#pre-dreamling

[five-and-dimes]

Safe in the Palm of Your Hand

Morpheus, King of Dreams and Nightmares, Dream of the Endless.

Lord Shaper.

For Dream, his body is not always a fixed thing. He would even go so far as to say that most of the time it is not a fixed thing. He is sand, so many countless pieces shifting under the lightest winds and the softest touches. His form changes based on how others see him, on how he sees himself, on how those two expectations interact, on whether one is stronger than the other or if a reasonable middle can be found.

Sometimes, though, he is sand in an hourglass (impenetrable glass, no wind, no air, no gentle touch to guide his form, motionless, frozen in his helplessness) and he doesn’t feel solid, he feels fragile. Breakable. Like the same soft touch and gentle wind will shatter him. In those moments, his expectations of himself will always outweigh anybody else’s.

And it is such today. His status as an Endless does not protect him from his own nightmares, not when they are his own memories, and on this day his body feels wrong. He does not feel like an Endless. He does not feel like a king, or a lord, or a person. Even months after escaping the Burgess Mansion, after regaining his power and repairing his realm, even now, he finds himself feeling… small. His form shudders and shivers and he feels weak, he feels like a vermin to be caught, a prey to be hunted and devoured, he feels dirty, unwanted, unloved, unsafe, small, small, small-

There is a mouse in Hob’s apartment.

He almost didn’t see it, was only alerted to something being amiss by the soft, frightened squeak when he opened his front door. Turning his head, he caught just a glimpse of a small shadow darting behind the old armchair in the corner. Closing the door behind him, Hob hums in surprise. Living above a pub, he’s never dealt with mice or other creatures in his home, most being more attracted to the kitchen and trash cans on the first floor before stumbling into the catch-and-release traps set around the property.

Sighing, he lets his bag fall from his shoulder onto the floor, resigned to his new task for the night. He can finish grading in the morning, once he’s dealt with his unexpected guest. Over the centuries he’s managed to overcome the instinctual disgust and fear at the sight of rodents, but that doesn’t mean he wants one running around his apartment. For a moment, he considers going back downstairs to get one of the traps from the kitchen, but he doesn’t want to give the small creature a chance to hide deeper in the apartment. Besides, he’s wily- he’s certain he can herd the mouse into a box and get it outside himself no problem.

There is a box next to the coffee table in the center of the room, full of papers and documents he’s been procrastinating on organizing, and he casually dumps the contents onto the floor as he approaches the armchair. He keeps his footsteps soft and slow, hoping not to spook the mouse into bolting. So far though, Hob hasn’t seen it since it darted into the corner. Kneeling carefully, he positions the box on its side in front of him, reaching out to move the chair to one side in an attempt to give the mouse only one direction to run.

The mouse doesn’t run.

Hob can’t help but furrow his brows sadly once he’s able to see it, huddled as far in the corner as it can get. For a moment he feels his heart clench in a way he doesn’t fully understand, something more than just general compassion for a small creature, and then he gasps as he realizes what he is looking at.

Two bright points of light emit from the mouse’s eyes.

“...Dream?” The name is less than a whisper on Hob’s breath.

He doesn’t receive an answer, but he doesn’t need one.

Since the stranger's delayed return, he and Hob had seen each other several times, a surprising change in their relationship that Hob welcomed with open arms. After so many years, Hob was finally given answers to some of his countless questions, including a name, and a summary of what exactly his friend is. Dream had even been generous enough to visit Hob in his dreams once, and Hob still gets flutters in his stomach when he thinks of the bright stars of Dream's eyes.

The box is quickly tossed aside and he crouches down farther. Dream had explained to him during one of their recent meetings that he was able to shapeshift (his explanation was far more detailed and complicated than that, but shapeshifting was the closest Hob's human mind could get to understanding) and his heart cracks in his chest as he takes in the sight of his friend in a form he has never seen before; has never even imagined in relation to the Endless being.

Pitch black fur contrasts the bright white of his eyes, but the fur looks matted and thin, tiny ribs peeking under the skin, and he doesn’t know if mice can cry, but the fur looks wet and clumped around the eyes. A long thin tail is sickly pale, and Hob can see him trembling even through the rapid rise and fall of the tiny chest.

Dream is always so strong and untouchable in Hob’s mind, it’s jarring to see him so small and clearly frightened. He doesn’t know what happened- why Dream is in this form, why he’s here, but Hob doesn’t think there’s a force on Earth or off it that could stop him from reaching out to comfort.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” he keeps his voice soft and gentle, afraid of frightening him further. Afraid of hurting the small, fragile ears. “Hey, I’m not gonna hurt you, you’re alright,” slowly, so slowly, Hob cups his hands and lowers them to the ground before his friend, “you’re safe here, can you come out? I just want to help.”

Still no response, unless you count Hob’s heart breaking more each moment he watches the mouse shake and shiver in the corner. Part of him wonders if he should leave Dream alone, but it feels too cruel, and Hob has always been one to trust his instincts when it comes to matters of the heart. And so, taking a deep, steadying breath, he cautiously moves to gently scoop the mouse into his palms.

It hurts more than he expected to actually feel tiny trembling paws against his skin, but Dream doesn’t run. In fact, he turns jerkily and tucks his little face against Hob’s fingers, curling into a ball as if trying to hide. He lets out a soft shushing sound, bringing his hands to his chest, cradling the mouse against his chest and making a shelter with his hands.

Dream isn't sure how he got here either.

He had been feeling off kilter for days now, the weight that lived in his chest feeling more unbearable than usual. More and more he found his surroundings reacting to him; walls closing in and curving, clothes growing thinner and thinner, air becoming frigid and still. His lungs felt tight, desperate for breath he didn't need, and then he caught his reflection and the glass shattered in response and he heard someone yell, maybe worried, maybe angry, angry, angry, and then he was gone.

When he lands, he knows he's in a new form, but he can't focus on it, too scared in a primal way he can't identify. All he wants is to hide, it's all his mind can hold on to, so when he hears a door open he runs. If he can just stay hidden, if he just avoids capture, maybe he'll be able to pull himself together. But when he is found, his terror and sorrow are so great he freezes. He thinks he recognizes the man in front of him, even if he looks different being so much larger than him, but it doesn't matter. It doesn’t ease his fear, his grief, his hopelessness. Dirty, unwanted, unloved, unsafe.

Dream feels small. Dream is small. So small and easy to hurt. He thinks maybe he always has been.

But…

But the hands don't crush him. He is lifted slowly and then he finds himself… held. Not held down, not trapped, not caged. Even as one hand folds above him, there is no tension, and Dream feels certain he could escape if he wished too.

He does not wish to.

Hob's hands are warm, so warm, and soft, and nothing like the cold hard glass of his memories. Dream finds himself curling up as he is cradled against his chest, soft fabric covering a strong chest that doesn't scare him as much as it did a minute ago. Cupped against him like this, he feels ensconced in a gentle cave, the shadows beneath his hands a welcome peace against the thought of a hundred years of harsh light keeping him on display.

Slowly, his trembling body stills, curling up tighter and soaking in the warmth.

"There you are," Hob coos, sitting on the couch, ever careful of his precious cargo. It is a great honor, he thinks, to hold an Endless in the palm of your hands. To be tasked with protecting something so valuable. Cautiously, he lays down, smiling as he sees the mouse curl deeper into his sweater, resting right over his heart. Hob keeps one hand cradling him, and brings the other up to pillow his own head against the arm of the couch. "Sorry if I scared you earlier," he keeps his voice low, "wasn't expecting company. But I meant it when I said you're always welcome. I'm glad you came to me."

Hesitantly, he moves one thumb to carefully stroke the matted black fur of Dream's back. It almost looks like the mouse sighs, relaxing even further, and Hob grins.

Continuing his gentle petting, Hob does what he does best.

He talks.

He tells the little dream mouse about the annoying staff meeting he had, and his favorite and least favorite coworkers, and one of his friends who wanted Hob to start a karaoke night at the New Inn, and how he thinks in his next life he wants to buy a fixer-upper and do as much as he can with his own hands. He tells Dream the little mundane things that have made Hob think of him, and how he wants Dream to get a phone but he thinks his head would explode if Dream ever sent an emoji.

He talks, and the mouse relaxes more and more, no longer curled desperately tight, but burrowing comfortably into him, and Dream thinks that maybe being small isn't as scary anymore if it means he can feel Hob's heartbeat drum against his entire body.

Eventually, Hob's hand goes limp above him, draped over Dream's form like a weighted blanket, as Hob talks himself to sleep.

Dream is still small. Still fragile. But he is surrounded by Hob Gadling, by his warmth and his compassion and his love, and he realizes that all he wanted was to feel safe, and Hob managed to give him that and so much more.

When Hob awakes, it is to the sun shining through his living room window and Dream, his familiar, gangly, human-shaped Dream, laying across him with his head on his chest. Hob's hand is resting on his wild black hair, as gentle with him now as he was the night before.

"Hi," Hob's voice cracks lightly as he wakes, but his grin is wide and bright when Dream turns to look at him.

"Hello."

They'll talk about it, later, after Hob has stretched the kinks out of his neck and has used his puppy eyes to convince Dream to eat some breakfast. Later, Hob will hold his hand and let Dream tell him fragmented details of where he's been this past century, of what was done to him. He'll stroke Dream's back when he seems to shrink, stuttering and stumbling over words about how who he wants to be and who he's supposed to be and who he's been turned into all cut into who he is like broken glass. Dream will speak a lot about broken glass. Dream will speak a lot about being broken. Later, Hob will hold him and tell him that being hurt is not the same as being broken.

Later.

For now, Hob just smiles and gathers Dream in his arms, letting him rest his head back down to listen to his immortal heartbeat, happy for the heavy weight against his chest.

[ladykailitha]

Just a little Johanna Constantine meeting Hob in the New Inn after she comes looking for Morpheus. I’m writing a much longer story where Hob and Morpheus help each other through their traumas, and as much as this would be fun to include, it doesn’t quite fit with the overarching plot of the main story.

New Inn

Johanna looked around the pub. It was certainly not as upscale as she thought Morpheus would want to frequent, but it had its charm, she had to admit. She really needed Morpheus’s help and this was her last ditch effort to find him.

She also knew that calling him Morpheus was only going to get her blank stares. But she didn’t know what to call him.

“Oi!” she called out in the middle of the inn and all the patrons looked up at her in annoyance. “I’m looking for someone. I heard he comes here often. He’s a tall bloke, messy black hair, moody as fuck. Some times will have a raven with him.”

The patrons went back to their conversations, ignoring her completely.

“Hey!” she called again, but this time no one looked up. “All black clothes, pale as death. Come on, guys.”

Johanna looked at the bartender but he turned away to clean glasses. “What the hell?”

She felt a tap on her shoulder and voice saying, “They won’t tell you anything.”

She whirled around to come face to face with a handsome man with not quite shoulder length dark hair and piercing brown eyes who was smiling as if he knew something she didn’t and that pissed her off.

“Why’s that then?” she asked, but his eyes went wide when he saw her.

“Lady Johanna?” he asked breathless.

Johanna frowned and tilted her head. “I’m named after her. How did you know?”

The man jerked his head to the side. “Let’s take this outside where there are less prying eyes and wandering ears?”

Johanna looked around. “Well, as you say I’m not going to so much as drop of blood from this lot. Let’s go.”

The man’s shoulders sagged in relief when she agreed to go with him and she eyed him warily.

The man tugged on his ear nervously. “Before we continue, I have to know how much you know about the um...person you’re looking for?”

“How much do you know?” Johanna countered.

“Let’s do it this way. We both say his name together and then we can go from there.” he said with a grimace.

“Fair enough.”

“Lord Morpheus.”

“Morpheus.”

Hob blinked. “Lord Morpheus? So not friends then?”

Johanna sneered. “Like he has those. The closest he has is his raven, Matthew.”

The man smiled and gave a mocking bow. “Robert Gadling, at your service. Friend to your Lord Morpheus and have been for years.”

Johanna raised a questioning eyebrow. “Yeah and how long is years?”

Hob grinned. “Let’s just say I had the pleasure meeting your ancestor at the point of her dagger in 1789.”

“What did you do to earn that?” Johanna asked, shoving her hands into her coat pockets.

“She wanted my immortality. Something neither I nor Morpheus could give her, unfortunately,” Hob said wrinkling his nose.

“So you’ve been around the block a few times?” she asked.

“More then you will even understand,” Hob said softly. He cleared his throat. “So why are you looking for Morpheus?”

“I need his help with a job that’s coming up and I didn’t know how else to get a hold of him,” Johanna said with a shrug.

“Well, um...” Hob tugged at his ear again. “The thing is I don’t know how to get a hold of him either. At least not directly.”

“Well you’re useless.” She threw her hands in the air.

“I didn’t say I couldn’t get a hold of him, I just said I couldn’t do it directly,” Hob hedged.

“So how do you get a hold of him, then?” Johanna huffed in annoyance.

“It depends on the mood Matthew is in,” Hob said with a grin. “Matthew!”

The raven appeared in a flutter of black wings and landed neatly on Hob’s outstretched arm. “Hey, Robbie.”

“Hello, Matthew,” Hob replied with a smile.

“Huh,” Johanna said.

“Johanna?” Matthew asked turning to her for the first time.

“Taking care of Lord Morpheus like I asked?” she said with a grin.

“It’s hard work, but I try,” Matthew said flapping his wings in frustration.

“Johanna has a message she needs to get to Morpheus,” Hob explained.

“Oh yeah, sure,” Matthew said. “The boss is going to loovvvee this.”

Hob winked at Johanna and she laughed. “Yeah all right.” And she gave Matthew her message.

After the raven had taken off, Hob turned to her. “Care to grab a pint while we wait?”

“Yeah, sure.”

Once they were back in the inn Hob called out, “It’s all right, she’s been properly vetted.”

The patrons cheered out loud and then went back to drinks.

“You didn’t have to do that,” she said as she sat down with her beer.

“Everyone here cares for him, and if you’re someone like that, then you’re more then welcome at any time,” Hob said before taking a drink of his own beer.

It wasn’t long before a dark shadow cast over them. They both looked up to see Morpheus smiling at them.

Morpheus raised his eyebrows. “I believe you’re in my seat.”

Johanna looked him up and down, before raising an eyebrow of her own. “Yeah? You’ll just have to find another chair. I’m not moving.”

Hob cleared his throat. “You can sit next to me on the bench, if you’d like.”

Morpheus wagged his eyebrows and slid in next to him, causing the immortal to blush.

Johanna licked her lips and grinned. So that’s how it is then, she thought with a smirk. Then she leaned forward and launched into her story.

Hob and Morpheus, leaning into the touch of the other, listened. 

[seiya-starsniper]

For the flower prompts...

Calla Lily (it's my favourite flower) - Something at first sight.

I leave it to you to do any Sandman pairing you have an itch to write. 💜😊

Ooooooo this one is so appropriate for me as one of my fave fics I’ve written (not for this fandom) is called Calla Lillies 💖💖 I also added a little personalized twist on this, just for you 😘

Flower Prompt Game!

(Also, for anyone still wondering, I am in fact still accepting prompts! Gonna be a bit slow and answer one or two a day, but I’m so glad this has been such a hit!)

—---

When Morpheus Endless (and isn’t that the name of the century?) enters the coffee shop in a whirlwind of taut anxiety and indignant rage, Simon Snow does not even say hello, he merely takes up residence at the espresso machine to start preparing the most absurdly complex drink known to man.  

“Your man is here,” Penelope deadpans, and Simon rolls his eyes. Morpheus is not his man. He’s very nice to look at, yes, and he may or may not bear a striking resemblance to Simon’s hopelessly secret crush arch nemesis, but they’re too alike in temperament to be anything more than friends. But he can see where the confusion comes from. 

When he finishes making Morpheus’s regular order, he calls for his break and walks over, drink in hand, to the corner Morpheus and his terribly bad mood have taken up residence. 

