Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Hob wasn’t expecting an explanation.

To be honest, he hadn’t needed one, or even thought to ask. All those nights spent wondering where his friend, his mysterious stranger, had disappeared to, if he’d ever come back, seemed to just vanish in the face of that small, soft smile. He’d spend so much time trying to figure out what he would say, how he could even begin to apologise, going over and over it in his mind, but he found himself quite speechless when he looked up and suddenly he was there.

The Stranger—Hob’s stranger, even if he had no right call him that—seemed inordinately pleased to see him.

It was enough just to have him there, to drink him in after all these years, and hopefully have a chance to start over. There were differences, expected alterations, such as a change of clothes—a long black coat that fitted him wonderfully, tight black jeans that would prove distracting if they weren’t half hidden—and his dark hair was longer, more wild, but Hob found himself curious at the missing ruby. The thought was gone in an instant, replaced by surprise when his Stranger called him friend, when he apologised; Hob was still struck completely dumb by it two minutes later when he’d taken his seat, marvelling at how he really, truly, wasn’t angry at him. After a moment of his stupid staring, the way he was practically gaping at him, the Stranger frowned, leant forward from his relaxed sprawl, that elegant recline, and peered at him curiously as if trying to puzzle out a foreign language.

It was ridiculously endearing.

“Is that not how it is done?” He said finally, appearing the slightest bit put out. “Was the apology insufficient?”

“Yeah—er, no. No. you did it right.” Hob really needed to start remembering how words work.

“I see.” The sullen look was still there, the joy dimmed by what could have been doubt, and Hob realised he really needed to start remembering how the English language worked before he offended his friend again. Two minutes would be a new record, a speed run in fact, but it was one he was unwilling to set.

“I’m surprised, that’s all.” Hob smiled reassuringly, full of an almost giddy warmth. “I’m pleased to see you.”

His friend relaxed, that fond smile returned to his face. “I am pleased to see you too, Hob Gadling.”

The way he said his name, soft like a lovers caress, like fingers trailing over sensitive skin, was incredibly unfair. It had been over one hundred years since Hob had last had to suppress a similar shiver. That, like the Stranger’s eyes, blue and somehow gleaming like stars, the impossibly pale skin that should have looked sickly rather than vaguely ethereal, were all things that hadn’t changed at all. Hob caught the barmaids eye—Beatrice, one of his summer hires—and waved her over. “I’m about to order food, want anything?”

His Stranger grimaced, looking vaguely nauseated, which was exactly what Hob had been expecting. “No.”

“Drink then?” Hob gestured to his beer, half drunk.

“If only to keep up appearances,” His Stranger acquiesced with a small nod.

Hob packed his papers away while Beatrice made her way over, excitement making him the slightest bit clumsy, and wondered if they might sit outside to talk. The pub was quite small, slightly cramped, and the afternoon rush was just about to pick up. He’d much rather go somewhere private for this, somewhere they were less likely to be overheard. The incident with Lady Constantine had appraised him of the merits of being cautions. His companion merely continued to watch him, eyes fixed on him unblinking, expression soft enough that Hob could almost call it contentment. Whatever it was, Beatrice glanced between them both with slightly wide eyes as he ordered, then gave Hob a look that meant there’d be questions later.

“Tables free outside?” He asked instead of dwelling on it.

Beatrice nodded, eyes drifting to settle on his Stranger, before she seemed to realise that it was rude to stare. “Yeah—I’ll bring your drinks. Food will be about ten minutes.”

They spent some time discussing this new century.

Or, more accurately, Hob talked and his Stranger listened. It was a beautiful afternoon, the sun high in the sky, the air was warm enough to be comfortable, and Hob barely noticed when the light began to wane. There had just been so much in the past fifty years, the past ten, and he knew he’d never be able to get through all of it. He still tried, gesticulating a little too wildly about the creation of the internet, then marvelling at the invention of flight, and all the while the Stranger watched and listened. Those eyes never left his. It was a heavy sort of regard, a power in his gaze that had intimidated Hob in the beginning, but now he likened it to being wrapped in a weighted blanket. There was something grounding in those glimmering eyes.

Things changed when he ordered another beer, the natural lull in conversation creating an opening.

It wasn’t something that he’d thought his Stranger would take advantage of. The garden had emptied as they’d spoke, the evening encouraging patrons to remain inside in case of a chill, and it was as if he’d been waiting for them to be alone. Hob had been prepared to jump straight back into it, was partway through describing the wonder of the Kindle, but it seemed the Stranger had a different idea. An idea even more surprising than the apology, than the fact he’d called him his friend; he leaned forwards, expression less content and more severe, a frown making itself known, and broached the topic of his absence without being asked.

“The delay was unintentional.” The Stranger said softly, sounding the closest he ever had to contrite. “I was…summoned. Elsewhere. It took some time to return.”

Hob raised a brow in surprise, he was apologetic, clearly regretful, but what he’d said didn’t really make much sense. It felt out of context, so he smiled. “Don’t worry about it.”

The frown deepened, a glimmer of annoyance, and then his Stranger tried again.

“I was unavoidably detained.” He said slowly, an emphasis on ‘detained’ that felt incredibly significant. It was an extra detail that made Hob frown at the implication of it, half way to puzzling it out before his Stranger added. “It was not by choice.”

Hold on. That’s—

“You were what?”

An amused little smile, cold. “You would not be the only one surprised by the nature of my absence. Many had assumed as much.”

Detained. He meant captured. Trapped. Hob swallowed, feeling a little sick. “If I’d known I would have—“

The Stranger chuckled.

“Come for me? Did you not also presume my absence was of my own design?” It wasn’t doubt in those fathomless eyes, he was certain of what he was saying, and worst of all he was right, because Hob had assumed he’d stayed away by choice.

To be honest he’d thought he was sulking.

Right now Hob wished that had been all it was.

He still scowled though, because his Stranger wasn’t right about everything, and he levelled his own accusation right back. “Now that’s not fair, after how we parted what else was I to think? I’d wondered if you needed more time to cool off. It’s why I built this damn inn you stupid fool. To wait for you.”

The Stranger frowned, anger flashing in his eyes at the phrase ‘cool off’, deepening even more at the words ‘stupid fool’, but then something eased and that small smile was back. “You’ve been waiting for me?”

“Well I—“ Too late to back out now. “Yes. I have.”

“Lucienne did too.” The Stranger said, seemingly mollified, a warmth softening those severe eyes, the light in them shining like starlight in a clear sky, moonlight rippling across a still lake. “She was the first I saw when I found my way out, I owe her more than she will ever know. You two were the only ones to keep such faith. You and—“

He didn’t finish the sentence, that light dimming like a dying star, staring distantly as if lost in thought.

Hob knew what grief looked like, how it felt, how it could strike you dumb even years after the fact, but he had never seen it on his friend. He never wanted to see it again. Who had it been? Hob didn’t need to know, wouldn’t pry. It already felt like he was intruding, spying on something not meant for him, because his Stranger seemed a marble statue carved in mourning. Cold, yes, perfect and beautiful, but there wasn’t just pain in the tense set of his jaw, the slant of his eyes, there was eternity. It felt private. The urge to reach out was there, to lay his hand on that pale one, stroke his thumb across the back of it to try and soothe, but it wouldn’t be understood for the comfort it was meant.

“I would have looked for you, if I’d known.” Hob said instead, voice as gentle as the touch he couldn’t give but longed to, watching carefully as those fathomless eyes flicked back to his and all of that grief disappeared, pain hidden somewhere impossible for him to see. “I should have anyway, the second you didn’t turn up. I’m sorry.”

“You would apologise to me?” The Stranger seemed amused by the prospect.

“Yeah. I’m sorry I doubted you.” Hob said, somehow knowing it was the right answer, watching as it provoked the another of those small, delicate smiles. It was impossibly lovely. “I’m sorry that I left you—wherever you were.”

The Stranger stared at him for a moment, careful all of a sudden, as if he didn’t quite know what to do with an apology like that. It took him a few more moments to puzzle out a response. “It was not your doing, nor did you have any part in my continued…absence. There were others who knew of my disappearance.”

“And?”

“And what?”

Hob should think his question was obvious. “Why didn’t they look?”

“The fault rests with me. Perhaps I had grown remiss in my duties, demonstrated a lack of loyalty to my function. Whatever the case, they believed me to have abandoned them.” The Stranger spoke coolly, with his customary deliberate inflection, as if it was of no consequence. “The others that might have acted could not, had their own affairs, and I was not so foolish as to believe I could call on them for aid. I did not try.”

While he didn’t quite understand the context, Hob understood enough to feel angry on his friends behalf, to feel his heart clench at the thought of it. “That’s—“

The Stranger waited patiently for him to find the words, watching him curiously.

“Fuck. That’s shit. You think they might have abandoned you because they thought you were bad at your job? Or that they wouldn’t have come for you because they were busy?” Hob found himself shaking his head, horrified, taking a sip of beer to calm himself, to hide how his hands were shaking with rage. “You need better friends.”

