Archive of Our Own

A quick glance around himself tells Hob that he’s the last patron remaining at the White Horse.

The afternoon bled into evening and it’s past midnight and Hob has been slowly and steadily going through the most part of a bottle of whiskey. He wishes he hadn’t had so much time to build up his tolerance because right now he could use the sweet oblivion of drunkenness instead of this tipsiness that’s heightening his maudlin mood. 

Perhaps, he will finish the job at home, with a true bottle of old whiskey, one of those he’s saved for special occasions.

And what a better occasion than being stood up by your not-friend slash centennial crush?

That’s your fucking fault, your stupid fuck, a voice in the back of his mind whispers as if he hasn’t spent the last century regretting what he’d said. He still doesn’t think his words were off the mark and the tears welling in the stranger's eyes confirmed it, in a way. But he also realises he shouldn’t have uttered them, not when he had stood witness to so many clues over the centuries about his stranger’s pride, about his touchiness. 

What’s done is done, eh? his mind unhelpfully provides. 

Heaving a sigh, Hob drains what’s left of his whiskey and places the glass upon the counter. “I think that’s my clue,” he tells the bartender, pointing at the staff that’s starting to clean off the tables. 

“You’re welcome to stay until we’re done with the cleaning up,” the bartender says, voice low and gentle.

Hob is touched by his kindness but now that it’s clear his Stranger won’t show up, he finds the place stifling, suffocating in a way that makes his eyes sting and his throat constrict. 

“I’m good,” he says, even though he really isn’t. “Thank you for your time, man.”

“Anytime,” the man says. Then adds, “He’ll come ‘round. Your friend, I mean. You’ll be back here to drink together before you know it.”

Hob lets out a short laugh that sounds bitter to his own ears and stands. “May the stars hear you, mate.”

After saying his farewells, he makes his way out on wobbly feet, grateful for the cool air of the night across his face. 

He walks to his car and gets in but he doesn't make a move to start the engine. He’s not that drunk but he’s clearly intoxicated and he won’t drive while under the influence because he may be immortal but others are very much not. 

Not for the first time in the evening, Hob feels the prickle of tears behind his eyelids. It may be that he was truly hoping he would see the man again. It may be the alcohol. It may be that he’s tired of denying his feelings, but this time, he doesn’t do anything to control them.

He leans back in his seat and closes his eyes, trying to not think too much about how his stupidity cost him the only constant he had in his life. Because he lived many lives and he had many different identities over the centuries but one thing always remained unchanged. Hob Gadling meets his Stranger every hundred years. Every century, he meets someone who knows him, the only person who knows all of him. And now that, for his own fault, it has been taken from him, he’s afraid he will start to forget who he really is.

Now what? Is he supposed to be back here in a century? Is he supposed to wait? Is he supposed to forget about his stranger’s existence and try to go on with his life?

Before he can think of an answer, a voice breaks the silence.

“You truly care about him,” it says and it’s so sudden and unexpected it makes him jump so hard he bumps his head on the roof of the car. 

“What the actual fuck?” he says, sure that if he weren’t to be immortal, he’d have died of a heart attack. He rubs the top of his head to soothe the pain and looks into the rear-view mirror, trying to spot the person that’s sitting in the back of his car. He can faintly make out the flare of a pair of glasses in the darkness. “Who the hell are you?”

“My name is Lucienne,” the voice, the woman, says. “And I am here to ask a favour of you.”

There is something familiar about the formal way she speaks, the way she  perfectly spells out her vowels but in his inebriated state, Hob can’t quite put his finger on it. 

He reaches out and turns on the overhead lights, then turns around to face her. 

As he’d assumed, she’s wearing glasses and judging from what he can see she seems clothed in a formal jacket. What makes her really stand out, though, are her pointed ears and the worry written all over her face. 

It is the latter that has Hob sighing and asking, “What can I do for you?”

Her shoulders drop a fraction in what he assumes is relief. “I was trying to locate my King and I was hoping you could help me with that.”

King? Hob tries to ignore the chorus of what the fuck? That’s running on a loop in his head and calmly asks. “Your what?”

“My King,” she repeats as if that was a reasonable answer. “Lord Morpheus. I have on good authority that he meets you here every hundred years.”

At that, Hob sucks in a sharp breath. Heart hammering in his ribcage he asks, “He’s a bloody king? Wait, why am I surprised?” 

She looks surprised about his lack of knowledge and for a moment, panic flashes in her eyes, probably at having revealed too much. She wrings her hands in her lap but after a moment, something in her expression hardens and she resolutely says, “He is the King of Dreams and Nightmares and he has been missing since 1916.”

Hob pinches his own thigh, unsure whether this whole interaction is real or whether it's just a fragment of his own drunken imagination and when the pain lets him know he’s not dreaming, worry threatens to punch all the air out of his lungs. He skips past the titles, because at this point, nothing really could surprise him about his stranger, and goes straight to the point. “What do you mean missing?”

“He left the Dreaming, our realm, to dispose of a rogue nightmare that had been preying on people in the Waking World,” she says. “Your world, ” she specifies. “And I haven’t heard about him since.”

“And you’re sure he hasn’t, I don’t know, taken some time off or something?” Even as he asks it, he knows that’s not possible, not his stranger with his impeccable clothing and his strong sense of honour. 

“My Lord would never skirt his duties,” Lucienne says and Hob can read endless devotion in her voice. “I know something must have happened to him. If only I could consult my books…” she trails off and starts wringing her hands again. 

“What books?” Hob asks because that seems like a solid lead if any. “Where are they?”

She shakes her head. “They have faded. Lord Morpheus is the heart of the realm and in his absence, everything is,” she stops and swallows as if what she’s about to say pains her greatly. “Everything is decaying. I have no means to trace him through my library.”

“So you came to me,” he kindly says. 

“Yes,” she answers. “We are forbidden to interact with the Waking World but I could not sit back and do nothing to find him. Your centennial appointment was coming up and I thought you might be willing to help.”

“Of course,” Hob says because now that he found out his stranger is missing and could be hurt , he finds he very much shares her sentiment. “Don’t you worry, Lucienne, we’ll get him back.”

“I’m afraid there will be no ‘we’. I can’t stay here any longer,” she says and there’s regret in her voice. “I must go back to the Dreaming and try to preserve as much of it as I can.”

“I understand,” he says, even though he’s not sure he really understands the technicalities of it. “And I promise I’ll find him.”

Don’t make promises you’re not sure you can keep, a voice in his head whispers but he squishes it because if there’s one thing he’s sure of, it’s that he would turn apart the whole fucking world to find his man, that there’s nothing he would stop at to make sure he’s okay. 

She nods and, for the first time, smiles at him. It makes her pleasant face look softer. “I am counting on it. Thank you, Hob Gadling.”

“It’s my pleasure,” he says, smiling back. “Before you go, how can I contact you?”

“You can’t,” she regretfully says. “Now that my Lord is absent, humans don’t have access to the Dreaming any longer. Haven't you noticed you do not dream anymore?”

Hob has. He’d thought it was something about him and his immortality. He thought that maybe once you got past a certain age, your brain was too full of things to allow itself something as mundane as dreaming. Unease twists his gut now that he knows the real reason behind his lack of dreams. 

He nods. “I have.”

She nods back. “I will try to send word to you through an emissary. I cannot promise I will succeed.”

