Chapter Text
Hob wouldn't call himself an impulsive man by any stretch. You live for almost seven hundred years, you learn to develop some patience. And, in your own time -- which, for Hob, was perhaps a bit longer than most -- you become very familiar with the concept of things not going your way. These weren’t new concepts to him. This wasn’t his first hundred-year-rodeo, so to speak.
Still, Hob hadn’t expected to spend June 7th alone. Despite how things had ended last time (which somehow topped the great betrayal of 1589 when his stranger had walked out on him with that twat Shaxberd; Hob might not hold grudges, but he’d sure as hell never forget that one), despite all odds, he’d had hope. Delusional, perhaps, but truly felt all the same. Because he simply couldn’t see a world where his stranger didn’t show up on their day, every hundred years.
As he sat in the White Horse and watched the sun go down, though, Hob was chewing on the somehow very new reality that he might just have to. Though their little spat had happened a century ago, it only really dawned on him at that moment that he might have permanently ruined things. The best thing. At least, the best consistent thing, besides his unnaturally pleasant relationship with death.
Something inside Hob’s chest felt tight in a way it hadn’t in a very long time as he got up, left the tavern at his back, and opened his car door. He couldn’t tell if it was because of his friend’s lack of appearance and therefore proof that they really weren’t ‘friends’ after all, or if his hollow, dreadful mood was because of the bartender's news. Because, despite how things had ended last time; despite all odds; despite the fact that his stranger had gone through with his threat and left him utterly alone… Hob still had hope.
Definitely delusional.
But that little grain of hope -- perhaps not as little as he would have liked it to be -- rattled around inside his skull until he was reaching for his mobile phone (would humanity never cease its inventions!) and ringing a few people up.
Hob wouldn’t call himself an impulsive man, but innovative -- that was another story. After all, you live for six hundred years, you learn to pull a few strings. In the case of the White Horse, Hob practically had to pull the whole fucking rug. The government was determined, as it usually is, to do whatever it took for the sake of profit; and new flats would rake in a significantly greater profit than the small, sleepy pub. Or so, that’s what they thought. The government doesn't usually know shit, Hob had found.
The local Council had just accepted that this particular fight was one they couldn't win when they received an anonymous donation and a letter to send to the higher-ups. They sent it, and they argued, and then they practically pleaded -- but all they managed was the reassurance that construction wouldn’t start for another few years, so the community would have time to adjust, wouldn’t it? Find a new pub? Surely that was reasonable. But it wasn’t the same. Especially not to Hob.
So he’d pulled a few more strings, just in a different direction this time, and he’d wound up with a small building just around the corner -- close enough that anyone looking for the White Horse could, say, accidentally stumble upon its replacement. Just in case, though, Hob took some liberties and decided to put out a personal advert. It wasn’t pretty, but then, his stranger had never stayed around because Hob’s life was pretty. Besides, Hob had never run an inn before. After a little over six hundred years of life, he decided that it was quite well time.
All it took was a little rearranging, nothing that Hob wasn’t used to, and he was set up comfortably in what would be his new home for the unforeseeable future. If you’d asked, he would have claimed that he wasn't waiting for anything at all -- that he was just taking a moment -- a breather, if you will -- to kick up his wandering feet and enjoy a consistent view from the window for once. All of it would have been a lie. Or, at the very least, an untruth. He knew what he was waiting for. That was where his patience came in, though worry had begun to gnaw at his insides like starving rats in a barrel; because, before he’d never had to wonder if his stranger would show up, so the patience was bearable. It had purpose and direction, something to point towards. Something to look forward to…
Now, though, he didn’t know what to expect. And the worst part (or maybe the best, he hadn’t figured it out yet) was he had all the time in the world.
So instead of thinking about what he’d done, Hob spent the next several years getting the hang of navigating his new business. The endeavor involved many late nights, internet searches that made his eyes fuzz over (glasses -- another spectacular invention!), and some help from a few new friends, but two decades later Hob had grown rather proud of the life he’d created for himself.
The New Inn was known around the community as a welcoming place -- a place where strangers often got food and board for free, if they were unable to pay, or for the simple price of a helping hand. That’s how Hob had gotten the electricity fixed during a particularly bad storm one weekend several years back -- or that one time the plumbing had gone to shit. People were usually willing to help if you showed them their share of decency. After all, people were usually better than you thought they were.
The system worked well for Hob, even though his employees warned him against being overly generous in today’s business environment. Hob's reply was: to hell with that, he was just being a decent human.
He made up for the lack of funds through a part-time job at the local university. He taught history, and he was good at it, too. He loved his students, and they loved him. He was especially popular with the first years, and his classes were notorious for being surprisingly enjoyable. They were in high demand, too, and he’d had to politely decline a full-time position on a few occasions. He liked his workload as it was; enough to keep him entertained but not so much that he couldn’t have some free time to enjoy his other pleasures. And enough that, when he inevitably had to retire early, he wouldn't be leaving that big of an empty space.
Life for Hob had settled into something suspiciously normal. Not that he was a particularly abnormal guy, besides the whole immortal thing and a few odd skills he’d picked up along the way (okay, maybe more than just “a few”), but it had been a hot minute since he’d just… settled. Sometimes it was pertinent to hang the adventure hat up for a little while and find enjoyment in sitting by the fire of his two-room flat, located conveniently on the second floor of the inn, and grade papers and drink whiskey until he got tired enough to fall asleep.
It was a quiet life and it suited him well.
But when you live as long as he did, you become familiar with the tides of living. Things might not change much, but they never stay the same for long. It was the same with peace as it was chaos -- and for Hob, it seemed the peace had lasted too long. The chaos, however, arrived subtly enough that he hadn’t seen it coming. It might have had something to do with the chaos arriving as a beautiful, charming woman. A woman who knew too much to be your average tavern-goer -- but Hob wouldn’t realize this until she’d already told him everything he needed to know.
The first thing she’d done when she’d sat down at the bar was ask him if he had any apples.
Hob, who was filling in a shift for Lucy -- one of the new girls; young, a single mother who’d needed to run off to the daycare to deal with a non-emergency emergency. She’d apologized four times before Hob managed to herd her out the door, sending gentle reassurances that he would be just fine on his own; he certainly didn’t hold it against her, things happen, say hello to the little nugget for me. It was a Tuesday evening, anyway. Weekend guests had checked out and most people were at home eating early dinners before turning into bed in preparation for work the next day. Hob himself would have an early morning, teaching a few classes before an afternoon of grading papers.