A curious head tilt. Like a bird. “You are my friend.”

God this was getting more and more confounding. Hob did not have enough information for this. “Then? The others—?“

“I speak of my creations. One might even say the subjects of my kingdom, the place of which I am ruler. And—“ here he paused, as if debating whether to continue. “My family.”

There was no way in hell his Stranger would accept the hug he very much wanted to give him. Hob took another swig of beer instead, trying to process the fact that his friend also happened to be a king. It made a lot of things make sense. “Well fuck.”

A tiny smirk. “It is of no importance, my creations are returning even now.”

“But they left in the first place. They all left.” Hob frowned, peered at that impervious face and found no hint of pain, but his gut told him otherwise. He thought back to that expression of grief, to the way it had felt like looking at a sculptors monument to loss, and knew that there was no way he could be so unaffected. His gut told him it was impossible to face something like that and not be hurt by it. “You feel betrayed.”

“No.”

“Yes you do. They all left because they thought you’d left and now they’re coming back but it still hurts, doesn’t it? It doesn’t change the fact that they all doubted you.” His Stranger had frozen, was once again like marble, glowing in the waning light, but it wasn’t grief that carved those perfect lines this time. There was something terrible growing in his face— rage worse than that night over one hundred years ago—a hum was building in the air, the scent of burning ozone, the moment before a lightning strike, and all his instincts were screaming danger. Hob couldn’t stop. “You look at them all and feel—“

“I feel nothing,” The interruption came softly, but powerfully, a tone that was not to be reckoned with and a glare just as strong. For a moment Hob couldn’t breathe, trapped by whatever magic lurked beneath that thin frame as easy as a butterfly pinned to a corkboard. “You will not speak to me this way.”

Hob wanted to protest, even with all that power hovering in the air, unwilling to let it go so easily. He’d opened his mouth to speak when he saw it; the pain tightening the corner of glowing eyes, the glassy sheen that couldn’t be tears but absolutely was, the subtle tension in those slim shoulders, and considered that he’d been wrong. This was no marble statue, wasn’t an ode to rage rather than grief, because the eternity he’d seen before was missing here. This betrayal was lived experience, added to, still being carved into him, words waiting to be written—tears that could still fall. The realisation made him pause, made him wonder if all he was doing was making it worse, because pushing was only making his friend angrier.

The hurt was real, and it was deep, but his Stranger didn’t want him to see it.

So, he softened, took another gulp of his drink, tried to force down a surge of helpless, protective, wrath, but couldn’t quite help how his fingers clenched around the glass. “Alright. Didn’t mean to be an arse, I’m just angry.”

The pressure in the air faded so fast his ears popped. “What did I—“

“Not at you stupid.” There was that glower again. Hob hurried to fix his words. “Look I don’t know if you’re a god or some weird vampiric creature, but you had people who knew you and they did nothing.”

“Your concern is not necessary.”

“Yeah, well good luck getting me to stop worrying.”

It was the wrong thing to say. “I am quite capable of handling my own affairs, Hob Gadling.”

“Well, you have to be, don’t you, since you seem to be doing everything alone.” Hob snapped, seemingly committing himself to the hole he was digging, setting his beer glass on the table with more force than he’d intended.

The Stranger’s eyes narrowed. “That is my function.”

“What, you think if you’re the best at your ‘function’ none of them will leave you next time?”

For the first time the stranger actually looked shocked, brows raised in indignant surprise, as if he was reluctantly impressed at Hob’s gall, even as it was clear the words had bitten deeper than expected. Perhaps they’d even revealed a truth he hadn’t known, uncovered a motive that had as of yet been a mystery. This time there was no rage, no dizzying power, even as Hob realised that he’d more than overstepped. It would have made sense for this to be the end, for the Stranger to get up and walk out, but his reaction was much more muted. He fixed Hob with an expression of cool calculation, a piercing regard that felt incredibly uncomfortable, and it was a long time before either of them spoke.

It felt like he could see right down to Hob’s bones.

“There is no need for outrage on my behalf.” The response came softly, careful as if he was trying to mollify him but wasn’t quite sure what the source of the problem was. The eyes remained the same, unflinching, as if sizing up an unexpected competitor. “Nor is there need for concern. I am not human, and your sentiment is misplaced. If I could not get myself out of the predicament I found myself in, if I could no longer handle a crisis alone, then I would not be worthy of my station. They are right to judge my competence.”

“Hold on, are you really saying you’d deserve to be trapped forever if you couldn’t escape without aid?”

There was no nod, no confirmation, but Hob had the that the Stranger thought him an idiot for asking the question, that it should be obvious. He didn’t even look unsettled by it, accepted it as if it was the way the world worked, and Hob found himself unable to wrap his head around something so wrong. He didn’t really want to restart their argument, especially as he was unsure what had ended up calming his friend down, but he couldn’t help but protest. “I don’t understand, how can you feel you’d deserve—“

“You are human. I don’t expect you to understand.”

“Well excuse me.” Hob found himself snapping. Again. “I don’t even know what you are.”

“I am Endless.” The Stranger said.

That cleared exactly nothing up. But it was a start. “That a last name?”

He was rewarded with a small chuckle. “You would be more correct to think of it as my species.”

“I’ve never heard of an Endless.”

“Never dabbled in the occult? In all these long years have you never thought to try and discover what I am?”

“Well, yeah, but I’ve been busy.”

This time he was gifted with an actual laugh. “Busy?”

“There’s so much to do, to see.” Hob found himself leaning forward in excitement, chasing that laugh, the way it cleared all of that cold detachment from those fine features. He pushed his empty plate to the side, rested his elbows on the table. “I figured I could always ask you, if I really wanted to know.”

“And do you? Do you wish to know what I am?”

He shrugged. “Maybe leave a little bit of mystery. Something for you to tell me next time we meet.”

“You would keep living.” He didn’t sound surprised, a pleased smile playing at the corner of his mouth.

“Of course. Very busy you see.”

“And you would see me again?” The Stranger said, curious, as if it was even a question.

It gave him an idea.

It was a bad plan. Absolutely outrageously terrible. Inspired by the fact that Hob really didn’t think he could wait one-hundred-years to see him again. There were lots of reasons for that—some of which were incredibly selfish—but the heart of it was that something had changed. It had changed the moment the Stranger had admitted they were friends and, in doing so, also admitted that these meetings were something more than passing curiosity. There had been a status-quo, you see, a pattern, a limit to the topics they’d discussed, and it had held strong right up until Hob had put his foot in his mouth the last time they’d met. This time the Stranger had been the one to break the pattern, he’d been the one to bring up something previously off limits, broaching the topic of his absence without being asked.

He’d wanted to tell him.

That was why he’d been so insistent, so revealing, because he hadn’t wanted Hob to be another person who thought he’d abandoned them.

There was no way he could ignore that.

And, well, he’d already pissed his friend off again today so why not go all in? To be honest, Hob was probably already half way to fucking this up, as he’d been silent long enough that the Stranger was already beginning to frown. Damn. Hob tried not to let his nerves show when he spoke, tried to sound calm and casual when he asked his question. “Would you consider increasing the frequency of our meetings?“

Those eyes flashed with anger. “I don’t need—“

“Was gonna suggest it anyway.” Hob said quickly, because his friend seemed to be interpreting concern as the equivalent of being stabbed and then having the knife twisted. He wasn’t seeking to expose or to wound or anything like that. Comfort might have to be sold in a slightly harsher way, if he wouldn’t accept a hug perhaps he’d accept a rebuke. “You did stand me up, after all.”

“Hm.” The Stranger considered it. “You would request this of me?”

Hob blinked. If he needed it to be negotiated like a deal then he supposed he could do that. “I would.”

“There will need to be terms,” His Stranger replied in a voice silk soft, seeming more comfortable with a business proposition. Perhaps that had been what he needed, a way to make this a task. Necessary. Perhaps he wasn’t ready yet to allow himself something just because he wanted it. “You will need to convince me.”

Saying it like that, in that low soothing voice, sent some very confusing signals, and inspired some very forbidden thoughts. He forced himself to focus. “I can be very convincing when I want something.”

Wait. No. That had sounded way flirtier than he’d intended. Hob hadn’t meant to—

The Stranger chuckled. “Very well Hob Gadling. State your case.”

Chapter Text

Right.

Now he had to actually convince him.

Hob hadn’t felt this unprepared since he’d had to defend his thesis for his most recent PhD. In fact, he was pretty sure it would actually be easier to be back in front of that panel with absolutely no memory of his project than to be sat here under his Stranger's expectant gaze. There had been a plan—a hastily made plan, thrown together while he’d sat here, but a plan nonetheless—and with one look in those eyes, those burning, beautiful eyes, Hob’s mind had gone entirely, embarrassingly, blank. He watched as the Stranger smirked, lips twitching upwards, something almost gleeful about his expression, and it should have felt mocking but it didn’t. Hob laughed, rolled his eyes, and took another gulp of beer as if that would help him find his voice.