“That’s alright,” Hob says, because help or not, he is going to do his damnedest best to find the stranger. Morpheus, his mind provides.

“Goodbye, Hob Gadling,” She says. “And good luck.”

Before he can answer, the lights flicker and she is gone. 

Heaving a sigh, Hob gets out of the car and locks it. The walk back home will help him sober up fully and once there, he’ll send a few emails to reschedule his engagements and take some time off work and then get at least a few hours of sleep. 

He has work to do.

Two weeks later see Hob sitting on his couch, occupying one of the only free spaces of his living room. The rest of it consists of books upon books, old newspapers, empty coffee cups. 

Hob closes the umpteenth useless newspaper and sighs, fighting the urge to throw his cup against the wall. He’s done that somewhere during the first week of research and there’s still a dark stain over the white paint to prove it. 

Hob has soon discarded the notion of finding what he’s looking for in history books because whatever happened, he figures someone kidnapping the King of Dreams would be secretive about it. 

If that’s what really happened to Dream, of course. 

This name, Dream, is just about the only thing he’s been able to learn on his own. The old mythology book he’s read says the full name and title is Dream of the Endless but that sounds a tad too pretentious and Hob is a simple man. Even Lord Morpheus sounds a bit more on the formal side and ever since he’s read that book, the word stranger has been slowly substituted by Dream.

Heaving a sigh, he’s about to grab the next newspaper when a rhythmic sound interrupts him. It comes from the window and, at first, he can’t figure out what it is but once he stands, he can see the source of it: a black crow which was previously hidden from view by a pile of books on the windowsill. 

“Sorry, mate,” he says to the crow. “You’re out of luck. I don’t have anything to feed you.”

The crow furiously hits the glass with its beak again and again, seemingly intent on breaking it and Hob has enough. 

He stands and walks to the window. Once there, he flicks his fingers against the glass, hoping to scare the animal away but all it does is make it renew its efforts.

“You’re a fucking stubborn bird,” he says, annoyed beyond belief by this interruption in his research. 

“That’s rich!” A voice says. “Coming from a stupid human. And you are supposed to be the one who’s going to help the boss? Ah!” 

Hob stares, convinced he’s finally done it, that he’s finally lost his mind and he’s to the stage of hearing voices. “What the fuck?”

“Open the window,” the voice says and it’s interspersed by loud clicks on the glass. “You fucking useless human!”

Shaking his head in disbelief, Hob reaches out and turns the handle, only to quickly duck as a ball of black feathers comes rushing into the room. 

“What the fuck? He repeats, staring at the crow that’s now perched upon the stack of newspapers on his coffee table. “Hey, you poop on those newspapers and I’ll have roasted crow for dinner!”

“First of all,” the crow says, confirming to Hob that he’s definitely losing his mind. “I’m a raven. And for your information, I would never do something as undignified as that. I’m an envoy from the Dreaming, for fuck’s sake.”

I will try to send word through an emissary , Lucienne had said when they spoke. Only, Hob wasn’t imagining a talking crow– raven – would literally knock on his window. 

“Sorry, mate,” he says because now he’s apparently apologising to talking birds. “I had no idea.”

“Clearly,” the raven says, clicking its beak. “I thought the boss lady would pick someone a bit sharper. No offence.”

“Offence taken,” Hob says drily, fighting reluctant amusement at this bird’s rudeness. “You said Lucienne sent you?”

“What part of ‘emissary from the Dreaming’ didn’t you understand?” 

“Now, listen here, mate-”

“My name is Matthew,” the raven, Matthew, says. “And we don’t have time for this ceaseless bickering. Did you find any leads?”

You started it, Hob wants to say but, indeed, bickering with a raven wouldn’t help him find Dream so he sighs and says, “Not yet. I’m going through old newspapers to see if something catches my attention but so far I’m coming up empty-handed. I’m almost done with 1916 and I’ll soon start 1917.”

“Impressive,” Matthew says and if a raven’s caw could sound reluctant, his certainly would. “But slow. That’s too much information to go through. The hint you’re looking for could be anywhere between 1916 and now. That’ll take you ages.”

“I know,” Hob says, running his finger through his hair in frustration. “But what else can I do?”

“You asking me ?” Matthew answers but tilts his head to the side as if he’s really thinking about it.. “You know what I’d do?” he says at last. “Well, admittedly I wasn’t the best human when I was one but I’d definitely go underground.”

Too tired to give himself a headache by thinking about humans turned into talking ravens, Hob decides to skip the first part and goes straight to the second. “Underground?”

“Yes,” Mathew caws impatiently. “You know, drug dealers, criminals, local bosses. Cashing in favors.”

“What the fuck am I supposed to do with drug dealers?” Hob asks and he swears he can hear the raven actually sigh.

“You really are dense, aren’t you?” The bird says and maybe Hob is having roasted raven for dinner, after all. “ I would go to them because I would always find out what I was looking for. You are looking for a different thing, so you would need to fix your aim.”

Hob draws a sharp breath. “Magic users,” he says. “Maybe mediums or occultists. Experts in magic arts.”

" Now , you get it,” Matthew says and Hob can’t really blame him for the smugness that’s seeping into his voice. 

“You know, Matthew,” Hob says,mind already racing with possibilities. “I think I might love you!”

“Now, now,” Matthew says, an alarmed lilt to his caw. “Let’s slow things down, shall we? I don’t really think you’re my type, you know.”

For the first time in two weeks, Hob finds himself laughing so hard he cries. 

Maybe this raven is not so bad after all, he thinks.

After promising he’d start working on their new plan as soon as possible and in return, exacting the promise Matthew will try to come back to check on his progress and take whatever message Hob has for Lucienne, they say their farewells. 

Hob knows he should rest if he wants to function enough to actually find Dream but adrenaline is buzzing in his veins in a way it hasn’t in years and he finds himself unable to stop before he’s collected enough information to plan his next move. 

He knows he’ll need to get out and get the feels on the ground, talk to people, this kind of thing but he also wants to have a bit of a starting point. 

On a whim, he grabs his phone directory and goes through the professional listings for mages, mediums, experts of the occult.

His brain freezes when he sees it. Right there, under the letter C, there’s a name he hasn’t heard in centuries. 

Johanna Constantine .

Hob has been waiting at the White Horse for half an hour, wondering if he’s been stood up for the second time in three weeks when the woman shows up and sits across the table from him. 

If he hadn’t already done his research, he could have sworn she was the same person he met all those years ago. The resemblance is uncanny and Hob secretly wonders whether she’s another immortal in disguise.

But she doesn’t give any hint that she’s recognized him if her impassible and slightly bored face is anything to go by. 

“What do you need?” She says without preamble. She goes straight to business and Hob finds he quite likes it. 

He feels no need to introduce himself either. “I’m looking for a friend.”

“Is your friend a demon?”

“No,” he says, smiling as he thinks back of all the years he’s believed so himself.

“I’m not a private eye,” she says and starts to get back up. “You should contact one. Or, you know, go to the police.”

“Wait,” Hob says and there must be enough urgency in his voice that she stops mid-way up and sits back down. “He’s not a demon but I didn’t say he’s human either.”

“I’m listening,” she says.

Hob is unsure about how much to reveal. In the wrong hands, some kinds of information could be dangerous indeed. In the end, he settles for a half truth. “He has…powers and if he’s kept from them for too long, it might cause damage to all of us. He went missing back in 1916, without a trace.”

