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It is an accident, the first time they fall into bed together.
They’re both on stressful jobs they don’t talk about and barely old enough to legally drink about it. It’s unintentional, a meeting in a tavern of held eyes across the bar. Wilbur raises his glass in solidarity of the muttered “rough day,” and Dream pauses before he raises his back.
Two drinks later, and Wilbur is sliding onto the bar stool beside him, glass empty.
“Whiskey again?” The bartender asks him, one eyebrow raised. Wilbur, at the time a stranger to Dream, nods with a huff. He reaches for his coin pouch. Dream sets a gold down first.
“I’ve got it. Same for me, please.”
“Yes sir,” the bartender replies cheerfully. Dream has been tipping well all evening, and like fuck he’s going to risk pissing him off.
“Thanks,” Wilbur leans on the bar, “You know, I’d say I’m not that easy, but for someone as pretty as you? I just might be.”
Dream snorts a laugh.
“I wasn’t hitting on you. Rough day, right?”
A grimace twists the edges of Wilbur’s mouth. Flashes of stalking across rooftops in the rain, watching his quarry with hawk-like eyes, pressed low to tiles to avoid being seen.
“Right.” He agrees, and takes the new glass as it’s slid to him, “Thanks.”
The bartender gives him a nod.
There’s not a terrible amount of memory, then, between that and stumbling into Dream’s hotel room. They trade what they’ll discover later are fake names, whine about their days without detail, and then suddenly there’s a bed and there’s hands and far too few clothes and Dream is half overwhelmed when he bites and-
And Wilbur freezes. It’s just for a split second, he’s getting back to it, but there’s a tension and Dream doesn’t like that.
“Wait a minute,” He says, and there’s a warm palm on Wilbur’s shoulder.
“Sorry,” Wilbur says immediately as he sits up, and Dream shakes his head.
“You don’t have to be sorry. Let’s just talk about that, yeah?”
“I don’t know, Francis, I don’t want to kill the vibe.” He half rolls his eyes.
(Dream winces. He couldn’t have picked a cooler name than Francis? Whatever, it’s only for one night.)
“Vibe’s not dead,” he assures, his head still a little spinny from the drinking, “I just want to talk. Like, clearly that’s not okay with you- the biting, I mean. So-”
“It’s fine,” Wilbur shakes his head, “C’mon, I didn’t shoot for a lecture, I shot for a wreck-ture.”
A pause. Dream just blinks at him, straight-faced.
“Because I want to get wrecked? I-”
“I got it.” Dream cuts him off, “Seriously. Just- just tell me what you don’t like, what upsets you, and we don’t do it. No problem, vibe’s fine, we go back to blowing off steam.”
It’s an unusual experience for Wilbur, who has spent years pushing through comfort and boundaries and doing anything and everything he can to complete his job. The sex, the drinking, the drugs, they’re all hung halfway between the world’s most unhealthy coping mechanism and part of the trauma. Especially the sex. He’s likely not old enough to have been fucking his way into his quarry’s death, but damn if he hasn’t been doing it.
So it’s a little much, and it’s a little hard, but Dream is patient as he pulls the threads of discomfort loose, and as promised, the vibe isn’t exactly killed. It’s a little more awkward, but much better than Wilbur is used to, and when it’s over and he expects to be booted out, Dream gets unsteadily to his feet. Wilbur goes to sit up, Dream shakes his head.
“Stay put a minute, I’m gonna grab you a drink and clean us up.”
Wilbur doesn’t have the strength to argue.
He doesn’t stay that night, he has too much to do, but he stays longer than he intends to. He finds his partner is gentle, enjoys a little bit of a cuddle and-
Uh-
Well. Wilbur will lie until the day he dies and say he doesn’t cry once he’s out of the room. He cannot remember the last time someone held him. He’s not sure it’s ever happened.
But he does leave, he does rest, and the next day he’s sat in the mayor’s office, in the mayor’s chair, fingers steepled as she comes into the room and freezes, opens her mouth to shout and then there’s yellow flashing in her vision.
“Good morning, Miriam,” he greets her with an imperious sort of smile, leaning back against the plush of her chair. He sees fear behind her eyes, and that only grows as her body moves without her permission, stepping in and closing, locking the door behind her. He can feel the questions bouncing around in her head,
Who? How? Why?
“I’m sure you’re very confused,” it comes out simpering, “Allow me to enlighten you; that deal that you turned down with the Perla has come to collect! You really should have thought it through a little more- I mean, how cruel can you get, trading your stolen children overseas for money? At least with us, we teach them crucial life skills, like fighting, and teamwork. Prisma? No, no, no. Prisma wants them like lab rats. And the Perla has decided that as recompense for turning us down, and in the name of all those children you’ve sent to their doom,”
He clicks open the hidden drawer of the desk and curls a gloved hand around the handle of the gun there. Slides it across the desk.