It didn’t.

Not when the Stranger was reclined in his chair like it was a throne, framed by the dying light as if those rays wanted his face to be the last thing they touched, and Hob really needed to stop being so needlessly poetic when it was only serving as a distraction.

“Nothing to say?”

Hob was not going to let himself be teased, was going to wipe that smug look off his friends face. He steeled himself. “Too many arguments to choose from.”

“Mhm.” The Stranger raised a brow. “Then by all means let’s hear one of them.”

Damn. This really was like petitioning a king for a boon wasn’t it? Hob saved how that made him feel for later, the little rush it gave him, because if he wanted to win he needed to focus. “This isn’t the first time you’ve stood me up.”

He got a head tilt, a little gesture to continue.

“There was that time in 1589, where you used part of our meeting to go talk to Shakespeare. So it’s actually two meetings you owe me.” Hob had been holding on to that particular gripe for over four hundred years. It had taken a ridiculously long time for him to figure out that he’d been jealous, but there was no way he was admitting to that, and it wasn’t really relevant anyway.

The Stranger frowned, just a little. “Would it not be one and a half? Would this meeting not make up for the lack of one in 1989?”

“No. You left early in 1889 too.” Hob said, because he had stalked off into the night after barely five minutes and he wasn’t going to let him forget it. “And, well, this is the only time we’ve met without a prior appointment, which I think we can both admit is unusual. It’s spontaneous—I will not take it as replacement for lost time.”

“We never defined an amount of time for our meetings. Therefore I did not leave early.”

“You left before I was done.” Hob countered, even as he knew the Stranger had a point, knowing it was something he had to fix moving forward. “You didn’t ask if I still wanted to live.”

A worryingly long pause.

Silence had never bothered Hob, never seemed to bother the Stranger, but there was something about waiting for him to make up his mind that made him want to fidget. Perhaps it was how he didn’t look away, how he stared Hob down as if cataloguing him, assessing every flicker of thought while he prepared his own judgement. It was that feeling of being known. The minutes passed in that same silence—the empty garden still around them, barely a rustle of leaves in the trees—and it went on long enough for Hob to expect to be turned down. Eventually though, his friend nodded.

His agreement was deceptively idle. “Hmm. That is true.”

“Two extra meetings.” Hob insisted, unwilling to let his point be lost, daring to push it. This wasn’t what he really wanted, of course, but if he could get an agreement to this then it would open the door for more. “And I want to decide how long we meet.”

“Then you have yourself two extra meetings before 2089.” The Stranger conceded, still amused, as if thrilled at the prospect of someone bartering for his time. Perhaps it was a rarer occasion than Hob had thought. “I suppose you’d also like to set the date?”

Now came the really hard part.

“And if I wanted more?” Hob said boldly, daring to go for what he’d always been intending. “For one thing, I haven’t even begun to really get into what’s happened since we last met. There’s too much to tell and you’ve not given me enough time. That and—“

“And?”

“You said that we’re friends.” Hob replied simply, trying to decipher the expression on the Stranger's face. It had gone curiously blank. “If that’s true then I want to see you more often.”

“Why?”

“You’re the only one who knows what I am, who I can truly call a friend.” Hob said and the honesty with which he spoke made him want to look away, embarrassed to be so revealing, but his Stranger's eyes held him fast. He didn’t look so blank now, softening by the barest degree, but as always that slight change made all the difference. “You’re the only constant, you know?”

The Stranger nodded but didn’t reply, seemed oddly expectant, as if he knew there was more to it. More Hob wanted to say.

He found he was right.

“Everyone else I meet dies. Or I have to leave them before they notice that I don’t. I’m never ageing. That business with being drowned was pretty awful. Maybe I was projecting a bit in 1889, because I think I’m a little lonely too.” Hob replied quietly, wondering if this would make a difference, if presenting this as being purely about him would make it easier to agree. There were other things he could say, of course, about how he enjoyed the Stranger's company, but he suspected it wouldn’t be quite as effective. “I’m quite content to continue living, but even if I don’t know the exact details, we both know my current state has something to do with you. I might not be a subject of your realm, you didn’t create me, but you are definitely responsible for my immortality.”

“Do you blame me?” His Stranger said gently, surprising in how he’d never seemed the type to ask a question where the answer could be used to hurt him.

“No, I think I’m very lucky we met.” Hob smiled, turned his tone teasing, because what he was about to say was an attempt to appeal to that strict work ethic, and he didn’t want to sound harsh. “I’m just saying that perhaps I’m feeling slightly neglected—perhaps you could afford to pay me a little more attention.”

“I do not like being accused of neglect.”

To call his tone sullen would be a misinterpretation, an assumption of immaturity that would be unfair, because it was something a lot deeper than that. It bordered on true offense, that very thing that had hurt him so deeply, a mistaken belief that had led everyone he had ever known to leave him trapped. Hob wasn’t exempt from that. He’d also believed his absence to be one of choice, and it was something he wouldn’t be forgiving himself for anytime soon.

“I know.” Hob said, still so very careful to keep his tone gentle. “Which is why I’m telling you so you can remedy it.”

Hob had never thought of himself as particularly tempting.

But with the way his Stranger was looking at him now he certainly felt that way.

There was a longing there, a softening around the eyes, an open vulnerability in his expression that damn near stopped his heart, and Hob had the oddest impression that this was the closest he’d come to swaying him. This time the pause felt deliberate, necessary to squash an instant agreement, and then the denial came as if practised, pre-recorded.

“This world is not my purview. I have duties, responsibilities.”

“I say that I fall under those.” Hob said, standing his ground, because he was not imagining the regret in that tone. He had seen him about to give and would not back down now. “You started this because you were curious, but it’s more than that now. What I’ve become is your responsibility. One you’ve definitely been overlooking. It’s not fair that I only get to see you once every hundred years while your pack of traitors get to see you all the time.“

A small smile. “Is that jealousy, I hear?”

“If you like.” Hob said simply, glad his friend felt comfortable enough to tease him but unwilling to lose focus. “I will be having my more frequent meetings all the same.”

“I am not meant to walk in this world,” The Stranger replied softly, sounding resigned to it, as if his mind was made up. As if this had been a nice little diversion that was already set to fail. “Not so often.”

Hob was not giving up. “That a hard rule or…?”

“It is one of mine, yes.” The Stranger said, offering the explanation with a little incline of his head. “It can be bent, on occasion, as there are circumstances where I am required to spend time away from my realm.”

“You ever step away just to relax?”

His friend raised a brow, his expression quite clearly expressing just how stupid he thought Hob was for asking such a question, eyes looking him up and down as if questioning his choice in friends.

“Right.” Hob said dryly. “No relaxation. Got it—”

“You misunderstand.” The Stranger interrupted smugly, a little smile playing at the corner of his mouth. “I do step away ‘just to relax’. At least once every hundred years.”

“Oh.”

Hob found he had no idea what to say to that.

“Though more recently I have also found a measure of peace while feeding pigeons.” His Stranger continued, tone idle, though his eyes seemed to glimmer with triumph at Hob’s very obvious shock, the way he was gaping at him. The smile quickly became a smirk. “As of yet I am unsure how you compare.”

“Well if you can spare time to feed pigeons you can definitely come see me more often.”

The smirk slipped from his face. “It was needlessly self-indulgent.”

Hob felt an almost overwhelming urge to reach across the table, grab him by the shoulders, and shake him, because if he honestly thought feeding pigeons was selfish then he very much needed a good shaking. “You’re ridiculous.”

It was very nearly the wrong thing to say.

“You are so very human.” The Stranger replied, seemingly unruffled by what Hob had been certain he’d take as an insult. His friend could be so very prickly. “It would be hypocritical of me to agree to your request, beyond compensating for what was missed, because I’m not the only one bound by this rule. My creations are similarly forbidden, kept to my realm just as I am, and I would not allow them to agree to a proposal such as this.”

There was something ominous in that. Hob frowned. “Would you punish them?”

“Yes.” His Stranger answered without hesitation or remorse. “So answer me this, Robert Gadling, what sort of leader would I be if I flouted my own rules?”

That was—

Actually a pretty good point.

The Stranger had been very clear about the standards he held himself to, the things he judged himself for, and there was no way Hob was going to be able to entice him away from whatever realm he ruled for more meetings just by asking. It should have stung, the rejection, the way he’d revealed his own loneliness and been rebuffed, but Hob knew better than to be distracted by that. He’d seen him soften, seen his regret, the way he’d wrestled with himself, because it wasn’t that his Stranger didn’t want to. No. It wasn’t that at all. So if he was going to convince him he needed to find a way to make it work in that complicated tangle of rules his Stranger had. Hob needed to help him find a way to make more meetings work without giving him something more to feel guilty about. They needed an excuse.

A way for him to have his cake and eat it too.