“Bad day?” Simon asks, placing the absurdly sweet concoction down on the table where Morpheus has sprawled all his notebooks and laptop. He’s not looking at any of it though, more preoccupied with whatever social media scandal is happening on his phone.

“Cory left me,” Morpheus growls, tapping angrily at the screen. “For Alex Burgess. Who, as you recall, is currently still in a relationship with Paul Mcguire, the unfaithful bastard.” 

Simon has no idea who these people are besides Cory, who has come into the shop with Morpheus once. He doesn’t pay attention to the campus gossip. More specifically, the rich people campus gossip. Because Simon is here at the university on scholarship, working part time at the local coffee shop for a little extra spending money, and Morpheus is part of the very small, elite group of legacy family admissions. 

No one, not even Penelope, Simon’s best friend since childhood, understands why he and Morpheus get along so well. Simon knows it’s partially because he’s the only one willing to make Morpheus’s stupidly complicated order, and partially because they’re both grumpy bisexuals who fall in love too easily with the wrong people. 

“You were too good for him anyways,” Simon replies, plopping down into the chair next to Morpheus.

“Damn right I am,” Morpheus answers, picking up his coffee that is actually more syrup, sugar and milk than anything resembling coffee. And that was after Simon added four shots of espresso. He groans happily as he takes his first sip. “He was awful in bed anyways.”

Simon snorts. “Maybe you should try not dating rich assholes,” he offers.

“No? I should only pine for them hopelessly from across the rugby pitch?” Morpheus answers pointedly. 

“Wow, you’re lucky I’m on shift or I’d tip that sad excuse for coffee into your lap,” Simon bites back, feeling the familiar heat of anger rise up in him. Because of course Morpheus knew about Simon’s complicated feelings towards Baz. But he didn’t have to be an asshole about it just because he got dumped.

Morpheus sniffles. “These jeans are Gucci,” is all he says back, before taking another sip of his coffee and letting the subject drop. 

———————

Simon’s break is over before he knows it, and not a moment too soon. He and Penelope are swamped by the late-afternoon rush. Simon doesn’t know how so many people could be craving coffee this late in the day, but to each their own. Morpheus had ordered a second cup of his ungodly drink right before the rush hit, and it’s when he’s finishing up that drink and getting ready to leave that half the rugby team decides to walk into the cafe and ruin Simon’s day. 

“Snow,” Baz Pitch sneers at him when he gets to the counter to order. Simon rolls his eyes.

“Let me guess, black tea for the blackness in your soul?” he retorts, smirking when Baz’s face goes tight with annoyance.

“Ooooh, this guy’s got you down to a T,” a brunette answers, coming up from behind Baz and draping an arm over his shoulders.

“Shut up Hob,” Baz replies, rolling his eyes and shrugging his friend off before turning back to Simon. “And yes, black tea, but do try not to over-steep it this time Snow.”

“I’ll have a caramel latte,” the man called Hob adds, “with extra caramel syrup since Bazzy’s paying.”

“Hob I swear if you call me Bazzy one more time—”

“Yeah, yeah, you’ll sue me for defamation somehow, hey, can I get a couple of cake pops too?” Hob answers all in one breath. Simon gets the impression the man is something like a golden retriever in human form. 

“Sure, anything for a friend of Bazzy's,” Simon chuckles before he turns to work on their order. He can practically feel Baz seething from behind him as he prepares their order. 

As he’s getting ready to prepare Hob’s latte, Simon catches Morpheus out of the corner of his eye approaching the counter, and he instinctively starts preparing a drink for him as well. Seriously, how the hell could Morpheus stomach one of these, let alone three in a single sitting?

“The line is behind me, Endless,” Simon hears Baz say. 

“Ah, that’s where you’re mistaken, Basil,” Morpheus replies smoothly. “There is no line when you’re the favorite.”

“Who the hell says you’re the favorite?” Baz snaps 

“I do,” Simon cuts in, bringing over the order, and making sure to hand Morpheus’s drink over first. He can just tell Baz is irrationally mad about the whole thing. “Unlike some other customers, Morpheus is a sweetheart.”

“Thank you, dear heart,” Morpheus practically coos at him before turning back to Baz and Hob and smirking. “The cake pops are quite good, by the way.”

“Good to know!” Hob answers cheerily. “Did you want one, by the way? Didn’t realize how large they were,” he adds holding one out. 

Morpheus looks taken aback, but accepts the cake pop with a meek thank you and then with their order complete, the rugby team starts making their way towards the exit. Morpheus stares after them as they leave, cake pop still in hand. 

“I think I’m in love,” Morpheus says once the cafe has totally emptied out.

“You’re what now?” Simon exclaims, then groans. “Please tell me this isn’t about the cake pop.”

“He has nice eyes,” Morpheus argues. “And if he tolerates Basil’s awful attitude, I’m practically a ray of sunshine in comparison.”

“You're not wrong,” Penelope cuts in, leaning her elbows down on the counter next to Simon. “And if Morpheus can get Hob, maybe he can help you get Baz, Si.”

“That is a terrible plan,” Simon says. “And anyways, Baz hates me.”

“It’s an excellent plan,” Morpheus replies. “And also, you’re an idiot. Basil was ready to stab me with my own fountain pen for touching you so casually.”

“He was not!” Simon squeaks.

“No, he definitely was, I’m with Morpheus here,” Penelope says. “Maybe you two should pretend to date and see how long it takes for Baz to crack.”

“Absolutely not,” Simon says at the same time Morpheus answers “That’s an excellent idea.”

Simon groans. 

“I don’t have a choice in the matter do I?” he asks.

“Not at all,” Morpheus replies, biting into the cake pop.

[dearheartofmars]

Anything but Ale

“Teaching is really fascinating.”

Hob gestured at the papers on the small table in front of them. “It helps me remember my past and try to help the world not repeat the worst of its own.” His face dropped for a second, guilt flashing in his eyes, before he looked at Dream, smiling again. “Young people are the future, my future if I think about it too much. They are good kids, smarter than I’ll ever be.”

Dream could not help the smile that formed on his face; seeing Hob, his friend, after so long brought forth a surge of emotion. Dream could easily imagine Hob in front of a classroom, hands waving animatedly as he discussed historical lessons, inspiring young minds. He really had changed for the better, and yet he was still the same man Dream had met six centuries ago.

“That Shakespeare! The poet,” Hob’s eyes met Dream’s own for just a second, sharp and intense before softening again, “you remember. We have to talk about him every new term. Five centuries and not forgotten; it’s quite amazing.”

Dream only nodded, guilt of his past weighing heavy. He had left Hob for Shakespeare, much like he left Hob at every one of their meetings. Hob’s smile fell as his eyes looked down; he leaned back in his seat, running a nervous hand through his hair.

“Anyway, I actually wanted to apologize.”

“You need not—” Dream began.

“No, I do need to.” He hesitated before taking a deep breath and continuing. ”Our last meeting I— I made assumptions about you, about your feelings instead of asking you. I didn’t need to be so presumptuous, you deserve better than that.” Hob's eyes settled on the table in front of him. As if he was worried that Dream would be gone when he looked up again.

“I accept your apology, my friend, but I too should apologize for that night,” Dream spoke sincerely, leaning towards Hob. “You were correct, and while I was caught unawares by your words, I should not have left in such a way. You too deserve better.”

Hob smiled gently, meeting Dream’s eyes before resting his hands on the table. Dream took a moment to take in Hob’s appearance. He looked comfortable, younger somehow than he had before; this century suited him. The silence continued and Dream realized he was staring, snapping his eyes back to Hob’s own. When their eyes met, Hob had a soft, puzzled look on his face. He opened his mouth as if to say something, instead let his chin fall, frowning at his hands.

“May I ask you a question? You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to.” 

Hob’s worry was tangible and Dream desperately wanted to reassure him, to show that he would not run away. He reached over and placed his hand on Hob’s own. Hob’s deep brown eyes snapped back to Dream’s .

“Please, ask.”

“Could you tell me your name?” Hob’s worried expression melted and a hopeful glow replaced it. 

“Dream.” He paused, feeling another twinge of guilt for making Hob wait so long for one word. “I have many names, but those closest to me know me as Dream.”

“Dream,” Hob whispered, wonder in his voice, beaming at him. ”Thank you, I will be glad not to have to call you ‘My Stranger’ anymore.” A blush formed on the tips of his ears.

“Your Stranger?” Dream teased, though he was pleased with the title. Hob’s Stranger.

“Well, you have been the only constant in my very long life, and in that time I have never met another being like you. I treasure our meetings.” He was looking down at the table again, blush now creeping up his neck; a strand of hair had fallen forward, hiding Hob’s face. Dream felt a sharp pang of affection, reaching up and tucking the hair behind Hob’s ear. His fingers [passed] idly down to his friend's chin, raising Hob’s face so their eyes met again. Dream let his hand fall back onto the table, his eyes following, surprised by his forward behavior.

“I too treasure our meetings, Hob, more than you know.”

“May I ask you one more question?” Hob asked breathlessly, “Again, you don't have to answer.” Dream looked up at Hob through his lashes.

“You may ask more if it pleases you.” Hob’s eyes brightened.

“May we meet more often than once a century? It doesn’t have to be very often, but I would like to know you better, my friend.”

“Aye, we may.” They shared a smile, Hob reaching to place his hand on Dream’s hand, squeezing gently.

“You said I could ask a few more questions?” It was more of a statement than a question. Dream only nodded, not sure what to expect. “May I get you a drink?”

If he could blush, Dream would be tomato red. He was reminded of their meeting in 1789; he had wanted to accept Hob’s invitation, but his pride had not allowed him. He would not make that mistake again.

“Yes.” He winced slightly, remembering the last human drink he had at the White Horse Inn. “Anything but ale.”

Looking a little confused, Hob nodded then raised his hand to the bartender. Dream watched him fondly, settling into his chair. He would stay as long as Hob wanted. 

[landwriter]

Absolutely begging you to write the Hob/Dream cheeseburgers and vengeance story

Back when I was doing Spotify Wrapped Prompts (remember those???) I made a list of what I would do for each of them before answering the actual asks (ie following the assignment before proceeding to not follow it at all). I am banned (by myself) from continuing them until Seventies San Francisco AU is done, since it was a Spotify Wrapped prompt before it was a 20K+ WIP, from an anon who has brought a curse upon my house (affectionate). BUT one of them, to finally arrive at the point, was Romance Dawn by Radkey:

canon verse between meetings, hob is a union organizer, hob is in the punk scene, hob is setting fires or putting them out, hob is at shows, hob is getting in fights, and the fierceness of it all transmits to his feelings for his stranger, and then one day he sees him, thinks it’s a dream (is it a dream?), he kisses him, tastes blood, something is wrong, wakes with vague memories, goes running back and back again, until he gets it out of him, where are you, fawney rig. and it’s maybe a fishbowl destruction fic. and like. london punk/hardcore scene & thatcherism & trade union strikes. burning down fawney rig. sort of green room energy but holy war against the burgesses. smashing it. saving dream. not even i. we. we will salt the fucking earth here.

Anyways, I think the cheeseburgers and vengeance would fit in great with that and Hob and his punk family deserve that experience.

cc: @fancy-rock-dove <3

[scifrey]

Carpe Diem

Status: One-Shot

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

Warnings: Discussions of grief and in-canon character death.

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

Characters: Dream of the Endless | Morpheus, Hob Gadling, Lucifer, Patrick the Bartender, Crowley, Aziraphale, Johanna Constantine, Matthew the Raven

Summary: Hob turns six hundred and sixty-six, invites some fellow Immortals to his bar to celebrate, and receives a gift from Satan herself. Or, the Key to Hell was always going to Be a Problem(tm).

Set between the epilogue and chapter one of Cling Fast.

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Hob tells Patrick he’s turning thirty-six. 

About five minutes before the party is set to start, he takes immature delight in adding a tiny little x2 between the 3 and the 6 on the poster wishing him a happy birthday with a sharpie. Normally Hob doesn’t make much of a fuss about his birthday–it’s too easy for his fellow, aging humans to start tracking them that way–but it’s May 1st in the Year of Our Lord 2022, and Hob Gadling is turning six hundred and sixty-six years old.

He figures that deserves a party.

They close The New Inn for the private event, and Patrick, grumpy bastard that he is, refuses to hire in a catering staff so he can enjoy himself, too. 

“It’s your birthday, Bob,” he says, as Hob is tying off the last of the bunting above the banquettes. “I’m not having a stranger back here screwing up your orders.”

“We do need to hire a server before the summer, though,” Hob points out, jumping down and wiping the tread-prints from his shoes off the leather seat. “And a new kid for the kitchen.”

“Well it’s not happening any time today, so just… let me celebrate you from my happy place.”

“Fine, fine,” Hob grants with a smile. Patrick is very, very good at his job. He also has an anxious fear of crowds, when there isn’t wood and fridges and pint-glass washers between him and other people. “But tell me you’ll try to relax a bit, please. It’s my party, and I want you to have fun.”

Patrick gifts him with a set of bowfingers and turns his back to resume prep. Hob wonders what the Signature Cocktail du Jour is going to be, with that many sliced limes, peaches, and strawberries.

Hob is generally very pleased with himself and the world. He’s in a university and profession he loves, he’s inspiring young minds and hearts towards kindness and generosity to their fellow humans, he’s very slowly restoring the White Horse one city council fight at a time, he is master of The New Inn and it’s domain, and he is swiftly becoming best friends with a magical talking raven. 

And, of course, in the nine months since Morpheus has broken free of his prison and returned to Hob’s life, he has become a fixture of his Tuesday afternoons and no small part of his attention and affection besides. That's something worth celebrating, too. Hob's Stranger has somehow, wonderfully, become his friend. And he’s agreed to come today, which is even better. Hob has been getting better at couching his requests in dares, and highlighting his pleas with sad puppy eyes. The two things Morpheus, humanity’s facet of Dream of the Endless, seems to be weak against are a bet, and Hob showing any unhappiness or disappointment.

These facts are carefully recorded in his mental List of Things I Know About The Stranger. The list is growing longer, slowly but surely, which is thrilling in itself. Hob is starting to feel like he knows Morpheus, for a given value of ‘knowing’ when it comes to interacting with a singular facet of anthropomorphic personifications of vast universal concepts.

He’s also not above using this knowledge to his advantage, although he’s careful to deploy this hoarded wisdom to his own advantage very, very sparingly. No point in tipping his hand this early in their fragile friendship.

Hob is immortal, he’s happy, he loves his life and the people in it, and it’s his birthday. 

What isn’t there to celebrate?

The first guests arrive around happy hour, and clump together on one of the banquettes. They’re his colleagues in the History department, with the addition of a PhD hopeful who’s clearly tagged along in order to get into Doctor Gadlen’s good graces before the mad race for a thesis supervisor begins in the summer. Patrick knows some of them, as Hob’s dragged them here from the university often enough, and is happy to take care of them while Hob fiddles with the music. 

He's curated a playlist of his favorite songs from the last six and a half hundred years (the ones he could find recordings of, of course), and damn anyone who complains that the mix is weird.

Hob’s offering up beer and wine on the house, as well as soft drinks for those who prefer it, and platters of nibbles. Word must get back to the school because soon a second wave of professors and TAs slide through the door. The maxim is entirely true: academics are cockroaches and will pop up anywhere free food and booze are on offer. Hob’s happy to welcome them in, even if he only knows a few of them on sight, and even less by name.

A party is a party, and it fills him with joy to know they’ll be going home full and happy. Hob is High Priest of the Last Temple of Morpheus. It’s his duty to ensure everyone who comes through the doors of The New Inn leave in a state of mind and body to rest peacefully and fully.

Hob’s colleagues are joined soon enough by some of the bar regulars, folks from the social charities and organizations that Hob works with to keep the people on his little patch of city well-cared for and housed, and a few people who serve on the same Heritage Protections board as he’s a member of on behalf of the White Horse.