They didn’t have any apples, but, staring into the dark, beautiful eyes of the stranger, Hob felt an odd desire to please her -- and an even odder disappointment at not being able to.
“Uhm, we’ve got apple schnapps,” he replied, setting down the glass he’d been scrubbing at as his mind had wandered aimlessly. It wasn’t wandering anymore. The woman seemed to pull all the energy of the room straight to her. “I could make you a Washington Apple if you fancy?”
“That sounds lovely,” the woman said with a smile -- just as beautiful as the rest of her. God, she was stunning; dark skin, even darker hair, and a shine to her eyes that betrayed a well-practiced enjoyment of life. Hob decided that he liked this lady, whoever she was.
He made up her cocktail, adding a little extra schnapps so the taste of apple would stand above the cranberry and whiskey, then slid it down the bar. She caught it easily.
“Ah, this is amazing,” she hummed, face scrunching with delight.
“On the house,” Hob replied, watching her with his own bit of delight.
“That’s very kind of you,” she said, taking one more sip before setting her drink down.
“So, uh… I don’t think I’ve seen you around here…" he itched just behind his ear. Then, "We get used to seeing the locals, so an unfamiliar face stands out.” A quick explanation so she didn’t think he was being a creep. Thankfully, the woman just nodded, that slightly amused smile still on her face. Hob got the idea that she knew the sorts of things nobody else did; and considering Hob had his own secrets, he was captivated.
“I’m here for work,” she replied, predictably vague. He nodded.
“Funny, me too,” he held his hands out, gesturing at the bar. Her smile deepened and she glanced down at her drink, spinning it between her hands, and Hob momentarily wondered if he was getting somewhere before he pushed that thought down. Mysterious or not, he wasn’t in the mood for watching another lover grow old. And, considering the way his relationship with the only other person (person? being, at least) who would outlive him had gone, he wasn’t quite sure anything beyond friendship was right for him.
Hell, according to his stranger, they hadn’t even been friends, much less…
“So, have you been in the innkeeping business long?” the woman asked. He was grateful for the distraction, and eagerly hopped into a conversation with her about how no, he was fresh as a newborn fawn, but the place had come to him under… odd circumstances that had resulted in him throwing caution to the wind.
The woman listened with genuine interest, smiling and nodding and adding her own bits of conversation with charismatic humor and wit. The pub was pretty empty besides a few regulars and before Hob knew it, the sun was beginning to set, framing the windows in a stain-glass glow. The woman finished her second drink -- “Also on the house,” Hob had insisted -- and pushed the glass back across the table.
Then she shifted, and the whole room shifted with her.
“I must admit, part of my business actually brings me here, Hob Gadling. Though, not the usual business, lucky for you.”
He stopped cleaning the glass. Then he carefully sat it on the counter.
“I… didn’t tell you my name, did I,” he said, a reluctant smile on his face.
“No,” she gently confirmed. “But I know who you are.”
“Do you now,” he narrowed his eyes, curious but cautious. The woman seemed nice enough, but he really didn’t want any trouble. He was getting too old for trouble.
“I think we have a mutual friend," she continued. “Well, your friend, my brother…”
The world had gone very still all of a sudden as Hob’s brain shifted into overdrive, trying to think of anyone she could mean besides the obvious. Besides him .
“See, you've got it all wrong,” he finally managed, grimacing sadly. “According to him, he doesn’t need friends.”
“Yeah?” she seemed amused by that. “Well, did I mention that he’s also an idiot?”
Hob laughed, short and barking, and shook his head.
“To be fair,” he braced his arms on the counter and leaned against it. “I may have been the idiot in this particular instance." Staring at the backs of his hands, he never could have helped what he said next. “Have you… seen him… recently?”
The woman opened her mouth.
“It’s just, he missed our last… I don’t know, date , I suppose, and I’m afraid I’ve kind of fucked things up with him.” He picked at the surface of the wood, not meeting her eye.
“Hob,” she ducked her head. He glanced up. “Something’s happened.”
Staring into her eyes, he knew it was the truth -- and he also knew it must be serious for her to come to him , of all people.
“Shit,” he muttered. “What can I do?”
She smiled. “That’s what I like about you, Hob Gadling,” she said, but she didn’t elaborate. He didn’t care, on account of what she said next. “Someone’s used old magic to summon him. They wanted me, but they messed it up and got him instead.”
“‘Old magic,’” he repeated, brows furrowing. The woman pulled a slip of paper out of her pocket and pushed it across the counter, leaning with it.
“He’s here. In the basement. You have to be careful, though, alright? I’d never hear the end of it if you wound up getting hurt, but there's really no other way. At least, not one this easy.”
This was, admittedly, a lot to process. This -- the woman sitting in front of him who he’d been chatting with for hours -- was his stranger’s… sister. And she needed his help because his friend had been summoned and was now in someone’s basement. And she’d sort of just said that her brother cared about what happened to him, which Hob had already guessed, but… even after what had happened? Even after he'd walked out to prove that he didn't need their friendship?
“Hob?” the woman cautiously started.
“Yep, fine, I just… If you don’t mind me asking -- and it’s not because I’m not willing, but -- why can’t you help him? You seem much more qualified than me.”
“I can’t. Interfere with his affairs, that is. Besides, he probably wouldn’t want my help, anyway. You know how he is.”
“Yes…” Hob murmured, holding up the slip of paper. “That I do.”
Alex Burgess . It seemed Hob would be paying him a visit.
He tried to get more information out of the woman before she left, but she was just as elusive as her brother. It must be a family thing, Hob thought as he returned her friendly wave, and then she was gone and he was left with nothing more than a name and an address, and the knowledge that his friend somehow needed his help.
It was enough. He would have liked more, but what he had was enough. His friend was in danger, that was all. So, there really wasn’t much of a decision to make -- nothing to grapple with, no time to wonder if what he was doing was wise, following the vague instructions of a stranger who likely had just as many secrets as he did. No, it was fairly simple, really.
He called the university and told them he’d be taking an indefinite leave due to a family emergency. All was well, he reassured them, he just needed a few weeks to sort things out. The university had a soft spot for Hob, so it wasn’t an issue. Filling his shifts at the inn was just as easy, and to his employees he told a similar story; that there was some family business he needed to attend to, so he’d be away for a while.