Perhaps that was why he’d asked him to convince him, to see if Hob could find a way around it for him. There was no doubt that he could do it himself, his Stranger was unquestionably clever enough, but to find a loophole would mean admitting to looking for one in the first place. It was evidently something his friend wouldn’t let himself do.

Hob had no such reservations.

“Have I stumped you?” The Stranger said smoothly, somehow managing to soften his voice to a fucking purr.

“No.” Hob forced himself to say, the bluff instinctual because he knew that ground given was not going to be taken back. “It’s just—I can tell it means a lot to you. Don’t want to offer a solution that’s ill thought out.”

His words provoked a soft smile.

The Stranger was pleased by that response.

It was getting cooler, warmth fleeing now the sun had disappeared, but it was still pleasant, and Hob paused a moment to take it in while he thought. There was nothing quite like the understated warmth of a summer night. He heard the door to the inn open just as he was about to speak, Beatrice coming out with a candle now the light had died. She set it on the table, lit it, and then asked if either of them wanted another drink. Hob shook his head, three was enough, and he knew he needed all his focus for the conversation ahead. His Stranger, rather predictably, also declined.

Beatrice eyed his drink, the glass still full, and frowned. “May I get you something else? I’m sorry if it’s not to your liking.”

Pale blue eyes drifted to her, almost curious at the question, as his friend tilted his head in momentary contemplation. “There is no need. I did not come here to drink, though I understand your consternation at the waste.”

Beatrice appeared entirely stunned and Hob knew why; knew that she had not expected him to sound like that, had found something oddly soothing in that deliberate inflection, and was currently figuring out how to answer him. Hob could relate. She rallied impressively quickly, pausing for barely a minute, before she nodded. “Well if you do want something just get Hob here to come to the bar and we’ll see what we can do.”

Of course she’d instinctively chosen not to ask him to move. Hob couldn’t help but be amused at being volunteered to ferry him his drink.

“That is very kind.” His Stranger said smoothly, seemingly completely oblivious.

Beatrice nodded, expression still the slightest bit flabbergasted by the encounter, and when she grabbed Hob’s plate she caught his eye with an expression that quite clearly said ‘what the fuck’. He could see her adding questions to the pile she already had.

Hob would miss her when he left.

There was a melancholy in that thought, one he was familiar with, because Hob was used to leaving people behind. He thought of the boxes at home, all neatly packed up ready to go, and for a moment he felt something like grief bubble up in his throat.

It was easy to set it aside.

So Hob smiled after her as she made her way back into the inn, tried not to laugh at how she shot the Stranger one last fascinated glance.

He found himself amused by the whole thing, amused and intrigued; that strange and mystifying way his friend interacted with the world, approaching every interaction with an odd sort of deliberation, as if every word had been preordained. Hob was distracted enough to be entirely unprepared for when the Stranger glanced in his direction; those eyes no longer blue, and suddenly the flicker of the candle was so very small small, too small, the darkness of the night too oppressive to truly hide what was no longer a subtle glow. At first glance it was like staring into the eyes of some great predator—an uncanny reflection that sent goosebumps prickling up his arm, the certainty of inhumanity—but Hob had seen that glow before, briefly, and he knew it for what it really was. There were stars in his Strangers eyes.

He still couldn’t help his sharp inhale, the way his mouth went dry. “Your eyes.”

“Yes, I understand how they would be disconcerting.”

“No they—“ they’re beautiful. “They’re fine.”

Fucking. Hell.

His Stranger laughed. “Quite the compliment.”

Hob was not going to be distracted. “We were interrupted.”

“Yes, we were.” The light in his eyes did not dim, a smug little smile curling at his mouth, and Hob was unsure if he was doing it purely to try and distract him or if he was pleased to not have to hide.

Perhaps it was a bit of both.

Still, he was not going to allow himself to be so easily beaten. Hob knew that he was never going to convince him to change his rules, never going to be able to persuade him to allow a little bit of indulgence just for its own sake, and so he needed to find a way to avoid the Stranger’s argument altogether. This was the last hurdle, he’d been so close to swaying him before, and if he could solve this little problem then Hob would have what he wanted. Well, he’d have the start of what he wanted, and that would be good enough to be getting along with.

“You’ve already been making an exception for me.” Hob said, wise enough not to mention anything about any pigeons. “I don’t think I’m asking you to flout your rules.”

“You want me to bend them.”

“Not at all.” Hob said, even though that was exactly what he was proposing. “I just want more of the same.”

The Stranger smiled. “Then you would say that I have already been bending them?”

“No. I would call it what it really is—an exception.”

“Oh?”

“I would say that what I am asking for is not outside of current precedent.” Hob replied carefully, staring right into those glowing eyes and refusing to be tricked into a verbal trap. “As I said before, I think I fall under your responsibilities to a certain extent, and I think that means that your rule for walking in this world has become a bit more complicated. I may not be one of your creations but—”

His friend waited for him to continue, patient, the light in his eyes shining silver in the darkness. It was hard to imagine something more beautiful.

Hob shrugged. “Am I not something of yours nonetheless?”

“Something of mine?” He tested it out and gods Hob shivered at how he made it sound, hoped it was too dark for him to see the flush across his cheeks. “Perhaps you are.”

A long moment of silence.

“You’re right. This would not break any of my rules. I have long since made an exception for you.” The Stranger smirked, once again dared to tease. “Though I did not know that acknowledging our friendship meant also accepting further work.”

“I didn’t—”

“Yes I know well enough why you framed it that way. It was well done.”

Hob frowned. “So?”

“I’ve been gone too long already.” The Stranger said softly, almost hesitant, as if unsure of the reaction he would provoke. “Perhaps if I had not been so detained I could have allowed your request, but I have been remiss in my duties for far too long and the damage that has been done has been great. At present, there is simply too much that must be attended to. Your suggestion, it is not—I find it more than amenable, would grant your request if I could, but I believe it might be best to revisit it at a later time.”

Hob had never heard his friend stumble over his words, never heard him hesitate.

It was disappointing, of course it was, but—

The thing is that Hob can be patient.

After hundreds of years of rare meetings, stolen hours with barely an implication of who he was actually talking to, without so much as a name to call him, Hob was unsurprised that it was a tough pattern to break. This meeting had already been highly irregular. He’d already been given much more than he’d ever expected, and to be honest it didn’t bother him that there might be another six hundred years before anything else changed. If that’s what it took then that’s what it took, Hob could afford to wait, could appreciate the value of anticipation. His perception of time had changed a very, very long time ago. What mattered was that he had tried; apologised for offending him last time, for not looking for him when he didn’t show up in ’89, and pushed enough to at least let his friend know he cared enough about him to want more of his company.

If he couldn’t see him often enough to really begin to soothe that hurt at least Hob could let him know it was always on offer.

Maybe he’d even get a name next time.

“Ok.” Hob said simply, shrugging with a small smile. “I’ll bring it back up in another hundred years.”

The Stranger frowned, disbelieving, searching his face as if looking for a trick. The suspicion made him even surer that backing down had been the right choice, there was something about it that made him uneasy. “You would back down?”

“Well I’m not going to force you.” Hob retorted, rolling his eyes. “But there is something else we need to talk about before you go. Well, before I decide when I want my two extra meetings.”

“Go on.”

There wasn’t really a delicate way to put this.

“Your disappearance has presented a problem.” Hob said bluntly, deciding to just go for it and get it out of the way. “Either one of us could be captured or trapped and it could be another hundred years before the other found out. It could be me next time. We need to figure out a way to let each other know if we’re in danger. Just in case.”

There was a dizzying moment where the temperature seemed to drop, the shadows of the evening lengthening.

“I would not let that happen.”

“You ask me what I’ve been doing every time we meet, seem surprised by it, so I know that you don’t pry. This century has changed, not only because of what happened to you, but because advances in technology have made faking an identity much, much harder. It could happen and you wouldn’t know.” Hob argued, trying to make him understand, watching as the glow of his eyes brightened the more he spoke. “It could take a hundred years before you—”

Something snapped.

“No.”

And suddenly Hob was blinking as if a camera had gone off.

It was as if light had exploded in the darkness, strangely disorientating as if there had been a moment of missing time, because it felt like he had seen something that his eyes were unable to comprehend. There was a space in his memory that almost hurt to prod at. His Stranger was still sitting opposite, his eyes still glowing, but his expression was twisted in a terrible anger, as if he had been confronted with something he hadn’t expected and decided that he very much did not like it. If before he had been marble, now he was something no mortal hand could even presume to carve, and Hob found that the estimate he had always had of his friends power was an almost laughable underestimation. He found the glimpse of it he had seen before to be like the candle still flickering on the table between them.

So terribly small in comparison.

There was a beat of silence, and then Stranger spoke again, in that tone of voice Hob had never heard him use.

“It will not.”