“Have you considered the possibility that he’s dead?” she asks and the words punch him in the gut. 

“He’s not dead,” Hob whispers, heart clenching at the mere thought. “He can’t be.”

She looks sceptical but nods. “Okay, what can you tell me about his disappearance?”

“I was hoping you could tell me something,” Hob counters. “If he’s been taken…well, let’s say that capturing one like him would be quite an accomplishment in certain circles. It’s bound to generate rumours.”

“I haven’t heard of anything,” Constantine says. “But I can try to find out.”

“Please,” Hob says, hating how vulnerable his voice sounds. 

“It will cost you.”

“Money is of no relevance to me,” Hob says, with a dismissive wave of his hand. “You help me find him and you’ll be handsomely compensated.”

She smiles and her smile is sharp, all teeth. “Meet me here in a week. Same time.”

After she’s gone, Hob keeps sitting at the table nursing his beer and thinking to himself, what the bloody hell is it with this place and meetings?

Exactly one week later finds Hob buzzing with excitement at the prospect of finally getting some info after a long week of inactivity. 

He’s already sitting at the same private table they occupied last week. He’s early and he booked the boot in advance because he’s not going to take any chances. 

There’s the same bartender that was on duty the night Lucienne approached him, the one who told Hob the Inn is about to be shut down, and Hob promises to himself that he’s going to do something to save this place as soon as he’ll find Dream. It contains too much history, too many memories to be shut off and forgotten.

A loud bang on the table brings him out of his musings. He startles but relaxes when recognizes Constantine, standing in front of him, a delicate hand keeping a magazine against the table, probably the source of the noise. 

“Here you go,” she says, taking a seat and pointing at the magazine. “That’s everything I could find.”

A glance at the magazine tells Hob it’s some kind of magic-focused periodical and Hob could smack himself in the head for not thinking about it. 

“What did you find?” he asks.

She flips open the magazine and stops on a page displaying the portrait of an old man. The Magus , the title says.  

“Who’s that?” Hob asks, eyes scanning the brief article accompanying the picture. 

“That’s Roderick Burgess,” she answers. “The old Demon King. Also known as the Magus. Everyone used to think he was a fake but I found out there were some rumours back in the day.”

“What rumours?” Hob asks, heart in his throat.

“From 1916 ad up to the day he died, he used to throw these huge parties,” she says, her fingers tapping against the wood of the table. “He would promise boons and riches to the people who attended.”

“And this has to do with my friend, how?”

“There was a rumour going around,” she answers. “People said he had the devil locked up in his basement.”

A thrill runs down Hob’s spine. Dream is no devil but he used to think that himself and he’s familiar with the way rumours spread among people. This could very well be a solid lead, but there’s something that doesn’t add up. “You said he’s dead.”

She hums in agreement. “But his son lives. Inherited the manor when the old man died. My source says he lives sort of like a recluse, always has.”

Everything from the rumours, the dates seem to coincide with his friend’s disappearance, It’s not much to go by but it’s the first solid lead he’s had in weeks and he intends to follow it through. Except…

“Is there any way to be sure?” Hob asks.

Constantine shrugs. “I might try to attempt a tracking ritual but that would require having something belonging to your friend.”

“A tracking ritual.” Hob says, thinking about the top hat and the pair of gloves he’s saved all those years after their disastrous meeting, hoping one day to be able to return them. “Why didn’t you say anything earlier?”

“Because it’s highly volatile,” she says. “But good enough if we need it just to confirm a general location.”

“Let’s do it,” Hob says, intrigued. “I’ve got the stuff you need.”

“It’s going to double my fee,” she warns. “And I still want the money you owe me right now.”

“Deal,” Hob says, reaching into his pocket and grabbing an envelope. He hands it to Johanna Constantine and nods at her. “This half now, the other half when you’ll perform the ritual. How soon can we do it?”

“Tomorrow works for me,” she says, taking her time to open the envelope and make sure it’s all there before placing it in the inside pocket of her coat. “I’ll text you an address.”

“Thank you,” Hob says and stands. “I’ll see you tomorrow then.”

Hold on, my friend, he thinks. I’m coming.

“Are you sure this is going to work?” Hob asks, eyeing nervously the ominous drawing on the floor made out of  some black powder he’s too afraid to ask about.

“As I said the first three times you asked,” Constantine says and Hob can read annoyance in her voice. “It should be perfectly safe. And with any luck, it’ll help us find out if the information we have is accurate.”

“Ah, see, it’s the should that worries me,” Hob answers. 

“If you’ve changed your mind, we can each go on our merry ways,” she says, sprinkling the last of the powder on the floor. “But I’m going to want the money anyway, for the trouble.”

“No, no,” Hob relents, unwilling to give up on what could be a solid lead. “Let’s do this.”

She steps back from the drawing and holds out her hand.”Give me the item.”

Hob takes out Dream’s gloves from his pocket but for some reason, he’s reluctant to let them go. “Can I hold them?”

“I don’t see why not,” she says with a shrug, “But they need to be at the centre of the pentagram so you’re going to have to step inside. It should be totally safe.”

The 1389 peasant in him sweats at the thought of willingly putting himself in the middle of such a symbol but there’s still this strong sense of foreboding that’s telling him to hold onto the gloves for dear life. 

“Fuck it,” he mutters under his breath as he steps right in the middle of the pentagram, careful not to unsettle any of the powder.

“Good,” Constantine says. “Be still.”

She doesn’t even give him the time to answer that she’s already chanting in latin. 

For a moment, it seems like nothing is going to happen but after a moment, the black dust swirls in the air, slowly at first, only to spiral in quick circles around Hob. 

Constantine’s “ Fuck. ” is the last thing he ears before he’s sucked into the vortex. 

This is how I finally die, he thinks as he’s tossed around and around and around, a pitch-black darkness surrounding him. His body feels like it’s being torn in all directions at once and at the same time, like it’s being centrifuged. 

At last, the force of the vortex pulls him in one direction and Hob’s helpless but to let himself be dragged by it, hoping against hope he’s being tossed back into Johanna’s Constantine office. 

The vortex spits him out in a rush of air and powder but instead of solid ground, he lands on top of something squiggly, in what seems to be a very confined space. 

Bright lights after the darkness of the vortex blind his eyes and prevent him from discerning his surroundings. Panic rises in his throat when the thing–person?–he landed on actually grunts  and moves under his body.

Hob blindly moves back as far as the enclosure will allow him, which admittedly is not much, and disentangles himself from whatever– whoever his mind supplies–he landed upon. He can hear  distant but alarmed voices around him but he pays them no heed and tries to blink away the brightness of the overhead lights until his eyes adjust to his surroundings. 

“Sorry, I-” he says only to freeze when his eyes land on the figure in front of him. 

He’s rail-thin and impossibly pale but he’s undoubtedly Dream. His blue eyes are huge on his lovely face and his lips part slowly on a gasp as he recognizes Hob but no sound comes out of them. 

Dream, his friend , sits at an unnatural angle inside of what a quick glance around confirms is a horrible orb made out of glass and metal, barely big enough to contain his sitting form, let alone the two of them. Pale flesh– bare flesh–reflects the artificial light that shines upon him from above, effectively and relentlessly lighting the orb as one might illuminate a fish tank or a bug enclosure. The fucking awful contraption doesn’t seem to have an opening of any kind, clearly designed to literally seal its prisoner within. Well, prisoners as of now. 

