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Hell, 2022 (in human years)
“I am a dire wolf. Prey-stalking, lethal prowler.”
Crowley stood at the very back of the crowd trying to figure out what was going on. He had just snuck into Hell to ‘borrow’ one of those PLEASE, DO NOT LICK THE WALLS signs and put it up somewhere in Aziraphale’s bookshop as a prank. He slithered in using his snake form, trying not to be seen by his old colleagues. Now that Crowley thought about it, the angel would’ve hated the prank, but he was bored and he was already in Hell anyway.
But screw that now—he went back to wearing his human-looking body so he could take a peek over the sea of demons who were looking up in awe, and he took off his sunglasses in disbelief. Was Lucifer fighting someone? And did they just say something about being a butcher bacterium?
“What’s going on?” Crowley asked the demon standing next to him.
“The boss is fighting,” was the reply.
“Doesn’t look like fighting to me.”
Lucifer and some other guy were standing in front of each other in Lucifer’s throne room, which could be seen from anywhere in Hell due to its elevated position. Both duelists kept taking hits even though the other wasn’t attacking. Now, the man dressed in all black was laying on the ground, twitching.
“That can’t be good,” Crowley said to himself. He was totally invested in this peculiar fight now.
Abruptly, an ominous silence fell over Hell, which was odd to say the least. Lucifer was standing over the man, looking battered and bruised but with a smug smile on their face. The boss had won—that much was clear. A few demons in the immense crowd broke the silence and started to celebrate.
“I am hope.”
Those words coming from the man in black reverberated all throughout the pits of Hell. If the silence was solemn before, now it was deafening. Crowley didn’t dare to move.
The man in black was back on his feet again, somehow. He then said something to Lucifer that Crowley couldn’t quite hear from where he was standing. However, for the first time since he got there, he was able to identify the mysterious man.
Crowley almost laughed. He wanted to tell Aziraphale about this ordeal, but that would have to wait. Someone else would want to hear about it first.
“Give him back his helm,” Lucifer commanded.
But Crowley didn’t hear this. He was already on his way up to Earth.
The Old Tavern, London, 2022
Crowley used to only meet with Hob once a century, but that changed when the telephone was invented and the immortal man got a hold of his number. It was annoying sometimes, granted, but Hob got bored often and Crowley didn’t mind going out from time to time either. Even though he would never admit out loud, he liked to have someone he could hang out with when Aziraphale was doing his own thing.
Once in a century meetings turned into once in a decade meetings which then turned into yearly meetings. Crowley went along with it because he knew Hob had been feeling upset since the 1980s, when his mysterious friend failed to show up for their own centennial meetings. And every time Crowley didn’t pick up Hob’s calls, the latter would piss and moan about the topic for way longer once the two of them finally agreed to meet. With time, the demon had resigned himself to it and now would let Hob sit there and ramble for a while. Afterwards, Crowley would share with the man a funny or interesting thing that had happened to him recently, to take Hob’s mind out of it.
“My old friend!” Hob got up from his seat and walked towards Crowley as soon as the door of the tavern was flung open. The man’s eyes were glistening and he had a smile from ear to ear.
“How’s it going?” The demon greeted him.
“It’s not like you to call and arrange our meetings. So, you could say I’m on the edge of my seat. What 's going on?”
“Calm down, let me sit down first.” Crowley puffed and flung himself into one of the wooden chairs.
“Sorry. I didn’t sleep a wink last night thinking about why you might want to see me. Is anyone from your old job chasing after you? I know some good places to hide,” Hob continued.
“You say my old job like I worked in sales. That’s Hell we’re talking about. And no, no one’s after me. And if that happened, I wouldn’t need your help.”
Hob grabbed a bottle of wine and two glasses from behind the bar and poured some for the both of them. “Fine, whatever. Just tell me what the deal is then.”
“Remember your old friend who was presumed missing a few decades ago?”
Hob’s face dropped. He went from being eager and excited to dead serious in half a second. “Dream?”
Crowley might have told Hob who Dream of the Endless was a few years ago because the man wouldn’t stop pressing about it. So what? Sure, humans are not supposed to know about the existence of any of the Endless. But in Crowley’s defense, Hob was not entirely human—he was being kept alive forever by some entities and no one was even telling him who these entities were. Someone ought to explain it to him, for Heaven’s sake. And one day in 1991 after Freddie Mercury had died and Crowley was at the tavern drinking and mourning the passing of his—and the Bentley’s—favourite singer, Hob just walked in uninvited moaning about fucking up and wanting to see his friend again, so Crowley just ended up telling him every single thing so he’d shut up.
