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the-cloudy-dreamer · 10 months ago

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[FIC] Until We Meet Again

Fandom: The Sandman Pairing: Dreamling Rated: G Word Count: 2677 Tags: pre-relationship, introspection, mild angst, Dream of the Endless has low self esteem, most of this is just Dream talking circles in his head, happy ending, brief appearance by Lucienne, brief appearance by Matthew

Notes: For my @dreamlingbingo card, square A1 'Trapped in the Frequency', which begged creative interpretation given the centennial frequency of their meetings

Summary: Dream frets over whether or not he could (or should) permit himself to visit Hob more often

On AO3

Dream of the Endless has fumbled a possibility.

It is tormenting him ceaselessly now that it has passed.

"A hundred years, then?" Hob had asked, as their evening at The New Inn had drawn to a close. "Or perhaps we adhere to our original schedule, and meet again in '89?"

Dream, who had been debating internally the past hour as to whether he could alter the story he'd set for them by offering to meet with greater frequency, had faltered. Would Hob even want to meet more often? Perhaps once a century was enough for Hob to partake of his company, to set aside time from his joyously-lived life to entertain Dream's less-than-joyous presence.

To. Tolerate him, for the sake of the story between them, the friendship he so easily proclaimed to Dream as he did to all and sundry. Perhaps more frequent meetings would be an imposition that Hob would not appreciate; Hob had only offered a hundred years or continuing to meet in '89, after all. No matter his own wishes, Dream had stumbled in the moment; he had doubted, and second-guessed, and not spoken of his own thoughts. He ought not to ask for more, he had known, but the idea of waiting another hundred years to see his friend again had also been. Painful.

"Let us keep to our original schedule, and meet again in 2089," he had decided, and Hob had smiled in answer.

"Until 2089, then." His tone had been warm and easy, but there had been tightness around his eyes and a waver in his voice that now, later, makes Dream wonder. Was Hob disappointed by the answer? Had he wished to meet with greater frequency, now that 'friend' was an accepted status between them? But he had said nothing of convening more often; was he perhaps displeased by the nearer date? Ought Dream to have kept to the hundred-year interval and shifted their story to accommodate an altered year?

No. No, he decides, gripping the stone rail of his balcony, staring out over the grey cloud cover shrouding his realm. He and Hob Gadling meet in the White Horse every hundred years, the seventh of June in the year '89. The story has suffered a derailment in Dream's thirty-three year tardiness and the closing of the White Horse during the interim; Dream will put them back on track by meeting again in 2089, even if the location must shift.

That is how their story goes.

Dream will not change it further, no matter his own wants.

~ Dream cannot stop thinking about changing it.

His delayed meeting with Hob Gadling had been an unexpected boon of peace and welcome. In the aftermath of retrieving his tools, in the midst of repairing the realm and trying to regather his subjects, his sister's reminder of the missed appointment had filled him with a certain trepidation. He had parted from Hob abruptly and unpleasantly when last they met. Hob had issued a challenge, to Dream's retreating back in the rain, and through no choice of his own Dream had been unable to meet with him as next scheduled and admit the truth of Hob's accusation. To Hob, it must appear that he had still been wroth, had refused his challenge and stayed away out of spite. He'd had little reason to believe Hob would still wish to see him, little reason to believe Hob would be found at the White Horse these decades later; every reason to dread finding him, every reason to fear that he never would.

But he had steeled himself for unpleasantness and disappointment and set out, and finding the White Horse shut down in disrepair had hurt in ways he was not prepared to articulate. A connection lost, a tie severed, another relationship ruined by his own hand. Except there had been wisps of dreams clinging to the fence about the old pub, steeped in red paint and the passing of years, dreams of hope and stubborn patience and second chances. Dream had followed the arrow they directed him to, hope buoyed slightly despite himself, and had found the New Inn where Hob, indeed, was waiting for him more than three decades past the appointed time.

And Hob had greeted him with a smile, had beamed even brighter to be called 'friend' by Dream, had set aside his work and given Dream his time. To be met with such warmth and welcome was more than Dream had expected, more than he deserved, but he had been. Grateful, all the same.

Never before had he taken such pleasure in one of their meetings, never before had he realized how much he truly enjoyed them, how much he. Enjoyed, Hob's company. He had lingered, listening to Hob's stories, longer and longer, Hob indulging him far past the afternoon and evening, well into the night.

He had been reluctant to call their reunion to a close, to relinquish the warmth and peace that had settled into him over the course of it.