Bile rises to Hob’s throat, bitter and sudden. Something in his chest pulls, twists, and breaks at the thought that his friend, his proud and regal friend, may have been trapped here for all this time.

Drawing a sharp breath that does nothing to fill his lungs with air, he doubles over as much as the bloody enclosure allows and rests his hands on his thighs, fighting against the tears that he can feel prickling behind his eyelids.

“Hob Gadling,” Dream whispers and it’s low and raspy, a shadow of the once deep and proud voice. 

Now it’s not the time for this , he thinks. He needs you.

Hob doesn’t really know what he possibly can do to help Dream, not when he’s trapped alongside him in a fucking cage that doesn’t even allow them to sit without being in each other’s space, but of one thing he’s sure. He’s going to try his damnedest and even if he won’t be successful, at least, he hopes his presence can be of comfort. 

He forces himself upright again. “Hey,” he whispers back. “I found you.”

“Save your breath,” Dream says and the words hit Hob like a brick to the face. 

Hob has always suspected his friend is one to hold a grudge but he was thinking that after all this time and his long years of imprisonment, words said in the heat of the moment could have been forgotten. Perhaps even forgiven.

He’s about to open his mouth to apologise when he notices that the expression on Dream’s face is not one of condemnation but one of concern. 

“Oh,” Hob murmurs and a quick glance around himself confirms that indeed he does need to save his breath. 

Dream nods and his beautiful eyes are shining with unshed tears. There’s worry and relief and regret in them, the blend of emotion so vivid Hob is left breathless for reasons that have nothing to do with the lack of air. 

I’m sorry , he wants to say. 

He settles for reaching out and placing his hand over a bony knee, hoping his touch will convey everything he wants to say. 

I’m here. I’ve got you. We’re together now and we’re going to make it.  

Dream shivers under his touch and he’s so fucking cold Hob tries to muster up the audacity to gather him into his arms and keep him warm. 

Before he can act on his thoughts, they’re interrupted by a sharp tap on the glass. 

Hob turns around and an old man stands there, the tip of his cane still settled against the smooth glass. 

A glance at Dream’s face tells Hob everything he needs to know about this man and Hob despises him, even before he opens his mouth to speak. 

“Who are you?” the man asks, demands really. “How did you get in there?”

Hob is pondering his answer when he feels Dream’s hand on the small of his back. It’s a feather-like touch but it’s there. 

Do not talk , it says.

Resolve settles over Hob’s face and the man must have seen it as well because he sighs. “I was hoping you’d be more forthcoming than my guest.”

The way he says guest, like that’s all Dream is, makes Hob’s blood boil but Dream’s hand is still on his back and it’s solid and real and it prevents Hob from raging against this monster who’d keep people imprisoned in his basement like it’s nothing and call them guests . 

“Mr. Burgess, sir,” someone says and as they approach, Hob can see a guard uniform. “We’ve seen them talk .”

“Are you sure it’s safe to keep them both together?” Another guard, a nasty tall man with beady eyes says.

“I don’t see what threat they can pose,” The old man, Burgess, answers. “They can’t break the glass.”

“Alex,” A voice says and it’s low and uncertain. “Don’t you believe it’s time to let go?”

“How can you say that, Paul?” Burgess asks but takes the hand the other man is offering. “You know we can’t trust he won’t get revenge.”

As he bloody well should, Hob wants to say but he hasn’t forgotten the admonition of Dream’s touch. Besides, whatever air he must have brought along when the vortex spat him out is long gone and his chest is starting to feel a little tight. He tries to not let his discomfort show and settles for glaring daggers instead.

“Darling,” the man, Paul, answers. “It was one thing when it was just the creature in there,” he says and whatever sympathy Hob was starting to harbour for him, dies. “But two of them? Surely you must know how risky it is. That one looks like he’s one step away from suffocating.”

At his words, Dream’s head whips toward him and the quiet concern in his eyes lets Hob know he cannot hide his discomfort any longer. 

He reaches out and takes Dream's hand, squeezing it once. 

It’s okay , his touch says.

“I don’t have a choice, do I?” Alex Burgess says and his voice comes out as a low whine. “Unless he can finally promise he won’t harm any of us.” His gaze settles on Dream. “You promise me that and I’ll let you both walk.”

Dream’s lips curl in distaste but Hob can also see how his eyes fill with tears. He looks at Burgess for a long moment, then slowly turns to Hob, eyes assessing. 

And Hob can’t possibly let him do that. It’s clear from Burgess’ words that he’s refused this particular deal in the past and whatever his reasons, Hob is not going to let him make that compromise. 

He squeezes Dream’s hand harder and slowly shakes his head. 

Don’t do that , he thinks. Not for me.

There’s a troubled look in Dream’s eyes. He hesitates and for a moment, Hob thinks he’s going to let this fucking coward of a man get away with keeping him imprisoned and for whatever else it is he has done to Dream.

Hob can’t stand the thought of it. 

“Please, ” he rasps out, using the last reserve of air in his burning lungs. 

Burgess, the idiot, seems to think he’s pleading for freedom because his lips curve up into a small, pleased smile, which promptly dies, when Dream’s face closes off and Dream turns his gaze away from him.

“Very well,” Burgess says and Hob can read fury beneath his cool surface. “Have it your way. Maybe you’ll be more amenable in another decade.” He turns to leave without another glance. “Come along, Paul.”

Paul’s eyes linger on them but whatever pity Hob may read in them, disappears as soon as Burgess calls his name. “Sorry,” he wordlessly mouths but evidently he’s not sorry enough to go against his partner’s–husband perhaps–wishes. 

Silence falls on the basement once more now that Burgess and Paul are gone and the guards are back to their posts. 

Hob’s lungs feel like they are going to burst any second now but Hob can feel Dream’s eyes on him and when he looks up, the concern in his friend’s face is staggering. 

He tries, and thinks he manages, a small smile for Dream’s sake. 

Can’t die, remember? He wants to say and Dream seems to get it because his lips curl up into a tiny answering smile. Hob wishes it wasn’t such a self-deprecating one, though.

What a rescue mission, he thinks with some of the last lucidity he can muster. 

He was supposed to help his friend but here he is instead, trapped alongside Dream, just another liability weighing on him. Quite literally.

The glass sphere doesn’t allow them any space to move and they’re sitting so close they touch. Hob relishes the contact but Dream’s limbs are so cold that the chill seeps even through the protection of Hob’s clothing. 

There’s nothing much he’d like more than to wrap his arms around Dream and warm him up, shield him from Burgess and this place–and even from the world–but he’s not sure he’s really willing to dare invading his friend’s space anymore than he has to. 

In the end, it is the subtle tremors shaking Dream’s body that do it for Hob. With the last strength he has left, he reaches out and–slowly, so slowly– wraps his right arm around Dream’s shoulders.

Dream tenses, his body rigid like a taut string but when Hob starts to think he’s made a terrible mistake, he lets out a long sigh and relaxes against Hob’s body. 

That’s it, Hob thinks and, feeling even more daring, he manoeuvres himself around Dream’s body so that he has Dream’s back against his own chest and can fully wrap both arms around the thin body of his friend.

They sit like that, unmoving, Hob doing his best to offer comfort and warmth and Dream surprisingly allowing it. And if that’s not a testament to Dream’s current state, then Hob doesn’t know what it is. 

Time slows down, a meaningless trickle of seconds during which Hob wonders if this is how he ends. 