He stood, abruptly, an understated elegance that made the movement look unhurried, predestined, and for a moment Hob thought things had suddenly gone horribly wrong. The Stranger seemed to shift as he looked at him, that terrible anger folding away again, all that power slipping back beneath his skin, and Hob was left wondering where he could possibly put it. How could he hide something so—

“You will await my arrival in one week Hob Gadling.”

Hold on. Had he really just—

Next week?

“Come to my apartment,” Hob said boldly, still catching up with what was happening, now trying to grapple with how quickly his friend had changed his mind. “I live—”

“I know.” His Stranger said, his tone softening along with his smile, eyes once again a pale blue. The only light they reflected now was the soft glow of the still lit candle. “I will meet you there as requested.”

And before Hob could even open his mouth to ask what time he might expect him, the Stranger was gone.

The whole thing left him feeling rather stunned.

Chapter Text

Hob was still sitting there five minutes later.

It was a good thing that there was no one around to see him staring blankly at the empty chair the Stranger had long since vacated, because he was fairly sure he’d be unable to explain just what had happened. A part of him almost believed he’d imagined the whole thing, struggling to digest what he had learned, what the Stranger had and hadn’t said, but Hob knew that there was no way his mind could conjure something like that up. He’d never be so self-absorbed as to imagine he could change the Stranger’s mind simply by suggesting that he might one day be in danger. The fact that it appeared to have worked was almost inconsequential, because Hob found he was entirely concerned with why it had worked rather than the fact that it had.

It meant something.

To be entirely honest, the possibility of using the Stranger's disappearance as an argument hadn’t even crossed his mind, and Hob was glad for it, because the reaction it had provoked wasn’t something he’d have wanted to do on purpose. Throughout their discussion, even with all the ways Hob had pushed, the Stranger had let him negotiate with him in a way that was almost playful. Right up until the suggestion that he might one day be trapped.

Hob hadn’t wanted to hurt him.

Perhaps this was another thing he’d need to apologise for.

Regardless, he couldn’t sit here all night wondering, and Hob picked up the Stranger’s abandoned glass before making his way inside. The inn was still pretty full, the evening crowd starting to file in, but it was nowhere near packed enough for him to make an easy escape. There were very few people lingering by the bar, a sparse crowd he’d be unable to hide in, but he tried to make his way over to deposit the drink as surreptitiously as he could. The bartender, Paul, met his eyes with a little conspiratorial wink before promptly pretending to ignore him, and for a moment Hob thought that he’d gotten away with it.

Beatrice still caught him.

“Interesting friend you’ve got,” She said mildly, sidling up to him just as he was about to duck away, something teasing and light in her tone. “Never seen him around before.”

There was a question there she wasn’t asking.

Hob rolled his eyes, watched as Paul very deliberately moved far enough away to give them a bit of privacy, but found he was unable to help his smile at how she asked without pushing. The question was vague enough to be brushed off, avoided if he didn’t want to answer, but Hob knew an open offer when he saw one. It was up to him to respond, to offer more or to pull back and away, because despite her obvious curiosity, Beatrice was clearly more concerned with if he actually wanted to talk about it.

Hob found he did. “I haven’t seen him for a while.”

Beatrice’s smile was warm, even as her tone remained just this side of teasing. “Will we be seeing him again?”

Hob shrugged, deceptively casual. “He’s coming to mine next week.”

“Oh?” Beatrice grinned. “Things are going well then?”

“I think so, last time we saw each other we had a fight. It was my fault.” Hob found himself admitting softly, feeling better for having said it, the worry that he’d ruined everything now turned into the hope for a chance to fix it. He shrugged again, this time a little helpless. “I thought I’d scared him off.”

“Ah.” Beatrice nodded in what looked like sudden understanding. Of what Hob wasn’t really sure, as even he didn’t entirely understand just what had happened between the two of them, but if this whole thing made sense to her then he wasn’t going to question it. “Then this is an apology?”

“Yeah.”

“Want some advice? As a friend, not your employee.”

“If you’ve got it.”

“If you’re trying to make amends then I suggest you buy an expensive bottle of wine, cook him a fancy dinner, and then make sure to apologise at least five more times even if the whole wasn’t entirely your fault.” Beatrice spoke with the confidence of someone who had already had the opportunity to test out their own advice.

Hob laughed. “That’s specific.”

“It worked on my girlfriend.” Beatrice winked, then glanced around to make sure no one was close enough to overhear, and dropped her tone to a whisper. “Though there was an extra step I’m sure I don’t need to tell you that involves fucking his brains out.”

Hob swallowed, catching her assumption too late, felt his face turn red. “Beatrice we aren’t dating. He isn’t my ex.”

“Oh.”

Now they were both blushing.

They stood there in an awkward silence for far too long, and it made Hob feel a little better to see that his expression of sheer mortification was currently being mirrored on her face. Beatrice gaped at him a moment longer, then fumbled her way through her next sentence as she ran an anxious hand through her hair. “Shit. Just—forget I said that last bit yeah?”

That was going to be easier said than done.

Hob nodded anyway.

“Right. Excellent. I’m just gonna go now.” Beatrice disappeared off into behind the bar before Hob could so much as say goodbye.

He found he had quite enough of being surprised for one day.

Hob quickly headed home before something else happened to embarrass him even further, deciding that deciphering the events of the evening could wait until the morning, because right now what he really needed was to go to sleep. While his apartment was half packed away, an odd in-between state that made him both sad to leave and excited for the next step, Hob had enough experience to know that it was best to leave his bedroom for last. The move was still a few weeks away, an incredibly lucky coincidence given he’d been stalling in the hope his Stranger might finally show up. It was something he’d found himself doing often, being drawn back to the inn, and Hob knew that this time he’d almost pushed his luck too far.

The risk had been worth it though.

Sleep came fast, drawing him away from the incredibly weird day he’d had towards a place of rest, and he went easily, curled up in his bed. He let his eyes close, relaxing as he began to drift off, and Hob really thought that would be the end of it.

It wasn’t.

The dream he found himself in was familiar, a cottage he had owned long ago, tucked away in the Scottish highlands, and Hob knew that it was impossible for him to be here. This place didn’t exist, had been demolished decades ago, but in this space he found himself in, this impossible space, it was whole as if it had never been demolished. Not only that, but it was identical to all the ways that he remembered it, a version of itself that contained everything it had ever been, and Hob found himself a little stunned by how if he focused he could see multiple sets of furniture overlayed as one. This was a dream, he thought, and knew it with a certainty that should have surprised him, but with that knowledge came the truth that this was not a coincidence. Hob had not stumbled here by accident.

He’d been called.

It meant that he was unsurprised by the knock on the door.

For a moment he considered ignoring it, but on the second light little tap Hob decided enough was enough, and he walked from the living room to the hall, opening the door, and stared blankly at the dark-skinned woman he found standing outside. Whatever weird dream magic this was, Hob was still aware enough to know that he should be shocked at the slightly pointed ears, that even if he had somehow known she was coming he had certainly not been expecting her.

“Erm.” Hob said intelligibly, beginning to frown. “Hello?

“Hob Gadling.” The woman greeted him said with a sharp nod, eyes calculating behind delicate glasses, and the look she gave him was bordering on derision. “There is not much time to explain, though I am sure you have questions, but it seems we have someone in common, and—”

Hob cut her off before she could confuse him even further. “Who are you and what are you doing in my dream?”

“Lucienne.” The woman replied impatiently. “You met him today, didn’t you?”

Hob did not need her to elaborate on who she meant, the implication obvious, because not only was her name one he already knew, but the knowledge of who she meant seemed to ring clear as a bell in the dream. It still didn’t help him figure out what was going on. His eyes narrowed. “Why do you want to know?”

“That’s not your concern.” Lucienne said shortly. “My Lord M—”

“Don’t tell me his name.” Hob interrupted before she could say anything further.

Lucienne paused with a frown of her own. “You don’t know it?”

“No.” Hob said coldly.

She looked him up and down. “I see.”

It would have been impossible for someone to sound more unimpressed. Hob rolled his eyes. “You didn’t answer my question. What are you doing here?”

“May I come in?” Lucienne said after a moment of silence.

Hob stepped back from the door, waved her inside, and then made his way to the kitchen without bothering to check if she’d followed. “Tea?”

“Yes please. A dash of milk, no sugar.”

The kettle was already boiling when he reached for it, steaming gently as if Hob had been prepared for this exact eventuality, and there was no time to be surprised. He made two cups of tea, putting sugar in his while leaving hers without, and carried them back to the living room while trying to puzzle out what she might be doing here. Hob found her sat in an armchair, arranging herself almost primly, and wondered if this conversation was going to be easier or harder than the one he’d already had with his Stranger.

Hob handed her the tea. “Now talk.”

Lucienne took a delicate little sip and waited for him to sit down before she spoke. “His disappearance, what do you know of it?”

“Practically nothing.” Hob said with a frown, settling in the chair across from her, his own tea a comforting warmth in his hands. “I don’t want you to tell me.”