It all took less than a day to organize. Then Hob realized he really didn’t know how to prepare for whatever he was getting himself into. How long would it take, getting his friend out of this Burgess asshole’s basement? Hell, how would Hob even get in ? He’d done a quick google search into the Burgesses; they were rich and powerful, and their estate would likely be guarded by security, especially if they were keeping an inhuman prisoner in their basement. And it quickly dawned on him that he had absolutely no clue how to help his friend. He didn’t have a plan A, let alone a plan B, and Hob was going in blind.
He was surprised by how little this mattered, because really, he wasn’t an impulsive man. He’d made enough bad decisions to know when to slow down and figure out your moves before you jump. But as he locked up his room in the New Inn and bid Lucy farewell on his way out the front door, Hob didn’t care that he only knew two things; one, where he was going -- and two, who he was bringing back with him, because while Hob had learned when to have some patience, he’d also learned how to act on instinct alone, and this was one of those times when he’d just have to trust his gut and hope for the best.
No matter how poor of a decision it might be, he wasn’t about to lose his friend. Death would have to come for him before he'd ever let that happen -- even if he and his friend weren’t really talking right now. Even if he’d stood him up. Hob was too old to hold grudges, anyway (besides, of course, the Shakespeare incident). Too old, and with too few lasting friendships.
As he filled up his gas tank for the trip, Hob thought. As he entered the address into his GPS (seriously, would humanity never cease to churn out amazing inventions?), Hob thought. As he drove mindlessly down the freeway, Hob thought. He thought and thought and thought -- about his friend’s sister, about his friend’s once-expressed concern that Hob might be captured, about what his stranger had said the last time they’d spoken
'You dare. You dare suggest one such as I might need your companionship?'
Hob had gotten very friendly with those words in the past hundred years. They’d played in his head over and over again, and they hurt. They hurt not because his stranger had intended them to, but because Hob felt nothing but sympathy for a man (or god, or whoever) who was so afraid of accepting the fact that maybe, just maybe, he was lonely.
Hob had never seen his stranger afraid, but that night in the pub was the closest he’d probably ever gotten. That fear and that anger; boiling, fiery anger that Hob still hadn’t figured out where it had come from. It was like Hob had uncovered some horrible secret that his stranger had kept from the whole world. It was like he’d laid him bare and pointed at a festering wound that he had done so well of hiding under all those fancy black outfits. Hob’s only regret was that he'd let him get away. Of course, he hadn’t really had a say in the matter -- not when the man was intent on storming out -- but still, that was what weighed on his chest the most.
Wych Cross was roughly an hour from the New Inn. It was an easy drive, but Hob couldn’t pull himself out of his own head. By the time he’d exhausted all his thoughts of the stranger, and the stranger’s sister, and all the things he regretted, Hob still had a half hour to go, so he managed to strongarm his energy in another direction; how on Earth was he going to get his friend out?
If they were keeping him in a cell, he’d need to find the key. If they were keeping his restrained -- Hob’s heart sank straight through the soles of his shoes when he imagined such a thing -- he’d need to figure out how to get him free before exiting the house. And what if his friend was in poor condition? What if he was injured? He wasn’t exactly a small man -- what if Hob couldn’t carry him?
He shook his head and blinked a few times, taking one hand off the wheel to rub at his forehead. Focus on what you can do , he told himself. Focus on what you can control . There was no use speculating; he’d never get anything done if he did that. Nothing ever went according to plan, anyway. Especially when he was dealing with someone who wasn’t human…
The things he could control. Right.
He’d be arriving around five-thirty. If he was careful, he could set up outside the Burgess house and observe; see who went in and out, if anyone, and get a lay of the building. He planned on putting his ear to the ground for a while, see if anyone in the surrounding neighborhoods had any useful information. Beyond that… Hob was counting on a stroke of luck.
It took him almost a week before things began to roll into motion and the metaphorical snowball began to grow. Just as he’d feared, the Burgess estate was practically a fortress, and no one went in or out besides a few pairs of what looked to be guards and who Hob assumed was the man himself.
Alex Burgess spent quite a lot of time in the garden. He was old, confined to a wheelchair that another man pushed across the stone paths that were overgrown with weeds. It had gone wild, the house -- thick vines growing up the sides, the grass high and the bushes overgrown -- but oddly enough, Alex Burgess fit right in. He looked like a man who had been shaken by life. His partner, though, seemed quite the opposite; a quietly optimistic man, starkly contrasting Alex, who looked like he was a few days away from throwing in the towel and booking a flight somewhere warm.
Hob weighed the idea of breaking in but decided against it. He’d likely be discovered and caught before he could even find the basement door, and the last thing his friend needed was for him to be arrested and sent to jail. It wouldn’t do for both of them to be confined. So Hob moved onto the next step in his rather desperate plan.
Turned out, there was plenty to be learned from gossip. Alex Burgess had inherited the house from his father, Roderick Burgess, who died when Alex was just a young man. The rumors were that Burgess senior had lost a son, and the grief of that had cut him deep and carved him into something bitter. Hob could understand that. But the thing was, Roderick seemed to blame Alex for simply being alive when his other son was dead, and anyone who had known Alex when he’d been just a boy had the same thing to say: he was an unhappy child, always living in the shadow of his dead brother and his father’s anger.
There were also rumors that Roderick Burgess had summoned the devil and trapped it in his basement. Hob’s ears pricked up at that, but there was never anything of substance that followed -- just speculation and outlandish stories about mind control or curses or a glowing naked woman someone had claimed to see descending the basement stairs at one of Roderick's famous parties. The mention of parties had caught Hob's interest -- apparently, Roderick had made quite the spectacle of his fame and fortune -- but that route was just as fruitless as the others. It seemed that the Burgess estate had more or less shut down after Roderick passed. A party hadn’t been thrown there in decades. So much for easy…
Then, four days into his search, Hob heard that they were looking for a gardener. What were the fucking odds? Apparently, Alex, in one of his more erratic moods, had demanded that the garden be cleaned up for, if Hob could guess, the first time in a very long while. Deciding that it was the best chance he’d get (unless he wanted to hang around for a few more years or wait for old Alex to die) Hob appeared on the Burgess’ front step the very next morning with a corduroy hat held timidly between his hands.
“Can I help you?” the servant who answered the door asked.
