Chapter Text
"Hob, let go of me," Dream demanded, trying to jerk his arm away. "Let go – you dare –" There was a breathiness, a faintness to his imperious tone that unnerved Hob.
And, of course, Hob was a war veteran, and he knew what 'imminently passing out' looked like. Even for someone with Dream's normal pallor, an ashen grey tint and traces of blue around his lips was a bad sign. He did not let go of Dream's arm. "You need to sit back down, Dream," he admonished.
His friend had been off the entire evening, distracted, and Hob knew that being trapped in a cage for 105 years would probably do that to anyone, but it was also other things. The small, winded noises, the tremors in Dream's hands and grimaces when he thought Hob wasn't looking. The tight, woundup tension of keeping a body upright.
Dream finally succeeded in yanking his arm free from Hob's grasp, and glared. "You... presume too much, Hob Gadling. Do not presume to know... what I need."
The gaps in his sentences were punctuated with sharp and wet inhalations, and Hob would have rolled his eyes at Dream's stubbornness if he weren't so damned worried.
"Dream, please, for me then? I need you to do that –"
His friend opened his mouth, probably to retort, and then braced his hands against the table, tight knuckled in a death grip.
Hob was, Dream thought, probably correct that something was wrong, but he just needed – to take his leave. Get to the Dreaming. Apologize to Hob later. But a stubborn pain had lodged itself in his chest, under his ribcage, something blossoming and radiating outward. He didn't need air to breathe or speak. The body Dream currently inhabited did not seem to care.
He coughed, agony in his chest that made his eyes water. Dream let go of the table, trying to reach his sand, anything, but stumbled. Grabbed onto the chair instead, flipping it over as his legs gave out entirely. Warm arms engulfed him. There was something wet and metallic around Dream's lips, and the last thing he saw was Hob's terrified eyes.
Hob had never made it upstairs to his flat faster, even though he was carrying what amounted to Dream's dead weight. The sight of the blood spattering his friend's lips, then his eyes rolling up and then closing, limp in Hob's arms – God.
Dream's skin burned like a brand under his touch, even though the ashen tint to his skin had only intensified. His friend coughed again, twitching in Hob's arms, and more blood trailed out of his mouth. It was silvery red. Hob hadn't expected it to be red at all. Then again, he'd never wanted to know what color Dream's blood looked like.
He laid Dream down on the couch, propping his friend's head delicately on a cushion, and tried to not shudder at the way his head lolled on the cushion. The Endless could hate him for this later, Hob told himself, but he needed to check Dream's chest and ribs – coughing up blood could be from a punctured lung… which usually happened from a broken rib.
Hob extricated Dream from his heavy coat, then rolled the black t-shirt up and over his shoulders to press on Dream's ribs. Dream groaned, with rapid movement under his eyelids, but didn't wake. None of Dream's ribs felt broken, and there was no bruising that Hob could discern. He dropped the shirt back down, and fetched bowls of water and damp cloths. One he laid over Dream's hot forehead, and the other he used to wipe the blood off Dream's face.
He didn't really know what to do with this. Dream was clearly ill, quite seriously, but his friend wasn't human and so a hospital was out of the question. Then Dream coughed, violently, more blood escaping . His face twisted in a rictus of pain, hands clenching the couch cushions before his eyes snapped open. They were full of stars and galaxies, burning as Dream shuddered.
He's under harsh lights, frigid cold, naked and on display and his corporeal form aches with the cold and burn of no oxygen –
Once the blinding pain subsided, Dream's vision cleared enough to realize he was in Hob Gadling's flat. "Dream – Dream," Hob was saying over and over, one hand on Dream's shoulder, another holding a damp and bloodied cloth. There was another cloth on his forehead. When had his body started to burn? "Dream, I need to know how to help you."
He could barely feel the Dreaming. Dream didn't know if telling Hob to sleep, dream for him, would help. Speaking was a horrible effort; it felt like his chest had turned to glass, his throat to gravel, but he forced the words out anyway. "Paper. Pen."
Dream's hands shook so badly he could barely draw the outline of an ankh, his chest so wrecked the words were nothing more than a whisper. "Sister. Please… come." He barely managed to get them out before whatever malady he suffered overtook him. Dream's skin burned, then ran ice cold, and spots floated in his vision. Something felt like it was rotting in his chest, an open wound. The pain consumed everything –
– blooming with bloody tendrils, something burning, something festering, dragging him into the dark. He's standing on a precipice, somewhere in the Dreaming, within himself, but he doesn't know where. Something shoves him over the edge, and he falls, into the dark –
Hob stared as the paper disintegrated from Dream's grip, which had loosened as Dream fainted again. Then at Dream's face, which had gone distressingly slack. There was a rush of air, the sound of wings, and a presence. He whirled, panicking, and came face to face with a kind-faced, dark-skinned woman, long hair dark and curled. She was dressed in dark clothes and wore a silver ankh necklace.
