Archive of Our Own

The purpose of sleep was rather lost on Hob Gadling. Back when he was mortal, he thought of sleep as some cruel trick of the higher power. A way to shorten human lives – or at least ensure they never experienced as much of the world as they otherwise would. As if life wasn’t far too short anyway.

In fact, to Hob, sleep always felt like a prelude to Death herself – a nightly rehearsal of inevitable human fate. And so he never slept much – or well for that matter – opting for life-sustaining naps, almost never letting himself dream – lest he be caught in some senseless fantasy. Unreal. Pointless – and an utter waste of time that could be spent in the waking world.

Then, when he realized Death wasn’t going to come for him, sleep became rather useless. A nuisance, albeit not as infuriating as before. Still – it was an obstacle keeping him from experiencing the real world, so he sustained his old habits. Even more so, when he found sleepless nights cost him a headache at most – rather than an unwanted call from Death herself.

There was also another problem: the Stranger. Demon. Devil himself – whoever or whatever he was. Sometime after their third meeting, Hob realized sleeping was not only useless – but also potentially disastrous. Because every night he fell asleep, he saw glimpses of the Stranger. Little things – Him standing against the backdrop of an unnatural sunrise. Him talking to a woman, a raven trailing behind them. Him with his fingertips brushing against a vaguely human shape – a sculpture, or beginnings of one. It never lasted long – a blink of an eye at most - and soon Hob started to evade sleep as much as he could. He didn’t want to dream of Him – not when the mere sight filled Hob with hunger for more.

No. If he was to survive, he would let himself have their once-in-a-hundred-years meetings – it was better to ignore the hunger than fuel it with little morsels of mere fantasies. Not when the real thing should be more than enough – after all, he didn’t even know the Stranger’s name, identity or…his real purpose for that matter.

And so the years went by – and when, occasionally, sleep caught up with Hob, he still saw glimpses of his Stranger – glimpses that were longer than before, somehow never enough and too much at once. It still felt odd – like an invasion of privacy, spying on someone caught up in their most intimate affairs.

But sometimes, when hunger came knocking at the door and Hob lost his resolve, he tried to watch the Stranger for longer. Tried to catch his eye, call out to him. It never worked – and so, every time, Hob’s resolve hardened with disappointment. Of a dream denied to him – not only in the waking world, but also in his sleep.

And then they had a fight.

Because Hob finally, FINALLY, thought he had figured out the Stranger’s purpose. And maybe he was wrong – maybe it was a thought born out of fantasy, of his own imagination conjuring images of the Stranger alone, rarely with others, always with a sense of profound loneliness about him. Maybe he saw what he wanted to see – an unreal thing, as unreal and useless as dreams always were.

Maybe. But it didn’t change what happened – and now, Hob was facing an eternity of loneliness himself – no meetings with the Stranger and a lifetime filled only with memories of Him. The real Him – not the one he very much didn’t want to see in his dreams. Not when the mere sight reminded him of what was very likely lost forever.

And then slowly, gradually, Hob found that he no longer dreamed of the Stranger. It was sometime in the 1920s, when he realized his sleeping hours were filled with dreams of darkness, decay, crumbling buildings. It was haunting – but still preferable to seeing the Stranger. Or so Hob told himself.

Then 1989 came and Hob’s dread turned into reality, a dead weight somewhere in his chest, almost dragging him to the bottom of hopelessness. Almost – but not quite. He still bought a building nearby and invested in The New Inn. He still came every day, he even tried to dream of Him. Tried to force his mind to conjure up new images – images Hob would add to his collection of memories revisited time and time again. Even if they weren’t real memories, Hob had to admit to himself, they still felt real enough. And maybe seeing a fantasy of Him would be better than not seeing Him at all.

But apparently Hob’s wish was not to be granted. He never saw the Stranger in his dreams, no matter how hard he tried. It was funny, really, that something he would consider a blessing once, now turned into a curse. As if Fate itself was punishing him – for what, Hob wasn’t entirely sure. Or maybe it was fair. Hob had been granted an impossible wish once, after all – and apparently Fate wasn’t generous enough to do it again.

And so Hob’s life went on – he still wanted to live, still enjoyed it quite a lot at that. But there was an emptiness inside of him, a nagging sense that something rather important was missing. He felt it every time he came to The New Inn (which happened more than often) and every time he fell asleep (which happened significantly less often). It was weird really – he never felt that way about his wife, or even his son. He knew their stories were over and moved on – and yet he couldn’t do the same with the Stranger. If him and his Stranger were a book, they would be a beginning of a story, enough to ignite a hunger for more but not nearly enough to satiate it. And whatever their story was, Hob was unwilling to let it go without finding an epilogue to that prologue. And more importantly – everything that came in between.

