Chapter Text
Hob has settled in on a weekend grading papers on his sofa when his former-Stranger-current-Friend appears out of thin air and crashes onto his coffee table. Hob’s fight-or-flight kicks in, and regrettably, after six hundred years on this Earth, Hob’s instinct is fight. His body kicks into gear, shooting up off the couch and flinging a leg out to kick the assailant. He succeeds at nudging Morpheus, so he rolls onto his back and reveals the puddle of blood growing beneath him. Hob stands frozen in horror until an utterly wretched, gargling whimper re-activates his old medic training.
“Fuck, Dream? Dream? Can you hear me? Don’t try and move, okay? I’ll, I’ll be right back.” Hob races to the linen closet, grabs the biggest towel he has. Then the bathroom, first aid kit, under the sink, rubbing alcohol. Can whatever Dream is get infections? He wouldn’t have thought the man-shaped-thing could bleed until just now, so might as well be safe. Fuck. He comes back into the room. Jesus Christ, there’s a lot of blood. How long has he been here? Seconds? It’s already dripping onto the rug. There’s broken glass on the floor, and on Dream’s clothes. The amount of blood saturating his all-black wardrobe makes Hob woozy for entirely non-blood-related reasons.
“Okay, okay,” Hob says, mostly to himself. He blacks out honestly, but somehow he manages to get Dream off the table and into the towel, half-carrying him into the bathroom. Dream is somewhat conscious, not fully aware, and he makes no noise other than the occasional cough, which brings up dark blood. Hob undoes Dream’s shoes, pulls off his long coat, sprinkling the floor with more shards of glass, more blood. Fuck, he’ll need a transfusion-- does Dream have a blood type???
Hob triages his thoughts, ranked by immediacy. First, get his clothes off, most of them at least. Then wash, so he can assess the wound (wounds???). Then everything else. Dream notices what he’s doing and tries to help shrug his coat off, only to tense up in pain again. “Hey, hey, you relax, try not to move, I’ve got you, I promise.” He doesn’t sound calm or collected, but Dream does as he says, gaze receding into the middle distance. It’s a good thing that whatever Dream is, he doesn’t really need to breathe; if he did he’d be in agony.
Instant hot water being the magical invention that it is, Hob gets the tub filling straight away, even as the water seeps into Dream’s clothes-- his socks, his tight jeans. Hob thinks for a second before deciding modesty be damned, and shirks his trousers, socks and jumper, so he can climb into the filling bath. Dream’s unfocused eyes notice what Hob is doing, before slipping away just as fast. Hob starts gently rolling Dream’s black T shirt up, slowly, as this is where it seems most of the blood is coming from. Dream chokes, bringing up more blood. Hob notes the color and consistency is less dark, more watery, which seems like a good thing, at least not as bad as red-black and bilious. Hob knows the humors are bogus, but keeping one’s bodily fluids on the inside is still a valid recommendation as far as he knows. He gets Dream’s shirt off one arm at a time, and with a washcloth he reveals two long gashes across Dream’s stark white torso. The first, a classic downward lateral sweep, from a left-handed assailant, starting shallowly at the fourth rib and back out at the sixth. Over top that one, the assailant gained confidence, and did one long, hard slash from Dream’s collarbone, past his ribs, and into his abdomen, finally pulling away eight-ish centimeters above Dream’s navel (He has a navel??? Was he of woman born? What woman? How long ago??).
As he cleans the wounds, Hob notices the blood he’s removing is not so quickly replenished, allowing himself a moment to breathe. Dream is more present as well, a bony hand flopping atop his own. Hob has been avoiding looking at Dream’s face, so preoccupied with the criss-crossed knife wounds. Now when he looks up, he wishes he hadn’t. Hob has never seen Dream look like this, so weak and hurt and it just reaffirms that whatever did this, it’s bad, bad news for everyone. And all Hob wants is to demand the name of the monster that could bring him so low, leave Dream in his own bed and set off to hunt the thing.
Hob takes a breath. Revenge later, bath now.
To his surprise, Dream’s cracked and bloody lips pull into a half smile. Worry tugs at Hob’s heart to think his friend may be getting delirious from the pain and trauma of it all. “Almost done, I promise,” Hob says.
Dream chuckles, throat scratching like gargled nails or swallowed glass. “You would--” He clears his throat painfully, swallows. “You would claim vengeance. On my behalf?”
Hob averts his eyes. “You read minds now?”
Dream clears his throat again. “You dream of it.”
Oh, Hob remembers. King of Dreams. Including daydreams then. While the list of things he knows about Dream has been growing as of late, the list of things he doesn’t know has tripled in as much time. Chief among them: “What did this to you?” Hob looks imploringly at his friend. “How did this happen?”
Dream’s smile falls. “Not your concern.”
Hob stops everything and gawks at him. “My bathtub has gone pink with your blood. I’m cleaning broken glass out of your hair. I am literally knee deep in whatever this is, so it bloody well is my concern, okay?!”
Dream flinches at Hob’s volume as his angry tone bounces off the tile walls and ceramic tub.
Hob goes back to work, his tone softening. “You’re my concern.”
They are silent for a while, Dream not looking at Hob and Hob not speaking to Dream. Hob leaves to fetch a fresh towel, and when he comes back, Dream is fighting to get his wet trousers off. “Right,” says Hob, again softly. “Let’s do this first, then I can help with those.”
Dream is strong enough to stand on his own, and he does, stepping into the large clean towel, simultaneously soft and rough on his skin. Hob gently pats his wounds with a smaller towel before pulling out gauze and bandages from a first-aid kit. He goes about his work with practiced experience, and Dream feels a pinch of guilt. After all, Hob is doing so much for him, he can at least give some form of explanation.
However, in the waking world, speaking requires breath, which requires the expansion and contraction of his ribcage, which protests. Hob pulls on the cuffs of his trousers, slowly peeling them down unharmed thighs. Dream gathers breath, painful though it is, drawing the towel around himself for privacy. “The source. Of my injuries. Is twofold. One. Caused weakness. Which allowed the second. Which caused this.” He gestures toward his torso.
Hob’s face is serious. “Has the danger passed?”
Dream purses his lips. “Yes and no.”
Hob rolls his eyes.
“The weakening--” Dream’s throat closes up. He tries to clear his throat and starts a coughing fit. Hob rises, helps him lean forward and holds the smaller towel to Dream’s mouth. Tears glisten in Dream’s eyes as his frail-looking body rejects air and speech, protesting with heaving tremors.
“I’m sorry I raised my voice,” Hob murmurs, rubbing circles on his friend’s back. “Don’t strain yourself, there’ll be time for talk later. Let’s get you to bed, eh?”
Dream doesn’t sleep, but rest… rest he could use. And the invitation into Hob’s bed is certainly a welcome one, even if all they do together is rest.
The Corinthian
got away.
He’d injured his Maker enough to cause him to
retreat.
And though the Vortex event is over, he can feel it in his dreamstuff, Dream will still be coming for him. And you know what, The Corinthian is tired of running. So, he feels within himself for that compass, that thread, that ties him to his Maker, the one he’d tried to sever and learned to ignore, and arrives yet again, at an airport, boarding yet another eight hour flight to Heathrow. Because for some reason, even after being trapped there for over a century, Morpheus is back in London.