But there’s one particular person he keeps craning his head around to see, every time the little bell above the door jangles. The one particular person who has not yet arrived. Hob distracts himself with gracefully accepting presents he very specifically told people not to bring, offering up cheek-kisses and handshakes in return for the collection of cards, wine bottles, and novelty teacher mugs.

The sun sets, bringing along with it Johanna Constantine, and Ric the Vic, both of whom Hob knows peripherally through the Goings On (™) of London. They offer him their congratulations, and slide into one of the tables in the corner to enjoy their free libations and pretend strenuously that they’re not not planning to leave to fuck in the next few hours.

Hob had spread word through what passes for a grapevine in the sparse community of Otherfolk of the city that they, too, would be welcome at Hob’s birthday party. After all, they’re the only ones who’d understand–and enjoy the irony–of the number. He doesn’t actually expect many of them to take him up on it, but manners are manners.

All the same, he’s fairly sure he sees some of the Doors slipping in and out between his supply cupboard and the bar with a platter of pigs-in-a-blanket, and Bod Owens chatting up the PhD hopeful by the loos. The Marquis de Carabas’s coat catches his eye and Hob turns to welcome him, only to come face-to face with a very different imposing nobleman in a long distinctive coat.

“Happy Birthday , Hob Gadling ,” Morpheus greets him. He’s got the world’s tiniest potted cactus cradled in his palm, and he holds it out awkwardly to Hob. The tips of his ears, mostly hidden by the puff of his dark hair, are delicately pink. They’re the same shade of the seductive-slick curve of a conch shell, of the secret inside curve of his lips when he pouts, the tip of his tongue when he chases a stray drop of wine in a startlingly mortal gesture.

It’s adorable.

It’s not fair .

Hob really needs to get this stupid crush under control.

“Aw, is this for me?” Hob asks, delighted, as if the cactus pot wasn’t already embraced by a silky red bow.

Morpheus just raises his eyebrows, as if to say, Are you daft? so Hob takes it. He wonders if it would be too forward of him to buss a kiss off Morpehus’ cheek in thanks, as he has been doing with all of his other gift-givers this evening. 

It’s a step more intimate than the hand-holding they do when one or the other of them needs comfort during a difficult confession. But Morpheus is Hob’s friend now, and it’s how he greets his other friends. Morpheus deserves no less. He decides to go for it.

The King of Nightmares takes the kiss with startled good grace, and Hob pulls back quickly so he’s not imposing on Morpheus’ personal bubble. His friend can get prickly when he feels his sovereignty threatened, or his independence violated, for very understandable and obvious reasons.

He fiddles with the cactus, turning the pot around in his fingertips and admiring the single dusty-purple bloom at its apex. He hopes it’ll get enough sunlight in here.

“Where’s Matthew?” Hob asks, to fill the awkward silence.

“Behaving extremely poorly for a denizen of his station. ”

“Come again?”

“ Out front, entertaining some of your regulars by repeating filthy words for peanuts,” Morpheus says, amusement and disdain warring in his tone. Morpheus is forever despairing over Matthew’s constant desire to be in the spotlight. 

Hob laughs, delighted, and chivvies Morpheus over to the bar for a glass of his teeth-suckingly sweet wine. He directs his friend around to the empty place where the bar meets the wall beside the tiny area cleared of tables and chairs for dancing. No one has moved to that side of the pub yet, so it's empty of the press of dreamers that Morpheus sometimes finds overwhelming. 

Hob slips behind the bar to pour Morpheus's libation himself, ignoring Patrick’s eye roll. He doesn’t understand why Hob wants to be the only one to touch the wine. Sure it’s expensive, but it’s not like Patrick is going to pour it wrong or something.

But for Hob, it’s a ritual. It’s a gift.

It’s an offering to his friend and god.

It means something that Hob is the one who pours, who presents, who proffers.

Morpheus takes the cup with all the dignified grace that the gesture demands, and backs into the shadows to enjoy it in peace. Hob moves the cactus to pride of place on top of the coffee machine, and goes about fetching himself his own first drink of the evening. Now that Morpheus is here, he can finally relax and indulge.

“Don’t get any ideas above your station,” someone hisses at the little plant, and Hob peers around the machine to find The Bentley Snake hunched forward on his elbows, propped up behind the hidden corner of the bar, whiskey in hand. His dark red hair is shorn short on the sides this time, a long standy-uppy flop at the top, and he’s wearing the latest in a long line of painfully slim-cut black suits. 

Sometimes Hob wonders if he’s doing Immortality wrong, being the only one of the lot who seems to like wearing more than black or white.

“Please don’t threaten my new plant friend,” Hob asks him.

“Needs ssssssome threatening,” the Snake says, sunglasses trained on the cactus. “Thinks its high n’ mighty just cause it sprouted in the Dreaming.”

Hob processes this as he pulls a pint for himself. “You know about the Dreaming?”

“Sleep, don’t I?” the Snake mutters.

Hob refills the Snake’s whiskey glass, and clinks his pint off the Snake’s tumbler. “I don’t like to assume.”

“Oi, I sleep, don’t I, Lord Shaper?” the Snake says, with a jerk of his chin at where the bar meets the wall. 

Morpheus is little more than a black shadow and starshine eyes. He must be feeling a bit crowded, to have retreated so thoroughly. Hob doesn’t blame him–it’s starting to get stuffy, what with all the bodies and the salt-rank whiff of booze and sweat. The music is a touch loud now that there's so many voices competing to be heard over it, and Hob is thinking that now’s a good time to open the windows, let the pre-storm breeze that’s kicking up wash the place fresh.

Though he doesn’t point it out to the man, Hob’s Stranger has been different since his return. 

While before he was reserved and formal, now he’s skittish about touch, always buttoned up to the throat in whatever clothing he manifests for himself, and reluctant to allow himself to be crowded or contained. They're working on it, with long walks along the quay or visits to farmer's markets, but overcoming trauma is never a fast process. Even the occasional therapeutic hand-holding Hob imposes on him has to be well telegraphed, or Morpheus will shake him off without realizing he’s done so.

These are all very understandable and normal reactions to the torture he’d suffered at the hands of Burgess. But while Hob has done his best to comfort and guide Morpheus toward healing in his limited, mortal way, it’s not like he can he can force the God of Sleep to make an appointment with a headshrinker.

Hob flashes a glance over at Colonel Williams, by the front door, who is one of the social support folks Hob knows from helping the unhoused get back on their feet. She specializes in suppressed trauma and PTSD, and Hob wonders if there’s a way he could maneuver Morpheus into an ‘accidental’ conversation with the woman sometime tonight.

“ So deeply that I cannot oust you from my realm for decades at a time, Serpent, ” Morpheus rumbles, and right, Hob’s forgotten that he’s supposed to be mediating between two otherworldly entities. Morpheus turns his gaze to Hob. “What is he doing here?” 

Morpheus sounds two thirds curious and one third jealous.

He doesn’t mean it like that , Hob tells himself. It may be my birthday–well, the date I chose to be my birthday–but I’m not going to get that lucky.

An odd tension frazzles the air, and the Snake rolls his impossible spine backwards a bit, not retreating, exactly. Just not standing so close to Hob.

Huh.

Who knew that Morpheus would be so territorial with his head priest?

Hob laughs, trying disperse the feeling that if he’s not careful, he may inadvertently start a supernatural brawl. “Come on, my friend. You think after six and a half centuries, you’re the only creepy-crawly I know?”

“I am not a creepy-crawly, Hob Gadling,” Morpheus rumbles, with all the theatrical offense of a maiden-aunt. “But I did not think you would consort with the likes of him . Not with your upbringing as it was–”

The Snake bristles. “Hey! I was invited!”

Morpheus steps out of the shadows just enough for his face and hands–and empty wine glass–to be visible in the dim pub lighting. Night has well and truly fallen outside. He sets the glass on the bar top with a challenging tink .

“ Invited ,” Morpheus repeats flatly.

“I just let it be known among the Othered set that they were welcome to drop by,” Hob hisses, low enough that Patrick won’t be able to catch it over the conversation and music around them.

“It’s a special number, you know. I felt like it should be celebrated with everyone , especially those who really know what it means.”

Morpheus inhales sharply and turns narrowed, laser-focused, glacier-blue eyes to Hob’s face. “ How did you phrase this invitation? ” he asks with no little urgency.

Hob blinks. 

“Uh, something something freely welcome to partake of my hospitality, all those who know the number something something?” Hob says, nerves flooding him. He tugs on his ear. “Did I… um… say something I shouldn’t have?”

“ All those who know the number ,” Morpheus groans. “The number of the beast.”

"Six-one-six," the Snake says.

"Six- six- six," Hob corrects, "According to modern translations. Which is also the number of years I've… oh. No. No, it's my birthday ,” Hob says, sweat beading by his hairline and trickling down the back of his shirt. “That’s… that’s what I meant.”

“But that it is not what you said .”

The Snake straightens up all at once, eyes popping wide behind his glasses if the sudden height of his eyebrows are anything to go by. He slams back the rest of his whiskey and chokes: “That’s me out, then. Many happy returns, you poor doomed bastard. If you ever get any.”

“That’s not ominous at all,” Hob says, and chugs half his beer.

The Snake wends his way to the front door and is gone in a gust of chill spring breeze, and the sound of the rain just starting up outside. Hob hopes Matthew has found a good roost under one of the table umbrellas. One of these days, he's going to make good on his threat to get the raven a Service Animal vest, just so he can come inside in weather like this.

Morpheus fully manifests, posture tense, nostrils flaring. He scans the crowd. For who, Hob can guess, but he doesn’t like to think on it.

Morpheus has, after all, told him all about his trip to Hell.

And then the lights flicker.

Hob is… well, he’s almost disappointed by how dramatic the Devil’s entrance is. 

In the last six hundred years, he’s come to learn that people like him tend to lay low and not bring attention to themselves. Even Morpheus, with his fine clothes and fist-sized ruby, behaved as a mortal might at their meetings–walking into the White Horse, sitting down, no excess displays of power or even wealth, really, save for the handful of dreamsand he’d blown in Lady Constantine’s face.

But Hob has to give the Devil their due. When they play, they don’t play small.

The storm that’s been brewing since sunset suddenly, and violently breaks. Rain cascades against the roof like the rush of an oncoming train. A clap of thunder loud enough to rattle the martini glasses in their hangers above the bar shakes the room, making more than one person yelp. The crack of lightning that follows flares like an atom bomb, white light blasting in through the windowpanes, casting everyone in harsh, dramatic black-and-white chiaroscuro.

Ears ringing and eyes sparking, Hob sets down his beer and scrubs at his face.

(Okay, so he’s also a little disappointed there’s no fiddle sting to accompany their appearance. But then again, the New Inn is hardly Georgia.)

When his vision has cleared, Hob whirls around to check on his friends and colleagues. There’s probably something dangerous about turning your back to Satan, but he’s got the King of Nightmares guarding it. He’s more worried for the humans than the two celestial entities that are, if he knows his friend, puffing up and posturing. Hob skims out from behind the bar, heading for Patrick, who has stopped a few steps away from the service gap. 

And he's… he's just standing there.

Fear seizes Hob’s throat, and for a terrible second, he worries that the light really was an atom bomb, that everyone he’s ever known and loved in this life are nothing more than people-shaped pillars of ash, and it’s his fault. He invited them here, and then he invited the literal Devil as well, and now they're—

But no, when he reaches Patrick, his friend is alive. He breathes, he blinks, his flesh is soft and warm. But he’s frozen. Hob looks around and… yes, the humans in the room–well, the mortal ones, at least–have simply stopped moving.

“Are they…?” Hob crackles.

“ They will be fine,” Morpheus assures him. His hair is sticking straight out, like a furious cat, and he’s starting to lose coherence around the edges. His coat swirls off into shadow like heavy ink in water, his eyes are as fathomless as deep space, and his fingers elongate into razor-sharp and obsidian-tipped claws. “Time has stopped for them. When it resumes, it will be as if the lost moments never happened. ”

Not all of them, Hob thinks, seeing Johanna’s eyes darting around the room with terrified fury. He decides not to point it out, though, in case the Lightbringer decides to do something permanent and terrible about it. He just gives her a long look, and tries to put as much reassurance in his expression as he can. I’ll get us out of here safely, don’t you worry.

Johanna blinks back once, slow and squinty like a cat. Message received.

A quick glance also confirms that the rest of the Otherworld denizens have made themselves as sparse as the Snake. He doesn't blame them.

Then, finally, when he’s assured himself that everyone under his roof and thus in his care is as safe as they can be, with the literal Ruler of Hell sharing that selfsame roof, he skirts around the bar to join Morpheus on the empty dance floor. Only then does he allow all of his attention to settle on his new visitor.

They are… tall . ‘Grand’ is the adjective that comes to mind first, followed by ‘statuesque’ and ‘ literally awe-inspiring’.

That’s an angel , Hob things. Or at least, they used to be. Of course they’re so… present. So overwhelming.

It’s like having all of his senses buffeted all at once–all he can smell is the acrid tang of sulfur, all he can hear is a high-pitched screech, all he can see is an overwhelming brightness that might actually be an overwhelming darkness, and his skin feels like it’s covered with biting fire ants. He gasps, reaching out clumsily behind him to clutch at the bar, the crush of the gravitas emanating from the corner stealing the breath from his lungs.

One of Morpheus’ fingers stretches out, impossible and eerie. It taps Hob gently on the forehead, right where his third eye would be, if he was that kind of spiritual. The drowning rush of screaming discomfort snaps off, like a faucet cranked shut. Air rushes back into the room. 

“Be not afraid,” my hairy arse , Hob thinks, as he coughs and scrubs his eyes again. It’s a wonder the blessed virgin didn’t shriek her head off and go running off into the night.

“I’m… I’m fine,” he reassures Morpheus, as his friend shuffles a step closer, hand resting protectively on Hob’s shoulder.

It takes him a few seconds to actually see what he’s seeing. Satan themself is presenting as a white woman, with fair, severely arranged golden curls that resemble nothing so much as a crown of thorns across their forehead. What Hob took for giant bat wings is actually a luxuriously patterned black pashmina, draped artfully over across one shoulder, over a rich white tea-length dress.

For being the ruler of Hell, Hob has to admit that they actually look… well, glamorous . 

“Hello, Robert Gadling,” Lucifer Morningstar purrs from the empty stage in the corner of the pub. It’s little more than a triangular riser jammed against the wall, just big enough for a tall stool, a mic stand, and some folksy performer on Sunday afternoons. But it gives them an even greater height from which to look down their nose at him, so of course that’s where they manifested. “I am ever so grateful to be included.”

“Er, yeah,” Hob says, pushing himself upright and wiping his clammy hands on the thighs of his jeans. “Welcome, then.”

“ Hob ,” Morpheus says, scandalized. Shadows writhe anxiously in a puddle by his feet, the Nightmare side of Dream closer to the surface in his worry. 

“What?” Hob says. “Doesn’t hurt anyone to be polite.”  Hob steps forward and holds out his now-dry hand for the Devil to shake.

“Certainly not,” Lucifer agrees, and takes his hands between theirs. They pull him forward a few more steps, pressing his fingers between their palms as if they could taste his sins on his skin, and peers down at him with intelligent eyes the same color of the storm clouds outside. “And it’s been ever so long since I’ve been to a party .”

Hob cranes his head back to look up at them. They’re just a handspan away now, only their entwined arms between them keeping them parted, and for an absurd moment, he thinks that Lucifer is going to kiss him. Morpheus must think so too, because he lets loose a ripping growl, warning and threat in the sound to rival the thunderstorm outside.

Lucifer laughs and lets Hob go. They take a dainty step down from the stage, and sashay their way toward the bar on totteringly-high bleach-white pumps.

“I, uh, I‘ve got wine and beer,” Hob says, spinning around and scrambling to catch up with them. “Or anything harder. Or softer. Whatever you like, really. What can I pour for you?”

“Red wine, naturally,” the Devil purrs.