Hob sat at his usual table at The New Inn, his mind wandering between a stack of papers in front of him and a rather interesting invitation from one of his fellow teachers. Nothing too obscene – just a suggestion of drinks, and company, and maybe something more. Still, it was worth considering. Something new to try and enjoy for a while, something to keep his mind off someone who was stubbornly stuck inside it.

Hob raised his head as a new customer walked in – and froze. Time seemed to stop, the world tilting dangerously as Hob stared at the Stranger. His Stranger – real and unharmed and even…smiling? Maybe Hob was having a stroke, maybe Death was bored, maybe she suddenly remembered she left him alone for far too long. But then he noticed people staring at the Stranger, and suddenly the world righted itself. He was there, he really WAS there. So Hob grinned, as the Stranger approached his table.

“You’re late” Hob said, all remnants of anger dissolving, as if it was just a dream, not a real monster feeding on Hob’s guilt and resentment until just a few seconds ago.

“So…how have you been, Hob Gadling?” the Stranger asked “what have I missed?”; an afterthought almost, words laced with something that sounded very much like regret.

“What happened?” Hob asked, unable to wait a second longer, over a century of history shoved aside to ask the only question that mattered: “why…?”

“It wasn’t your fault,” words filled with certainty and something else – something sharp and dangerous, like a knife pressed against soft skin, “it was humanity at its worst that kept me from coming. A cage – and a clever binding spell.”

“So…you were captured? Is that what you’re saying?”

Silence. And then slowly: a nod, Stranger's eyes piercing, as if daring Hob to mock or laugh at his helplessness.

“I’m sorry.” was all Hob said, all there was to say, really. He somehow had a feeling this wasn’t something the Stranger wanted to discuss. Hob knew he would – if Hob had asked him to – but Hob wasn’t going to go down that road – not right now at least. Maybe later, maybe in a century – however long it took for the Stranger to recover enough for him to share this particular story. “Whiskey?” was what he asked instead – expecting the Stranger to decline, just as he always did, and –

“Give me your best, Hob Gadling” was the answer, the Stranger’s lips turning up into something that could almost be a smile. More of a smirk, maybe – but Hob wasn’t going to be picky, not when his chest filled with warmth at the sight. He even wondered briefly if he hasn’t drunk his share of whiskey already – but no, his table was empty, save for one, forgotten cup of espresso. Good for keeping one awake – and away from dreaming, to Hob’s delight and relief.

So they sat together – drinking whiskey, the space between them filled with Hob’s tales of the past 130 years. He told the Stranger about his time as a soldier during both World Wars, about humanity’s cruelty but also its beauty, cleverness, a need to create the new, discover the unknown. He told him about his life, places he’d lived in, people he’d met.

And through it all, Hob collected memories, fed the hunger inside with new images that would sustain him for the next century. There was a snapshot of the Stranger laughing (laughing!) at Hob’s gig as a star of an underground band. Another image – the Stranger with his eyebrows drawn, blue eyes filled with something indescribable – something timeless and eternal, understanding and sad – a response to Hob’s tales of the War. And then there was something else entirely – a brief glimpse of a hungry smile, a flash of something dark in his eyes, something almost possessive – at Hob’s recounting of an affair with a talented sculptor, a tale filled with romance, broken-hearts and desire. That look, Hob decided, he would dissect later – assemble and disassemble, until he went mad with a need to know what it had meant.

Time flew by, shrinking in on itself until there were almost no patrons left, the sky outside dark and filled with stars. It was late – Hob realized – and the same must have occurred to the Stranger because his attention seemed to shift away from Hob and outside, into the sleepy streets.

“You haven’t asked me the question yet” Hob said, a feeble way of prolonging their meeting and forestalling the inevitable goodbye.

“Hmm?” the Stranger murmured, clearly lost in his own thoughts.

“The goal of our meetings. Or at least – the one you clearly started off with. Don’t you want to know if I haven’t tired of life yet?”

“Have you?” there was something akin to fear in the Stranger’s eyes – there and gone the very next second.

“No, I have not.” Hob answered, noting the way his companion’s eyes softened around the edges, a smile touching his lips.