“Yes sir, uhm, I heard you’re looking to hire a gardener…”
“I’m sorry, sir?” the servant replied in a bored voice. Hob hurried to keep him from shutting the door in his face.
“Oh, I’m sorry, someone” he pointed in the direction of the road, “Someone said you were looking to hire. I’ve been retired for a bit, you see, but I thought I might be the man for the job.”
“Let him in, Reginald,” a man -- Alex’s partner -- appeared over the servant’s shoulder. “After all, it would be nice to save the few extra pounds on an advert, wouldn’t it?” He smiled, friendly. Hob forced himself to forget why he was here and returned his smile with a nod.
“Indeed, sir,” the servant said in that same monotone voice and stepped aside to let him in. Hob felt his heart start to beat up his throat and promptly shoved it back where it belonged, the cheeky bastard.
“Thank you, sir,” he said. “I promise I won’t waste your time.”
“Not at all -- and please, call me Paul.” Paul stuck out a hand.
“Antony,” Hob greeted, accepting his handshake.
“And how long have you been in the gardening business, Antony?”
Paul was… surprisingly normal, for someone keeping a sentient being imprisoned in their basement. And, all things considered, he seemed completely trusting of Hob. When he asked how he’d known they were looking for a gardener, Hob vaguely explained that he’d “heard it in town.” To that, Paul replied with an amused “Word does get around, doesn’t it.” Hob suspected that yes, it did, especially when it involved wealthy occultists and rumors of Satan. He didn’t say any of that, obviously -- just chalked it up to Alex’s wealth and influence, and maybe the state of the yard.
Paul smiled at that, and Hob found himself grateful that the man had a sense of humor.
“It is quite a mess, isn’t it? You know, I used to be a servant here. That was decades ago, now, but… it does pain me to see how much of this place has withered away.”
“Well, sir,” Hob had humbly offered, playing into the role of a meek countryman. “Maybe I can help with that. I’m pretty handy, besides just gardening and such.”
“I’ll be sure to keep that in mind, Antony,” Paul nodded. “But the rumors about the garden are true.” He stopped in a hallway on the second floor. Paul had asked Hob if he minded that they kept walking, saying that he never had been able to concentrate when he was sitting still. Of course, Hob agreed with this; he hadn’t expected to get a tour of the house so easily, and so as Paul talked, Hob discreetly looked around.
“You know,” the man was saying. Hob tore his eyes away from the windows to look at him. “Alex used to love the gardens. I think they were the only place he could escape the scrutiny of his father… That and I was there,” he added with a smirk. “He’s had some trouble walking recently, my Alex. It’s been hard for him. Very hard.”
He trailed off, nodding at his feet.
“But he’s taken some interest in the gardens again, now that he’s got a proper wheelchair. I think it helps, being outside. When he mentioned to me that he’d like the greenery cleaned up, I was delighted. For once I got a glimpse of the old Alex…”
“If I may,” Hob softly spoke up. “I would be more than happy to help in any way I can. My rates are low -- lower than most, now that I’m retired. But I can work just as well as any man half my age.”
“I don’t doubt that,” Paul agreed, gazing curiously over Hob’s face. “I like you, Antony. I think Alex will, too. When can you start?”
They agreed that Hob would come back tomorrow to begin work on the garden, and then Paul showed him the rest of the house -- or at least, the main parts. He seemed eager to have a guest in it after going so long with it only being Alex and the servants. Hob listened carefully, eyes scanning the rooms with a professional sort of interest that he no longer had to hide, now that he was technically the handyman. And, as Hob said goodbye to Paul with a shake of his hand and the promise to show up bright and early tomorrow morning, Hob wondered how it had been so simple.
The man had just met him and already he’d welcomed him into his house. It was almost as if he wasn’t hiding a deep dark secret. It felt like a trick, it was so easy. But even though the situation had been much less hostile than he’d expected, Hob didn’t consider for a moment that his friend’s sister had mislead him. Maybe he should have, but he didn’t. If his friend was still here, he was getting him out. Lingering just outside the door, Hob took a moment to come back to himself, and it was then that the weight of his situation settled onto his chest.
His stranger was here, potentially right below him, and he was trapped. God knows what they'd done to him… what they were doing. Christ, Hob didn’t even want to think about it -- about someone hurting his friend. Again, that voice replayed in his head…
‘You could be hurt… or captured.’
“Fuck,” Hob muttered. He had to do this right.
In the small motel room he’d been living out of, Hob paced whatever space the floor could offer. From the bathroom to the door, around the bed, into the bathroom, back around to the door; elbow propped on his hip as he rubbed at his chin, took mental notes of everything he possibly could. He hadn’t seen anyone besides Paul in the house. In fact, the whole place had been almost unnaturally empty, considering how many pairs of security guards he’d seen coming and going.
They must be guarding the basement.
But Hob hadn’t seen any doors to the basement. Beyond that, he didn’t know if those doors were locked, which would defeat the purpose of him even finding them if he didn’t have a key or a way to pick the lock. He felt like he was in the trenches again, as the sun set on him still pacing back and forth. He felt like he was forming a battle plan. He was , though if he only had to get through Paul and Alex, it wouldn’t be much of a battle. Those two, he could take easily. It was the other variables he was worried about, and all the things he still didn’t know.
He could take it slow; show up for work, do his job, only reveal himself once he was absolutely certain he could execute the plan he didn’t even have yet. But every time he considered it, images of his stranger being tortured or starved -- or dead (could he even die?) -- filled Hob’s mind and he had to squeeze his eyes shut so hard he gave himself a headache just to get those images away. He couldn’t stand it if they were hurting him. Not when he was this close. Not when he could help .
Hob wasn’t thinking clearly. Maybe that would be the only way he’d pull this thing off -- just sheer determination and brute pigheadedness. Hey, it had worked for him so far…
It wound up keeping him awake all night, all that messy thinking, all those what-ifs, and, worst of all, the fact that he couldn’t stop wondering if his friend was okay. In the early hours of the morning, a delirious Hob vowed that once he had him back, he’d never let the bloody man go again.
He woke up feeling stiff and miserable and not remembering having ever fallen asleep. Still, he felt more awake than ever -- and ready.
It took Hob three more days. Three more bloody long days filled with trimming bushes and fixing rattly windows and listening to Paul talk about how hard things had gotten in the last decade.
"Don't get old if you can help it, my friend," he'd said to Hob on that second day, and Hob had thought if only he knew .