Worst ways to go , he thinks, considering he’s holding Dream to his burning chest and even in their misery, the moment feels precious, almost sacred. 

He wonders whether he is going to exist in this constant state of pain–chest so tight he has to grit his teeth against the agony of it–or whether he is going to pass out at some point, to never wake up. Not dead but as good as. 

That’d be a bummer , he thinks, loath to leave Dream alone once again. 

Hob tries to push the feeling at the back of his mind, to ignore it and focus on the heady feeling of this willow-thin creature in his arms. To some extent, he manages. 

It all goes to hell when he unconsciously tries to draw a breath and he can’t and suddenly, he’s back in the 1600’s and they’re trying to drown him as a witch and he can’t breathe and he’s so certain this time he’s really going to fucking die and-

Bony fingers dig into the meat of his biceps and the pain is enough to ground him, enough to dispel old phantoms and bring him back to the present. 

Hob leans his face against the back of Dream’s long neck and slowly nods. 

I’m back , he tries to convey. Thank you.

By the way Dream’s fingers squeeze his biceps, slow and tender now, and then settle there, Dream gets it. 

A beat goes by, then another and then Dream slowly turns into his embrace and his bottomless eyes stare at Hob, stare into Hob’s very soul and dissect it, piece by piece.

Hob is still dizzy with lack of oxygen but even in his state, he can pinpoint the exact moment Dream’s eyes harden in resolve. 

When he speaks, his voice is low and barely there. “Death,” he says and for a short, terrifying moment, Hob thinks they’re both going to die. “My sister. I am not in your gallery and I do not hold your sigil but I am calling upon you.”

What are you doing? Hob wants to ask, alarmed, but he doesn’t even have the time to finish his thought that a whooshing sound resonates through the whole basement. It’s not loud but it’s so intense it has his teeth clattering against each other. 

The quiet that follows is almost surreal. 

Then a voice breaks it. “Took you long enough, little brother.”

Hob opens his eyes and blinks at the woman standing in front of their cage. A lovely woman with curly hair and one of the softest smiles he’s ever seen. 

They’re going to see you, Hob thinks but a glance around the basement tells him the guards are apparently sleeping. Or are possibly dead. Hob surely won’t cry any tears over them if they are.

Understanding floods her face as she spots Hob. “ Oh ,” she says, turning to Dream. “ This is why you finally called for help.”

"Sister,” Dream says and even in his weakened state, he manages to make the word sound like a growl.

She smiles at him, seemingly nonplussed by his threatening tone. “Are you going to ask for help or not?”

Are you really making him ask for help? Hob would say if he had the breath to do so. Don’t you know how proud he is?

Dream tenses in his arms and for a moment, Hob is worried his friend’s pride will prevent him from making such a request. But then Dream shakes his head and nods curtly. 

“Will you help me, my sister?” he asks and even though his voice is still weak, it comes out haughty and regal.

“Of course I will,” She says and immediately gets to work on the runes drawn around the cage.

Once the circle is broken, there’s a rush of something powerful unleashed inside the cage, so powerful Hob feels himself vibrating with the force of it. It spirals around them and goes straight for Dream’s body, judging by the way Dream jerks in Hob’s arms, as if he’s been hit by an incredible force. At last, the power settles but Hob can still feel its faint buzz on Dream’s skin. 

“Now that your powers are back,” the woman says. “I’m going to get you out of there.”

It’s the only warning Hob gets before he’s wrapped in a flutter of wings and sucked out of the cage. He lands with a thud on solid ground.

He doesn’t mind the fall, not really, Not when he recognises the soft carpet of his flat. Not when there’s air, sweet, plentiful air filling his lungs. He gasps, sucking in as much air as he can and feels his vision blur around the edges. 

When he comes to, he’s laying on his couch and there are muffled voices around him. Everything rushes back to him and he stills, too dizzy to move and too embarrassed to let the others know he’s awake.

He’s got two otherworldly beings in his living room, and if he got it right, one of them is fucking Death and she’s apparently his friend’s fucking sister. 

“Why didn’t you call for me sooner?” Death asks and her words are soft-spoken.

.“I had no need for assistance,” Dream says and Hob is happy to notice his voice sounds stronger now.

Bollocks , Hob thinks.

At the same time, Death says, “Like hell you didn’t.”

Hob cracks one eye open and takes in his surroundings.

Death is sitting with her back to him, facing a ruffled but now fully clothed Dream.

A Dream whose face sours at her words but he doesn’t deny them. Hob’s heart breaks at the way his fingers hold onto the lapels of his jacket, probably a luxury after so many years of deprivation. 

Hob watches the emotions at play on his lovely face, so subtle that he’d have missed them if he wasn’t so accustomed at reading him, and for a moment, he feels like he’s intruding but god help him if he can tear his eyes away from Dream.

“I had my reasons,” Dream says at last and his jaw clenches in anticipation of her retort.

“You, little brother, are too prideful for your own good,” Death says and Hob can’t really bring himself to disagree with her. 

Dream looks away from her and that’s when he catches Hob in the act of looking. Hob expects to be called out, to be angrily reprimanded for listening in a private conversation but all Dream does is minutely nod in his direction, the barest hint of a smile on his face. 

“Perhaps you speak truly,” he says and his attention is on his sister once more. “But I did not wish to burden you with my misfortunes, knowing you are so occupied with your duties.”

“You know I’ll always have time for you,” she counters.

“Furthermore,” Dream adds. “I did not wish to find myself in your debt.”

Debt? What sort of family would ask for something in return for helping each other? It’s been a long time since Hob had a family of his own but he’s pretty sure it doesn’t work this way. 

“But now you called.” Death’s soft voice brings Hob out of his musings. 

“I did. And I, indeed, am in your debt,” Dream says and straightens up in his chair. “So name your price and I shall pay it.”

Death stays quiet for a few beats and Hob can see the way her shoulders tense. “Very well,” she says. “Let me think-”

“Are you really going to make him pay you back for doing what any decent sister would have done?” Hob says as he stands, unable to keep his mouth shut any longer. 

“Hob Gadling,” Dream says and there’s warning in his voice, a warning Hob doesn’t feel inclined to heed, considering he’s the reason Dream is in debt with his sister in the first place.

Death slowly turns until she’s facing him and pins him in place with her stare. “Finally we properly meet, Hob Gadling,” she says, and really what is it with Endless beings and full names?

“You would dare place your judgement upon me?” She adds, after a moment,

She’s the one who literally holds his life in her hands and Hob knows he probably should profusely apologise to her and move as far away as he can, Alaska, maybe. Or Antartica. Perhaps the North Pole. He’s heard reindeers are friendly creatures, after all.

But it takes one look at his friend’s weary face to find he can’t let it go. 

“I do,” he says, proud of the fact that his voice doesn’t waver. “He’s your bloody brother and if I’m hearing this correctly, you knew he was in there and you did nothing.”

“Hob,” Dream says, alarm in his voice.

Both Hob and Death ignore him, intent on looking at each other. She studies Hob’s face, her own unreadable and she’s quiet for so long Hob is afraid she’s thinking up several ways to send him to the afterlife but he doesn’t back down. If anything, he straightens his shoulders and keeps eye contact. 

Suddenly, she deflates. “I couldn’t do anything to help. Not if he didn’t ask me first.”

“There are old laws,” Dreams elaborates, albeit reluctantly. “They prevent us from interfering in each other’s affairs.”