“I will see you again, then” the Stranger said, standing up. There was something about his posture, something indecisive, as if he wanted to go and stay at once, as if he wasn’t ready to leave their bubble just yet.

“You definitely will. See me, I mean. And don’t be late – because if you are, I’m going to come to the rescue,” the Stranger’s lips parted, as if he wanted to object “and don’t say I don’t need to do that. I know you can take care of yourself - but it doesn’t mean you can’t be hurt. Or captured”.

The Stranger’s eyes lit up with recognition at that. “I don’t intend to let something like that happen to me ever again. But if it does, I will be sure to ask Matthew to relay the news to you. Without delay.” The Stranger’s eyes crinkled with humour – not the mocking kind, but rather that of a joke shared between two very old friends.

“Good.” Hob said.

And then, belatedly, he added: “who’s Matthew?” because it suddenly occurred to him the Stranger never mentioned any kind of associates before. Servants? Siblings? Friends? Lovers? Hob looked up expectantly, but the Stranger was already gone.

That night, Hob let himself sleep. There was something calming in knowing the world was as it should be – him and the Stranger once again in each other’s orbits. Crossing paths every once in a while, like passing comets, wandering far, yet always coming back. So Hob closed his eyes, and began sorting through memories, cataloguing new images of the Stranger, listing everything he knew about him and everything that was yet to be discovered.

He knew the Stranger was immortal, yet susceptible to being captured and, possibly, hurt. He once hired lady Johanna Constantine for a job of unknown nature. He made some sort of deal with Shakespeare (what could he possibly have needed from that guy?). He clearly was close with someone called Matthew. He looked quite amazing in black, no matter the century. And the eyeliner was doing wonders to his eyes, enhancing the blue in them, making it deeper, more captivating.

Hob felt himself floating in the vague direction of sleep. For once, he didn’t really mind…maybe sleep would do him some good, maybe he would stop wondering who the hell Matthew was and what he meant to the Stranger. Matthew – Hob knew quite a few Matthews in his time. Never really liked any of them, he realized distantly. Matthew… Matthew…

“What are you doing here?” Hob realized he was no longer in his bed, but somewhere much colder. He opened his eyes and took in his surroundings. It looked like a church of some kind, marble columns and stained-glass windows. There was something naggingly familiar about the place, as if Hob had visited it before.

“Sir?” Hob startled, suddenly realizing it wasn’t his mind conjuring up images and sounds, but someone very real trying to talk to him at that very moment. Hob turned around but saw no one – just a bird, a raven or a crow (Hob never knew the difference) staring at him inquiringly. Maybe the voice was a hallucination after all.

“Please identify yourself and state your business. Sir” the words were coming from the bird, Hob realized. A trained bird, perhaps? Hob has never seen birds with speech THIS advanced, but then, the world was full of surprises, even after all those years.

“Umm… Robert Gadling. I have no business here. I think. Wherever “here” is” Hob answered, wondering if the bird was able to understand anything he has just said or if Hob was just making a fool of himself.

“Are you a dream or a nightmare? Can I help you find your designation? I suppose you must be one of Lord Morpheus’ newest creation. God knows this place is a maze,” the bird flapped its wings disapprovingly, ”just tell me what your purpose is, and I’ll help you find the way. So: dream or nightmare?”

“What? Well… I suppose some people would call me a nightmare. Annabelle would, we had quite a falling out in our day. But then, you can ask Andy, he would have told you I have the dreamiest eyes he’s ever seen. Unlikely, but he was a flirt.”

The crow/raven blinked. Then blinked again.

“What the hell? Is Lord Morpheus experimenting again? I’ll have to talk to Lucienne.” the bird said finally, in a voice Hob could only describe as profoundly confused.

“Look, I have no idea why I’m here, I was in my bed, and I must have fallen asleep and then-“

“Wait – so you are a human? A mortal?”

“Well, a human – yes. A mortal – not exactly.”

“You know what, let’s skip a talk with Lucienne. I’m taking you straight to Lord Morpheus” the bird told Hob, “because you shouldn’t be here. Follow me”
Hob stared at the bird, confusion mingling with dread and something almost like curiosity. Because THIS definitely was something Hob hasn’t seen in his very long lifetime.

The bird soared into the air and started to move away, beckoning Hob to follow. And maybe it was a very bad idea, but Hob found he couldn’t resist a new experience.