“Oh I assure you I have no intention of doing so.” She retorted coolly, and while she was still watching him with those calculating eyes, he had the distinct impression his answer had caught her a little off guard. “Though I must admit that you aren’t quite what I was expecting.”

“Thanks.” Hob said dryly, more than aware that she hadn’t meant it as a compliment.

“When you saw him…”

Lucienne trailed off with a frown.

Hob waited for her to finish what she was going to say, watched as she paused as if unsure how to phrase it, and realised that she was actually nervous. Lucienne covered it well, taking another sip of tea while she thought, but Hob wasn’t fooled. She rallied with a small sigh, determined, and looked him right in the eye when she spoke. “How was he when he left?”

Hob had spent many years practicing his poker face.

Necessity had made him an excellent liar. He used those skills now, kept his expression neutral even as his mind flashed back to the look on his Stranger’s face before he had left, the way his eyes had glowed in the darkness, and managed a shrug that was perfectly casual. “What a weird question to sneak into someone’s dream to ask.”

Lucienne didn’t even blink. “You will not answer?”

“I don’t really feel good talking about him behind his back to be honest.” Hob retorted, perhaps a little too coldly, given how Lucienne seemed to do a double take in surprise. “I’m not going to tell you what he said, you know.”

“I see.” Lucienne replied slowly, but though she sounded surprised she did not sound displeased. “I believe I may have misjudged you.”

“Got that right.”

“Quite.” Lucienne didn’t quite thaw, just as Hob was still very obviously sizing her up, but she didn’t seem as openly hostile anymore. “I shouldn’t have asked, I’m sorry.”

Hob nodded sharply, took a sip of his tea, and watched her over the rim of his cup. This was perhaps one of the weirdest situations he’d ever been in, the way they were both being so careful about what they did and didn’t say. It made him feel oddly like an envoy from a far off kingdom, a diplomacy that skirted the line of what was polite, infused with subterfuge, and all of it was actually the slightest bit ironic. After all, in this little analogy they both served the same king. There was more to it of course, his Stranger was a person, and just because they were both on his side didn’t mean they could swap information indiscriminately.

There was also the reason she was here, the reason Lucienne wouldn’t tell him but Hob could guess the shape of, because he didn’t have to have it spelled out for him to know that just being in his dream like this was somehow forbidden.

Hob understood the massive risk she had taken by doing this.

He knew how his Stranger would see it if he knew.

“You snuck into my dream.” Hob said bluntly, lowering his tea cup back to his lap. “To ask that question. Why?”

“I had to know.” Lucienne said simply.

“Had to know what?”

She glared as he had asked her for the mysteries of the universe. “Never you mind.”

Hob huffed, wasn’t surprised by the pushback, had expected it even as he’d still needed to try, and then laughed. “Our dedication to keeping his secrets is quite remarkable.”

“I know.” Lucienne softened enough to smile.

“You worry for him.” Hob pointed it out because it was obvious, hardly an infringement on secrets, and because it was a concern that he shared. “I understand why you were being nosy.”

Her affront was almost identical to his Stranger’s, they had the same dignified pride. “Excuse me?”

“You were being nosy.” Hob repeated it because he was right, knew that something significant had happened between the time he had seen his Stranger and now. It had been enough to inspire what he knew to be his friends most loyal subject to steal her way into his dream just to question him. There was curiosity, of course there was, but Hob didn't need to know, not when he could do something as simple as ask the Stranger when he next saw him. “You came here because you’re worried, bad enough that you’ve come to me for insight on your boss. You spend a lot more time with him that I do, by the way.”

“Yes. I know.” Lucienne paused, evidentially puzzling out what she could say, her commitment to the Stranger’s privacy as strong as Hob’s. “I also know that admitting concern is as good as committing treason.”

Hob could believe that. “Making me an accessory to your crime?”

She smiled again, small and slight, and he could very clearly see why the Stranger was so fond of her. Lucienne was like him in many ways, just as quiet, just as stubborn. “You are not a resident of the Dre— of our realm, so it would not be treason for you.”

“Good to know you won’t take me down with you.” Hob said, even as he knew that as his friend the crime would be substantially worse.

Lucienne laughed, then sobered, her expression turning solemn. “I am glad that he can trust you to keep his confidence. I will not ask you to break it.”

“Likewise.”

“Well I must say your attitude is quite refreshing.” Lucienne replied, and this time it really did feel like she was paying him a genuine compliment. “It seems that gossip is becoming a common occurrence.”

Hob scowled, far less dignified in his disapproval than she was. “Fucking hell.”

“Would you have any suggestions on putting a stop to it?”

“Tell your boss.”

“I’m quite sure he—“

“Knows, yeah, he probably does. But I think he should hear it from you anyway.” Hob said, because this time she really had shared a secret, vague as her explanation had been, and if the Stranger hadn’t already been told then it would be even more unfair to keep it from him. “At least someone should say it to his face. Should admit they know—show they aren’t keeping it a secret, because if you don’t tell him and he does already know, already knows you know, then he might just think your silence means you agree.”

Lucienne’s face fell.

For a moment she appeared entirely surprised, and entirely wrong footed, as if she had just caught sight of a mistake she had never meant to make. From what little Hob knew of her, he could tell that was not a situation she often found herself in. “I see.”

Hob had the weirdest urge to try and comfort her. “You know—”

“Do not condescend me.” Lucienne said sharply. “We both know that you’re right.”

Well then.

“He’ll appreciate it.” Hob offered gently, a metaphorical olive branch. “He likes honesty.”

Lucienne raised a brow. “He does indeed.”

There it was again, that feeling of appraisal, a glint in those eyes as if she was close to puzzling something out, and Hob did his best to ignore it. He shrugged, drained the last of his tea. “I’m going to tell him I saw you, you know.”

“Of course.” Lucienne replied smoothly, seeming both unsurprised by the fact he was seeing the Stranger again and the fact that he was going to tell on her. “I will have already informed him myself.”

Hob grinned. “Let’s hope our stories match.”

It was very nearly a threat.

Lucienne was undaunted. “I doubt either of us will be able to lie to him even if we wanted to.”

“I guess not.” Hob laughed, surprised by how her tone had softened, turned to something that was almost teasing. “I may not know exactly what he is, but I’m not completely ignorant of those mysteries abilities either.”

“I can guarantee he is more powerful than both of us.”

“He is, isn’t he?” Hob did not sigh dreamily thank you very much, but he did smile a little. Just a little. So apparently he was attracted to powerful men, so what? He liked the strength in his Stranger, the command he exuded with ease but without showing off.

Lucienne smirked, eyes knowing. “Too powerful for the likes of you.”

“Most definitely.” Hob replied cheerfully.

There was a moment of comfortable silence.

“This opportunity will most likely never occur again.” Lucienne said, setting her teacup down with undue delicacy before she stood. “Therefore I will say this now, it was good to meet you, Hob Gadling.”

Hob smiled. “Same to you.”

“As this is the first and only time we will meet,” Lucienne continued, suddenly staring down at him with that same cool judgement she had displayed when Hob had opened his front door. “I will leave you with one piece of advice—be careful, and know that if you ever hurt him, ever betray him, it will be the very last thing you do.”

Threatened in a dream. Will wonders never cease?

Hob believed her though, saw an analytical violence in those eyes, and knew that she would likely take him apart with a quiet, brutal efficiency. “I hope anyone else who would harm him would get the same threat. From both of us.”

“The same promise.” Lucienne corrected.

Hob found himself grinning, cold and the slightest bit feral. “Yes.”

The rest of the week passed by as normal.

Following that strange encounter with Lucienne, Hob had gone about his business as usual, but he couldn’t deny that as the days went by he started to feel a weird mixture of excitement and anxiety over the thought of meeting the Stranger again. This would be the very first time they had ever met somewhere other than the inn, somewhere other than a space that was intrinsically public, and Hob found that his bold offer had a surprising amount of intimacy attached to it. The feeling made him feel a little bit like a schoolboy with a first crush, suddenly inexperienced and young, and the novelty of that was as surprising as it was oddly compelling. He found himself spending an inordinate amount of time wondering just what he should do to prepare for his friends arrival.

Beatrice’s advice hadn’t been terrible.

Which is why Hob found himself bringing home a generous selection of vaguely overpriced food, as well as one bottle of obscenely overpriced wine, and trying frantically not to think the words ‘fuck his brains out’ lest his traitorous brain actually consider it. Hob was unclear on whether his Stranger would actually eat or drink any of it, but at least he’d bought him something high quality enough to tempt someone who used to go around wearing a ruby around their neck. He was fumbling with his keys when his neighbour, Anna, came out of her apartment, blonde hair shoved up in a messy bun, dressed ready for the gym. She laughed when she saw him, green eyes crinkling, and soon enough she had taken the bags from his hands so he could unlock the door.

“That’s some nice wine you’ve got in here.” Anna said, peering unashamedly into the bag. “Damn how much did you spend?”