“You’re going to succumb to your guilt.”
There is fear in her mind. Fear, anger, and planning any kind of escape the moment there’s the tiniest chink in the armor of his magic. But there is no gap, no crack, he closes the walls in and pushes out the anger, the fear, he pushes out everything except that tiny, long-buried seed of guilt and then he pushes into it. Forces it to bloom like tangleweed, spreading through every facet of her mind and dragging everything down. He forces her to feel nothing but the guilt, until she’s weeping silently. He nods at the gun, and laxes the grip on his magic. Sure, he can force her to do it, but it’s much more cruel to let them do it themselves.
Maybe there’s a lesson in all of it. That the beaten and the broken tend mostly to beat and break others.
There’s the click of the gun, a spray of blood. Wilbur is cloaking himself and slipping out of the window as the door rattles and the lock begins to give, closing it behind himself quietly.
The second time they fall into bed together, it’s a coincidence.
Like the first time, they meet over drinks. It’s not long after the first time, maybe a couple of months, but Wilbur shoulders into the little tavern in Hythe, wrapped in an oilskin with a frown on his face. He’s out watching for the tortoise homuna that runs the reception desk, but Gods, she’s never fucking alone and he’s been sat on the rooftop of a clothing store all day trying to hide and now it’s fucking snowing and he just needs a drink. It’s a smaller town, he doesn’t have a lot of hope that he’s going to get his hands on other drugs, and even less that he’s going to get laid, but he can at least get a good glass of rum. Or fucking- is is a daiquiri? The thing with the lime. He says those exact words to the bartender, who snorts a laugh, and drags out the metal mixer so… yes. Some kind of cocktail.
He turns, glass in hand and still stormy, to look for a seat in a corner table when he spots the puff of blond hair nursing a glass of whiskey on the rocks.
It’s a weird sort of coincidence, and very against everything Wilbur has ever been taught. Don’t break anonymity, don’t be consistent, never speak to the same person twice.
Something about this man feels different. Something about him feels gentle. Wilbur doesn’t know what gentle is, but he crosses the room and slides in opposite ‘Francis’ with a smile.
“Fancy seeing you here,” he says, light. Dream looks up, startled, and the knot in his brow unwinds and fades to a small smile of his own.
“Oh, wow. You’re- uh-” He pauses to think. Wilbur can’t remember what name he gave him, so he lets him try.
“Edmund. Right?”
“I’m surprised you remembered.” That sounds about right. Wilbur sips his drink. “Most people don’t.”
“I don’t make a habit of fucking everyone on first meeting. How have you been?”
“I do,” Wilbur snorts, “I’ve been fine, how about you?”
“No more rough days?” Dream arches an eyebrow that tells Wilbur he already knows that’s not true. Wilbur shakes his head regardless.
“You know how it is. My job keeps me travelling, travelling is exhausting. Still, my nights are full of color and pleasure, so there’s little more a man can ask for, I suppose.”
“Mmm. Peace, probably, but if you’re happy in your job, who am I to preach?”
“Ah, peace. If only- not an option for me, but I’ll have peace when I’m dead.”
There’s quiet for a bit. Not awkward, but semi-amicable. Dream glances from his cup to Wilbur occasionally, sipping when he’s caught. Wilbur’s smirk twitches into a wide smile with each flush that falls over his company’s cheeks.
“So,” he says, “You’re not going to hit on me, this time?”
“They are called one night stands for a reason,” Dream points out, “Two is more than one.”
“It’s not a two night stand if it’s separate. It’s a second one night stand.”
“Can’t argue with that, I suppose.” Dream shrugs, “Do you need to be drunk first, or will the one be enough?”
“Hm.” Wilbur tilts his head, runs a finger over the rim of his glass as he studies Dream like he’s thinking hard, “For you? One is fine. I’d even give up on the one.”
“Sober doesn’t seem your style.”
“It rarely is,” Wilbur admits, “But I’m also very rarely in the practice of being respected during sex, so generally I need it.”
Concern flashes across Dream’s eyes.
“You deserve better than that.”
“I’m content enough with my life.” Wilbur lies. He can see Dream studying him, trying to pull him apart. It doesn’t work; Wilbur is simply too good an actor and the smile he gives is sweet and alluring. He knows that he’s irresistible, and so of course he finds himself in Dream’s bed barely a half hour later, brighter and gigglier than he thinks he’s been in a long time.
This time, when they’re done and Wilbur has been made to drink and cleaned up, when Dream curls an arm around his shoulders, he speaks.