He wished he hadn't called him 'friend,’ though. He had no right -- not when Hob's stranger was somewhere hidden in the belly of the Burgess house.
By the second day, Hob still hadn't located the door to the basement. While outside, he looked for low windows or doors from the outside, but he came up empty-handed. However, by the second day, he had the honor of meeting Alex. The man, old and crumpled and just as miserable-looking as Paul had alluded, had yelled at Hob until Paul swept in and explained that "My dear, he's the new gardener, remember?"
Evidently, Alex did not remember, and he hovered around to eye Hob warily -- whispering to Paul about how they "must be more careful" about who they let onto the property. So there it was; the skepticism. Hob was almost relieved to see that at least one of them had some sense. But after a few hours in the garden, Alex seemed to forget that Hob was there at all. He decided that it was time for the next phase of the plan. Once Alex and Paul retreated back inside, Hob waited -- and he waited some more. Then he set his trimmers down and bashed them with a rock. With the damaged tool in hand, an excuse just in case anyone got to asking what he was doing, Hob went inside.
Just like the last time, the house was dark and mopey, giving off an aura of deadness and long-felt destruction. It was like the ruins of some ancient king; once grand but now fallen, its staircase like open ribs winding up a spine. It would have been creepy, but the looming worry of what he might find in the basement made it sinister.
Slowly, Hob took a few steps down the corridor. He scanned every surface, every corner, every board that made up the floor searching for a way into the basement. He was minutes away from tugging on the fucking candlesticks to see if there was a bloody secret passage that he was missing when he heard the grating of a door off to his right. Ducking back behind a table, Hob caught a glimpse of a sitting room, and in the corner, a barred door was being opened and a man was coming out. He didn’t even bother closing the door behind him as he adjusted his belt and made his way into the corridor, where Hob was doing everything in his power not to look suspicious. Even so, when the man saw him, his eyes narrowed.
“Oi, what’re you doing in here?”
“Oh, sorry, mate,” Hob chuckled disarmingly. “You gave me a bit of a scare there. I’m just looking for a replacement,” he held up the clippers. “Found these ones all busted up.”
“Sorry, who are you?”
“The gardener,” he replied. The man looked confused. “Just started this week.”
“Ah. My bad, then. But, uh, I’m afraid you’ve gotten a bit turned around. The storage closet’s at the other end of the house.”
“Is it? Damn,” Hob grinned. “I never did have a good sense of direction.”
“No worries, mate, I can take you there.”
“Oh, please -- I don’t want to interrupt whatever you were doing.” Hob felt his focus sharpen as the man shrugged and waved for Hob to follow him. He’d come from the basement. What were the chances he’d just been in the very same room as his stranger? It was ridiculous, but Hob searched his clothes, his face, the air around him for any sign of his friend. He found none, of course.
“No worries. Just taking a quick piss break, and this shift’s been slow, anyway.” He snorted. “All shifts are slow. I envy you, gardener. You get to spend all day outside.”
This was his chance. Fuck, fucking, fu--
“So, uh… what is it you do?” he asked, embarrassed by how high his voice had gone. “If you don’t mind me asking, of course.”
The man shrugged. “I’m security, technically speaking, but it’s more of a glorified position. I sit and I read, and I make damn well sure I don’t fall asleep. And I take piss breaks,” he gestured to the hallway.
“Hm,” Hob hummed, casually thoughtful. “The house seems so quiet -- never would have thought it’d need security.”
“Yeah, well, there’s a lot of valuable shit stored here. Old books, fancy gems… other relics. Now don’t get any ideas,” the man pointed, cracking a grin, and Hob’s eyes widened as he shook his head and laughed.
“Me? Christ, they pay me enough as it is. I’m sort of semi-retired, so any work is quite enough on its own for me, thanks.”
“Good man,” the guard gave him a friendly smack on the shoulder. “Here we are. Now that I think of it, I’m not even sure you’ll find clippers in here. Might need to ask Paul about that one.”
“I’ll be sure to do that. Hey, thanks for the help.”
“Sure thing, mate. Happy gardening.”
“Happy pissing,” he replied, but the man was already gone.
Hob didn't find a replacement pair of trimmers. But then, he didn’t return to the garden, either, so it didn’t really matter. Instead, Hob spent the rest of the afternoon hidden in a dark corner, watching the door. It was more of a gate, really; dull and easily missed, with bars running the length of it, but it didn’t seem like anyone bothered to lock it. The man had left it wide open when he’d come up, giving Hob a glimpse at the staircase that dropped down into the darkness in cut, zig-zag lines. Hob felt like the air around him had gotten thicker -- like someone had put a few drops of something stale into it and now it was barely dragging its way into his lungs.
A few minutes after he’d settled into his corner, the man returned from his piss, scratching the back of his head and yawning. He pulled a bottle out of his pocket, shaking out a pill and taking it dry. Hob watched him meander his way back down the stairs until the top of his head disappeared and Hob wondered, are you there, my friend? -- wanted to tell him somehow that he was coming; that it was only a matter of days, if that. Because sure, Hob was a patient man, but he was done waiting.
He watched as another guard appeared, presumably off to take their turn at a break. So there must have been at least two guards total, and one guard in the room at all times, if they bothered taking turns. And yet again, the door was left open. It was obvious they weren’t too worried about their captor escaping. Unwillingly, he imagined his friend in chains and immediately wanted to bang his head against the wall until he forgot it. He would have, too, if it wouldn’t have risked blowing his cover.
Instead, he watched as the second guard returned, descending the staircase and returning to the basement, and then all fell still. So two guards. That was manageable. He realized that the system likely wasn’t designed to keep people out at all -- rather, it was meant to keep him in. Hob returned to the gardens with his broken clippers and he waited. He had one last theory he wanted to confirm.
He stayed later than his shift required. If anyone asked, he would say that he’d lost time thanks to those damn broken clippers. No one asked. He saw no one at all, actually -- not until around six o’clock when a lone car pulled into the drive. Two men got out. They went inside. Not five minutes later, the two guards from earlier were walking down the front steps and towards their cars. The one who’d helped him find the storage room waved, and Hob told him to “have a good night.”
Hob put his tools away in the shed -- wondered why the guard hadn't thought of telling Hob to look for clippers there -- and let a plan begin to form along the edges of his mind.
Tomorrow, he was getting his friend out of this place.
Alex Burgess was a pretty shit employer.