They stop at the bar just an arm's length from Morpheus, a clear challenge. They lean elegantly on one elbow against the padded edge, eyeing him up like they’d either like to eat him alive or gouge his eyes out. Possibly both. Hob slips between them like a fleshy immortal shield. Maybe it won’t actually keep them from lashing out at each other but, meh, he can’t die if they do.

He reaches over the bar, grabs one of the open bottles of Syrah, a glass from the rack above their heads, and pours a generous measure. He holds it out genteely to the Devil, and they accept it with good grace.

Hob then immediately refills Morpheus’ abandoned glass with his Vinsanto, and tops up his own with an awkward backwards reach for the amber tap. 

“So… are you gonna release them?” Hob asks, once Lucifer has raised their glass for a clink, and he’s very cautiously obliged. It feels like bad luck to drink from it right away, though, so he turns to offer the same toast to Morpheus, who stares hard at Hob as they clink glasses, as if he’s drilling a blessing into Hob’s skull.

“No, I think not,” Lucifer says, taking their first sip, and offering Hob an appreciative eyebrow bounce at the taste. “No need to cause a panic. But don’t worry; I shan’t stay for long. I only wanted to pop in and wish my new friend many happy returns.”

“Is that what we are?” Hob asks, with a huge gulp of beer. “Friends?”

“Of course!” Lucifer says, their eyes narrowing a little, shoulders tensing up, lips slimming tightly and… “We are friends, aren’t we Robert Gadling? Why else would you have extended your invitation to all who know the true number of your years?”

Which is… a bit of an odd thing for the Lightbringer to be worried about, honestly.

Hob looks again. There’s nerves there. There’s concern. Why would…

Oh . Hob thinks. They’re lonely, too.

Hob risks a glance back at Morpheus, who is clutching the stem of his wineglass tight enough that it’s creaking. His eyes are leaking purple-black starstuff around the perimeters, which whisps away like the leading edge of a fast-moving cloud. Otherwise, he's perfectly still, posture ramrod straight.

“Yes,” Hob answers, turning back to Lucifer. “Yes, we are friends. Why not? I’ve no quarrel with you, unless you’re here to drag me to Hell?”

Whatever it was the Devil was expecting Hob to say, it wasn’t that. They look first genuinely surprised, then flattered, then secretly pleased, then distraught in such quick succession that Hob barely has time to pass each expression as they pass over their face.

“Of course not!” Lucifer says, so quickly and so completely surprised that it comes out in a rush. They sound genuinely hurt at his assumption. “My kingdom only contains those human souls who believe they should be there. They send themselves to Hell. Please. I have better manners than to drag anyone against their belief and will.” They narrow their eyes at Hob and take another sip of wine, struggling to regain their teasing nonchalance. “Why, have you done something worthy of punishment?”

Many things, Hob thinks. Terrible things. Things I just hope one day I live long enough to be able to atone for. 

“Ah, well, this isn’t about my death,” Hob hedges. “Which I am still not interested in, thank you very much. This is a celebration of my life!”

“It is indeed. Happy six hundred and sixty-sixth birthday, Robert,” Lucifer says, and they clink glasses once more. 

“Hob,” he offers up. “My friends in the know call me Hob.”

“ Hob, ” Morpheus hisses again. “ You are being unwise. ”

“I’m being personable ,” Hob corrects, but takes a tiny step back, closer into Morpheus’s orbit, to appease him. One of the swirling black shadows wraps around Hob’s ankle.

“Dream Lord!” Lucifer greets him, sounding as if they have just noticed him behind Hob for the first time. “What a delight to see you again so soon.”

“Lightbringer, ” Morpheus growls in return. 

“And how do you know our dear little birthday boy?”

Morpheus lets out another grumbling snarl, all without changing the placidly haughty expression on his face.

“Robert Gadling is my head priest, as well you know, ” Morpheus intones, voice as deep and dangerous as the fathomless darkness at the bottom of an ocean. “ You stand in my temple uninvited. ”

“Just as you bullied your way into Hell?” Lucifer asks silkily. They sip their wine showily. “Besides, I was invited, wasn’t I?”

Both pairs of eyes fall on Hob, their weight like a physical blow, and he buys himself some time by taking a long drink of his beer. Which, of course, goes down the wrong pipe, and leaves him coughing like a complete tit in front of two of the greatest powers in the universe.

Oh yeah, that’s me. Hob “embarrassingly human” Gadling.

Morpheus sets down his wine and hastily lays a hand on Hob’s curved back. It’s probably meant to be as possessive as it is calming, but at this point, Hob doesn’t mind. It feels good to have the comfort of his friend’s proximity. And the very visible gesture of his claiming and protection.

“I see I am in danger of wearing out my welcome,” Lucifer sighs, as if put upon. They finish their wine in a serpent-like gulp, opening their jaws wider than the mouth of their human-shape ought to allow, and set the glass aside. 

“Quite.”

"In which case, allow me to present me with your gift unto you now, Robert Gadling of Essex," Lucifer says.

With a flourish, they're suddenly cupping something spindly and large in both their palms. It is the ivory of old bone, gnarled and pitted, and looks nothing so much as a big, eldritch key. There’s a circle at the top, crowned with four spikes, and the teeth on the shaft look as if they may be made of actual fangs.

And, of course, much like Morpheus’ cactus, it is topped with a whimsical, cheery red bow.

Morpheus lets out a horrified gasp.

“I had intended on bestowing this differently,” Lucifer drawls, eyeing Morpheus meaningfully. “But as it is in poor form to attend a birthday party with no gift for the celebrant.”

She turns the full weight of her gravitationally heavy gaze on Hob.

“Er… thank you?” Hob asks.

“You will not, soon enough.”

Yeah, okay, that sounds like a trap , Hob thinks. But with no clue how or even why he might refuse the gift from a literal fallen angel, and what the eternal ramifications of that action might be he does, Hob reaches out to take the key.

“ Do not accept! ” Morpheus all but wails. “ If you become ruler of Hell, you will never again cross the threshold into my realm.”

That’s saying a little more than I think Morpheus means to , Hob thinks, fingers frozen in the air, hovering above the ribbon. It sounds less like “you’ll be barred from my realm” and more “I’ll never see you again.”

“Is that true?” Hob asks. "This will make me ruler of Hell ?"

Lucifer smirks triumphantly.  “I have already emptied Hell of all its demons. The gates are shut. Even now, the fires ash and grow cold. I have renounced my crown. A new King is required. They who next touch this Key will become that King.”

Hob shudders, short hair springing up, skin crawling with horror. Demons. Loose on Earth. Loose everywhere . And unable to be commanded to return to Hell by exorcism or spell, for the gates would be barred to them.

He cuts a look to Johanna, who is clearly following all of this. There are tears running down her cheeks. Sweat breaks out on Hob's brow, heart pounding hard behind his ribs, dread creeping down his spine. He hasn't felt this sunk with terror since he first came face-to-face with a machine gun in a muddy trench.

He's being given a choice.

It's not much of a choice.

Hob licks his lips, hoping his voice is steadier than his trembling, hovering hands.  “What happens if I don’t accept your gift?” he crackles, voice barely above a whisper.

“Then I will think that you have very poor manners indeed,” Lucifer pouts. 

Hob's breath shudders out of him, leaving his skin cold and nerves on high alert. “That’s all?”

"Of course, I will then have to bestow the Key upon the next most worthy candidate,” Lucifer says, eyes slinking up to Morpheus over Hob’s shoulder like toxic honey and, ah, there it is.

There’s the trap.

If Hob accepts the Key, he will become King of Hell, and never see Morpheus again. But he could command the armies of the damned back into their pits, and possibly, like he has in his little kingdom here on Earth, find new and better ways to help those there punishing themselves.

But if Morpheus accepts the Key, then Dream of the Endless will become King of Hell, plunging every sentient being in existence into unspeakable horror every time they fall asleep.

Which makes Hob’s choice a very, very simple one.

Before Morpheus can stop him, Hob plucks the key out of Lucifer’s hand. 

" Hob !" Morpheus wails.

He reels back, as if all the places he was touching Hob suddenly burn him. The floor shudders beneath their feet, the foundations rumbling without warning. Thunder? Hob guesses, then, No, earthquake!

The room shakes with the power of Morpheus' fury and agony. Hob grasps at the bar to stay upright, and wonders if now that its head priest has become overlord of another realm, the temple of the New Inn will defile and crack apart around them all.

Morpheus keens like a wounded hart, clutching at his chest. He staggers, rocked by the judder of the floor, what little color he had manufactured for this humanish form draining away entirely. Outside, Matthew is cawing furiously, battering against the window in a desperate attempt to break in.

Hob's stomach heaves, and he's not sure if it's from the shaking of the building, or the enormity of what he's just done. What he's just accepted.

“What, no kiss for my gift, your Majesty?” Lucifer laughs, shrill and triumphant. 

They seize Hob's face between red-taloned hands, and press a fire-hot, acid-slick mouth against his. Hob screams , the crawling burn of his flesh melting from his lips outwards throwing his animal mind into a mindless, terrified panic. Someone's hands fist in the back of his jumper, yanking at him, but the Devil's grip has seared him down to the bone, fingers embedded in his cheeks, nails scraping against the side of his teeth and tongue. The searing agony reaches his eyes, sizzles in his tears, so all he can see is the poisonous green steam of his own eyeballs boiling in their sockets.

Glass shatters, a bird cries out, a door slams open, cracking against a wall, a sonorous voice calls his name, and Hob flails, kicks, screams, and screams, and screams and—

"Forgive me, I am a titch late. I got caught up reading and… goodness me!" a prim voice gasps. "Well, this won't do at all!"

A loud noise, like a fleshy crack, rings out. 

As suddenly as a snap, the pain is gone.

Hob gargles on the tail end of a scream that aborts somewhere behind his teeth. 

His nose is filled with the scent of the rain and the petrichor from the gravel drive beyond a broken window and a wide-standing door, not with the reek of burning flesh. His heart races wildly, but it is still within his body. The rigid tension of his hell-electrified muscles ceases and Hob flops backwards, dropping against Morpheus' chest. Strong arms come around his chest Morpheus tilts his pelvis to cradle Hob's sacrum, one strong thigh behind his legs to keep from folding. He plays one hand up Hob's throat, caressing, paling his face, checking for damage and soothing all at the same time.

Hob pries his aching lids open, and finds his eyes have not boiled away after all.

The New Inn is unshaken, all in one piece, save for the way the front door is hanging off its hinges, cracked straight down the middle. The person who did it is obscured by Hob's view by the coffee machine, and the little, forlorn-looking cactus.

"What did you do to him?" Matthew caws from the mic stand, puffed out to twice his size, wings spread and a murderous gleam in his eyes. "What the fuck did you do to him?"

" I will end your miserable existence! I will throw you into the sulfurous lake from which you should never have crawled, you worthless, lothesome, hateful—"

"I'm fine!" Hob chokes out, feeling like he's vomiting up half his esophagus with every syllable. "I'm fine! " 

" Your dare! I will tear your atoms apart and scatter them across so many universes that you will never again—"

" — peck your fucking eyes out — "

"Oh, dear! I do apologize, I believe I broke your door in, I'm so sorry, my dear boy—

"Guys," Hob gags. "Just let me catch my breath…"

And before him, unmoving and unperturbed by the overlapping, rising threats and verbal assaults, Lucifer watches him with a knowing, miserable look on their face.

"Enough! Quiet!" Hob thrust the Key into the air, and silence drops like a guillotine. He heaves on a few more breaths, then swallows hard, licking his lips. In an agonized, throat-shredded whisper he adds, "Please."

Because it never hurts to use one's manners.

Slowly, agonizingly, with the gentle help of Morpheus, Hob gets his feet back under him. The first thing he does is reach for his half-finished pint and drain the glass. The alcohol burns its way down, and Hob tastes the faintest touch of blood. Christ's nails, how loud had he been screaming?

Feeling more settled, he turns to face Lucifer.

Whose lipstick and painted fingernails are still utterly pristine.

They… they didn't kiss him.

"You…" Hob pants. "You didn't do that?"

"No," Lucifer says softly, and folds their hands together with elegant contriteness, fingers pointed downward in a reverse prayer. 

"But you," Hob starts, then has to stop to swallow the bloody spittle that his screaming has produced. "You know what just happened?"

"The Key does it," Lucifer whispers. "Changes you. Every Devil needs a Face."

"I don't want a Devil Face," Hob says stubbornly.

Lucifer smiles, but it's thin and pained. "You don't get to choose."

Hob snarls and drops the Key onto the bar top. He half expects it to be stuck to his palm, or burned into his flesh. But it falls from his grip easily and lands with an unsatisfying clack . Morpheus, still hovering at Hob's side like Peter Pan's shadow, reaches out for it.

Hob smacks his hand away. "Don't you fucking dare."

" I would not see you suffer—"

"And I would not see all of humanity suffer, so you just fucking back right up there, friend."

Morpheus lowers his arm, but utterly fails to back up. If anything he presses closer. If the skinny little fuck had any bodyheat to speak of, Hob was sure he'd be feeling it through his own clothes right now.

The man by the door steps out of Hob's blindspot behind the coffee machine, and comes around to stand a respectful distance away, and peer at the Key. It's the queer little Bookseller of Soho. Late to the party, because he got caught up in reading, and Hob couldn't be more grateful for his perpetual absentminded tardiness.

“Well!" the Bookseller exclaims. "That’s where that silly old thing has gotten to! You would not believe the fuss that has kicked up in The Silver City. If you’ll give me just a moment…” He snaps once, a downward motion, as if yanking on an old-fashioned Edwardian-era bell pull.

A golden chime rings through the air and the Bookseller nods as if he's done some sort of momentous good deed. "Help is on the way, dear boy. But, ah, I would be ever so grateful if you did not tell them it was me who alerted them? I couldn't bear the paperwork."

And with that, the Bookseller is straight back out the door, which, miraculously, isn't actually broken off its hinges like Hob had thought it was. Turns out the window isn't broken either; it must have been a glass Matthew knocked over on his desperate flight inside.

Lucifer, very graciously, and very apologetically, refills Hob's pint glass by reaching over the bar for the tap, as Hob had done. Hob takes the pint (half head and spilling over the side; Hob guesses the Devil can't be good at everything ) with a nod of thanks. His hand is shaking so badly that Morpheus has to steady his arm just so he can drink.

"Well, friend," Hob says to Lucifer, once he's had a few long pulls on the cold fizz. "That was a hell of a party trick."

Lucifer snorts extremely inelegantly. "Pun intended?"

"Entirely."

" After what you suffered, you would still call the Morningstar friend ?" Morpheus asks, horror in every syllable.

"They didn't do whatever that just was to me," Hob points out. "The Key did. In fact, if that's what it feels like to hold it, then honestly, I don't blame you for wanting rid of the literally damned thing."

Lucifer's red, red, red lips part in gentle shock. They touch one lacquered nail to their own soft, pale cheek, then brush their palm across their neck as if double checking that the flesh there is indeed intact.

"You are generous in your forgiveness, sire," Lucifer says demurely.

"No more generous than all those who punish themselves in Hell for their past deeds deserve, I think," Hob says back. Including you , he doesn't add. But he doesn't need to.

Lucifer offers Hob a grateful bow.

Matthew makes a confused sort of snorfle sound. He hops his way down and across the room to Morpheus, who stoops to allow Matthew to perch on his hand, then transfers the raven to his shoulder.

"So now what, my lords?" Matthew croaks tentatively.

"Now we wait for whatever help was supposedly—" 

Another unexpected surge of light interrupts Hob, and he squints against a golden flash-bulb flare of it. When it clears, two male-presenting beings that could literally only be angels stand before them. 

This corner of the pub is starting to get awfully crowded, Hob thinks with all the hysterical sarcasm his ordeal allows him to muster.

The angels are both statuesque, both blonde, both clad in raiments of glowing white, with enormous golden wings. Hob glances at Lucifer, who rolls their eyes as the pompous way the angels carry themselves.

"Dream King," one of them says in deferential greeting. Both of the angels bow low to Morpheus.

" Remiel, Archangel of Hope.  Duma, Archangel of Silence. Your presence in this moment is most welcome." 