“Well, that’s stupid,” Hob says, clearly unable to keep his mouth shut to save his life. “You were in there for seventythree -fucking-years. Your sister should have been allowed to help.”

“You need not to concern yourself with such matters,” Dream says and in his words there’s the same finality there was when he refused to go look for another pub, after Johanna’s Constantine’s ambush. 

“No, he’s right,” Death surprisingly says and shoots Hob a rueful grin. “I should have ignored those fucking rules and come to your aid, little brother.”

Hob can see she is sincere. He can read it on her face, on the way she looks at Dream and her face softens with genuine affection. It doesn't mean he still isn’t cross with her.

“Why did you not, then?” Dream asks, whispers really as if he’s afraid of what her answer may bring. 

“I didn’t think you would appreciate my interference,” she quietly says. “I thought you’d hate to be in my debt, to pay the price the laws require.”

“And yet you are still to name that price,” Dream says, not unkindly. “Would it have been steeper than seventy-three years of imprisonment?”

“What? Of course not?” She says and reaches out as if to hug him only to stop short of it. “How could you think that?”

Instead of answering her, Dream nods in acknowledgement and says, “So what cost shall I have to pay for your aid?”

“I should pay it,” Hob says before she can answer. 

“ Hob ,” Dream says and his voice is hard. It sends a shiver down Hob’s spine and he’s not totally sure that’s only due to fear. 

“No,” Hob insists, because apparently he has absolutely no sense of preservation left. “If it wasn’t for me and for my botched attempt at rescue, you wouldn’t have to pay that price. I’m the one who should pay for it.”

“Very well.” To Hob’s delight and Dream’s horror, Death agrees with him. “Are you sure you wish to pay me back in brother’s stead?”

“Sister,” Dream says and his mouth is a thin line, his eyes wide and alarmed. “Don’t you dare. ”

“Go on,” Hob says, hardening his heart in the face of Dream’s alarm. “Name it.”

“Very well,” she repeats and gives him a searching look. “I want you to look after him,” she says at last, pointing to Dream.

What? Hob thinks. “Is that it?” he asks out loud. “No horrible death? No pain unleashed upon my human body?”

At his words, Death laughs and it’s soft and pleasant. “You underestimate the task I have given you, Hob Gadling. It is no small feat to look after my brother without letting him push you away. Would you be willing to do it?”

“Yes,” Hob says, without a trace of hesitation. “It would be my honour.”

“Then consider your debt paid in full,” Death says and her eyes crinkle at the corners when she smiles at him. “Farewell, Hob Gadling.” She turns to Dream and this time, she pulls him into a hug. “Farewell, brother.”

“Farewell, my sister,” Dream says and his voice is quiet but there’s thunder in his eyes. 

In a flutter of wings, she is gone and Hob finds himself facing Dream. A tense, furious Dream, if the line of his shoulder is any indication of his mood.

“Listen,” Hob says, preventively trying to make an excuse. “It was only fair I’d pay the price.”

“You should not have done that,” Dream says and his eyes are still thunderous but he’s not leaving in a huff and that’s enough for now. 

“But I should have,” Hob insists. “I meant it when I said you wouldn’t have been in her debt if I hadn’t failed, rather spectacularly I may add, to rescue you.”

“Be as it may, had you not tried to rescue me, I still would have been entrapped in that cage.” Dream’s eyes are softer now and his voice is barely more than a whisper and it takes all Hob has to not pull him into his arms. 

“Still,” Hob says, because he’s nothing if not stubborn. “It was because of me that you had to call your sister.”

“I did not wish to see you hurt.” It’s barely more than a whisper but Hob hears it all the same and the words settle against his ribcage, soft and comforting. 

“Likewise,” Hob says and if he thinks about his friend’s treatment, it takes everything he has to not storm out and seek revenge. Burgess and his partner are lucky he has more pressing matters to attend to. 

“I do not need a minder,” Dream says and it’s clear that beneath the truth of his statement, he’s also trying to deflect the talk from dangerous territory.

“No,” Hob says, ever so softly. “But you could use a friend, eh?”

Dream stills and for a terrible moment, Hob thinks he’s done it again and he won’t see him for another century. 

He squares his shoulders because he won’t take the words back. Not now. Not when he wishes with all of himself to be the friend Dream needs, to help him heal from the damage those monsters have inflicted. 

Dream opens his mouth as if to speak but closes it again. He swallows and then sags against his chair, if his elegant sprawl could be called sagging that is.. “I…could.”

Hob ‘s lungs constrict, not for lack of air this time but for the ache of Dream’s words. He knows how proud Dream is, how prideful . And for such a proud being to admit that he is in need of friendship, well, it makes Hob’s heart ache and his blood boil with the need to rip the throat out of everyone involved in his entrapment.

Trying to keep a rein on his feelings, he smiles at Dream. “Well, you have one. You always had, even when you weren’t ready to admit it for yourself.”

Dream regards him with a smile. It’s tiny, just a little twist of the lips, really, but it’s there and Hob’s heart soars at the sight. “I must offer you an apology for my behaviour,” he says, voice gravelly and serious. “It was unbecoming.”

And if Hob must be honest with himself, it was. True, he’d pushed. True, he’d basically accused the most prideful being he knows of being lonely. Hob has spent so long blaming himself for what had happened but he now can see Dream’s reaction had been absolutely disproportionate to the crime. 

Still. He’s forgiven Dream a long time ago, hasn’t he? Besides, he’s never been one to kick a man when he’s already down and holding grudges never leads to anything good. 

“It’s all in the past,” he says and a part of him vaguely wonders if he’s being too forgiving. Still, he goes on, “And I share part of the blame for that one, anyway.”

Dream doesn’t try to deny it and Hob wouldn’t want him to. He stares at Hob with that inscrutable gaze of his, the one that makes Hob want to crawl under Dream’s skin and settle there so that he may have a chance to unravel his friend’s mysteries. 

“How did you find me?” Dream asks at last, changing the subject. 

“It's a bit of a long story,” Hob answers. 

“Then you are in luck,” Dream says, one of his elegant eyebrows arched up. “I am partial to stories.”

“I was waiting for you at the White Horse,” Hob starts. 

And once he does, it’s like a dam breaking down and he tells his friend about Lucienne, about learning his name, about the raven–and is it Hob or Dream’s face saddens at that?-, about Johanna Constantine and the botched tracking ritual. Sorry about the gloves by the way.

“And that’s how I ended up next to you in that awful place,” Hob finishes. Then noticing Dream’s eyes darken, he adds, “And I’m very glad I did.”

“You, Hob Gadling,” Dream says and there’s wonder in his voice. “Are the most perplexing individual I have ever met.”

“Glad to entertain,” Hob says with a wry smile. “Now, let me fix you something warm to eat. You look like you could use food in you, you know.”

“I do not require food for sustenance or for warmth,” Dream solemnly says but he’s still holding his lapels close to his chest as if to chase away the cold. 

Hob can’t possibly have that. “A cup of tea then. Some biscuits.”

“I must go back to the Dreaming,” Dream says, straightening his back with the kind of regality Hob is sure would have his subjects quiver.

But Hob isn’t one of Dream’s subjects and by now, he’s immune to Dream’s ridiculous shows of power. “And you can do that after some hot tea.”

“You do not understand,” Dream insists. “If what you reported to me is true, my realm is in need of its monarch. Furthermore, I am in need of finding my tools of office.”