“I’ve got a friend coming over.” Hob replied absently as he finally got the key in the lock, realising his mistake far too late, because there was a worrying moment of silence.

Anna was grinning when he dared look over at her. “A friend.”

“Yes.”

“Coming over.”

Had he said something wrong? Hob frowned. “Yes?”

“You’ve bought expensive wine for your friend. Who is coming over.”

“That’s the gist of it.”

Anna’s eyes lit up with something like victory. “When I come over you buy me cheap beer.”

“He’s got expensive taste!” Hob could admit he was getting a little flustered, now he’d caught the insinuation, and wondered just how obvious his little crush was for three people to have picked up on it. Lucienne had definitely suspected something, but it could not be that obvious, his Stranger couldn’t—

“He?” Anna sounded delighted.

“He’s not that kind of friend.” Hob said firmly, pushing the door to his apartment open and trying not to sound too bitter. “We had a fight ok? Long time ago.”

“Nervous to see him again?” Anna softened immediately, effortlessly slipping from teasing to concerned, brushing off his attempts to take back the bags and striding straight to the kitchen to place them on the counter. When she turned to face him her expression was sympathetic, open and so very warm. “It’s ok if you are.”

“A little.” Hob admitted quietly.

His Stranger had said that he’d meet him in a week, but to be honest Hob didn’t really know what to expect, and he was still trying to figure out how to ask. Would he be receptive to offering an explanation for that extreme reaction the week before? Was there still the risk of Hob saying something wrong and chasing him away again? He didn’t know for certain, couldn’t predict how things had changed, and the whole situation left him feeling like he was stumbling around in the dark, frantically hoping he didn’t crash into anything.

Hob hoped that his conversation with Lucienne hadn’t screwed things up even more.

Anna’s voice interrupted his thoughts, her tentative question. “When’s he getting here?”

“Sometime tomorrow.” Hob replied, pushing his anxiety aside, resolving to worry about it all later, beginning to unpack the bags of shopping so he had something to do with his hands. “I’m not exactly sure when.”

“He a local?”

“Not exactly.” Hob said with a small smile. “He—travels. Quite regularly.”

“Will he be coming up to Edinburgh with you?” Anna asked slyly. “You know, to help you move.”

Hob shrugged. “That’s entirely up to him.”

“It might be nice if he does. He can come with us when we go visit the castle—"

Hob laughed. “What? I didn’t agree to that.”

“Oh hush now.” Anna grinned, waving a dismissive hand in his direction. “We’ll go when I come visit you.”

It was never going to happen.

In two weeks Hob would be gone, this apartment would be empty, free for someone else to move into, and he was the only person who knew just what that meant. How many times had he done this? Enough to have a method, a technique, to have refined the best way to lie to all the people he grew to love. Some he had been lucky enough to bury, to come into their lives late enough to see them end, or early enough to hold their hand when tragedy struck, but there were scores of others that he left behind. It was grey streaks that would never touch his hair, wrinkles that would never form, and oh how hard it could be to navigate the passage of time when one didn’t outwardly change.

Anna would get news of his death just as Beatrice would, as Paul, as all the colleagues currently planning his leaving do.

There would be no emails, no Skype calls, no texts, no Facebook posts celebrating his new life, and there would be no visits. The stage is set, the players know their lines, because there is an enduring inevitability here that Hob cannot escape. No matter where he’s been, no matter where he will go, this is always on the horizon. It is always set in stone.

There will never be any possibility for a true goodbye.

Hob smiled even as it broke his heart. “I look forward to it.”

Chapter Text

The Stranger arrived mid-afternoon.

Hob wasn’t ashamed to admit that he’d spent the morning in a strange state of elated fear, distracting himself by making food, cleaning his apartment in preparation, and wondering what an earth he was going to say. There was excitement—of course there was, because he hadn’t been lying when he said that he was a little lonely too—but after that conversation with Lucienne he’d started to worry that their meeting might mean his Stranger might not come at all. It was foolish (probably) but Hob found it was a niggling fear that wouldn’t go away, a cold feeling in his stomach that had been distracting him all week. He found himself staring absently into space as he stirred the stew he’d made, wondering when his nerves had become so easily to shake, a little stunned at the novelty of actually being nervous.

It wasn’t something he felt often.

Hob decided to tell him about Lucienne when he arrived, even if it was highly likely he already knew, and if the Stranger needed to rage at him for a while then that was fine. Beatrice’s advice on apologising might not prove useful for someone who didn’t really eat or drink, but Hob would be sure to make it clear that they hadn’t been talking about him behind his back. There was a lot that he didn’t know, events unfolding behind the scenes, the exact nature of where his Stranger had been trapped and why, but Hob found he quite liked the puzzle of it all. He found himself unoffended at having to wait for it to unfold, for knowledge to be revealed, found the mystery as compelling as those moments when his friend looked him in the eye and chose to tell him something personal.

Hob almost jumped out of his skin when he heard the knock on the door.

It made him laugh a little, the way his heart leapt—his Stranger the only one to knock him so off balance, to make him feel inexperienced, who challenged him in this way—even as he was unsure of what mood his friend would be in when he opened the door.

It was quite lovely to be greeted with a smile.

“Good afternoon, Hob Gadling.” His Stranger said softly, a deliberate sort of delicacy to how he pronounced each word, as if he was relishing the sound of each syllable. Those pale blue eyes had no light of their own in them today—well, not yet anyway—and Hob found himself once again surprised at how easily his friend hid the depths of his power. “I believe that I may have startled your neighbour.”

He sounded the slightest bit perplexed.

Hob found he was far too relieved at the sight of him to fully digest that, somehow even more giddy than when he’d looked up and seen his friend standing before him in the inn. There didn’t seem to be any anger, any tension, a sinuous sort of relaxation in his friends thin frame. His hands were tucked into the pockets of his coat—it was longer today, almost floor length—the collar turned up slightly to hide a precious few inches of his pale throat, the black a delightful contrast. The ruby was still missing, a marked absence from around his neck, and Hob found himself once again unsettled at the uniqueness of the change. It had always been a highlight of colour, had drawn the eye, and without it his friend seemed a binary that didn’t truly suit him.

The reply was automatic, to hide how his eyes were wandering. “Hopefully she’ll forgive me.”

The Stranger glanced down the corridor, smile sharpening to a smirk. “I believe she will.”

“Do you want to come in?”

“That is the usual process for the acceptance of such an invitation.” The reply was a low, smug tease of sound, something managing to be warm rather than insulting. “Unless I am I to be left on your doorstep?”

“Well…” Hob teased right back, then laughed as he stepped aside.

The Stranger walked inside with one smooth movement, almost silent, and as soon as he moved across the threshold, heard the door close behind him, it was like a spell was suddenly broken. Hob couldn’t really say what had changed, even as he watched it happen, but the power he’d had been looking for seemed to suddenly rise to the surface. The air seemed to change, the space he took up seemed so much larger, or maybe denser, as if the gravity in the room was bending around him like it had noticed the presence of a sun. It must be something he did, to stay hidden as he moved through the world, the marvel of how he could sit in a pub without a single person gaining an inkling of what he was. His Stranger turned, light now shining in his eyes, the dizzying implication of cascading stars, and Hob realised that he no longer found the absence of his ruby so disconcerting.

Here was that hint of colour—that splash of red—that he’d been looking for.

“I spoke with Lucienne.” Hob blurted out.

The Stranger seemed amused by his sudden confession. “I am aware.”

“Yes but—” Hob shrugged as he searched his expression, finding that although body language and implication was all well and good, he was trying to encourage them both to use their words. “Are you angry?”

“No.” His friend answered instantly, no hesitation or implication of a lie, tilting his head as if perplexed by the question. “Is my temper that unpredictable?”

There was no safe answer to that.

“No comment?” Hob said with a grin, then moved on before his friend could decide if he found that insulting. “Lucienne’s nice, I like her. She reminds me of you.”

“She does?” The Stranger’s expression shifted, glowing eyes narrowing as if tempted to a scowl, uncertain as if he couldn’t yet figure out if he should be jealous or not. There was something oddly fragile about it, oddly concerned, like he was wondering if Hob would reject him for something better.

Maybe that was a deeper pain, a deeper worry.

“She’s got your sense of duty.” Hob said instead of addressing that, smiling teasingly to lighten the mood, unwilling to press such a button when he didn’t know enough about the trigger. “Frowns like you do too.”

The Stranger proved his point by making a very similar expression to the one he’d seen on Lucienne’s face—a severity to his brow that matched almost exactly, an endearing mirror—scowling further when Hob laughed. It was sullen in a way that was oddly petulant when compared with his usual solemn dignity, almost drawing his lips into a pout as he issued his rebuttal. “I do not frown.”

Hob laughed even harder. “Yes you do.”

“Lucienne was complimentary of you as well.” The Stranger replied, that strange fragility back in his voice, recognisable as insecurity rather than jealousy. “She said that you make an acceptable cup of tea.”