Morpheus inclines his head in a shallow bow, not letting on that it was the Bookseller who called them here, as asked. Hob doesn't know much about the hierarchy of celestial beings, but if the depth of their bows and nods to one another are anything to go by, Morpheus is a lot higher on the celestial pecking order than Lucifer's address to him has made it seem.

"Thank you," the one who is clearly not the Archangel of Silence says. "And our gratitude, also, for summoning us."

As one, the two archangels turn to the fallen one.

"Lucifer," Remiel says.

"Brother dearest," Lucifer sneers.

"The Divine Creator demands that you take up the Key and return to your throne."

"It's not my throne any longer," Lucifer sneers. "It's his now."

Remiel spares a glance over his shoulder at Hob that makes it very, very clear that the imperious twat thinks Hob is not much more evolved than pond gunk. The angel turns back to Lucifer.

"A mortal cannot rule Hell."

"Not mortal," Hob speaks up, just because he does not appreciate being snubbed in his own pub. And on his own birthday, to boot.

"Still human , though," Remiel sneers, the facade of literally-holier-than-thou superiority cracking a bit.

"And what's so wrong with being hummmuph," Matthew harrumphs as Morpheus reaches up and pinches his beak shut.

"Oh, well, guilty as charged then," Hob sneers right back, shoving his hands into his pockets and slouching his shoulders in the most insolent way he knows how.

Duma strides silently to Hob's side. Gently, but inexorably, the angel takes Hob's chin between his fingers, and holds his face still for his gaze.

"Doesn't hurt any more," Hob answers the ethereal creature's silent question. "But now we've got a bit of a problem, if you say a human can't rule Hell. Because it looks like it's either me, or Morpheus, and we all know what will happen if Dream of the Endless is forced to don that crown."

Duma's gaze grows tearful and sad. He shakes his head, just once, then releases Hob. Then, with the same hand, he reaches for the Key.

"Brother!" Remiel gasps, grabbing at his draped sleeve to stop him.

Matthew shakes free of Morpheus's fingers and, in a resounding voice that is clearly not his own, booms: "Hell cannot be entrusted to other than those who serve the Name directly… I shall take over Hell."  The raven shakes himself all over, blinking rapidly. "What the fuck was that, boss?" He turns his sharp beak toward Duma. "Hey, don't use me as a puppet, man, that's violating!"

"Duma, no ," Remiel protests, but halts in the face of Duma's implacable silence. Remiel curls into himself in shame. "Very well. I cannot allow my fellow to drink from a cup I have refused. I will go with you."

"Have fun, boys," Lucifer sing-songs. "Oh, and there's a bit of a trick to getting the cold water in the palace pipes. There isn't any! Ha!"

Remiel sends Lucifer the stinkiest stink-eye Hob's ever seen in six hundred and sixty-six years.

Duma reaches for the key again and Hob is struck with a sudden flash of inspiration.

“Wait!” he shouts, throwing out a hand to block the Key. He doesn't touch it again though. He's reckless, not stupid.

"Wait?" Remiel echoes, agog. " Wait ? Who are you to command the Host to—"

"I'm the King of the Hell," Hob challenges back, puffing out his chest. "At least until you touch this Key."

"You are no Demonic Monarch, you lowly—"

“Oh, stuff it,” Hob snaps at Remiel, sick to the teeth with being polite to Celestial entities to clearly don’t feel the same courtesy toward him. “Before I give you the key, I want something in return. And I'm not giving up my one and only chance to do a deal as the Devil.”

Lucifer laughs, overjoyed. Morpheus makes a worried, confused sound. In the corner, Johanna's eyes narrow in concern.

But none of that matters. Because Hob’s remembered, all of a sudden, what Matthew had gossiped about, when he was recounting the parts of Morpheus’ trip to Hell that his friend had left out.

The boss stopped at this… this window in a spire, and a woman had called out for him with a name I’d never heard before, the raven had slurred, deep in his cups one evening while Morpheus had been trapped in the Library and sent Matthew for Tuesday Hangs in his stead. She’d reached for him through the bars, tugged on his coat, sobbing. She thought he’d come to rescue her and instead he just left there, like some heartless– He’d mantled his feathers then, shaking his head in a very human gesture like trying to disperse a bad memory. I asked Lucienne about her. She was sixteen, man, she was a kid, and the boss did her pretty dirty. She was heartbroken. It’s ugly.

Remiel bristles, the small feathers along the upper curve of their glossy white wings frazzling in irritation. “You do not bargain with God,” they hiss.

“But our absentee parent not here, my sycophantic sibling,” Lucifer purrs. “And Robert Gadling has not yet abdicated. Hell is his gift to bestow. Or to hoard. Oh, do say you will hoard it instead, little man. It will vex our creator so.”

“No,” Hob says, horrified by the idea of being sole ruler of all suffering for the rest of eternity, and being barred from Dream and the Dreaming to boot. 

Lucifer shrugs, like it was worth one last try.

"Very well," Remiel grits out, sounding like every word is costing them a gallon of golden ichor.

“Nada,” Hob says. "She goes free."

Morpheus clutches hard at Hob's shoulder in his shock. " How do you know her name? How—"

"Not now," Hob says gently to his oldest friend, taking his hand from his shoulder, and twining their fingers together behind his back. Then turns his best flinty, bandit's glare at the angels. "Nada is released in exchange for the Key. Those are my terms."

"We cannot simply release a soul from Hell," Remiel says slowly, as if explaining to a toddler. "Without a corporation, it will be naught but a ghost."

"Then give her a corporation," Lucifer says, studying their nails as if bored. "We both know the paperwork is not as persnickety as the Quartermasters make it out to be. There's stacks lying around, waiting to be inhabited."

"Sibling!" Remiel hisses at Lucifer in warning. The former devil just bares their teeth at him. Remiel tries a different tack: "The Dream King condemned her to Hell himself. We cannot give her leave until he recants—"

Hob steps on Morpheus's foot.

Hard.

" I recant!" Morpheus yelps, glaring daggers at Hob. Then he clears his throat and resumes his customary haughty expression. "Nada has been unjustly punished, and it has gone on far too long. I recant my oath, and rescind my ire. Nada is no longer prisoner by my will, nor my pleasure."

Remiel gawps.

"A new life for Nada," Hob repeats firmly, bringing the conversation back to its point. "Reincarnation. A chance to do it all again, without suffering, in return for the Key. Are we agreed?"

Duma looks between Remiel, Morpheus, and Hob.

" Agreed ," Matthew booms, and then squawks: "Man, fuck off!"

"It is done."

Hob removes his hand from the bar.

Duma grasps the Key.

The only indication that it is paining him, that it is burning his face off even as Hob is staring at him and nothing is happening outwardly, is a slight squinching of his features. Remiel makes a disgusted sound and gestures with his hand, and the faint echo of a newborn baby's cry vaults through the room, perfectly audible over the susurrus of the gentling thunderstorm.

New life.

And she shares Hob's birthday.

How about that.

"The bargain is fulfilled," Remiel spits with disgust. "Brother, come."

Both angels snap their wings out—one of Remiel's slapping Lucifer in the face, clearly intentionally by the snarl they let loose—and in the powerful thrust of a gong-like wingbeat, are gone. The Key is gone with them.

Hob immediately squeezes Morpheus's hand tight and turns to gauge whether he's fucked up their friendship forever.

Surely, surely, Morpheus must be furious at Hob for overstepping so completely. Nada had gone to Hell because she'd died by suicide, but she'd only killed herself because Dream of the Endless had seduced her against the rules that forbade him for lying with a mortal ( Do I count as a mortal? Hob wonders frantically, Would we be punished if—focus, Gadling! ) and her people had been slaughtered in retribution. And Morpheus, in his pride, had left her to rot there when she refused his hand in return for rescue. It had all been, quite frankly, some epically toxic masculinity bullshit , and Hob is prepared to square off with his friend about it if he has to. 

He doesn't want to, of course, but for the sake of a soul left suffering through no wrong of her own, he will.

But instead, he finds Morpheus limp with shock, silently weeping.

"Hob," Morpheus gasps. " Hob, my priest, my devoted one." He surges forward, anoints Hob's forehead and palms with holy, reverent kisses. The last of the lingering pain from the Key's hold  is washed away in the cool calmness of deep sleep and deeper night. It flows down his skin, making him shiver as Hob is consecrated Head Priest once more.  "How beneficent your human heart is. And how shamed I am, that it took you to force me to do right by one I had scorned unjustly and unkindly."

"Yeah, well, don't you forget it," Hob says, when Morpheus pulls away. He rubs his face, weary in a way that he hasn't felt in… well, ever. "So, are we done now? Can we… can we be done now, please? I have a party to—" he looks around the room, at all the people here under his invitation, under his burden of care. "To save."

"By all means," Lucifer says. "They will awaken as soon as I go."

" Then go," Morpheus invites, with no little amount of bitchy snark.

Lucifer offers him a hard stare, but after a moment, relents without retaliation. "I shall make my farewells to you then, Robert Gadling, from one former Monarch of Hell to another."

They lean forward and buss a gentle, warm kiss off of Hob's cheek.

“Where will you go?” Hob asks, as they withdraw. “If Hell isn’t your domain any more, what are your plans?”

“Why, stay here, of course,” Lucifer says. Then they look around at the cramped room, the stuffy air, the frozen mortals. “Well, perhaps not here , here. But as I said, it’s been ever so long since I’ve been invited to a party. I’ve forgotten how fun they can be. Perhaps I will find some space to host my own sinful little celebrations.”

“Like… a nightclub?” Hob asks, wracking his brain for what they may mean.

Lucifer’s eyes spark with intrigue. “Now that is an idea,” they murmur. “A nightclub . There’s all sorts of wicked things a soul may get into there. I’ll send you an invitation to the grand opening, Hob dearest. In thanks for tonight.”

“You know what,” Hob says, finding he really means it when he says: “I look forward to it.”

The former Devil blinks, obviously not anticipating or expecting his favorable response.

“See you then, my friend,” Hob says, holding out a hand to shake.

“Is that a binding promise?” Lucifer asks slyly, reaching back.

“Absolutely not,” Hob laughs. “I know better than to make a deal with the devil. Again.” He cuts a wink at Morpheus, who wrinkles his nose petulantly. “But you tell me when and where, and I’ll try.”

“That is acceptable,” Lucifer acquiesces, and shakes his hand not to seal a deal, but in a companionable farewell.

“Oh!” Hob says, as a dark cloud of absolutely rotten-smelling smokes begins to billow around their smart white pumps. “I used to play some violin, in the 18th century. Should I bring it?”

Lucifer breaks into a wide, frankly dorky grin of sheer delight. “No, friend. I haven’t picked up a fiddle since I lost that bout. I’m more of a piano man, now.”

And before Hob can think of anything clever to say to that, the cloud envelopes the Devil, and they are gone.

“-- the hell was that! ” Patrick shouts from beside Hob, right in his ear, and Hob startles away, nearly falling on his arse in surprise.

Hob catches himself on a bar stool, heart hammering in his throat, as all around him the humans resume moving and talking as if the massive clap of thunder that had shaken the Inn had occurred just a second ago.

“Someone should go check if that hit the pub!” one of Hob’s colleagues says, and grabs an umbrella from the stand of forgotten ones by the door and ducking outside before he can see who it was. “No! All good! No fire!”

Johanna Constantine bounds across the room like she's a bolt of lightning herself. Hob braces for a punch in the nose, and gets wrapped in a tight embrace instead. "You mad bastard," Johanna hisses in his ear. "You mad, incredible, pig-shit bonkers bastard ."

"Yeah, that's me," Hob says sheepishly, squeezing her back.

"Happy birthday!" she says, smacks a ridiculous kiss off his mouth, and then crosses back across the room, grabs Ric by the sleeve, and pulls her through the kitchen and—by the sounds of the slamming door—into the back where the bins make a conveniently shadowed corner.

"Yeah, nobody go back there for a while," Hob announces to the handful of people watching what had just happened with open curiosity.

"Ew," Patrick grumps. He does a double take when he catches Morpheus and Matthew on the far side of the bar, several empty glasses before him that he obviously didn't put there.

For a moment, Hob is worried that his co-owner is going to put up a fuss about the live animal in the building, but then Patrick shrugs in the way that mortals encouraged to overlook Morpheus' oddities by the very nature of his existence do. He busses the empties, and moves on to the next customer.

Hob, not inclined at all to overlook Morpheus, leans on the bar beside him, and grins up at his oldest, and strangest friend.

" Are all your birthday celebrations this eventful, Hob Gadling? " Morpheus asks, eyebrow raised coyly, as Matthew attempts to preen the last of his wet feathers into laying right.

"Nah," Hob promises. "Just the milestones."

" Then I already dread the party you will throw to mark your first millennia."

Hob, who has just enough beer left in his glass to toast Morpheus and toss back the mouthful, does so. Then he chuckles ruefully. "I don't, my friend. Not in the least. As a former Monarch of Hell, I have a feeling my life will be even more interesting in the decades to come." He drops Morpheus a cheeky wink. "And I have so much to live for."

On the far side of the pub, someone shuts off all the lights. A spark of candlelight goes up, and, raised in chorus, everyone that Hob holds dear—in the here and now—begins to sing.

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[milune-vox]

Bubble up (one-shot)

You can also read on ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/45431164

Summary : Dream appears in Hob's bathroom, seemingly distraught. Hob draws a bubble bath. That's it, that's the plot.

"Is the water alright?"

A low hum answers him.

Hob is seated on a stool in his bathroom. He's wearing an old band t-shirt and shorts, his bare feet hooked on the footrest. In the steam infused air, he contemplates the mop of dark hair emerging from the bubbles in his bath. It is an endearing, albeit confusing sight. He feels restless, just sitting here. 

Waiting.

Earlier that night, he had gotten home properly knackered after a long day packed with classes and grading and had headed straight for the hottest shower he could take without boiling himself alive. He had just gotten out of his shower and finished dressing for the night when his friend had appeared in a swirl of sand, which still sits in a heap on the tiled floor. The sudden magical apparition hadn't been the biggest surprise, but rather how his proud friend was in such disarray, his hair more chaotic than usual, his clothes like they'd gotten acquainted with fire, his eyes haggard and avoidant.

He had looked positively exhausted. Hob, in his own exhaustion-induced haze, after having received no answer to his worried questioning, had suggested he take a bath. It made sense in the moment–Dream did appear like he needed one–but, as the seconds passed and dragged themselves heavily like feet in the mud, Hob started to doubt that asking this to his non-human and very proud friend was perhaps some sort of terrible faux-pas.

However, after a bit more of that terrifying silence, Dream had agreed with a curt nod of his head which had, in an instant, propelled Hob into action. He quickly started drawing the bath and got a bit overenthusiastic in the process- his nerves, most likely. Emergencies did always fill him with an unusual clarity and an unstoppable will. 

After a few minutes of pure focus, he sat back on his knees, splashes of water on his sleepwear, arms drenched up to the elbow, hair a bit wild. 

There it was, then: his masterpiece.

The tub was filled with warm water, almost overflowing with a hefty cloud of shiny bubbles. The scent of lavender danced around gently in the air. The warm embrace of water, the soothing smell of lavender, the gentle and soft press of bubbles: those were among the few comforts he found able to wash away most grief.

He hoped it would prove to be enough, for whatever his friend was going through.

He heard the sound of fabric rustling and felt his gut do a somersault. Yes, time to show himself out. 

"Well, I'll leave you to it, then-"

"No."

Dream sounded much closer than he'd expected, and a chill climbed up his spine. 

 His voice was the same as it had always been, which contrasted strangely with his rugged, broken exterior.

"I can, uh, sit over there, I guess."

This granted him no vocal answer, which was an answer in itself, he supposed. He pulled a nearby stool to him, and sat. He’d never noticed some details on the wooden floor. It was a nice, hardy, shiny floor.

He heard the sound of rippling water, as, one foot after the other, a body entered the bath.