That third day, Paul checked on Hob once, in the morning, to make sure that he didn't have any questions, and that was the end of it. Hob was left to his own devices. He couldn't help but wonder how they hadn't been robbed of all they were worth by now, if this was how they hired. Maybe it was because, other than the rumors that Alex had the devil in his basement, the house was filled with nothing but long-dead ghosts. And no one was interested in ghosts, nor was anyone brave, or perhaps foolish enough, to go looking for the devil.
No one except Hob.
He fucked around in the garden like he knew what he was doing until two more guards arrived to replace the overnight shift -- just as Hob had suspected. Then he fucked around some more. He wanted to wait until he was sure Paul and Alex wouldn’t be an issue. As it turned out, it was good that he had; the two men appeared while Hob was pulling weeds -- an endless task that, in spite of the circumstances, Hob didn’t mind. At least it wasted time. Of course, they stopped to talk to him -- though it seemed to Hob as if that was more Paul proving a point than out of actual concern for politeness.
“The progress is coming along well. Don’t you think so, Alex?”
“Yes, I suppose,” Alex said, sounding vaguely insulted.
“Don’t mind him,” Paul smiled. “He’s just remembering what it used to look like. It used to be beautiful, Antony.”
“I have no doubt. I would have liked to see it,” Hob replied, looking at Alex instead. The man just stared back at him before waving Paul down to whisper something in his ear.
“If you’ll excuse us. Early evening, I think.”
“Of course,” Hob nodded, wiping some of the dirt from his hands. “Sweet dreams.”
Hob had about an hour before sunset, and now he knew that two of the obstacles between him and his friend would be taking an “early evening.” Which meant that, if Hob got lucky, they’d be out of the way and completely oblivious until long after he and his stranger were gone. He watched the two men stroll leisurely towards the front door. He waited until they were gone and then he stashed his tools in a bush with a bit of glee that he’d never have to see the bloody things again.
The Burgess house, as usual, was dark. With the curtain of night drawing closed around the windows, it felt particularly gloomy. Something within its seams felt alive, like any moment the rooms would start moving, shifting, and maybe it would eat him alive.
He hid in the hallway, pressed up against the wall, listening. To the sound of the house breathing as he held his breath. To the crackle in the air as it prepared for movement. Any minute now. The house exhaled. He leaned the side of his face towards the wall.
The door to the basement opened.
Hob was an old friend of war. He’d been a soldier a dozen times over, seen all manner of battles -- the ugliest of it, the darkest nights humanity was capable of. It felt as if all of it had prepared him for this very moment.
Swinging around the corner, his fist connected with the face of the guard. They both stumbled back a step, and then Hob was grabbing him by a handful of his hair and throwing him into the edge of the dresser just beside the door. They connected with a crunch, and the man slumped to the ground. Hob straightened up, raking hair back from his damp forehead, and looked around while he caught his breath and stole his nerves. The house remained silent, and, as if that spark of movement had shattered something important, it didn’t feel so alive anymore.
It was just a bloody stupid house. Hob was going to get his friend and get the hell out -- and lord willing, never see it again.
Hob leaned over the man, stuck two fingers to his neck and checked his pulse. He was still alive, though he’d have the mother of all headaches by the time he came around. Hob shrugged, indifferent, and then he began checking the man’s pockets. A stick of gum, a bottle of medication -- Forced March tablets; he’d heard of them during his time in the trenches but had never partaken himself -- a mobile phone, and, tucked into the waistband of his trousers, a gun. Hob took it, eyes scanning over the weapon before tucking it into the back of his pants.
The house remained silent. Remained dead; a carcass of rot, just as ghostly as the man who lived in it.
He turned to the staircase -- stone, cold walls, the whole place loud enough that anyone downstairs would probably hear him before he even reached the bottom. When he took the first step, Hob realized that it didn’t matter anyway.
“Fred? Fred, you alright up there?” A woman’s voice called, echoing up from below. A footstep rang out, and it wasn’t Hob’s. He readied himself.
“Fred, what the hell is--”
They saw each other at the same time. The guard drew her weapon. Hob had been shot enough times to quickly get out of her way, slamming back against the wall before jumping down half the staircase and elbowing the gun from her hands. Her arm hit the wall and she winced, and Hob took the opportunity to shove her sideways and slam his pistol into the back of her head. She dropped like a puppet with its strings cut. Hob stared after her a moment just to be sure, then turned his eyes to the remaining staircase, descending off to the left. His breath caught in his throat, and somewhere in the basement there was the hum of potential seconds away from breaking. And suddenly Hob was painfully aware that it was up to him to break it.
For the first time since the strange woman with the knowing look and the kind smile had entered his inn, Hob hesitated because what if he wasn’t ready to see what was at the bottom of those stairs? Of course, it didn’t matter -- he wouldn’t dare let fear stop him from helping a friend in need, but… Hob’s stomach sank further and further with every slow step he took. And then he turned.
It was easier to think about the small things first. They flashed across his eyes all too quickly before leaving no excuse, no way to avoid the big things any longer. It was a single room, large and dimly lit and cold -- so cold, and Hob wondered if maybe its purpose was something similar to the Forced March tablets. Nothing could be comfortable enough to sleep in a cold like this. Hob would have pulled his jacket tighter around him if he could have moved at all.
There, in the center of the basement, was a big glass sphere, enforced by iron beams that curved around the glass like someone had tried to wrap the whole thing up tight. Hob couldn’t breathe. He knew right away exactly what he was looking at. He knew, and yet, he couldn’t tell how bad it was. Couldn’t tell if things were about to get a whole lot worse when the figure inside it moved.
He was pale, so much paler than Hob had ever remembered, though maybe that was because he’d never seen so much of him before. He was thin, sinewy and powerful and just as regal-looking as the last time they’d met; the night that Hob had followed him out into the rain and watched the back of his dark coat disappear into the night.
God, Hob had really thought he’d fucked things up, back then. He'd spent years wondering if he should regret what he’d said, instead to find that the only thing he regretted was letting the stranger go -- not following after him, saying more, begging, if he had to. But no… that wasn’t how their relationship worked, Hob and his stranger. Even so, Hob could never regret what he’d said when he’d only said the truth. Or at least, what he’d thought was the truth.