“What happened to them?”

“They were taken by my captors,” Dream says and his fingers tighten around the lapel of his coat. “And later stolen from them.”

“Okay,” Hob says. “What about this? You stay for tea and afterwards you can go back to your realm and I’ll try to track down your items.”

Dream shakes his head. “I cannot ask that of you. I already owe you-”

“No,” Hob interrupts because he’s not just indebted himself to Death just to have this ridiculous being talk about owing him. “You owe me nothing. And look, asking around won’t be a hardship now, would it? I know Johanna would probably help with that.” for a price, he doesn’t say. “Besides, I promised your sister I’d look after you. Are you really going to land me in trouble with Death?”

Dream lets out a long suffering sigh but it’s belied by the way his lips tick up into his customary small smile. “Very well,” he says, standing from his chair in all of his feline grace. “Let us have a cup of tea, Hob Gadling.”

Hob smiles so wide his cheeks hurt.

“You have found my tools,” Dream says, staring at the content of the box with an almost awed expression.

“Not all of them,” Hob says, shrugging his shoulders. 

Locating Dream’s tools wasn’t as hard as Hob thought, not when you had a magic user on your paybook. Not that Johanna asked him anything, not with feeling guilty about his misfortune with the tracking ritual and all that. 

The sand was the easiest thing to track down. A twist of fate was that Johanna had purchased the sand herself, from one Ethel Cripps and she’d been willing to sell it back to Hob for the same price she’d gotten it. And that led to the ruby as well, still in possession of Cripps’ son, a disturbed individual named John. 

Hob hid both of those items in his safe and following Johanna’s advice he’d put them both in a lead case, to avoid any dangerous influence upon himself. 

You don’t kid around with this kind of power, she’d said. 

The helm, though. The helm was another matter. 

A demon Johanna exorcised admitted that he’d seen the Sandman’s helm in hell, traded to a demon for an amulet of protection. The demon however, had not been forthcoming with any more details.

“But you have located it,” Dream says. 

“Well, if knowing it’s in hell can be considered as ‘locating’, then yes, I have,” Hob answers, lips twisted in a wry smile.

“It does,” Dream says, not a sign on his face to show he’s kidding. “I must immediately go to retrieve it.”

Wait a second, Hob thinks. “In hell ?” 

“It is my understanding that my helm is , indeed, in hell.”

“You can’t go to hell!” 

“I assure you,” Dream says and there’s a hint of annoyance in his deep voice. “I definitely can visit hell. I have in the past and there is nothing preventing me from doing so again.”

“You’ve been to hell,” Hob deadpans and shakes his head in disbelief. “Wait, are you on speaking terms with the devil?”

“The Lightbringer and I have had our differences in the past,” Dream says, reaching out to touch the ruby that’s hanging from his neck as if he can’t quite believe he got it back. “But I trust we can move past them.”

“You’ve had a squabble with the devil,” Hob says and it’s not really a question. “Why am I not surprised about this?”

Before Dream can answer, there’s a flurry of movement coming from the window and a moment later, Matthew the raven lands on the coffee table between the two of them.

Dream lets out an exasperated sigh. “ Matthew ,” he says. “I recall telling you I did not require your assistance at this time.”

“But Lucienne told me-”

“Lucienne is not your master,” Dream says and judging by the frustration in his voice, Hob can surmise it’s not the first time they had this conversation.

“You say that, boss, but she’s the one in charge of raven’s treats,” Matthew says, jumping from one foot to another. 

“And I am the ruler of the Dreaming,” Dream says and pins Matthew with a glacial stare. “And the one with the ability to banish disobedient ravens to the darkness.”

“Guys,” Hob interrupts because as much as he’s enjoying hearing them banter, he feels a little sorry for the raven. “How about we calm down and talk about this?”

“There is nothing to discuss,” Dream says and he’s talking to Hob but looking pointedly at Matthew. “Matthew must go back to the Dreaming at once.”

Matthew ruffles his feathers and to avoid another round of squabbling, Hob says, “But listen, can’t you have some use of him where you’re going?”

“I will not put him in peril,” Dream says and Hob’s stomach drops at the concept that Dream expects his trip to be dangerous. 

“I’m your fucking raven,” Matthew says and Hob winces at the profanity. 

Not the best way to ingratiate yourself to the King of Dreams, mate, he thinks.

“And ravens act as messengers between realms,” Matthew keeps going. “So if you’re going somewhere, I’ll come with you.”

“If he can travel between realms, he won’t really be in danger, eh?” Hob hastily says before Dream can go all righteous monarch on Matthew and smiles at Dream, in the attempt to placate him. “And you could use a messenger in hell, could you not?”

“ Hell? ” Matthew squeaks.

At the same time, Dream sighs. “I might use one, yes.”

“There you have it,” Hob says, smiling at them both. 

“Still not my type,” Matthew caws in Hob’s direction.

The ridiculous concept combined with the puzzled expression on Dream’s face send Hob into a fit of giggles. “That’s okay,” he says, still laughing. “I’ll live.”

“Do I want to know what this is about?” Dream asks but there is a hint of amusement in his voice and Hob counts that as a win. 

“Probably not,” Hob says, winking at Matthew who ruffles his feathers. 

“What he said, boss,” Matthew says and his caw sounds amused as well. 

Dream shakes his head and if Hob isn't mistaken, it’s a fond headshake. “Very well. Let us move to more pressing matters then,” he says and turns to Matthew. “I want you to go back to Dreaming and tell Lucienne I must pay a visit to the Lightbringer. Should something happen to me, she is to act in my stead. You are to return here after you have delivered my message.”

“On it, boss,” Matthew says and disappears in a flutter of wings. 

“Nothing is going to happen to you, right?” Hob asks as soon as Matthew is gone. 

Dream stands abruptly and walks to the window, his back to Hob. “I cannot exclude the possibility.”

The words stab through Hob like a knife. I can’t lose you again, he thinks. Frantic with worry, he stands as well and walks to Dream, stopping only when they’re side to side, their shoulders almost brushing. 

“What possibility?” he asks, heart in his throat. 

“I once was a welcomed guest in the depths of the hell realm,” Dream answers quietly. “I am afraid it is not the case any longer. I should be able to return safely but the Lightbringer is a volatile ruler and there is the possibility I may be detained indefinitely.” 

“Take me with you,” Hob whispers, trying to swallow back a feeling he’s not sure he wants to analyse too closely.  “Perhaps I can help.”

“Absolutely not,” Dream says, hisses really and right there Hob knows with absolute certainty that he’s not going to win this battle. 

Heaving a sigh, he turns to face Dream, who is still obstinately looking forward. “Then, please, be careful. I can’t lose you again,” he says, voicing his earlier thoughts.

Slowly, Dream turns to face him too, an unreadable expression on his face. “I shall endeavour caution.”

Hob reaches out and takes Dream’s hand in both of his on and to hell with his own caution. “Promise me you’ll come back.” To me , he doesn’t say out loud. 

Dream seems to read it between the lines anyway because his face softens. He places his free hand on Hob’s shoulder, a feather-like touch.  “I cannot make you that promise, Hob Gadling.”

Hob nods and tries to ignore the sting in his eyes in favour of reaching out and placing his own hand on Dream’s waist, tentatively at first. When Dream doesn’t give any indication that his touch is unwelcome, he tightens his grip and– in for a penny, in for a pound –tips himself forward until their foreheads are resting together. 