He noticed how some of the boards were a bit chipped with use.

The water overflowed a tad, a bit splashed on the floor.

How long was it since he’d treated the wood? He should probably do it again.

Hob stared at the sinuous designs in the wooden planks, and when he was done with that, he stared some more at the blue bath mat. If he paced himself, he could stare at his furniture for the rest of the night. After a thorough examination of the floral patterns on the blue tiled walls, he started to wonder if his friend had fallen asleep. The thought worried him enough that he let himself finally look at Dream. 

His friend’s head was above the water, half buried under the bubbles, with his eyes closed and breathing peacefully, the bubbles floating away from his face with his exhales. Hob wondered if he even needed to breathe, or if it was all part of his... human facade.

"Is the water alright?" he asks, managing to sound less strangled than he feels.

A low hum answers him.

In the steam infused air, he contemplates the mop of dark hair emerging from the bubbles in his bath. It is an endearing, albeit confusing sight. He feels restless, just sitting here. 

Waiting.

He can hear muffled noises from the street below and from the pub downstairs. It is a faint, comforting background noise that usually helps distract him from his solitude. 

He is not alone, now, however. 

Hob breathes in deeply.

It is peaceful. No matter how uncanny the situation is. No matter how worried sick he is over Dream’s unusual state. It is peaceful, here and now. 

One by one, he lets his muscles relax. He closes his eyes. His feet are up on the bars of the stool–he puts them down, grounding himself. He now feels present in a way his usual hectic schedule doesn't allow him to. He vaguely wonders if he ought to take up meditation again. He'd certainly like to feel this way more often. It is pleasant, the way puzzle pieces slotting into place is. He feels at one with the world.

In a way, he supposes he is generally more anchored than most, unchanged by the hands of time as he is, a fixed point across the centuries. He wonders if perhaps Dream appreciates this fact about him. Finds safety in it. As unfathomably old and unknowable as he is. 

He is attuned to his environment, his own body, and the presence of his friend, so, naturally, he notices the shift in the air when it occurs.

His eyes open and he feels once again compelled to look over to his Dream, an instinct pulling him in his direction.

His face is barely rising from the bubbles, wet, but not from the bath’s water. Tears are streaming down his face- he’s weeping without making a sound, still as a statue. 

Hob's throat closes up at the sight. Should he bring attention to it by bringing it up? He'd always had a habit of putting his foot in his mouth. He prefers dealing with things head-on, and not letting them fester in half-words and half-truths. 

It still takes a moment for him to be able to murmur,"Are you alright?"

Dream's eyes close, as does his face. His voice is even lower than usual, raw in a way Hob has never heard.

"I apologise."

"There's no need to. Take all the time you need."

His own voice is a terribly weak thing, for his heart aches so with worry and compassion he feels tears fill his own eyes. Oh, how he wishes he could erase the hurt, make it better, make it so he'd never have to witness that heartbroken expression on this beloved face.

"If you wish to talk about whatever it is, I'm here. If you need anything, anything at all that I can provide, I will happily give it to you."

Dream nods. The slight movement disrupts his collected expression, like a stone thrown on still waters. His lower lip convulses, his eyebrows twitch. He hides his face in his hand.

Hob’s hands stretch towards him, helplessly. One of them finds a grip on the tub sides. He wishes he could reach out. Provide comfort. He keeps his eyes downcast to provide him a sense of privacy. His knuckles must have whitened from his grip on the enamel tub. 

In the silence, the smallest hiccuping sounds are as loud as gunshots, and wound him just the same. His throat closes up. A few tears of his own run down his face- he lets them fall. He still does not know what wounds his friend- he doesn’t need to, to feel for him. To witness him so upset shakes Hob to his core. He breathes in, and out. In, and out.

Eventually, the quiet sobs stop.

He sits vigil for a while longer. Long enough for his muscles to relax again. His hand no longer grips the side of the bath, simply rests there. He starts to wonder whether the water is still warm. If his friend can feel the cold. 

In spite of himself, as exhausted and unmoving as he is, he is starting to nod off uncontrollably. He tries not to yawn, so as to not disturb his friend, but can't help it. He lets go of the edge of the bath to try and smother the yawn in his hand.

In his peripheral vision, he sees Dream straighten up, gripping both sides of the tub, starting to rise.

"Oh, don't hurry on my account, just a bit sleepy is all."

Dream stands up, much swifter and more elegant about it than any human being would be, so Hob turns away, putting his back to the bath. He doesn’t need to live with such pictures in his mind. His dreams are damning enough without fuelling them with accurate material.  He stifles another yawn in his hand and rubs at his eyes, in an attempt both to sooth the pointed pressure of heavy eyelids and to shrug off his slippery thoughts.

"You need rest," he hears, low, soft, along with muffled footsteps on the bath ma t. The disrupted water laps and ripples softly, a last echo of movement.

"You know what they say. I'll sleep when I'm dead," he jokes and laughs dryly with half closed eyes. The silhouette of his friend in his peripheral vision grows closer, and it becomes obvious that, by some magic, he is already fully clothed. Hob turns to face him, his very human confusion at the improbably fast change probably showing on his face.

He is greeted by a breath-catching sight. Dream is wearing a black robe of sorts, long and flowy, which, frankly, is more akin to a very loose bit of fabric scarcely draped over his frame than anything else. He cannot tell how it hangs in place.  It is gravity defying. It is quite revealing, too. Opaque enough to leave some things up to the imagination, but barely.

If he had been the tiniest bit less tired, he would have had a rather pointed physical reaction to this. As it is, his mouth just goes agape in awe.

“Nifty trick,” he comments a bit dumbly, berating himself for his appalling lack of eloquence.

The slight curl of Dream’s lips in reaction to his dumbstruck awe is reassurance enough. He reminds Hob of a smug cat gazing over a mouse he caught. It is not a bad way to die, he thinks, if the cat looks like this.  Yes. Sign him up for the mouse part, any day. A distant part of his brain is trying to get his attention, highlighting the fact that his mind is getting dizzier and less coherent by the second. … He really should go to bed and get some sleep, shouldn’t he?

He clears his throat. “Feel any better?” 

“I am much restored.”

And it does look this way. His friend’s raven hair is still sticking out chaotically, however it is now as messy as it usually is, nothing more or less. No soot, no scrapes, no trace of tears. He stands straight, regal, his pale, lithe, perfect body like that of a greek statue. 

“I’m glad to hear that,” answers Hob, genuinely, and his smile is smaller, more meaningful. 

Dream seems to hesitate, suddenly a bit awkward, like the wind might knock him over. It only lasts an instant before his resolve hardens and his posture stabilises. In a gesture that can only be described as gallant, he offers one of his hands to Hob. He stares a bit at it, blinking uncomprehendingly.

Were he to raise his eyes, he would read fond annoyance in Dream's own. 

“Let us make sure you get some sleep," Dream’s overly patient voice explains. “It would be quite remiss of me to keep one of my dreamers out of my realm.” Even in his haughty voice, the note of humour is unmistakable. This, with the shine in his eyes and the quirk of his lips, are enough to make Hob feel warm inside and draw a conspiratory half grin. 

He decides to play coy. Gasps and puts a hand over his heart. 

“Whisked away to dreamland by the Dream King himself? Sounds like a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.”

Dream raises an eyebrow. His expression is a mix of superiority, amusement, and fondness. There is another thing of intensity to it, something confounding that pierces right through him. Something that he cannot, dares not in good faith, identify. 

“It is.” His friend inclines his head slightly forward, nodding in a way only the most stuck-up lords of old ever did, and Hob snickers.

“Wow, way to make a man feel all important,” he jests, and doesn’t blush at all.

Then, a sudden and practical thought dawns on him. 

“Ha, but I should probably deal with the bath fi-”

As he says it, he glances at the bathtub and finds it empty, pristine. He blinks at it a few times, then slowly shifts his gaze to Dream.

“Nifty trick.” He raises an ironically unimpressed eyebrow at him. Dream is unwavering in his confidence, challenging him still.

Hob chuckles self-deprecatingly and, finally, dares to take the offered hand.

He stands up in the same breath so as to try and not focus too much on the delightful feeling of those fingers clasped with his, lest his knees buckle up and leave him prostrating himself on the ground like a worshipper in front of his god. Which would be… No, not going there. The fingers are chilled, in spite of the bath. The soft press of them moves him. His brain supplies him with an overwhelming amount of oxytocin. It’s Dream’s hand, his stranger’s hand, in his. He cannot help his shivering breath.

He is so taken with the fact, and the feel of it, that he almost misses his friend’s offbeat answer.

“You are. Important,” Dream says in a small, barely noticeable voice, as if he didn’t mean to be heard. Hob heard, alright. His heart skips a beat. He feels a lot more awake now, ironically, than he did before the King of Dreams decided it was time for him to go to bed. He barely notices how the lights turn off by themselves as they leave. Dream’s words pound in his head as he drags Hob to his bedroom as if he owns the place.

Considering Hob built the New Inn and took residence above it in hopes of seeing his friend once more, it actually feels quite natural. This building is devoted to Dream.

Hob, of course, follows diligently: he, too, is devoted to Dream. He tries not to think of any other situation that would involve one of them guiding the other to a bedroom. He wouldn't dare. He doesn't. 

Dream's words beat as loud as his heart. You are, you are, you are-

They arrive in his bedroom. The door creaks lightly. Makes it more real. Which in turn makes it more surreal. You are, you are, you are. Important. 

To me, he hadn’t said. To me, Hob heard nonetheless, for what else could he have possibly meant? Hob isn’t anyone special. Minus his immortality, he is just, well, himself. Which he quite likes, most days, but his importance is somehow relative, especially in comparison to cosmic creatures such as his friend. 

They pass the threshold, Dream dragging him by the hand.

Hob knows he must be blushing furiously. He really ought to not be. Could the hot steam from the bathroom be a good enough excuse for his state? The heat had gone down considerably in the long time they’d spent there so, perhaps not.  

He forces a yawn out of himself to have a pretext to hide his face. Which does work, except it also blinds him to his environment, which is already scarcely lit from the streetlights and the full moon. So naturally, when his friend suddenly stops in his tracks, Hob bumps shoulders with him. Or well, bumps his shoulder on the immovable object that is his friend. 

“Ouch, sorry, just, hm, a bit tired.”

“Sit,” Dream’s low voice commands, sending a shiver down his spine.

The hand in his tugs down insistently. Hob wonders if this show of ordering him around is a way for Dream to retake a bit of control after the vulnerability he had shown earlier.

No matter what this is about, Hob is more than happy to oblige him. So he sits on his covers, which are a bit rumbled, because, frankly, who has time to make the bed properly in this day and age? Dream hasn’t let go of his hand, still. It makes Hob bold. He takes it in both his hands, warming the cold skin between his palms.

“You told me you don’t sleep, right?" he asks.

The way his friend stands in front of him, eyes uncanny in the darkness, as if they are lit from within, must be a scary sight, surely, for most people. The goosebumps on Hob’s skin are most definitely not born out of fear, however.

“I do not,” Dream answers evenly.

“Can you rest?”

There is a short pause in which, slowly, his old friend tilts his head, his gaze piercing through Hob so swiftly he feels naked under its light.

“Yes,” Dream finally nods. 

“I see.” Hob breathes in, and dares. “Care to rest here?”

It is a small, almost insignificant change in posture, yet Hob catches it, so terribly focused is he on his stranger’s every expression, every gesture. He sees him go rigid, notices how his face closes off, how his eyes start shining with something other than light. The hand in his feels heavier.

It is not the same expression as the one he’d worn in 1889, but it’s close enough that it scares him.

“Sorry. Overstepping again, am I? Don’t mind me.” He lets go of Dream’s hand, eyes avoidant, shrugging abashedly. “Just meant to say… Just.” He massages his eyes, cringing at himself and his sometimes disastrous impulsivity. He just wanted to provide comfort, and made an ass of himself, again.  “You’re always welcome here. Whatever you need, you know. Whatever you want.”

“I… would like to. Rest here. With you.”

His eyes snap back to Dream.

His head is bowed down. His voice is small, tentative, like a child not daring to ask for permission. It is both endearing and incredibly sad, for beneath it Hob can only picture a loneliness so deep it makes his heart ache. “Well,” he says with a smile, “feel free to lie down, then.” On that note, he pushes aside the covers and lies down with a sigh of contentment. 

He closes his eyes for a second, breathes in and out, feeling the exhaustion in his body creeping back in. He opens them again, turns to Dream, who must still be standing next to the-

“Wow.”

Somehow, his friend managed to lie down beside him without making any noise and without making the mattress shift under his weight. Does he have weight? Hob can’t help but chuckle softly.

They simply look at each other for a while. Smiling like dolts. Mostly him. Dream does smile, though. Most people wouldn’t notice. It’s in the eyes. It’s all in the eyes.

He feels seen, understood. He feels like he sees, and understands. And beneath the surface, he can tell whatever happened to Dream earlier still lurks. Hob attempts, softly:

"You do know you can talk to me, right? If you need to, I’m here. Anytime.”

"I shall. Later. Now rest."

Their hands find each other tentatively. Hob is smiling so widely he cannot keep his eyes open. Or maybe it’s the tiredness. Maybe so, yes. He feels content. At peace. He hopes Dream feels this too. 

“Sweet dreams, Hob Gadling.”

It takes him a few seconds to answer, his brain sluggish and slow. Finally, he pushes himself to speak, for he cannot help but share when a witty thought crosses his mind. Especially where his dear friend is involved. 

“If they truly are sweet, I’ll definitely meet you there.” There you go, Hobsie, he thinks to himself with a smitten, dumb smile on his face, the soft weight of Dream’s hand in his own, filling him with pure happiness. “See you soon, then.” 

A small huff answers him, terribly reminiscent of a laugh, and Hob grins groggily. 

He focuses on the delightful softness of his friend's hand, the warmth of the sheets, the feeling of his weight on the mattress.

When he wakes up the next morning, there is sand on his bed.

[nobody-is-evil]

Dream, Why Don’t You Have a Snugglefest with Hob and Maybe You’ll Calm Down

Summary: Results inconclusive. Dream was calm during the snugglefest, but...

This is for the Feb prompt (Cuddle) Pollen for the @yearoftheotpevent.

Thanks to @littledreamling for being my beta.

I’ll reblog this with the link to the fic on ao3.

Warnings: non-consensual drug use that usually comes with the pollen trope, mentions of period-typical homophobia (in the form of fear of it), Dream is not nice to himself, sad/open ending

There is a fight going on right next to him. Hob Gadling fights the two smugglers that Lady Johanna Constantine brought in with her, two men named Michael Stoker and Tobias Underwood.

Dream does not pay them any mind. Mere mortals cannot hurt him. No, what is important is the discomfiting sensation of—something. He cannot place what affects him, but something is.

He feels...cold. His form’s head is aching. This body, like that of a fawn’s, struggles to keep him upright. Most worryingly, the Dreaming is fading away from him.

Lady Johanna Constantine’s words make their way to him, “...mix something into your drink.” He feels the weight of her gaze when she continues, “I’ve been assured it will work on your kind.”

No.

This is her work? Her petty hedge-magicking?

He grabs the seat of his chair hard enough to whiten his knuckles. It requires more control than it should not to growl and shout at her.

Few things should be able to affect one such as him at all, and less should be able to rip away all that makes him Endless and replace it with human flesh, but without his endless memory, he cannot remember. All that he can think about is the chill and how weakened he feels.

He falls out of his chair and to the floor on his knees, clutching his head with both hands to try to relieve the pain. His form protests even this position, swaying, and he presses one hand against the ground to steady himself.

(There is a thud that could only be the sound of Hob succumbing as well. The delay is likely from his immortality, but it could not stop the effects forever.)

Fingertips touch his shoulder. The heat is tangible through his conjured clothing. Dream yanks himself away, and his words come out as a hiss when he speaks through gritted teeth, “Do not touch me!”

His irritation is far more palpable than he usually allows himself. It is unbecoming of an Endless, if natural from a mortal.

