footing in this conversation back. “That's embarrassing for you."

“Stop deflecting,” Morph says. "Do you not think that I am also aware that you despise being babied, and greatly dislike the thought that you cannot provide for yourself? Or for me?"

“I… it’s not about being babied, it’s–”

“You have been alone for centuries, my dearest heart,” Morph says, sliding closer and pressing the side of his face to Hob’s, cheek to cheek, clearly not minding how greasy his hair is or how his breath must reek. “You have been forced to shift for yourself this whole time, and so you see accepting help as a weakness. But it is not a weakness, my beloved. It takes great strength to allow others, others who love you, to see you vulnerable and in need, and to allow them to meet those needs. As much as I cannot do this without you, you no longer need to do this without me.”

"I hate this," Hob grumbles mutinously. "I hate this. I hate this!"

And then, without warning, he's sobbing.

Great, horrible, face-twisting, throat-shredding, revoltingly snotty sobs heave their way out of the deepest, filthiest part of his guts.

“Go on, sweetheart,” Morpheus soothes him gently, sliding out of his chair to kneel at Hob’s side, to wrap his arms around Hob’s chest, press his ear to Hob’s heart, and hold on. “It’s okay. You’re okay.”

“I was so scared!” Hob gulps and splutters, gids his fingers into Morph’s shoulders and holds on, holds on. Doesn’t ever think he’ll be able to let go. “I was so afraid that she’d do something and it would be permanent, and I’d never get to tell you… never get to see you…”

“I’m here. I’m safe. We’re both safe,” Morph murmurs into his chest, deep voice buzzing against Hob’s rib cage, here and alive, alive, alive.

"She wanted me to marry her. She shot me in the head and then expected me to drink your blood and marry her and I was scared, I was so scared she would hurt you, that you would—I can survive anything, I've been through everything but I couldn't bare to see you hurt again, locked up again, I couldn't—I c-couldn't—" 

Hob curls over Morph’s crouched body as much as his aching shoulder allows, pressing his husband into his stomach, wishing he could merge their skins, their flesh, wishing he could tuck Morpheus up behind his own bones where no hurt could ever find him ever again.

"I cannot die either, Hob."

“I know that, I know that, in my head I know that. But my heart… in my heart, I just, I j-just—”

Morpheus just squeezes him tighter.

This wrenches a new wave of horrified, whining sobs from Hob. “It’s my worst fear. The worst–the table, the needle, I screamed, I screamed and nobody came, nobody—I was alone, and I–I–I, I… I…”

Morpheus rises on his knees, slides his hands to Hob’s face, cups his cheeks and presses a revenant, worshipful kiss into the deep furrow between Hob’s eyes.

“I will never let that happen to you again,” Morph vows, lips pressed against Hob’s forehead.

“You can’t... you can’t promise that. You can’t be sure—”

Morpheus sits back. “Please look at me, Robert.”

Hob takes a moment to calm his stuttered breathing and pry his tear-sore eyes open. Morpheus’s expression is grave and gaunt.

“Be reassured that I know this is your greatest fear. You berated me for it so roundly in Gadlen House that it is seared into my heart, erasti. I shall not forget, even if we live for a hundred thousand years. Please also be assured that I am furious that this happened to you, and more furious still that I could not stop it.” Morph sweeps his thumbs across Hob’s cheeks, comforting and kind. “And so, I have spoken with Dream, and he has granted you a great boon.”

“A… a boon?” Hob echoes, reaching up to pull Morph’s hands into his own shaking ones, desperate for the long-familiar comfort of his fingers laced between Hob’s, needing the reassurance and the grounding like air.

“Originally I asked for a raven of your own to watch over you,” Morph says, with a disappointed twist in the corner of his fine pink lips. “But it seems that only Dream of the Endless—or his former incarnation—may be so blessed.”

Hob jolts with the memory of his childish, cringey accusation that Matthew and Morpheus’ relationship makes his marriage feel crowded and lesser. “I should apologize to Matthew.”

“Yes, you should,” Morph says, but doesn’t allow himself to be diverted. “Instead of a raven, Dream has gifted you this.”

He pulls back just enough to pull a golden ring from his back pocket. It looks so much like Hob’s wedding ring that he has to glance at his own hand to be sure, but no, the crazy bitch hadn’t stolen it off him while he was unconscious, thank god. This ring is slightly thinner, plain, but with a deep emerald chip embedded in the band in such a way that it would be impossible to prise out.

Slowly, with great veneration and ceremony, Morph slips it onto Hob’s finger, to settle snug against his wedding band as if made to go there. Which it actually, literally, was.

The stone flares bright, gold-green for one gloriously beautiful moment, then quiets down.

“Should you be in danger, the moment you fall asleep or lose consciousness, Dream will find you in your sleepscape. If necessary, he will alert the other Endless. Should the ring be removed by any but you or I, it will alert the Endless. If the ring is destroyed, or someone attempts to tamper with the Dream Stone, it will alert the Endless.” Morph bows his head and kisses the ring like a medieval troubadour making courtly love.

“Awww, babe,” Hob sniffles. The tight, searing bands of panic wrapped around his lungs ease away, and Hob feels like he can breathe again. “You microchipped me. That’s so romantic.”