He longs, now, to experience it again.

~ His missing arcana and the existence of a dream vortex and the damage to his realm, they wear on him. He is stymied in his function, faced with questions and reminders of his absence at every turn, authority slipping through his fingers unexpectedly and leaving him off-balance, overly-harsh in his insistence that he knows what is best. When he discovers a ghost living in his realm and a child conceived of its presence, he is tired. The emotions that rise in the aftermath of evicting Lyta Hall and her dead husband, of Rose denouncing him, they leave him aching for some unspoken solace, and it is Hob and his welcoming smile that rise in his memory again.

But that is not their story, to seek comfort in one another's presence during hardship, and he has other matters still to attend to. He owes an apology to Lucienne; he has been intractable and unkind in his dealings with her, undeservedly. She is gracious in accepting, and brings with her good news in the form of Fiddler's Green returned, and then he is left with one more wayward nightmare to deal with and a vortex whom he must kill.

He is grateful, that it does not come to that; grateful that Lucienne and Unity Kincaid bring him an alternative solution at the very last moment. Their solution brings answers that enrage him, that wound deep to the core of him, and once more, he finds himself wishing, when all is said and done and his sibling has been warned, to sit with his friend and share his tribulations.

It is an absurd wish, for again—that is not their story. Why does he yearn so strongly for a thing they have never had?

Hob would. Commiserate, in his displeasure, he is somehow certain.

But it is not yet 2089.

~ He yearns, inexplicably, to tell Hob the full truth of his last hundred years. He had not given it when last they met; it had still felt shameful, humiliating, an illustration of his failure in his duty and his function. Yet now, somehow, the thought of telling Hob…it appeals, to unburden himself of the story, to borrow the sturdy strength of Hob's shoulders to halve the weight of it from his own.

That is never how their meetings have gone. Hob regales him with tales of his century and Dream listens. He has volunteered so little each time, content to collect Hob's stories and confirm his wish to continue.

That is their story. What right has he to ask that it change?

"Stories are not static, my lord," Lucienne reminds him gently, when he confides to her the outline of his dilemma. "A story is different to every listener who hears it, to every reader who reads it; a story grows or changes or turns inside out with every retelling. A story need not be exempt from these truths simply because it is yours."

Lucienne, as she so often is, as he has seen more and more clearly since his return, is correct.

He had seen fit after all to change Gault's story, quite recently.

Perhaps, should Hob be amenable, their story might change as well.

~ Surely Hob, who had named him 'friend' long ago, who had seen his loneliness and dared to comment upon it, surely Hob would not be opposed to seeing him outside the established schedule of their meetings? Hob had been glad of his visit, when so few would take pleasure in his company. Surely Hob would be glad again, if he should seek him out before the appointed time?

But perhaps Hob was only pleased with his company because it was so infrequent. Perhaps greater familiarity would inevitably breed contempt; meeting more often would provide more and more opportunity for Hob to discover and observe all of Dream's many flaws and shortcomings, to find him lacking, to cool the warmth of his friendship into indifference and finally dislike.

And Dream. Would not lose, what he has only just gained.

~ Hob had still been waiting three decades past the appointed time, when Dream had come late to their meeting. Hob had fought to keep the White Horse open, had acquired and maintained the New Inn when that failed, had ensured signage that Dream might find his way. Hob had made an effort.

Hob had deemed Dream worth the effort.

Hob, who does not know any of his names, nor who he is.

Hob, who loves life, who loves living it, however he chooses. Would he choose to meet more often, to spend more hours of his precious life in Dream's company, if he knew it to be a possibility?

"I mean. You could just ask him?" Matthew suggests, as though it is the obvious choice. He hops a little sidestep on the rail of Dream's balcony, fluffs his feathers, settles them again. "Look. Boss. The guy waited thirty years and he was happy to see you, right?"

"Yes," Dream agrees, glancing sideways at his raven, weary of the grey landscape spreading before him.

The clouds have not lifted in weeks.

"So what's the harm in stopping by to see him off-schedule, find out if he'd like to meet up more often too? My gut says he would."

"Your gut?" Dream lifts an eyebrow, does not hide how the corner of his mouth quirks up in turn.

"Yeah." Matthew ruffles his feathers again, gives a little caw that would have been a cough, were he still human. "Usually steers me right, and I think that, uh. I think it'll steer you right, too."