“Oh, do not try to trick me. I know exactly how you’re feeling now.”

She cannot comprehend even a drop of the power he usually carries, evident in the way she attempts again to touch him—this time, directly on his skin. Dream resorts to crawling backwards away from her.

A footstep echoes across the room like a gunshot. For half a second, Dream fears (fears!) that one of her lackeys has awoken, but no—it is Hob. The sun washes his features in golden light, painting him as the archetype of an avenging angel as he charges at her.

In seconds, she has fallen limply to the ground. She does not move, so she must be in his realm—how galling it is to have to figure that out, like trying to understand another through the movements of her lips rather than her voiced words. He rashly attempts to reconnect to the Dreaming, but only strains his mind in the process, adding to the existing pounding in his head. He clutches his head again.

Hob’s voice comes from right next to Dream, “They could get up at any moment. We should leave.” (Dream has to dig his fingers further into his scalp.) “Can you stand?”

Can.

He.

Stand.

Dream rises unaided—for about half a second before he lurches to the side and has to grab onto the table. But that cannot be the end of his humiliation; no, his muscles fail him even with the help from the table, and he falls all the way back to the floor.

Hob does not offer help. This is not something Dream is unused to, but after fighting off his three attackers unasked, Hob seems like he would be the kind of person to do so.

Or, perhaps, Dream is complicating a simple zest for fighting.

“No. No, I cannot stand.” Each extra word is an arrow he rips out of his skin. “...help me...”

“...please...”

Hob says, barely audible, “Certainly.”

Even expecting the touch and watching his hands approach—

(Dream is not unused to heat. The power of an Endless has a similar effect, such that he seldom bothers giving his form in the Waking World a temperature in the range of humans. But without his power, all Dream has left is this body, this body that has never been anything but freezing, and from this perspective, even another mortal’s body heat is...hot.)

—he still flinches when he feels the heat they emit.

Hob retracts them as if he is the one burnt. “Are you sure?”

Grinding his teeth is a familiar sensation (the accompanying pain, not so much). Of course Hob would pay attention and be concerned about this body’s involuntary reaction. In his peripherals, he can see that his own limbs are shaking. “Do it!” Dream spits out.

The heat returns to the backsides of his knees and his upper back, and this time, it does not leave when he flinches. With longer than an instant to adjust to it, his body decides that it rather likes being warm. A good thing, as Dream is pressed against something that warms even more of him at once.

His body moves instinctively, seeking the configuration that allows for it to be in contact with the warmth the most. His head digs into the warmest spot of all, a little crook that he fits into so well, it is like it was made for this purpose.

And it is rumbling.

Dream cracks open an eye (that he does not remember closing) and is reminded that he is being carried by a human, Hob—who is laughing at him.

“You have regained your strength, old stranger. I could drop my arms and you would stay as you are.”

“Do not!” Dream tightens around Hob further. It is as he said; Dream’s strength is, inexplicably, back, though he still does not want to lose the nest of Hob’s arms.

Hob tenses in turn, voice dropping to an urgent whisper, “You must not speak so loud! If anyone sees that I’m carrying a man like this...”

It takes Dream a moment to realize that Hob is referring to him as a man, and longer to place his fears. “The anti-sodomy laws,” he realizes. “Then we shall not be seen. Concentrate on your destination.”

“What?” Hob asks, even though Dream can sense his daydream.

Dream manipulates the sand out of his pouch with more ease than usual—the difference between leading a dog with a leash and simply calling for it—and it surrounds them.

When it dissipates, they are inside his home.

“That is convenient,” Hob breathes, turning in the direction of the still-locked front door. Then he suddenly says, “Er, I’ll put you down, now,” and stops in front of his couch.

Naturally. Now that Dream is back to full strength, there is no reason for a mortal to carry him.

He allows himself to be released—up until he is reminded of how frosty it is outside of Hob’s arms. Then he retreats back up like a cat scrambling out of water.

Hob accommodates the aborted motion, though there is no small amount of confusion in his voice when he says, “My friend?”

Perhaps Dream could request that Hob light the fireplace? No, that would require him to let go of Dream. There is no distracting him from this. “It...is cold,” he admitted.

“Oh.” Hob seems to consider this. He takes to pacing down the length of his living room. “So, it’s not normal for you to be freezing to the touch?”

Dream corrects, “It is. The part that is unusual is that I feel the chill.”

Hob gasps. “This is because of what Lady Johanna mixed into your drink!” he exclaims at first with realization and then with righteous anger.

“Perhaps,” Dream agrees as though he already thought of that.

“Do you know—well, you’ll be fine, surely? How long before you’re back to normal?”

Dream considers this. He does not quite remember. “After a fashion, I shall. Between one and eleven hours.”

Hob huffs. “My endurance is not what it used to be. I doubt I can stay awake that long, let alone carry you the entire time, old stranger, even with how light you are.”

Hmm. Dream allows magnanimously, “Let it not be known that I would keep a...human from his rest. If you wish to recline, then we shall.”

Hob stops. His throat shifts as he swallows. “Thank you, my friend.”

The walk to Hob’s bedroom is silent. Dream does not pay any mind to the decorations—he is content to rest in Hob’s hold. They stop in front of his bed, and only then does Dream reluctantly drop down from his grasp onto it.

He immediately regrets it when the chill returns. It should be warm, what with all the bedding, but it is not. The memory of warmth slips away, like sand would slip out of his grasp in his weak condition, and it is only on conscious knowledge that he knows the heat will help and not hurt when Hob climbs into bed after him.

Once he is used to the boiler that is Hob again, Dream’s body seeks out the position that allows him to squeeze out as much warmth as he can get. Hob lays on his back, so Dream lays on his left side, with his left arm pinned underneath Hob and right arm crossing Hob’s chest. Like this, he can fit his head back into its rightful place in the crook of Hob’s neck.

Extra, much appreciated warmth comes in the form of Hob’s right arm down Dream’s back and his left hand in Dream’s hair. The repetitive movements calm him, succor almost enough to make him forget that this is not his natural state.

They lay in silence.

“It has been 25 minutes,” Dream says later. “You are not asleep. You are no closer to being asleep.”

The hands in his hair and on his back slow in their motions. “I’m not.”

Dream almost drops it and asks him to keep doing it, but he stands by his resolution to not keep Hob from sleeping. “Why?”

“These clothes are not made to be slept in,” Hob admits quietly. His next words come out in a rush, “But it’s fine; I’m sure you would not appreciate the time it would take me to change them—”

“Nonsense.” Dream barely has to use any of his sand to undress Hob. In an instant, he has left Hob in only his white underclothes (recognizing how many Dreamers fear being nude in public).

The change is immediate—Hob gives off heat tenfold, a hundredfold. Dream lets out a surprised purr. The only thing that is important is soaking up as much of this new, extra warmth as he can. He lets his instincts guide his body again and ends up laying on top of Hob.

If removing one layer of clothing yielded this result, what would happen if Dream gets rid of his own clothes?

He banishes them.

The influx of heat no longer feels like it can be attributed to just physical temperature. He feels simultaneously like he is underwater and like he is floating, like he is spinning and like he is still, like he is laying on Hob and like he is melting into him until they are just one being.

A slight shift underneath him brings him back down to Earth until he breaches the surface of the water.

“My friend,” Hob says, with a strained quality to his voice that Dream has never heard before, “you’re too—heavy, to be on top of me.”

Yet, Dream is simply too comfortable to move. This nest is perfect; there must be some other way to fix it. Hmm—of course. He calls a bit of sand and uses it to make his form as light as a feather.

Hob swallows again, and when he speaks, his voice is closer to normal. “Er...I thank you. This is considerably better.”

“The pleasure is all mine.”

For a moment, silence reigns.

“Would you mind...” Hob is oddly hesitant. “I find that I can lull myself to sleep by telling a story. Would you mind hearing one?”

Dream has to stop the purr that tries to escape at this. Hob does not know who he asks, who he freely offers his stories to—he is ignorant of the implications. Instead, Dream reminds himself of the foundation of their relationship, “You would continue where we left off before we were interrupted?”

Hob lets out a chuckle at that. “If we’re to continue where we left off, I remember that you were about to tell me your name.”

That...is true. Hob has been very patient, has he not? 400 years is a long time for a human. Dream, relaxed because of his presence, cannot think of how he could be more worthy. “Very well.”

“I have many names. You may know me as Lord Morpheus, Shaper of Forms, Oneiros, the Oneiromancer, King of Dreams and of Nightmares. You likely know me as the Sandman.” Dream pauses at Hob’s sharp intake of breath, trying to choose whether to give him the name of Prince of Stories, before deciding against it. “My first and truest name is Dream of the Endless. Put simply, Dream. And I would be pleased if you would tell me a story.”

“...right. It’s wonderful to meet you, Dream.” Hob swallows once again. “I have to ask, do you know all dreams?”

This is when he usually corrects that he is all dreams. But he is not, not at the moment. “Perhaps.”

Hob’s hands find Dream’s back and hair again, resuming their ministrations. “Only, I would like to be the one to tell you about my life, in person. That is why we meet up. So, could you block mine out?”

That is a new request.

“I understand if n—” Hob adds in a rush before Dream cuts him off.

“I can.” For some reason, he is less reluctant to admit weakness now, “I am...disconnected...from the majority of my usual abilities. When I regain my full spread of powers, I will ensure that knowledge of your dreams is still hidden from me.”

“I thank you again, my friend.”

“The tale you promised me?” Dream prompts.

Hob starts, “This story begins many years ago...”

Dream listens attentively. In this state, without his endless memory, he does not know the story. It is a new experience, rare for one such as him. He sinks into peace, ataraxy, serenity, in the depths of Hob’s voice.

Dream of the Endless and Hob Gadling are at a meadow. There is nobody else around. They walk for a while, enjoying each other’s presence, before stopping on a hill.

Hob has a picnic basket. He lays down the blanket and arranges the food. The sun washes his features in golden light, painting him as the archetype of an angel.

While Dream stares at Hob, Hob stares back.

They stay like that for ages before Hob leans in to Dream—

The scene disappears from around him, his surroundings changing to that of his throne room.

Lucienne stands before him. “There you are, my lord.” She sounds perfectly composed, or would, to anyone except Dream. He hears the undercut of worry.

“I apologize for my absence.” What happened? He is disoriented...he was stuck in one facet of himself for some time, separated from his function.

Oh.

Myitzur pollen.

Most importantly, his powers are rapidly returning. If he does not address it immediately, he will further break his promise. “Find Hob Gadling’s books and remove them from the library. Put them where I cannot access them.”

“Right away, sir.”

Dream does not look away from her as she efficiently walks away. Only when she has fully left the room does he allow himself to relax.

She did not see what she interrupted. She could not have. Only 3 should know: Dream, Fiddler’s Green...and Hob. The Heart of the Dreaming will not tell; Dream does not mind him knowing. Dream has nothing to worry from him, unlike many other residents of the Dreaming.

Hob, on the other hand, will be most displeased with Dream. An hour, less than that, passed between making and breaking the promise.

Not to mention everything that happened before that. He allowed himself to be incapacitated by a mere mortal, had to accept help from another, and then went so far as to seek comfort from him.

Weak.

He should have kept his wits about him. Never again will he ingest food or drink from the Waking World, not even in the presence of Hob Gadling.

That reminds him. Dream removes the physical body he left behind.

Despite the fact that he is far less affected by the Myitzur pollen than he was before, he still shivers—a much too human reaction—at the loss of body heat.

He cannot allow himself to react like that. It is best if he does not think about Hob until their next meeting, both to reduce the anger Hob most certainly feels for him and to lessen the...feelings that he is having. He should never crave comfort.

Dream is decidedly still as a statue when he finally fully returns to normal, and the contents of Hob Gadling’s books are unknown to him.

———

Hob wakes up freezing and alone.

———

Omake:

“Do you know—well, you’ll be fine, surely? How long before you’re back to normal?”

Dream considers this. He does not quite remember, but, “It should not take long.” What is a reasonable range of time to an immortal human? “Between an hour and...eleven months.”

...

...

“Eleven months,” Hob repeats quietly.

Nope. What is the measurement of time just longer than an hour? “I meant to say days. Not months. Days.”

“I guess that’s better than eleven months...”

———

Reblogs, likes, reblogs that just say extra likes, etc. are all welcome!

[dreaming-of-hope]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: The Sandman (Comics), The Sandman (TV 2022) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence Characters: Hob Gadling, Dream of the Endless | Morpheus, Background & Cameo Characters Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Role Reversal, Imprisonment, How Do I Tag, no beta we die like roderick burgess Summary:

In which Hope of the Godlings is trapped by Roderick Burgess. (Or the role reversal AU where Hob is a creature older than the Earth, Morpheus is an immortal human, but they suffer similar plights nonetheless)

[lostelfwriting]

The Hunt – a soft but angsty story in a dark setting

Word coount:  9531, COMPLETED

Summary: Each year, "unmated" Omegas are forced to participate in an archaic, disgusting game that is supposed to help them find a mate. Each year, Hob Gadling fights the system and refuses to take an Omega against their will, instead helping them get out of the game unharmed. This year, he notices a particular participant – Morpheus, a notoriously known rich brat that everybody will want to get their hands on, if only to beat him up out of the reach of cameras. He decides not to let that happen.

(tags and snippets below)

Rating: Explicit

Archive Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence

Characters: Dream of the Endless | Morpheus, Hob Gadling, Death of the Endless

Additional Tags: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, ABO dystopia, Dark Setting but Light Story, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Pre-Slash, Getting Together, ABO Hunt Trope, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Violence, nothing bad between Hob and Dream tho, Age Gap (26 & 34), Omega Dream of the Endless | Morpheus, Alpha Hob Gadling, Protective Hob Gadling, BAMF Hob Gadling, Hurt Dream of the Endless | Morpheus, mentions of dead wife and kid, they both have Issues™, No Smut, Good Sibling Death of the Endless

Snippet I.:

The last ten seconds were counted down, and the door opened. Hob rushed forward, relying more on his speed than on strength. If he started shoving people and trying to push past them, he could get into a fight, but if he waited for them to spread out and then ran ahead, he was in almost no danger at all. So, that’s what he did, quickly getting ahead of the whole group to the sounds of disbelief from much younger Alphas.

“Thirty-four is not that old!” he shouted cockily at someone who he heard mutter old geezer. He wasn’t that old, but most Alphas of his age were already in stable relationships or weren’t interested in this stuff. It was only the Omegas who didn’t get a choice as to whether they would participate or not.

Hob slowed down to a pace that he knew he could keep up with and started searching the known hiding spots. They were mostly large boulders and one or two small coves where a lithe, young body could just about press up into the shadows. The scent of fear and excitement all around him was a good guide, and he had discovered four Omegas before he even heard the first scream of terror. He hated those.

It wasn’t unusual for Hob to run past Omegas, either pretending that he didn’t see them or just dismissing them with a shushing gesture. He usually tried to get to those who really needed his help, and as much as it pained him, he could only help one per year. When he found someone in a really bad hiding place, he tried to suggest a better one, and it was up to the Omegas to choose whether they would listen to a friendly Alpha or not.

The first scream of genuine fear came from a girl somewhere at the other end of the forest. Hob cringed uneasily but continued running and searching. He couldn’t help everyone. He could only hope that more protesters against this event were participating this year.

Snippet II.:

“It’s okay,” he said in a soothing, low voice – something that he knew he was good at. “I have no interest in claiming you. Not here to hurt you.”

The Omega straightened a bit, his facade of bravery slowly returning to him, and measured Hob with a long look. “You’re a protester,” he guessed, and Hob nodded. The Omega tilted his head. “And of all people, you choose to help me?” he asked incredulously.