Morph smirks at Hob’s trembling attempt at good humor, and holds up his own left hand. An identical ring of silver and green is snugged up against his own wedding band. “I microchipped us both.”

Hob snorts a laugh, but it comes out disgustingly wet and miserable. Very carefully, Morph joins him on the sofa. Morph tucks into the corner and pulls Hob back against his chest, sheltering him in the cradle of his pelvis, guiding Hob’s head down onto his own shoulder.

“I hurt,” Hob sniffles, in a tiny, broken voice.

“I know. Will you eat? Then you can take your medication.”

“Yeah,” Hob says.

“The pasties, or the shake?”

“I’ll try the pasties. If only so Dee doesn’t pitch himself out a window.”

Morph’s chuckle buzzles against Hob’s skin, comforting and alive.

He takes very great delight in feeding Hob careful, gentle bites of one pasty, alternating it with sips of water, until Hob feels full and warm, and cared for. Together they wrangle the morphine pill down his throat. And then, very, very carefully, Morph pours a trickle of Dream Sand out of the pitcher and into Hob’s eyes, all the while promising Hob that when he wakes, they will figure out the best way for Hob to bathe.

Hob’s eyelids grow heavy, and Morph tucks the heavy knit blanket over Hob, a pleasant, steadying, reassuring weight.

And in the Dreaming, Daniel greets them both with the waking nightmares that Hob’s ordeal has germinated at his side. They are small dark things, rambunctious and shy by turns, barely out of their infancy. Hob crouches on the pale marble floor of Daniel’s throne room, and lets them climb all over him, eager in their puppish devotion to their duty. 

With Daniel’s gentle guidance, and Morpheus’ support, Hob spends the night diligently working through the trauma they leave clinging to his skin. He relives it over and over again, nightmare flowing into nightmare, until the dark, scrabbly little things begin to soften at the edges, becoming insubstantial and wisp-like.

Just before dawn, they fade away, returning to Dream Sand in order to be called back into existence and to another Dreamer, at another time.

When Hob opens his eyes, the morning light cuts across the room and into his eyes. Morph must have carried him to their bedroom sometime in the night, likely waking while Hob was distracted. Now he is sprawled against Hob’s side, feet carefully tucked away from the cast, head pillowed on Hob’s chest above his heart.

Hob kisses the pieces of Morph he can reach–mostly hair–and only then registers that there is more fluffy blackness there than usual. Matthew is asleep against Morph’s neck. Hob pets gently down Matthew’s back with one finger, and relaxes into the knowledge that he is home, and he is loved, and he is safe.

____

Morpheus and Hob's language-testing conversation:

Morpheus (Anglo-Saxon): "What was your first impression of me?”

Hob (Anglo-Saxon): “I thought of your eyes for days."

Morpheus (Contemporary French): "That’s not true. I went back and viewed your dreams of me after we became lovers."

Hob (Contemporary French): "'kay, so I dreamed of your eyes and bending you over the table, right there in the White Horse."

Morpheus (Contemporary Persian): "What pretty words. How you romance me so."

Hob (Contemporary Persian): "You asked for the truth, not romance."

Morpheus (Contemporary Icelandic): “You venerated me. You feared me.”

Hob (Contemporary Icelandic): “I have never feared you.”

Morpheus (Contemporary Greek): “Your tongue is as silver as always. I don't think you've lost any languages."

Hob (Contemporary Greek): "What a relief."

(If you speak any of these languages, PLEASE correct me. I am leaning heavily on GoogleTranslate. The French was graciously provided by UldAses.)

[basilone]

in the spirit of “1/2 my titles are song titles or lyrics”, Ron + head is an animal for the fic game >:)))

Hah, are you me? Sooooo many of my titles are song-influenced, too. 😂 I love this suggestion for him, ty! I had no real set idea about where I'd take this, but it seems we landed ourselves just outside Carentan after Ron's rather infamous little speech...

head like an animal

He circles back to Dog by way of side-stepping Lew, who is muttering to himself about Talbert being taken off the line as though that fact actually affects the known intelligence about the German lines any, and almost tripping over Liebgott, who’s still wide awake and staring at his bloodied hands like they’re not really a part of him.

Ron’s nothing like Dick – he is sure Dick Winters would know what to say, and Ron's taken another man's comfort away through one speech just now already – but still he crouches down in front of Liebgott until the man looks up and the tremors in his hands fade under the moonlight.

“Sir,” nods Liebgott, voice so carefully neutral, already no more trace of tonight’s panic-and-injury left in his tone, “did you need something?”

“No,” he responds, satisfied by the man’s steady exhale, “not at the moment”– and he almost changes his mind, except he’s seen what Liebgott does in a crisis and Ron is always five steps ahead of Lewis Nixon and his diagrams –“but find me once we’re in Douville proper, Liebgott, you hear?”

Liebgott’s “yessir” of affirmation damn near makes Ron smile, but then his eyes light on Hammond – so close to the last crop of trees he’ll be out in the open if he takes three more steps forward – and there’s nothing to do but rise to his feet again and stalk off to ensure some measure of safety among men just like him whose minds never seem to find a sense of peace.