Chapter Text
He collapsed in a somewhat ungainly heap, coat wrapped around him. It was cold, and he'd been going somewhere. There was someplace he needed to go. And he absolutely could not think of it. Could not think of much, including his own self. There had been shattering glass and light. It felt like a distant memory. A distant -
Dream. He was Dream, Dream of the Endless; Lord Morpheus, the King of Dreams and Nightmares… and he needed to return to the Dreaming. It might be easier if he had any energy. He glanced up, at the sign above him. The New Inn. Dream tried to force himself upright, call upon his power, but his limbs burned and his head spun. The last thing he remembered was falling, like he weighed nothing.
Dream blinked awake on a soft surface, covered in something softer. The ceiling above him was painted a bland shade of white. Moving his head to get a better look at his surroundings made it ache fiercely, but he persisted. A living space, presently occupied by Dream and one other person. There was a familiar air to the other, but his identity eluded Dream. The man was reading a book, face turned away. It wasn't until Dream tried to sit up, producing a soft groan of pain, that the man turned back around.
And Dream knew him.
"Hell of a way to show up after thirty-three years, my stranger," said Hob Gadling, voice softened by obvious concern.
"What?" was the only thing Dream could think of to say. His voice cracked halfway through, dried out and weak. "Hob Gadling? I…"
"I'm not going to ask for an explanation until you can actually give one," said Hob, giving him a once over. "Do you want water?"
Dream nodded, not trusting his voice. When Hob came back with the water, Dream couldn't keep a grip on it. His body simply hurt. In the end, Hob had to prop him up on the end of the couch and hold the glass. It burned to be so weak, to need so much help with a simple task. But he couldn't make his muscles cooperate, no matter how much willpower he put into it.
The water soothed his throat, at least, making it possible to speak. "How… am I here?" He'd been held captive, the memories of spending over a century in a cage coming back. But Dream couldn't remember the timespan between the glass cage shattering and ending up in what was clearly Hob Gadling's apartment.
"I honestly have no idea," Hob replied, taking the now-empty glass from Dream's lips. "Someone told me about a half dressed unconscious man outside my pub, and there you were."
"Thank you for bringing me here, my friend." He could call Hob that, at least.
Hob's face lit up at the word friend. "I would never leave just leave you there. You're my friend."
"Dream," he said, in reply. His eyelids didn't want to stay open. "Is my name, I mean. And I escaped," Dream told him. He wanted to tell Hob that the choice to meet or not meet him in 1989 was taken from him. "I escaped, and…"
His voice trailed off, too overwhelmingly tired. Hob tugged the blanket higher up. Dream impulsively grabbed the man's hand, suddenly wanting to make sure it was real. It was warm. Hob started, staring at him with wide brown eyes.
"Tell me when you wake up again, Dream," said Hob softly.
He wanted to tell Hob right now. More, he wanted to stay awake, not need to sleep. He shouldn't need to. And then he was gone again.
On the list of things Hob had anticipated today, this would not have been even in the top one hundred. His old friend, the stranger - Dream? - slept once more on the couch, riot of dark hair framing his pallid face. After missing their meeting thirty-three years ago, no less, and after their last interaction had been Dream storming away angrily.
And Hob had had to carry the man up two flights of stairs, unmoving and still in his arms. There had been no visible injuries, but Dream looked like a ghost, a shadow of himself. Small, even, and then weak enough that his proud friend had needed help drinking water, clearly couldn't get back up, and had fallen back asleep in under 10 minutes. And had referenced 'escaping' someplace.
Right. This was fine. (It wasn't). Hob had no idea if there was anything specific Dream would need. Or what kind of being Dream was. Food, water, and clothes seemed like good places to start. Leaving his friend asleep on the couch, Hob collected some clothing options: dark shirts and sweatpants, socks and a coat. Dream could put them on later if he was able to.
Next, Hob put on the tea kettle, then started making broth. If he could keep busy enough, maybe the alarm and panic and other riotous emotions would stay at bay for a bit. This proved fruitless, as Dream showed no signs of waking almost twenty hours later. His chest still rose and fell, very slightly. Hob didn't think he'd ever seen his friend breathe in six centuries.