Dream’s lips part, perhaps in surprise, Hob can’t tell. They’re standing so close Dream’s long lashes almost brush against Hob’s checks and Hob’s whole world narrows down to the feeling of Dream’s hot breath against his face, to the warmth of the hand that’s still placed upon his shoulder. 

Don’t go , he wants to say. He’d beg for it if he knew Dream would listen. 

They stay like this for a few moments, almost touching but none of them taking that final step to close the distance and kiss. 

Fuck it , Hob thinks and when he’s about to lean in closer, Dream pulls back and wrenches himself from Hob’s grasp, so suddenly Hob tips forward and almost loses his balance.

“I cannot do this,” Dream says and his voice sounds low and wrecked, terribly reminiscent of when he’d just left that fucking cage. “Not when there is the concrete possibility I might not come back.”

“I,” Hob says but he has to stop and swallow past the lump in his throat before he can keep going. “I understand.”

Do you, though? A voice whispers in the back of his mind. 

Dream seems to think the same because his eyes are sad and sorrowful when he looks at Hob. “I cannot afford to indulge in my desires,” he says. “Or I fear I may not find the courage to do what must be done.”

And this Hob can understand. He too wouldn’t be able to commit to possibly staying in hell indefinitely if he’d know what Dream’s lips taste like. 

He nods and tries to smile for Dream’s sake. “I’ll wait for you,” he says, trying to keep his voice from breaking. “Don’t be long.”

“I cannot ask you to wait for my return,” Dream says. “Not when I do not know when or if it may occur.”

“Hey, are you forgetting who you’re talking to?” Hob says, trying to put a hint of levity in his voice. “I’m patient. Very patient. In fact, I’m Hob waits-100-years-to-see-you-again- Gadling, remember?”

The corners of Dreams lips twitch. “I see I cannot sway you.”

“Nope. There’s not swaying me,” Hob says, smiling back. “I’m pretty unswayable.”

Matthew chooses this exact moment to make his return. He lands on the windowsill and hops on Dream’s shoulder, perching there. “All done. Lucienne wasn’t so in favor of hell-going but I told her you’re the boss.”

Dream shakes his head and there’s reluctant fondness on his face.  “Thank you, Matthew,” he says solemnly. “Let us go.” Then he turns to Hob, face unreadable once more. “Farewell, Hob Gadling.”

“Don’t say that,” Hob says, chest painfully tight. “You’re coming back. I refuse to say goodbye.”

“As you wish,” Dream says and he’s already surrounded by a cloud of sand. 

Hob watches as it swirls around man and raven but turns around before he can fully see them disappear. 

“Be careful about that one, boss.” He hears Matthew say but his caw sounds far away. “I think he was gonna make a move on me.”

Hob is not certain but he likes to think he can hear a faint laugh echoing in his empty parlour after they’ve gone.

Hob paces his parlour, his hand running through his hair over and over. He steals a glance at the clock and curses out loud, not really surprised that he’s reverted to middle english. 

Eight hours and forty-five minutes.

Eight hours and forty-five minutes since he’s last seen Dream before he disappeared in a swirl of sand. To hell.

He’s not sure how long it takes to make the trip to hell, recover the helm and get back on hearth but he’s pretty sure almost nine hours is pushing it.

Hob curses again and grabs a vase off the nearest table and it is only through a great force of will that he manages not to smash it against the nearest wall. He puts it back and resumes his pacing, trying to ignore the growing panic that’s grabbing his insides in a relentless grip. 

Please come back, he thinks, even though he hasn’t prayed in a few centuries now. Please.

Heart clenching painfully in his chest, he makes his way to the window, the very same window where they’d almost kissed earlier. Regret hits him in the gut like a punch as he revisits the memory. 

What if we’d kissed? He thinks, staring at the view without really seeing it. Would he be here now?

Hob has to force himself to stop the train of thought because nothing good ever comes from regrets. And he’s also sure he’ll go mad if he stops to think about kissing Dream, so there’s that. 

Thing is, Dream is such a mercurial creature that Hob isn’t even sure he’ll want to engage with Hob upon his return. Sure, he’d wanted to kiss Hob, that much he can tell, but Hob wonders whether it had anything to do with the circumstances. He assumes going to hell is bound to bring forth base instincts and all that. 

Hob sure hopes Dream will be willing to give their budding something a chance. 

If he’ll get back.

The bells of a distant cathedral chime. The echo of their sound lingers in the air for a few seconds and then fades.

Nine hours.

For the second time in the span of fifteen minutes, Hob grabs the nearest item he can find–a teacup he’d left unattended– and this time he lacks the self-control needed to put it back in its place. He smashes it against the wall and relishes in the loud shattering sound as little pieces of ceramic fly everywhere. 

You need to calm down, he tells himself. 

Chest heaving with ragged breaths, he makes his ways to the couch and lets himself sink into the soft cushions. He briefly thinks about taking a hot shower to calm his frayed nerves but, in the end, he decides he doesn’t want to leave the room, in case Dream will come back.

Blindly reaching out, he grabs one of the books on the coffee table but after he has to read the same sentence five times without understanding a single word, he just gives up and throws the book away in favour of sitting with his face in his hands. 

When he’s about to stand and start pacing again, sand–beautiful, swirling sand–materialises in front of him and a second later, Dream and Matthew come out of it. 

Dream looks as weary as Hob feels and his clothes– is he wearing leather armour? –are torn in several places. He’s holding the most hideous helm Hob has ever seen. Soot from hell clings to his hair, and to his eyelashes and draws a dark line on his cheek.

He’s still the most beautiful thing Hob has ever seen. 

Heart in his throat, Hob stands and the relief is so dizzying he has to brace himself against the wall for support. 

In a flash, Dream is beside him and his strong hands steady him. Hob can faintly smell ashes and dirt on him but underneath it all, there’s an otherworldly smell Hob can’t quite place but that feels like home. 

“Are you well, Hob Gadling?” Dream gravelly asks and the question is so ridiculous Hob could laugh, if only he wasn’t so close to tears. 

“Am I-” he chokes off, only to pause, swallow back his tears and whisper,“You’re back.”

 “I am,” Dream says and how Hob relishes the deep voice he thought he wouldn't get to hear any longer.  

Slowly Hob turns until he’s facing Dream and the emotion he reads in Dream’s eyes must surely match his own. Without a word, he reaches out and once more brings his forehead to Dream’s. “Where were we?” he whispers. 

This time, Dream doesn’t wrench himself away. This time, he closes the distance and claims Hob’s lips into a kiss that is a long time coming. 

Dream kisses Hob just like he does everything else, powerful and with a single-minded intensity that has Hob’s knees almost giving out. The kiss is hard and messy and beautiful. There’s no finesse to it, just a growing sense of urgency and need and heat. It’s Dream taking what he needs and Hob gladly giving it. 

When they pull back, Dream rests his forehead against Hob’s once more and there’s an openness on his face Hob has never seen, one he feels honoured to witness. 

The glorious moment is broken when Matthew caws, “I knew this one couldn’t be trusted.” But his caw lacks any malice, in fact it sounds almost pleased. 

Hob huffs out a laugh against Dream’s lips. 

Dream says, “Be gone, Matthew.” And goes for another kiss. 

As the bird disappears out of the window, Hob gets lost on lips that taste like galaxies.