So he followed the bird into one of the adjoining hallways – and Hob, who has seen his share of spectacular architecture, couldn’t help but stare. Because this was something entirely different, beautiful, haunting, as if the building was a thousand years old at least. But if it was, how was everything so pristine, so perfect, no sign of decay anywhere?

One thing was certain at least – this was the work of a truly magnificent artist. Architect. Whoever they were, there was something eternal about their work, as if it was built of feelings, thoughts and dreams, instead of marble, brick and glass. Hob could almost feel the emotions pouring from inanimate objects around them.

“So” Hob tried, “what is this place? And who is Lord Morpheus?”

“Lord Morpheus is a ruler of this realm, and we are in his kingdom” the bird answered smoothly.

“Is he a Lord-lord? I mean…is that an ancestral home of some kind? Was he knighted by the Queen?” Hob was starting to feel rather foolish, “or is it some kind of alias?” Is he a crime lord? Some rich collector of curiosities? – Hob thought, not daring to voice his ideas.

“Neither, I suppose. And both” the bird answered after a moment, now leading Hob to something that looked like a posh living room, furnished with black and gold décor that could be a modern take on the ancient world. Or maybe the other way round.

“Wait here” Hob’s guide said, flying through an open window and beyond, into a space that looked, from where Hob stood, like a criminally huge terrace. He couldn’t see much, though, the only window obscured by a veil of dark tulle.

And just as Hob’s eyes started to wander, to take in the details of his surroundings, there was a shift inside the room. As of air was sucked out, leaving in its place a feeling of dread. Hob felt himself stiffen, his feet rooted into place, his voice snatched out of his throat. A truly agonizing feeling of being unable to run or call out for help, not unlike a nightmare taking hold.

“How dare you enter my realm uninvited?” a voice, somewhere behind Hob, dark and smooth, stretching over Hob like a blanket of night sky. A voice instantly recognizable to Hob’s ears.

Hob managed to coerce his muscles into moving, into turning around, now facing the middle of the room. And an achingly familiar figure.
The Stranger’s eyes widened, and suddenly the feeling of dread dissipated, tendrils of terror vanishing into the thin air. He looked just as Hob remembered him from earlier in the day, although there was something here, something rendering his features even sharper, his eyes darker, his presence ensnaring all of Hob’s senses at once.

“What…?” the Stranger started, but Hob beat him to it:

“Is this a kidnapping? You know – I would have come visit, if only you asked nicely.”

“I haven’t…” the Stranger hesitated, “this shouldn’t be possible. How are you here? What have you done?” his voice regained its familiar steadiness and depth, no traces of hesitation audible.

Hob startled – because this was getting out of hand real fast, the Stranger’s posture and tone reminding Hob of their fight 130 years back. For a moment, Hob felt like a little kid, caught red-handed stealing eggs from the neighbour’s yard. The feeling passed quickly, though, instead filling Hob with indignation at being accused of something he clearly had no control over.

“It’s nice to see you too.” Hob answered, “I have you know, though, they say it’s rude to kidnap one's friends in their sleep.”

“You were sleeping?”

“Yes. And I wake up in some posh mansion with a talking crow for a guide, and he tells me-.”

“A raven” the bird interjected, Hob noticing it was now confidently perched, on the Stranger’s shoulder.

“What?” Hob asked, bewildered.

“Matthew is a raven, not a crow,” the Stranger answered before the bird could speak again “and this is not a posh mansion, although it could be if I wished it so.”

Hob stared at him, perplexed. The Stranger sighed, as if deciding on something important before speaking again.

“This is the Dreaming, Hob Gadling. And I am its master. You wished to know who I was – this is who. I am Dream of the Endless and ruler of this Realm. I oversee humanity’s dreams and nightmares, I am their dreams and nightmares, for they all are of my own creation.”

Hob blinked. Then blinked again. And then, deciding this wasn’t as surprising as he expected it to be, he said:

“Dream of the Endless? Is that your name? Quite a mouthful, I must say.”

The Stranger’s lips formed something that could almost be a smile.

“My siblings call me Dream. Or Morpheus.”

“Right. The God of Dreams.”

“The King of Dreams. Though I was called God, once upon a time.” the Stranger – Morpheus - mused, “I trust you had no malicious intent in coming here Hob and you are not unwelcome in my Realm. Still, no one should be able to enter this kingdom uninvited, not even my siblings and especially not a human. This goes against most fundamental rules of immortal Realms and as such, is dangerous to their survival. I must investigate-“

“Boss?” the bird – Matthew interjected, “this might not be as bad as you think it is.”