“Yeah, Dream of the Endless. He was playing some mind games or something with my former boss yesterday.” The demon simply stated.
“What?” Hob asked, confused for an obvious reason.
“I’m like, ninety percent sure it was him. Dark clothes, deep voice, had a raven flying over his head at all times for some reason. Textbook Dream of the Endless as far as I’m concerned. Or the Sandman. Or Morpheus. He has so many names I’ll never be able to keep up.”
“He is alright?”
Hob had ignored most of what Crowley just said. The demon took a deep breath—he knew the man had been theorizing that maybe something bad had happened to Dream and that’s why he missed their meeting. But now the cat was out of the bag. Dream seemed to be fine, and Hob sat there coming to terms with the fact that he really meant it when he said they weren’t friends. Dream didn’t want to see Hob. It felt like a shot to the heart.
“Sorry to be the bearer of semi-good semi-bad news,” Crowley said.
“So I was right all along. He hates me.”
It looked like Hob was about to cry. Crowley didn’t like that the man was so sentimental, because he never knew what to do when people started crying. By all means, he was supposed to be the one making people cry, not comfort them. But he had never been one to play by the rules, and Hob was kind of a friend to him.
“No, he doesn’t.” Crowley made an exaggerated hand gesture as if dismissing the previous statement. “I’m sure he’s just been really busy. You know, managing people’s dreams and all that. Fighting nightmares, maybe. I don’t know what he does exactly, but it doesn’t matter, he doesn’t hate you.”
“Are you sure?” Hob asked. He appeared to Crowley like a kid who needed constant reassurance.
The demon nodded and smiled a little. Hob’s eyes were watery, and Crowley understood. He knew how it felt like to see time pass having no one you can talk to through all of it. Before the almost-Armageddon he used to go decades without seeing Aziraphale at all, and why lie, it was lonely. Hob was simply missing the only constant in his life, someone he could watch time go by with. Someone who kept him grounded.
“You should buy a pair like this,” Crowley advised, pointing at his sunglasses.
“Why?”
“So other people won’t see you cry. You seem to cry a lot.”
Hob wiped his tears away discreetly. “I suppose you’re right. But I’d never wear sunglasses indoors. It’d make me look like a creep. No offense, they suit you though”
“Whatever.”
The sun was starting to set. A tangerine light bathed the walls of the tavern. Crowley was getting ready to leave.
“You haven’t even touched your drink,” Hob pointed out.
“I’m gonna go tell Aziraphale about yesterday. I’m sure he’ll get a kick out of it. And maybe he needs help around the bookshop or something.”
“Of course. See you soon.”
“Not too soon, though. You have to stop calling me every couple years.”
“It was you who called this time,” Hob said with a smug expression on his face.
“It was an exception. Won’t happen again,” clarified Crowley, as he walked out of the tavern and closed the door behind him.
Hob smiled warmly and took a sip of wine.
The New Inn, London, 2022
A few days had passed since his meeting with Crowley, and Hob was sitting by himself at The New Inn grading his students’ History tests. Like the world around him was trying to piss him off lately, somebody had written down something about Shakespeare in one of the questions which had close to nothing to do with the writer. Hob took off a whole point for it.
He came to The New Inn constantly, wishing for Dream to drop by, as he had been doing since the 80s. He always hoped Dream could find the place even though the older Inn had been demolished. However, after his conversation with Crowley, he didn’t let it worry him too much. Pulling all-nighters staring at the ceiling wondering what went wrong between them was not worth it, Hob had decided. He only came to The New Inn today because he really liked the place, that was all. He was going to focus on himself from now on.
As if the world was playing a joke on him yet again, the door of The New Inn was opened carefully and a man dressed in all black walked in. Hob didn’t notice until the man was standing directly in front of his table. As he finally looked up, their eyes met, and they both couldn’t help but smile.
“You’re late.”
That was the only thing Hob could muster, even though it was the understatement of the century. Way too many things had happened, and he was under the impression he was owed an explanation. Still, the quiet resentment and the memories of his sleepless nights all went away when he saw Dream’s face.
“It seems I owe you an apology. I’ve always heard it’s impolite to keep one’s friend waiting.”