Standing in the basement of Roderick Burgess’s long-dead house, Hob couldn’t think much of anything at all. There was a ringing in his ears that felt like it was buried so deep in his head he’d never be able to shake it out. The air felt suffocating. And there, in a glass prison suspended by chains, was his stranger. His friend . When Hob took a breath, it shuddered. His limbs felt numb -- not from the cold, but from something like a horror suspended in time.
His friend lifted his head, just an inch, and dark eyelashes fluttered to reveal dull blue eyes. It was like the stars had been sucked out of them and replaced with stone. Hob felt his own eyes widen, his eyelids flickering with a flinch at the same time his stranger stiffened. He sat up further, pushing off of the glass beneath his palms, and Hob noticed that he was naked. Something tried to crawl its way up his throat, got stuck there like cotton.
In an instant, it was like the sound and the light and the oxygen rushed back in, and Hob was making his way down the stairs and across the room in a few quick strides. There was a moat of water around the prison, but Hob jumped over it like it was nothing, his face pinched into dark, firm concentration. His friend had gotten up in the short time he had crossed the room, and he was kneeling, the suspended cage giving him a few inches on Hob. Hob barely looked at him; his eyes ran over the chains holding the sphere in place and the thick support beams with a feverish intensity. He had to get him out. Now , or he might just be sick.
He reached out and, after a moment of hesitation, touched the glass. It was thick, but unless it was bulletproof he should be able to shoot through it. He didn’t know what he’d do if he couldn’t. It was so cold beneath his palms, and he saw how the floor of it was rounded, the metal beams curving through it at just the right angle so one could never be comfortable.
“Fuck,” Hob hissed, the first word he’d managed. And it was only then that he met his friend’s eyes.
There was a split second of wonder in the soft blues of them, like he’d just woken up from a pleasant dream. And there was relief. Unrestrained relief -- the look of filling your lungs again after holding your breath for too long. And then his friend’s eyes darted over Hob’s shoulder and, when they returned, they were filled with something else; something Hob had never seen from him before. Urgent dread. Hob spun around, but there was nothing; they were alone. He felt something -- a vague warmth -- and turned back to find his friend’s palm resting over his, the thick glass separating what would have been the very first time they’d ever touched.
Fuck the Burgesses. Fuck them both, alive and dead. Fuck everyone who’d ever had a hand in this.
“Hob,” his stranger whispered, and though his voice was brittle with disuse, it still sent a shiver up Hob’s spine like it always had.
“Oh my friend, what have they done to you?”
“Hob ,” he repeated, brow knitting -- not enough to wrinkle the smooth, pale skin between his eyebrows, but enough to darken his face. “ Hob, you must leave. You must go--”
Hob was already shaking his head, face twisting with confusion and, somewhere in the far back of his mind, anger that his friend really thought he’d be able to just leave him like this and move on with his life.
“No,” he replied, still confused, but firm enough to leave no room for discussion. Alarm grew in his chest as, instead of anger, he watched that sickly fear rise sharper in his friend’s eyes. He shifted in his glass prison, bringing a leg up for balance. He looked so… small -- and Gods, he was thin,
“Hob--”
“Step back, will you?” he said, raising the gun. His friend opened his mouth like he wanted to argue, then carefully moved so he was pressed into the curve of the sphere’s far side.
“Be c--” He’d begun to say a moment before someone grabbed a fistful of Hob’s hair.
They tugged hard, then Hob was being thrown forward and into the glass. Pain exploded behind his eyes as the gun was knocked from his hand, sliding across the floor and out of reach. His vision went black and his knees buckled, but the hand dragged him up by his hair, setting up for a second blow. Somewhere in struggle, Hob saw his stranger lunge towards them, fist colliding with the glass that he’d never be able to break. Hob smiled. He didn’t know why, but he did, and then he got his arms under him. When he was shoved towards the glass a second time, he threw his hands out, catching the surface and pushing back, narrowly preventing another blow.
There, crouched down to his level, was his friend. He was saying something, lips moving rapidly, but Hob’s ears were still ringing and he couldn’t hear a thing. The man kept shifting himself closer like he was trying to find a way through the glass; as if there was a chance, no matter how slim, that he’d be able to reach Hob. He’d never seen his stranger scared -- not when Joanna Constantine and her men had threatened their lives, not ever -- but right now he looked terrified. Hob’s smile grew, but the stranger’s eyebrows lowered with concern so Hob gave him a wink. Then he threw his head back into his attacker's face. His skull hit her nose, breaking it with an audible crunch. She cried out, hand flying up as she stumbled back a step. Hob didn’t waste a second, swinging his fist into the side of her head. She crumpled to the ground.
He took a shaky breath, spitting some blood onto the floor, sucking what was left of it out of his teeth. He nearly fell when he turned around, wobbling unsteadily on account of the probable concussion he’d just received, and his friend’s hands shifted desperately across the glass. He was standing, now -- the confinements of his cage forcing him to hunch over -- and his muscles trembled. The movement was so small that no one else would have noticed it, but Hob did; and he also noticed the unshed tears pooling along his friend’s waterline, and the way his already white palms had gone bloodless against the freezing glass.
“I’m alright. Hey, hey, it’s alright. Just a bump, is all,” he held up his hands, smiling, trying to be charming because the other option was to freak out and he knew that would be pretty damn useless at this stage in the plan. He’d have to at least wait until his friend was safe for that. Speaking of…
“Can you move back for me, hm?” he asked, feeling very suddenly as if he were talking to a child -- like back when he’d try to convince Robyn that the nightmare he’d had wasn’t real. Only this nightmare very much was . “I’m gonna shoot the glass and then we’re getting the hell out of here.”
He watched his stranger’s throat bob as he swallowed. He still wasn’t looking at Hob -- more like looking through him -- and when his eyes finally found the man’s face, Hob could recognize the vacant, all-consuming panic in them. After all, he’d worn the same look those first few months home after the first world war had ended. Hob quickly determined that he must have had blood on his face. He wiped it away with his sleeve.
“We haven’t got much time,” he said, stepping closer, and that seemed to do the trick. His friend let his eyes fall shut for a moment -- barely longer than a second -- and then he was moving, taking careful steps backwards until he was curled into the side of the sphere.
Hob lifted the gun, aiming it right in the center of two of those ugly strips of metal and bolts. And then he fired.
He winced as the shot hit the glass, sending a spider web of cracks branching out along the surface. His friend gasped, eyelids half closed, his lashes kissing his cheek.