Morpheus’ eyebrows shot up at that, encouraging Matthew to go on.

“So, Lucienne and I were talking the other day. And its…uh…don’t you want to discuss it in private, perhaps?”

“Hob is a friend,” Morpheus said and Hob’s chest filled with warmth at the reminder, “I trust him.”

The bird looked apprehensive, but sighed in something that sounded very much like resignation.

“Right, but don’t kill the messenger. So – Lucienne and I were discussing your…life,” Morpheus eyebrows went up at that, but the bird continued “oh, don’t look at me like that, I was curious. Anyway, I asked Lucienne about the usual stuff. You know, how long you’ve been around, family, friends…lovers.” Morpheus was wearing a look of utter bewilderment, Hob was delighted to notice.

“So I asked Lucienne: how does it work between you and your, you know, partners. Lovers. Wives. I mean – isn’t it a bit rude? That you can visit them whenever you want, yet they can’t return the favour.” Hob really didn’t like when this was going “And Lucienne told me, that there is a law for that – or an exception to the law, more precisely. That whenever you start to have, you know, feelings for someone you inadvertently allow them to-“

Oh

“Thank you, Matthew” Morpheus interjected, “please leave us.” For a moment, Hob was certain that last bit was directed at him, but to his relief, Matthew let out an audible sigh and unfurled his wings, leaving Hob alone with Morpheus.

“So…how many?” Hob asked tentatively, after a moment of silence.

“How many what?” Morpheus’ stopped staring somewhere above Hob’s shoulder and focused his eyes on Hob.

“Lovers. Wives. He made it sound like there are quite a few of them here somewhere.”

Morpheus let out a snort, “There were a few – you must remember I am Endless, Hob. And eternal life shouldn’t be completely devoid of love, nor am I uncapable of feeling.” Hob gave Morpheus a pointed look, “none at the moment, though. If that answers your question. I’d say, by human standards, I am exceptionally monogamously inclined.”

Oh. Oh.

“So, what Matthew was trying to say is that,” Hob said, taking a step forward, approaching Morpheus like he would an animal at a risk of taking flight, “you only let people into your Realm, if you really care about them.”

“I suppose so, yes” Morpheus answered, staring stubbornly anywhere but at Hob, now only a few steps away from Morpheus’ lean form.

“Okay. Good. So am I right in saying,” from this close, Hob could distinguish individual strands of Morpheus’ hair, memorize the exact colour of his eyes, “that you maybe care about me quite a bit?” Morpheus bit his lip at that, but remained silent.

A moment passed. And then another. And suddenly, Hob was getting less and less sure of himself, remembering the last time he made an assumption about Morpheus.

“And I don’t mean to imply anything, we are friends, so maybe it just works-“ but Hob never finished that sentence because suddenly there was no space between him and Morpheus any more. Those last few feet reduced to an inch, their breaths mingling together, foreheads almost touching. And from that distance, Morpheus’ eyes were very blue, Hob noted, his mind in a state of panic, his heart beating frantically, as if a seismic shift of profound magnitude was about to occur.

“You are not wrong” Morpheus breathed and closed the distance between them, his lips softly brushing against Hob’s. And suddenly, Hob’s world narrowed into that point of contact, his eyes fluttering closed, his mind pulling every cohesive thought out of his way. Because this was what he was missing all those years, this was an answer to the call of that hunger inside him.

So Hob kissed Morpheus harder, his tongue catching on teeth, hands grabbing Morpheus’ waist, holding him as close as possible. Morpheus let out a sound of approval at that, an almost catlike purr, and Hob shivered with hunger for more, more, more. Of this. Of him. Of them, together, tangled in each other, finally.
Hob felt Morpheus press him against his chest, a gust of wind entering the room. There and gone the very next moment, Hob’s feet now planted firmly on something much softer than marble floor.

Hob opened his eyes slowly, his nose still brushing against Morpheus’ cheek, Morpheus’ blue eyes staring at him with a mix of fondness and apprehension. He entangled himself from Morpheus and looked around.

It was like stepping into another world, yet again. This room much softer around the edges, furnished with rugs, cushions and – to Hob’s delight – a rather splendid bed. And then Hob noticed it wasn’t really a room – at least not technically. Because this place didn’t have a roof – a beautiful night sky visible above, constellations unlike anything Hob has ever seen.