His head felt less painful when Dream awoke the next time, muscles a bit stronger. He was able to sit up on his own power this time, shame curdling in his gut. He was Endless. He was supposed to be better than this.
"You're awake again," said Hob, relief coloring his voice. "You were out for almost a day."
"Yes. I… feel I owe you an explanation, Hob Gadling. And an apology." Dream took a breath in - how strange it was, to have air again, even if he didn't technically need it - and turned his head to fully face Hob.
"You mentioned escaping from somewhere," Hob replied, brow furrowing. "Did something happen?"
Aye. But you can be hurt, or captured. "You could say that." The words dragged on themselves, and Dream briefly closed his eyes. "I was captured by occult magic users, led by Roderick Burgess. They were looking for Death." His energy was flagging already, and the words became increasingly difficult to shape and speak. Sharing this much was not a custom of his. "I recently escaped. It prevented me from deciding whether to meet you in 1989, and I apologize…"
Hob was staring at him, in an expression dangerously close to pity. "Dream…"
"Do not pity me, Hob Gadling," Dream replied, an edge creeping into his voice.
Hob rubbed his hand against his forehead. "I definitely have a lot of questions, for later, but - you're welcome here. Have you eaten in the last few decades?"
Dream didn't correct Hob on the length of time. A ghost of a memory, Hob unkempt in rags and dirt across a table in 1689: Do you know how hungry you can get when you can’t die, but you can't eat? Dream shook his head, and added, "But you should not trouble yourself much further on my account."
"I aleady have some made. Well, it's mostly tea, and water, and broth."
He wanted to refuse, but if he was going to make it back to the Dreaming, he did need the sustenance. "Very well."
Food, and hydration, another stretch of sleep, and borrowed clothes - and Dream stood. "I must attend to my realm," he said. "There are likely to be… issues… from my absence." In truth, standing ached, but he could not show any more weakness. He had to return to the Dreaming.
"Don't be a stranger?" Hob frowned at something, gaze turning to concern.
Dream had hit his limit on navigating this - friendship - for the time being. What he'd said out of exhaustion had run out, and now his words fell awkward and tense. "I will see you again, Hob Gadling. Before one hundred years." And with that, he closed his eyes, reaching for the Dreaming. It came, slowly, fighting against him, and his body burned.
"You're straining yourself," Hob said. "Dream, there's blood -"
A flare of anger rushed through Dream until he realized Hob… was right about the blood. Something wet was on his face. Something wrong. He pressed his hand to it, and his fingers came away scarlet from a nosebleed. He widened his eyes. Another thing that wasn't supposed to happen. "What…?" he breathed, feeling dizzy. His body seemed insubstantial as a faint wind, and the room split into fractals in front of him.
Dream's eyes shone with galaxies and lights, a stark change from their normal cool blue. They would have been mesmerizing if they hadn't been staring, unfocused, at his bloodstained fingers. Hob stepped toward Dream, who swayed on his feet. He realized what was about to happen a few seconds before it did.
"Dream!" He grabbed his friend as Dream fell soundlessly, crumpling unconscious into Hob's arms.
"Shit, shit, shit," muttered Hob. He carried Dream back to the couch, then fetched a washcloth and tissues. Tilting his friend's head back, Hob pressed the tissues under Dream's nose. Once the blood had stopped, he lowered Dream onto his back, pulled the blanket up, and wiped the crusting blood away. His friend's pale frame trembled slightly under the blanket. Hob gathered water and broth once more, and then pulled the chair over to sit near Dream.
He hadn't even known his friend could bleed. This was so far out of Hob's ability to really help. Dream of the Endless? He didn't even know for sure what an Endless was. Surely someone would know how to help him, somewhere… Johanna Constantine, maybe? He'd kept an eye on all of Lady Johanna's descendants after the one incident in 1789. Hob looked at Dream, whose shoulders occasionally twitched, face as pale and waxy as a dead thing now.
"I'm going to help you, old friend," said Hob, reaching down to brush some of the hair from Dream's face. His skin was colder than it had ever been. And then Hob made several phone calls and sent emails: cancelling his classes for a few days, getting contact information for Johanna Constantine.
Dream was in darkness. There wasn't any light, there wasn't the Dreaming, just his weary consciousness. The dark was almost soothing, in a fashion. He'd never been this tired before.
And then even that was gone.