“Are you alright?” Hob asked, worried that he’d somehow already hurt him.
His friend, however, just nodded once, a soft groan rising up the back of his throat. Hob swallowed.
“Alright,” he whispered, steeling himself, concentrating on the parts of the glass that had started to fracture.
He lifted the gun, aimed…
It took two more shots and then the glass shattered. The surface was a web of cracks a split second before the whole thing fell, scattering like ice when it hit the concrete floor. Hob ducked back, hiding his face behind an arm as shards of glass flew through the air -- along with some sort of blue crackling light, like a ball of electricity. Ignoring this, Hob struggled forward to try to find his friend among the roar of light and the rubble.
He found him there, kneeling like a fallen angel. Hob watched the muscles in his back shift as they expanded with breath, and then the stranger was craning his head back, exposing the pale expanse of his throat. The ball of energy kicked up wind and the glass trembled from where it lay, and Hob lifted his arm again because something big was happening and he didn’t know what. The wind tugged at his hair, lifting it, the electricity making every molecule in his body seem to buzz until he was somehow blind and deaf but experiencing every possible sight and sound and touch at the same time.
And then it was over.
His friend was still half-crouched, but he was moving quickly, his face darkened into something unrecognizable. It took Hob a moment to realize that it was anger; fuming, fiery, otherworldly anger. Hob had never seen this kind of anger on him -- not even on that day in 1889. In all reality, Hob should have been terrified. The person in front of him -- the being -- was so unlike his old friend that he could have been a stranger. But he was Hob’s stranger still. Always would be, if the man would have him.
Determined to find out, Hob stepped into the sphere of fallen glass and held out a hand. The stranger’s shoulders heaved once, twice, and then, very slowly, he lifted his face. He looked at Hob through his eyelashes, wet with unshed tears, and there was a very quick, very real moment in which Hob wondered if he had somehow forgotten who he was. Or, potentially worse, Hob wondered if he’d done the wrong thing and fucked everything up again.
Then his eyes flickered to Hob’s outstretched hand and Hob saw an emotion that he could recognize. Confusion. He shifted on his feet, leaning closer; an unspoken ‘I am not leaving you like this.’ Slower still, his friend lifted his eyes. Then he reached out and accepted his hand. His fingers were longer but Hob’s palm was bigger, and all he could think about was how was this the first time they’d ever touched each other? In six hundred years ? Hob didn’t know and he didn’t care -- he just knew that he did not want to let go.
He helped pull his stranger up, loosening his grip on him -- not wanting to keep him when he didn’t want to be. Yet he let his palm remain in Hob’s, gripping it like it was the only real thing he’d felt in a hundred years. Hob realized that maybe it was .
“Are you alright?” he asked, and the words were heavy.
His stranger’s brow furrowed, dazed as he stared at Hob’s chest.
“Why… ” he had to pause as he swayed unsteadily on his feet. Hob leaned an inch closer, high off of the feeling of still holding his hand. “ Why are you dirty?” he finished, lip curling in vague disgust. Hob couldn’t help himself -- he laughed.
“How do you think I got in here, eh? Dug my way in, I did.”
His stranger’s brow lowered even further, more confused, now, and maybe slightly disappointed, like Hob had gone crazy or something. Hell, he sure was starting to feel like it.
“Seriously, though,” he continued as the other man pulled his hand away. Hob had to keep himself from chasing after the feeling. It wasn’t fair, the fact that he’d given it and now he was taking it away. And then Hob realized how selfish that was and he mentally kicked himself before again asking, “Are you okay?”
His friend looked back at him for a moment like he couldn’t even begin to answer that question but he was grateful Hob had even thought to ask it. Then, as swiftly as before, that somber anger returned; only this time it had apprehension resting right alongside it, so starkly different from his earlier fear, though Hob could see the ways that it was built from the same stuff.
“Hob-- ” his voice croaked. He took a step towards him and for a terrifying second, Hob thought he was reaching out again -- even moved to take his hand -- but then he stumbled a bit on broken glass. He winced, steadying himself and squaring his shoulders, proud as ever. “ Hob you must leave here.”
Hob drew back like he'd struck him.
“No… don’t try and tell me you’re not coming…”
“Hob--”
“Fuck’s sake --”
“There is something I must do.”
Hob looked back at him and the finality that was in his voice was confirmed by the look on his face. Hob straightened up, rolling his shoulder and pinching his lips together as he stared back at his friend -- his stubborn, mysterious friend whose mental state he couldn’t even begin to guess. He might not be human, but fuck -- he knew that even immortal beings could drown under the tough shit. Especially immortal beings. Especially when they’d been imprisoned for god knows how long, having god knows what done to them.
“What does that even mean?” he asked; exasperated but trying very hard to be patient. It -- all of it -- was coming from concern for his friend, and Hob was afraid the man didn’t even know it.
His stranger took a breath (Hob was starting to think that, even if he didn’t need oxygen, he needed the gesture all the same) and then that ageless regality withered just a shade and he looked… tired. Exhausted, actually, and Hob wanted nothing more than to take off his jacket and wrap it around his friend’s pointy, narrow shoulders and never let him go.
What happened here?
Hob kind of wanted to cry.
“I mean this with kindness, Hob Gadling, ” his stranger whispered. “ The knowledge of what I am about to do is not your burden to carry, nor would I ask you to.”
Hob paused. He knew, back in some dormant part of his mind -- the part of him that wanted to sit down and weep -- that they didn’t have much time.
“You’ll… be alright?” he finally asked.
“I will .” Hob must not have looked convinced. “ I swear it.”
Well shit. He stared into his stranger’s eyes for some sort of clarity. He didn’t find it, but he did find enough to trust him even though he was scared for him.
“Fine,” Hob agreed. “But you find me. I mean it, dammit, you find me .”
“I will. You have my word.”
“And it better not be in a hundred fucking years--”
“Hob, please.”
And if that didn’t shut him up. There wasn’t any desperation in that word -- in that plea -- but there was vulnerability; like he’d just given Hob a piece of himself and said, ‘Here I am; keep it safe for me until I return.’
Fucking Christ.
“Alright,” Hob surrendered, squeezing his eyes shut and exhaling a sigh that very well could have been the first breath he’d taken since he’d entered the basement. With one last glance at his friend, who nodded, he turned and headed for the stairs, leaving a trail of shattered glass and red flakes of dried paint smeared across the cobblestones.