He turned to Morpheus, who was still standing unmovingly, looking like his was about to flee the scene at any given moment. Hob grinned at him, once again gravitating into Morpheus’ orbit, stopping only a foot or so away.

“Is that your idea of a date? Kidnapping me not once, but twice in a day” Hob teased and Morpheus rolled his eyes, his posture relaxing.

“I don’t kidnap people. At least not often,” Morpheus said with mock indignation, “and this combines two most frequently recurring dreams humans have about…that sort of situation.”

“And that is?”

“Stargazing and sharing a bed. Broadly speaking.”

So Hob wasn’t misreading the intentions behind this sudden change of their surroundings. He stepped forward, his hands gently cupping Morpheus’ face.

“It’s quite an improvement on The White Horse.” Hob whispered, Morpheus’ answering smile making his insides coil with anticipation and something warm, something he hasn’t felt…in a long, long time, “it’s perfect.” Hob added and pressed his lips against Morpheus’ once more, one hand tangling in his hair and the other pressing him firmly against Hob’s body.

Morpheus kissed back without hesitation, his hands touching Hob’s face, his neck, his chest, wandering and searching, as if mapping Hob’s body inch by inch, his fingers skimming the skin under Hob’s shirt, making Hob shiver with want. So Hob broke the kiss, his lips pressing against the exposed neck instead, Morpheus rewarding him with a soft, hungry whimper.

Hob’s feet started moving of its own accord, and suddenly Hob was pressing Morpheus against the bed frame, then against the soft cushions layered on top, kissing him hungrily, Morpheus returning the favour, undoing Hob with his touch, then making him whole again. And soon there was nothing between them, no inch of skin unexplored, no hunger left unanswered.

After, they were laying together, Morpheus’ head on Hob’s chest, Hob’s hand gently carding through Morpheus’ hair, a sky full of stars above them. And Hob thought to himself that “asleep” and “awake” were not opposites after all, as much as binary stars caught in each other’s gravity. And that dreaming was not a waste of time spent in the waking – but rather its truest and oldest companion.

“Morpheus?” he asked softly, his hand stilling in Morpheus’ hair for a moment.

“Hmm?” Morpheus’ response was almost a purr, as if he was a cat in another time, some other life. Hob chuckled at the thought, because somehow it made perfect sense in his mind. “Hob?” Morpheus propped his head on Hob’s chest, his eyes inquiring.

“Just to confirm: I can visit you here if I want? And you won’t send s flock of nightmares after me if I do?”

“Perhaps not” Morpheus responded, his voice gravely serious “after all, I’m a God, and gods are known for their fickle moods” he added, his voice turning teasing.

Hob rolled his eyes fondly. “Then I will. Visit you here – more often than once in a hundred years. Because honestly, that would be a criminal offence.”
Morpheus smirked at that, so Hob continued, “and you are welcome to visit me. In the waking world, I mean. And not wait a century, either.”

Morpheus opened his mouth, but before he could answer, something changed in his eyes, his body whole becoming alert. And their surroundings changed too, Hob noticed, the sky becoming blurry, as if someone painted it over with an unskilled hand. And God, what was that horrible sound?

“What-“ Hob started, but Morpheus was faster.

“Your visit is over, Hob. It’s time to wake up”

“No-“

“You have to wake up, Hob, no one can spend a lifetime in the Dreaming, just as no one can spend a lifetime entirely in the Waking."

“Can’t we have a moment before-“ Hob managed before Morpheus disappeared, darkness claiming Hob, before spitting him back into the Waking World.

Hob opened his eyes, his ears numb from the blaring sound of a bedside alarm clock. He covered his face with his hands, breathing deeply, grounding himself in reality. Reaching blindly for the source of that godawful sound, his hand brushing against something soft. And warm. And very much like-

His eyes snapped open. And sure enough, there was a lean form of sinewy muscle and skin beside him. A head of unruly black hair, eyes bluer than the ocean staring at him, a teasing smile across his lips. Morpheus.

Morpheus silenced the offending alarm clock, before Hob could move a muscle. He shuffled closer, placing his head on Hob’s chest once again, as if nothing happened at all, as if they haven’t travelled through realms just a few minutes ago.

Morpheus looked at Hob expectantly, Hob’s hand reaching for his hair of its own accord. He was there, he really was there. With Hob. In his bed. Looking completely at home, as if Hob’s whole world hasn’t just reshaped itself against the sudden warmth flooding his chest.

“I think,” Morpheus started, “we can have a moment longer after all.”

The end