"Thank you, Matthew." Dream turns his gaze back to the gloom-shrouded sweep of his realm, pondering.

~ Matthew's advice is sound. Lucienne's advice is sound. Dream knows this. He hesitates still, unwilling to voice the concern at his core to either of them. Is Hob's pleasure in his company solely due to its infrequence? Will Hob, who had dared to name him friend before Dream had been ready to admit it, grow tired of Dream's foibles and failings if given the chance? As so many others have?

There is only one way to find out.

~ "My friend!"

The brilliance of Hob's beaming smile washes over Dream, a deluge of warmth, and he can feel the sun breaking through the clouds back in the Dreaming.

"Hello, Hob."

The yearning at the very core of him for the peace and warmth he had known in Hob's company has at last eclipsed the uncertainties he still holds. Perhaps Hob will tire of his company in the future. Perhaps he will not. In the meantime, perhaps Dream might have another taste of that which he craves.

"I did not expect to see you again so soon! Is everything alright? Are you alright?"

The way that concern—concern. On his behalf—blossoms in Hob's face, his voice, has Dream hastening to assure him.

"All is well, Hob Gadling. Only. I am given to understand that friends may meet more often than we have been accustomed to."

Hob's face blooms in a slow journey from surprise to delight, his eyes wide and shining, joy in their depths. "True enough, true enough." His grin is a helpless thing, automatic, a pleasant softness underpinning its brightness. "My friend."

He clearly takes great pleasure in saying it, in being permitted the claim.

Dream is assured of his welcome at this point and avails himself of the seat across from Hob, settling comfortably. He is considering how best to broach his topic, but Hob is already speaking.

"I'm glad you dropped by," he says, his smile reined in but sincere, eyes warm and earnest. He had been marking papers again—a habit to do so here in the pub, he had told Dream last time—and sets them aside, giving Dream his full attention. "You're welcome any time, I hope you know. Friends definitely get together more than once a century, if they want." His hand has strayed to his ear, toying with it absently. "So, uh. If you want. I'd be delighted to see you more often."

How easily Hob gives him the answers he seeks; he need not even pose the question. He is pleased, relieved, happy in the affirmation he has received, and offers up his own decorous smile. "I would be. Agreeable, yes."

He is graced yet again with the bright warmth of Hob's smile. "Wonderful!"

It is, indeed, wonderful. He had spent so long debating over whether to allow himself this…indulgence, whether Hob would want this; it would be easy now in hindsight to berate himself for wasting the time but here in this airy corner of the pub, in this space he already thinks of as theirs, the self-recrimination is not quite able to take hold.

Hob leans forward conspiratorially. "Would you like to hear the absolutely brilliant theories my students have been spinning about old Billy Caxton?"

"I would," Dream decides, for listening to Hob's tales is a pleasure, one which will put him at ease before offering his own.

Hob slips easily into his role as storyteller, regaling Dream with anecdotes pulled from the days he devotes to shepherding young dreamers in their waking hours, guiding their minds in pursuit of knowledge. He is animated, enthusiastic, expressive; it is a joy to watch his face, his hands, and Dream is pleasantly aware of his own smile as Hob winds to an end.

"Anyway, I love that I can just say 'I was there!' when I get a little too specific in my lectures these days and they'll think nothing of it, laugh it off, 'dear old Professor Gadling he's such fun!' Definitely makes my life easier." He shakes his head with a fond smile, takes a draught of the beer at his elbow. "Christ, there I go again. I think we both know I'll talk all night, given the chance, so please tell me to shut up if you've got something to say, or if you just get tired of it."

"Your stories are a comfort," Dream assures him, smoothly taking hold of the opening afforded him. "One I sorely missed in 1989." He can feel the way that Hob goes still, at that, and he steels himself, dreading and anticipating his own words in equal measure. "I would tell you, Hob Gadling, of why I was unable to keep our previous appointment." He glances up, into the warm brown of Hob's eyes. "It is. Not a pleasant story."

A myriad of emotions flicker in Hob's expressive face, eager curiosity, wariness, old hurt and new worry; he schools them quickly, holding Dream's gaze with earnest and sober intensity. "If it's something you want to tell, then I. I should like to listen, to hear it."

Dream is grateful, for everything about this man who has dared to name him friend; it is time he is shown the regard he is due.

"Yes. But. First, I would tell you. Who I am."

= Started: 6/10/24 Drafted: 7/4/24 Posted: 7/7/24

#saving to read later 🖤#dreamling

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