“I heard- uh- last time.” Wilbur doesn’t remember what he’s talking about. A lot of it was a blur. “I- hmng.”
There’s a sort of pity in it. Wilbur can hear it, a sympathy and a concern. People like Dream make him hurt, their heart bleeds for everyone, and it will one day get him killed or skinned of all his belongings and body, laid out on the street by someone like Wilbur with no empathy or care to give. It’s sad, it’s heartbreaking. Nobody deserves to have that kindness shattered, but it’s inevitable, the way softness must be beaten out of children because the world is hard and cruel.
The third time that they meet, it is unforseen, and in much different circumstances.
They are in Rainfield. Wilbur has been called out here from orders on high, higher even than his handler. Above the top of the Perla, from whoever it is that sponsors their shenanigans.
There is a noble that they cannot risk being a problem anymore. He’s breaking his training regularly, becoming more willful, becoming more individual. They won’t have that, can’t have that, when the nobles hold so much in the tight grip of their fist.
But see, here’s the thing- it’s not the noble that he’s contracted out here for.
There’s a group. They don’t know the name, but they keep showing up, keep ruining plans, keep taking away opportunities. What opportunities, Wilbur isn’t exactly privy to. He’s not sure if they’re here to smuggle the noble out, or to kill him, but either way they need to be stopped.
He knows what he’s looking for, a tall man in a dark green cloak and mask. Name of Nightmare, rarely works alone but rarely accompanied. He has a small band of followers. It’s always one with a sword, and a ragtag mix of a Hellborn, an Earth nymph, a human woman, a merling.
They will be nearby and he will not have a lot of time, but the assassins of the Perla that rank above him are busy, and Wilbur is not exactly a low ranking assassin. He’s… oh, it must be fifth. No- fourth, after Grin died. (Defected. They tell them all that he died, but they all know that he and his retriever sister simply broke out.)
It is a lovely sunny day when Wilbur spies him on a rooftop and, cloaked, he climbs. Springs between walls lightly, pads along the beams up behind him, almost silent. Not silent enough- a scrape of a tile, and Nightmare is whipping around with a dagger drawing-
A flash of yellow. Yellow in Dream’s vision, yellow in his throat, invading every sense. He fights it, because he can’t afford not to.
“Oh, no. Oh, dear- nobody warned you about me, now, did they?” It’s smug. He takes a step forward, tightening the bonds of magic. He can see the glow behind the shaded lenses of Nightmare’s simple smile mask, can see the tremble of a fight in his hands. It is a hard-fought fight, but Wilbur is very good at what he does.
“Nightmare, isn’t it?” Wilbur asks, squinting behind his mask. It’s simple, black, his hood pulled up. “Oh. My manners. You can speak, here,”
He loosens the magic, shifts it specifically to hold his body still. Nightmare tries to cough, and it’s stunted where the magic stilling his arms and legs bleeds to his ribs.
“Fuck,” a hiss, and he draws a rattling breath, “SAPNAP!”
“I don’t know what I expected,” Wilbur shakes his head, sees a flare of scarlet a few streets over. He tightens the magic again, watches Nightmare go fully stiff.
“Okay. Let’s speed this up, I suppose. Get that mask off,” and he steps forward, hears the gurgle of panic in a paralyzed throat as he takes the bottom of the mask and wrenches up, in too much of a rush to undo the buckles.
And then he freezes.
And the magic drops.
Wide-eyed, he stares as Nightmare- Francis- he stumbles to his feet as Wilbur steps back, halfway between horrified and afraid.
A dagger buried in his ribs, and he’s frozen still, breath rasping through his lungs.
“Francis,” a cough, he collapses onto the blade, wraps an arm around Nightmare’s shoulders. He feels Nightmare freeze under him, too.
The scarlet grows closer. Nightmare unfreezes, the dagger withdraws and for a split-second Wilbur thinks he’ll step back.
Another flare of pain. Another stab to the chest, between two ribs. Blood floods him, he coughs it up with his head dropping to Nightmare’s shoulder.
“The mask,” he rasps, though it’s screaming agony, “Take off my mask.”
He’s dropped back to the tile and almost skitters down the slope before Nightmare scrambles to grab for him.
He briefing thinks about how stupid a way to die this is. He had Nightmare in the palm of his hand and he froze because-
Because what? Because they fucked a couple of times?
No. He knows it wasn’t the sex.
It was the empathy. The concern, the gentleness, the kindness. The same thing he pitied in Francis has gotten him killed. The mask comes off.
“Oh, shit,” Nightmare whispers, “Edmund.”
“Wilbur,” he manages, “Real name. Wilbur.”