"Um," said Hob, then looked back at Dream, who hadn't stirred. "Hey, Death. Something's wrong with Dream."
She stepped past Hob to lay a hand on Dream's face. "Hello, Hob." Her brows creased with concern, and Death shook Dream lightly, murmured something. He didn't wake. "What happened so far?" she finally asked Hob.
"We were in the New Inn. He seemed off. Distracted, a bit trembly and strained. He started looking a bit…. grey? And tried to leave when I asked if he was all right. I tried to stop him, he got angry about it, and then … he coughed up blood and passed out into me. He's been mostly out of it since." Hob looked down at Dream in wretched concern. "Still coughing up blood some, though. I checked his ribs, in case it was something like that, but – "
They were interrupted by Dream coughing, an awful, hacking noise that brought up more blood. Hob turned Dream onto his side, afraid he would choke.
There is blood on the glass. Jessamy is dead and he doesn't know if Death will be able to reach here to take her to the Sunless Lands. It's his fault, and he coughs in frigid burning air, palm against the splattered red and feathers –
"Dream!"
– the blood is his. He's coughing blood into the glass. The burning is all over his body –
Something soft and warm patted at his cheeks.
– they take his clothes and his vestments and leave him here in a wounded corporeal form, bare and cold and near hopeless –
Warm fingers pressed against his chest, looking for something. "Dream!"
Dream's eyes opened, and he gasped – or tried to, immediately choking on air and blood. His hands came up, trying to push Death's gentle hands away. "Shh, Dream, we've got you," she reassured, and refused to move her hands. "Tilt his head further," she ordered Hob.
Hob obeyed, whispering his own words of comfort and stroking Dream's hair as Death continued pressing at Dream's chest, looking for whatever was wrong. Between his collarbone and sternum, angry red and silver-black bloomed, spreading outwards like a malignant bruise. Dream's eyes flashed with stars and galaxies, dim and muted.
He wasn't coughing anymore. Death frowned at the angry marks on his chest, then sighed. Dream licked bloody lips, and blinked, slowly, in abject confusion. "Sister?"
Hob sagged in relief at her side upon hearing Dream's voice. Death frowned. "Is something wrong with your realm, Dream?"
"Not…" He took a wheezing gasp, trying to answer. "As far as I know…"
"We need to make sure," Death said firmly.
Dream coughed again, hand flying weakly to his chest in pain. His eyes burned in a supernova.
– nothing made sense, the past and present merging into each other. Dream is out of the cage, so why can't he breathe? Why is he bleeding red, like there's a gaping wound? He's standing in a meadow. He's standing in a cave. He's standing on a shore. There's a cliff edge, and he doesn't know where it is, and then something shoves him, again, over the edge, shadows yanking him down –
"Hob," said Death.
Hob stared at Dream, panicking. There were galaxies spinning in Dream's eyes, face contorted in pain, more blood. His friend was in agony, and the world had stopped making sense. It was even more terrifying than the moment Dream had revealed his capture – that had been testimony to his ability to be hurt and captured, but this was visceral evidence.
"Hob," Death repeated, touching his shoulder.
"Sorry," he finally said, tearing his gaze away from Dream. "Sorry. How do we help him?"
"We need to get him to the Dreaming," Death said. "I think… something is wrong there, but I can't quite tell. He is the Dreaming and the Dreaming is him, so their states reflect each other. I can carry him to the Dreaming, but I can't take both of you at the same time. You can still get there, by sleeping."
"Right, well, I do have sleeping pills –"
Death shook her head. "I can put you out. It won't be as pleasant as Dream telling you to sleep, but it'll work. Go lie down on the other couch. This one has blood on it."
She reached over, bundling Dream into her arms easily. Dream didn't wake, but made a soft whimpering noise. Hob obeyed, heading over to the other couch, lying down and staring anxiously.
"Go to sleep, Hob Gadling, and think of Dream and the Dreaming," Death said, voice coming from every direction. Wings of night swept over his face, brushing against it. He had the sensation of being dropped through a frigid body of water, then burning, then tumbling, sickening disorientation.
Hob's vision went dark, even as he worried, over and over, about Dream.
– Jessamy brushes her wings against his face, then takes off in flight to pursue a shiny object Dream has conjured in a pile of sand. She is so joyous, so loyal. Matthew is less graceful, but he follows Dream through the rain, through Hell, feathers soft against his shoulder –
Dream was warm, cradled against something soft. The flutter of wings soothed his soul, even as his chest hurt more than ever. "Sister?" he finally asked, connecting the dots.
"We're almost to the Dreaming, little brother," she replied. Her arms tightened around him, and he drifted again after that.