“If you don’t want my help, say so; I know of at least five Omegas who are probably still hiding and could use an escort out of here,” Hob said with a shrug. He’s had his help turned down before, and there was always someone else who wanted to be rescued. If he had misread the situation, he didn’t mind stepping out—

“No!” Morpheus said quickly, with so much panic in his voice that it tugged at something deep in Hob’s chest, one of those annoying-on-a-good-day instincts that he only found useful in his one long-term relationship. Usually, in public, when his instincts compelled him to do something, he was good at stomping them down, but this time, probably thanks to all the adrenaline in his veins, he found himself rushing forward and wrapping protective arms around the shaking Omega.

“Shh, not going anywhere,” he soothed, watching the boy, who was so proud and composed a second ago, crumble in his arms. Morpheus cried silently, but his body shook, revealing how strongly he was feeling. Hob checked out their surroundings and waited, remaining firmly in place as something warm and solid for the Omega to lean against.

[five-and-dimes]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: The Sandman (TV 2022) Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Dream of the Endless | Morpheus & Hob Gadling, Dream of the Endless | Morpheus/Hob Gadling Characters: Dream of the Endless | Morpheus, Dream of the Endless, Hob Gadling Additional Tags: Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen or Pre-Slash, it's pre-slash in my heart, but can be read as platonic, tagged as both, you've heard of meowpheus now get ready for, mousepheus Summary:

There is a mouse in Hob Gadling's apartment.

(Dream feels small, and dirty, and unwanted, and unloved, and unsafe. Sometimes his form reflects that.)

[ladykailitha]

Just a little sequel to the Johanna Constantine story I wrote earlier. Hob meets Morpheus and Johanna after they’ve done little job she came asking for.

Green-eyed Monster

Hob waved goodbye to his friends. They waved back, drunkenly cheering as the staggered down the street.

He shook his head as he watched them go. Somehow they had managed to convince him to go a different pub for a pub quiz. They liked having him along for the history questions. They had come in third.

He turned around and came face to face with Johanna and Morpheus. “Hello.”

They had been talking in hushed, angry tones, but stopped when he greeted them.

“Hob!” Morpheus called out in surprise.

“Hey, Robbie,” Johanna said. She was grateful for the interruption. Arguing with a Dream Lord was exhausting.

Hob bit down on his lower lip. “So what are you two up to this time of night?” What he really wanted to ask was why did they go off without him?

Morpheus raised an eyebrow. “I think you’re jealous.”

“Of what?” Johanna asked, glancing between the two men. “Of me?”

“It wouldn’t be the first time he’d gone off with someone more interesting,” Hob murmured, looking at his feet.

“Ah,” Morpheus murmured. “I was trying to make you jealous.”

“Excuse me?” Hob asked as Johanna kept glancing back and forth like the most messed up tennis match.

“I was jealous of you,” Morpheus insisted.

“Like hell you were,” Hob growled. “How could you be jealous of me?” He hadn’t been trying to make him jealous. He was trying to make him proud.

“You described heaven, Hob.”

Hob frowned. “What?”

“A good home, a loving wife and son, happy and not needing me,” Morpheus whispered harshly. “Did you think that only you would think that paradise?”

Hob’s breath was becoming erratic. “I didn’t say I didn’t need you. Where the hell did you get that idea from?”

Morpheus closed his eyes against the pain of those words. “You said that your life was what you dreamed heaven would be like, back when you were mortal. Your life was perfect. No need to dream of a better life. No need to dream.”

Fuck.

Hob knew who his stranger was now. But back then he didn’t. He blundered on the one phrase, the one thing in all the world that Morpheus depended on. Dreams of others. His dreams.

He had also thrown in his stranger’s face the life he so desperately wanted but couldn’t have as Lord of the Dreaming. Morpheus had told him after he had rescued Calliope from her abuser, of his family in ancient Greece and how it had all fallen apart.

“Oh.”

“And that’s my cue,” Johanna said, roughly.

The two men turned to her as if they had forgotten her existence all together.

“Think carefully about what I said, Constantine,” Morpheus told her. “Your very soul may depend on it.”

Johanna nodded. “Good luck, too.”

Morpheus nodded and she vanished into the darkness that covered London’s underbelly.

There was so much to unpack of what she said, but first he needed to apologize.

“I’m so sorry,” Hob whispered, stepping in his space. “I was trying impress you. I wanted you to see all my accomplishments and be proud.”

“You asked what our deal was,” Morpheus said, looking away.

“You and Shakespeare?” Hob asked.

Morpheus nodded.

“So what was it?” Hob knew that he had to ask. That Morpheus needed his permission.

“I would make his works last forever, if he would write two plays for me,” he murmured, looking down.

“Midsummer’s Night’s Dream and...the Tempest?” Hob was sure of the first one. It had dream in the fucking title. But he was only guessing about the second.

Morpheus looked up at Hob in wonder. “Yes.”

It made sense. Hob tried to control the wave of emotions that threatened to overwhelm him.

“I did not feel for him, like I feel for you now,” Morpheus breathed.

“At what would that be?” Hob was afraid of the answer. But he needed to know.

Morpheus shook his head sadly. “Not yet. I will tell you soon. I promise.”

Hob’s heart clenched.

Morpheus took Hob’s head in his hands. “There is something I must do. Something I should have done years ago. Something that you inspired me to do.”

Hob’s hands grabbed Morpheus’s wrists. He meant to push him away, but instead he clung to him. “What’s that?” he rasped.

“Forgive.”

[ryal-is-reading]

The soldier came knocking upon the Queen's door

He said, "I am not fighting for you any more"

The Queen knew she'd seen his face someplace before

And slowly she let him inside

He said, "I've watched your palace up here on the hill

And I've wondered who's the woman for whom we all kill

But I am leaving tomorrow and you can do what you will

Only first I am asking you why"

Down in the long narrow hall he was led

Into her rooms with her tapestries red

And she never once took the crown from her head

She asked him there to sit down

He said, "I see you now, and you are so very young

But I've seen more battles lost than I have battles won

And I've got this intuition, says it's all for your fun

And now will you tell me why?"

The young queen, she fixed him with an arrogant eye

She said, "You won't understand, and you may as well not try"

But her face was a child's, and he thought she would cry

But she closed herself up like a fan

And she said, "I've swallowed a secret burning thread

It cuts me inside, and often I've bled"

He laid his hand then on top of her head

And he bowed her down to the ground

"Tell me how hungry are you? How weak you must feel

As you are living here alone, and you are never revealed

But I won't march again on your battlefield"

And he took her to the window to see.

And the sun, it was gold, though the sky, it was gray

And she wanted more than she ever could say

But she knew how it frightened her, and she turned away

And would not look at his face again

And he said, "I want to live as an honest man

To get all I deserve and to give all I can

And to love a young woman who I don't understand

Your highness, your ways are very strange"

But the crown, it had fallen, and she thought she would break

And she stood there, ashamed of the way her heart ached

She took him to the doorstep and she asked him to wait

She would only be a moment inside

Out in the distance her order was heard

And the soldier was killed, still waiting for her word

And while the Queen went on strangely in the solitude she preferred

The battle continued on

-Suzanne Vega

[salmadurka]

Hob notices someone very familiar when walking through the park. Based on post by @achillesuwu​

[weirdfishy]

a new crack fic!!

Rob was also walking the garden path with Dreamie-weenie. Rob was Dreamie-Beanie-Babie’s lover. Go figure. One of his favorite lays. Corinthian winked at Rob, his best flirtatious smile already spreading on his lips, putting up a little wave.  “Hello, beautiful. Been awhile.” Out of the corner of his eye, Corinthian sees Dream do a double take. OR: crack fic based on a tumblr post where the corinthian didn’t know hob was dream’s human when they slept together, but man was it funny when they found out

bc of this post :))

[herenya-writes]

To Kneel at Your Feet

So, uh, I tried my hand at a little Dreamling fic when a particular image wouldn't get out of my head.

~1850 words, Rated T (violence, non-graphic injuries, a bit of foul langauge), pre-relationship Dreamling set a few months after Dream escapes the fishbowl but before he's told Hob who he is

When a shadow fell over him, Hob figured he was fucked. Well, even more fucked than he already had been.

The day had started pretty normal. Term was over for the summer, and he had finally finished the last of the marking the night before, so he had let himself laze in the sunny patches of his bed until almost noon when the grumbling of his stomach drove him to the kitchen for food. The rest of the day had been syrupy slow, with a light frisson of anticipation running through. He was meeting his Stranger tomorrow morning for brunch, their first pre-evening meeting and the fifth one they had had since his Stranger had returned. So it was with a spring in his step that he had gone through the rest of the day, chatting with Mrs. Giles up the road about whether he could buy a few cases of her jam to serve at the Inn, taking a stroll around the park, mixing up a batch of scones. When Sasha called in sick, he had gladly picked up their shift bar-tending at the Inn, and even that had been lovely. A faster pace than the rest of his day, sure, but the night had been full of familiar faces and easy laughter.

He had been closing up the Inn and wiping down the last of the tables when the bell above the door rang. He didn’t get out so much as a word before the bullets were flying.

He managed to dodge them for a good while, but even his immortal body got tired of crouching and diving eventually. Plus, there were three of them, all armed, and only one of him. He had a bat and an array of knives behind the bar and an assortment of weapons in his flat above, but he didn’t see how he could get to either of those places unscathed. He’d survive, of course, but that could cause even more problems depending on how smart these thugs were.

His next dodge had been a bit too slow, and as he slid behind the sturdy oak of one of the booths a bullet buried itself in his shoulder. He snarled at the pain and pressed a hand to the wound on instinct. His immortality meant he’d survive no matter how many times these assholes shot him, but it didn’t stop him from feeling the bite of metal burrowing into his flesh.

It was as he was leaning against the wood, listening for footsteps and considering his options that a shape blocked the light above him. He swore and held up an arm to guard his face on instinct, but when he looked up it wasn’t one of the thugs he saw.

In the muted light of the Inn, his Stranger stood, clothed as always in his black coat, jeans, and boots, a minuscule frown pulling at his lips.

Without thinking, Hob grabbed the hem of his Stranger’s coat and yanked him down. His Stranger went, and a millisecond later bullets soared through the air where he had been standing.

“Sorry, friend. You chose a dangerous time to stop by,” he gasped. He had grabbed his Stranger with his left arm, and the bullet wound in his shoulder was protesting loudly.

His friend’s face took on a pinched expression, brows furrowing in a way that would have been adorable in another situation.

“You are injured,” he observed, his voice deep and rumbling like distant thunder. Hob could listen to that voice all day, and despite the circumstances he could feel his heartbeat slowing at just those three words. “You are not healing as you should.”

Hob blinked and looked down. Damn, his Stranger was right. One of the side effects of his immortality was that any injuries he sustained healed rapidly. Serious stuff like disembowelment still took a long (and excruciatingly painful) time to heal, but the process happened much faster for him than a normal human. He had been stabbed in a knife fight once in his second century of living and by the time the other fellow had hit the floor the only evidence of the wound had been the blood on his skin and the tear in his shirt. A bullet hole should have shown evidence of closing by now, but it was still gaping open and bleeding freely.

“At least I won’t have to cut the bullet out later,” he joked, but the tremble in his voice ruined his attempted levity.

“There are very few weapons in this world or another that could harm you so,” his Stranger declared, and something like lightning flashed in his eyes. His expression turned stone cold, and in a fluid movement he rose to his feet and turned toward the gunmen. Hob scrambled up after him, biting back curses, but he stopped short when he realized there weren’t any bullets flying through the air.

In the space of a blink, all the shadows in the room seemed to lengthen and gather around his Stranger, and Hob swore he saw recognition begin to dawn on the face of the lead thug as his Stranger stepped forward and extended one pale arm.

“Servants of the Morningstar, by what edict do you walk the Earth and seek the life of one to whom Death has denied her gift?” His Stranger’s voice buzzed with barely-restrained power, and something deep in Hob’s human brain told him to run and hide. He stayed where he was, though, and so did the gunmen, even as they trembled in obvious fear.

“Dead or not, the glory of claiming an immortal’s head for Lucifer’s throne room is undying,” the one in the middle declared. Hob was almost impressed with how even their voice was.

“You have attacked him in his home, unarmed and unaware of your challenge. There is no glory here, hellspawn.” His Stranger spat the word ‘glory’ like it was vinegar on his tongue, and all three creatures (he had thought they were human, but now he could swear an outline of fire flickered around them) recoiled. Still, they didn’t flee.

“He is unclaimed, Dreamlord. Glory or not, he’s ours for the taking!”

The shadows in the room deepened impossibly, and the air pressure dropped fast enough that Hob’s ears popped and every hair stood on end. His Stranger took a menacing step forward, standing directly between him and the gunment now. When he spoke, the power in his voice shook the floorboards and set Hob’s very bones buzzing.

“Is that so? Allow me to correct that oversight.”

His Stranger threw back his coat, and it melted into a midnight black robe. The folds of the fabric were ablaze with swirling galaxies that seemed to spill into the shadows that surrounded him. The power radiating off him now was equal parts strange and familiar, like hearing a song for the first time but immediately knowing the chorus. Any unease Hob had felt settled at once, even as the gunmen began to quiver and keen in dismay. His Stranger spoke over their sounds of distress, his voice firm and unyielding. In that moment, Hob had no doubt that he could make any declaration and reality would bend itself to reflect his will.

“I, Dream of the Endless, Shaper of Forms, Oneiromancer, Prince of Stories, King of the Dreaming and Nightmare Realms, declare Hob Gadling to be under my protection. Harm him and know the unfettered wrath of the Dreaming.”

Hob had been a lot of things in the past 600-plus years. He’d tried his hand at just about everything that had held his attention for longer than a week, and he had even been decent at a fair chunk of it. Hell, he’d even been knighted once! Right now, he probably had enough wealth squirreled away in stashes across the world to keep him living comfortably for the next two hundred or so years. At his core, though, he was nothing more than a peasant.

His knee hit the floor before his Stranger even finished speaking, and he barely felt the way the movement shocked his still-bleeding shoulder. All he could do was gaze up at his Stranger, awe, in the oldest sense of the word, flooding him. Dream of the Endless. His Stranger had a name. His Stranger was a king.

He wasn’t sure what happened with the thugs after that. There was a moment when the Inn got so dark all he could see where the pinpoints of light in his Stranger’s eyes and the galaxies swirling in his robe, and the next the light had returned and his Stranger had turned that fathomless gaze on him.

He lowered his eyes. “My king.” His tongue was heaving in his mouth, and his throat was sand paper. There was a spit of crimson blood, his blood, on the hem of his Stranger’s robe.

“You would kneel and call me king? Even after the wrongs I have committed against you? I did not even grant you the courtesy of my name.” Power still rumbled in his Stranger’s voice, but it was leashed now in a way that sent a spark racing up Hob’s spine. God help him, but he had always loved a bit of danger.

He risked a glance up and saw his Stranger’s perfect lips twisted in a frown, his brows drawn together like Hob was a puzzle he couldn’t quite figure out.

“I don’t need anything from you that you aren’t ready to give, my friend. You came back to me, and that was more than I could ever hope for.” Those words strayed a bit too close to another truth—that he would have waited forever just for a glimpse of his Stranger’s face, just to hear a single word from his lips—but Hob wasn’t about to start lying now, not when this magnificent creature, this otherworldly lord, had deemed him worthy of his time and attention despite all odds. His Stranger had returned after over 100 years to sit in a pub and listen to Hob ramble about airplanes and smartphones and humanity reaching the moon. How could anything he had to say possibly have captured the attention of a king with no doubt a million other duties to attend to?

His Stranger regarded him, galaxies swirling in his black eyes to match the ones dancing across his robe. Hob tore his gaze back to the floor for fear of falling in.

“Rise. You owe me no servitude or obeisance, Hob Gadling.”

Hob wanted to disagree, but he kept his mouth shut and did as his lord bid. He bit back a growl of pain as he stood, and in a blink his Stranger was there, long arms wrapped around his shoulders and holding him up with unnatural strength. Together, they hobbled up the stairs to his flat, and his Stranger laid him gently on the couch and let Hob grip his hand too tightly as he dug out the bullet lodged in his shoulder, seemingly uncaring of the way the crimson blood stained his pale fingers.