His vision’s blurring black at the edges. He sees fire beyond that.
“Wilbur,” Nightmare repeats. His eyes dart to the twilight lavender on the inside of his collar and the face twists into something between agony and pity.
“Nightmare!” The snap of scarlet and fire. Wilbur blinks, and it takes a lot to open his eyes again.
“I’m okay,” Nightmare slides his own mask back down, his voice shakes, “But there’s a change of plans.”
It hazes in and out. Wilbur feels himself weightless, then cold, then pulsing in agony. He hears shouting, he hears called names, hears a half-scream of “Halo!”
Darkness. Then pulsing pain again, mumbles, words he doesn’t know. Anger. Disbelief. Arms curled under him. He thinks he must be dead, reliving everything he ever loved and hated about his life. It’s disproportionate, years of being beaten down and into the perfect shape of a soldier. Years of killing and watching people die, years of obeying and losing himself. He thinks he used to be a person once, years ago in the barracks as a foot soldier, kissing a squadmate in a fit of laughter because he could. Reading books squirreled under his mattress. Flinging mashed potato over the canteen.
He sees the flashes of the good. He sees the other assassins for a time. He sees Sally, he sees her smile, he swears he smells the scent of her soap, lavender and lemongrass and then he sees dark and cold. He smells warmth and sweat, he tastes lime daiquiri, he feels the shake against his shoulder of laughter and a warm, gentle arm around his shoulders.
How heartbreaking to fall, and both the good things he remembers have left him.
Darkness. Blackness. He does not dream of a happy ending.
He wakes up. That’s the first surprise.
There is pain in his ribs, but that’s not weird.
The soft linen and fleece of the blankets and sheets is, though. As is the weight and sound of someone sort of beside him, a dip in the bed too small to be someone laid down but right enough to be someone with their head on their arms.
He blinks at the ceiling for a few moments. It’s painted off-white, and he turns his head. The room is pale blue, there’s a bedside table but he can’t see much laid down so he struggles to sit up, slow and careful.
Jesus, the inside of his arm hurts when he moves it. His stirring wakes whoever was here, apparently, because he sees a fluff of blond hair raise slowly in the moments before he’s processing the open, curtained window with a pot of flowers on one side of the room. This isn’t a hotel. This is nowhere he’s ever seen before.
“Y’r’ up,” Mumbles ‘Francis’, rubbing sleep from his eyes, “Hi.”
“What-” Jesus, is that what his voice sounds like? He pauses, coughs, but it’s too dry. Dream turns to the table and pours a glass of water from a jug there, the ice mostly melted inside. He offers it out, and when Wilbur goes to grab it with the sore hand, he shakes his head and moves toward the other one.
“Your grip will be bad with that one,” he says, as Wilbur obeys the wordless command, “We had to cut your tracker out.”
A flash memory of the little arcane stone embedded in his skin. A security measure, he was told.
He drinks slowly, and as he does, he realises he’s so fucking hungry. That gets put aside for later.
“What… what happened? Where am I? Who are you?”
Dream wheezes a little laugh, helps set the glass down.
“Okay, uh… easiest one first. Hi, my name is Dream, actually. Not Francis.”
“Dream,” Wilbur says, slow, “Like ‘Nightmare.’”
“Creative, I know,” It’s said with a smile, “What happened- um- well. After I realised it was- it was you, after I realised you were Perla, I- I- I panicked. I panicked! And I didn’t want to leave you. Because I know what the Perla does, and how they make you feel, and- yeah.”
Wilbur blinks at him.
“This isn’t real,” he says, leaning back against the wall, “You’re a fever dream I put together, you’ve got to be. There’s no way anyone would risk their life for someone that tried to kill them.”
“You underestimate how stupid I can be,” Dream teases, “That’s exactly what I did.”
“No way.” Wilbur closes his eyes, “If I go back to sleep, I’ll eventually wake up dead.”
“Mmm. Probably not. But I’ll give you space- you’re free to wander, this is my house, but mind your body doesn’t give out. I’ll be back soon with… food. Are you allergic to anything?”
“No.” Wilbur replies, automatic. He doesn’t really know.
“Pasta okay?”
“Anything that gives me a minute to think,” It’s a half-snap, but Dream doesn’t snap back. Wilbur cracks an eye open, and his smile as he stands is sympathetic.
“Pasta it is. If you need anything, just shout. We have extra blankets and stuff.”
And he’s gone, leaving Wilbur in a swirling mire of his own thought that he can’t begin to process. He thinks that it’s ironic, that opening line. Nobody warned you about me, he’d said.
Nobody warned him about Dream.
He closes his eyes. Sinks down. No more thinking. He’s going to sleep himself to death.