“High praise.” Hob replied dryly. “Though she did also threaten to kill me if I hurt you.”

His Stranger always paused when he was surprised, as if unused to anything being able to interrupt his momentum, the implacable way he moved through the world, and this time was no different. There was a slow blink of what Hob was fairly sure was his version of sheer incomprehension, eyelashes fluttering to fan across pale cheeks for the barest moment, and it was satisfying to be able to inspire it. Surprise was so rare a thing to see in his friend, even though Hob knew that the implication that he needed protection might ruffle some feathers. He was proven right a moment later, watched as the tell-tale sign of annoyance set tension in that already sharp jawline, offended pride pressing those lips into a thin line.

“I will not abide threats to one that is mine.” The Stranger said finally, a slow sort of menace to his words. “She should—”

“It’s fine. She knows I’d do the same to her.” Hob interrupted with a gall that surprised even him, finding that unpredictable temper was revealing some of its rules the more he poked and prodded at it. “Isn’t she yours too?”

“You are both insolent.” His Stranger replied, the words harsh even as he softened slightly, sounding more exasperated by a perceived foolishness than angry at a implied slight. “I do not require such concern.”

Tough, Hob thought, a little viciously, because you’re getting it.

There was a moment of heavy silence, not quite tense but something adjacent, as his Stranger seemed to almost hear the thought. It lasted long enough for Hob to move away from the door, realising he’d lingered by it, approaching him without trepidation, and though he didn’t dare to touch he still closed the distance to his friends comfort level. Hob didn’t really believe he could read his mind, but he could definitely do something, and whatever that was it still wouldn’t make him back down. Someone needed to care about him, to treat him like a person rather than a king, or an Endless (whatever that even was), and Lucienne seemed to be one of the only other people willing to try.

His Stranger didn’t move back, smiled a little as he approached, almost reluctantly amused. “What are your plans for our meeting today then, Hob Gadling?”

It wasn’t quite a concession, but it was a temporary truce, and Hob smiled back as he shrugged. “I know you don’t really eat but I made food, brought some wine. Perhaps we can continue our conversation?”

“I also brought something.” The Stranger said, holding up a bottle of wine he’d seemingly pulled out of nowhere. “I believe it is customary to bring a gift when one visits a friend?”

Hob frowned—trying to puzzle out where he’d been keeping the bottle, deciding that it was just one of those mysteries he’d have to wait to figure out—and then pushed aside his surprise, finding himself oddly touched at the gesture. The word ‘friend’ still made his heart leap every time his Stranger said it, spread warmth right down to his toes. Hob peered at the label on the bottle, found he actually couldn’t read it, and frowned even further because he didn’t even recognise the language.

His reply was absent. “Careful, I’m going to be expecting a gift every time now.”

“Oh?” The Stranger smirked as Hob refocused on his face, an odd sort of pride in the tilt of his lips, as if he enjoyed the thought. “Am I to spoil you?”

It took a moment for Hob to remember that his friend wasn’t flirting with him, the delay enough that he wasn’t quick enough to bite back his instinctive response. “It’s customary.”

“I see.”

Hob wasn’t sure what to make of his response, of the soft caress of words, so he did what he did best and changed the subject, leading his friend into the kitchen. The apartment was large enough to have been comfortable for a small family, and though Hob had no real concern about money accommodation was one of the few things really splashed out on. Few things could beat the lure of a real home, a place that was welcoming and familiar, a warmth to it that would always fill him with longing when he was going through the process of settling into a new place. He’d miss this one, Hob knew, even though he’d purposefully only been here a few years to lessen the ache, because it was always impossible not to grow attached.

He put it out of his mind.

There were two wine glasses already waiting on the kitchen counter, the stew bubbling away on a low heat to keep it warm, and Hob went to uncork the bottle of wine he had bought before he paused.

“Do you want to open yours?”

The Stranger had followed him just as silently as Hob had expected, peering around with a sort of detached curiosity, as if examining something he’d only really read about in a book. It was another thing Hob didn’t understand, a disconnect, because he remembered the Stranger talking about his realm with such pain. Hopefully it was just very different there, rather than not being much of a home at all, because he was struggling to find another explanation the way he was looking around. Hob watched as his friend set the wine he’d bought carefully on the counter next to the glasses, standing close enough that the sleeves of his coat brushed against him as he moved, and the resulting shiver almost made him miss the reply.

“I would try yours first.”

“Are you sure? You don’t really—”

The interruption was firm. “I am sure.”

Hob poured them both a glass. “It’ll need to breathe for a little bit, so I’m going to have some food while we wait.”

“Hm.” The Stranger peered into the pot with undue concentration, as if he was attempting to catalogue every molecule in his search for whatever he was looking for. “I must say that I find human food…unusual.”

That was one word for the disgust he’d often shown when being offered it.

“Don’t know any other type,” Hob shrugged as he ladled himself a bowl, realising too late that he had forgotten to get any bread to go with it. He glanced at the Stranger teasingly, found him still so very close, less than an inch away from being pressed against his side, and thought he may as well go all in. “Would you like to try some?”

“Yes.”

The simple acquiesce to something as simple as accepting a meal was a compelling contender for the most bizarre thing to happen to him.

Hob tried not to let his surprise show as he made up another bowl. He hesitated as he handed it to him, suddenly conscious that this might be an indication that he was missing something, that he was on the cusp of pushing too far. The Stranger accepted it without a hint of hesitation, but there also seemed to be no awareness of how hot the bowl should be, long fingers cupped around it as if the steadily building heat meant nothing at all. It would have already began to hurt Hob, to keep hold of it so long, and he almost burned his fingers carrying his own bowl to the dining table. The oversight was his, really, for not bringing the pot to the table like a normal human being and dishing it up there, but it couldn’t be helped now. The Stranger picked the side opposite him, set his bowl down carefully on the placemat, the setting Hob had arranged for two, and then followed him back into the kitchen to help him bring the wine.

“We’ll try yours next.” Hob said as he sat down, gesturing towards both bottles with a tilt of his head. “See how it compares to dream tea.”

“It should be much better.” The Stranger replied.

The understated confidence was just as attractive as always, and Hob found himself rolling his eyes fondly, then doing a double take when his Stranger began to take off his coat.

It’s very important to state that Hob was not proud of how he intently he stared.

He found himself caught off guard as black fabric slipped from slim shoulders, revealing that the shirt underneath did not have the long sleeves he was expecting, exposing skin as pale as moonlight. The subtle glow of power was becoming more and more familiar—Hob found himself admiring the coiled strength of it, tracing subtle lines of lean muscle as they moved beneath the skin—even as his friend was as slender as implied by the fit of his clothes. Hob had spent seven hundred years with the knowledge of the shape of his hands, admiring the hint of his throat, but he’d never so much as seen a glimpse of the skin above his wrists. It shouldn’t have been remarkable—they were just arms and it wasn’t like Hob was some repressed Victorian who’d faint at the sight of an ankle—but it felt so very intimate. There was a sensuality to it he knew was unintentional, a tantalising flow of movement as the Stranger draped his coat over the back of his chair before he sat down, seemed entirely unaware of anything out of the ordinary as he reached for his wine glass.

Hob was still staring in stunned silence.

It could have been easy evidence of vulnerability, this petite delicacy revealed by his thin shirt and too tight jeans, but there was an impression of strength that was impossible to deny. A coiled power that made the very accusation of vulnerability laughable, because Hob wasn’t caught by that at all, found himself trapped by what could only be temptation.

He remembered Beatrice’s advice about fucking his brains out.

Hob snapped out of it far later than he should have, averted his eyes before he was noticed, guilty at that long greedy look. He was entirely aware that the only reason he’d gotten away with it was because his friend was peering into his wine glass with the same undue calculation he’d paid to the stew.

The Stranger took a sip. “Hm.”

“You don’t have to,” Hob said quickly, because while he was still finding the sight of his bare arms incredibly distracting, the sight of him drinking wine was actually far more bizarre. “I’ve never seen you drink.”

“For you, I thought I would try.” He replied simply, as if that in itself wasn’t remarkable, then took another slow sip as he seemed to consider his final verdict. “It is pleasant, though not as fine as the sustenance I find in dreams.”

Hob thought back to the cup of tea he’d had with Lucienne, couldn’t remember anything particularly good about it, and watched as his friend took another sip of wine. He seemed to enjoy puzzling out the new experience, and Hob decided that this entire scenario was much too confounding to assess further, dropping the subject and scooping up a spoonful of stew. “Right.”

It tasted pretty good.

Hob had been cooking for a very, very long time, so long that he did it without even really thinking about it. There might have been some stress over cooking something his Stranger might be tempted to eat, but he’d settled on something hearty and warm. The meat melted in his mouth, the gravy rich and comforting, and the vegetables he had thrown in alongside it balanced out the flavour. Hob regretted forgetting the bread, but he was pretty happy with how it had turned out, and he reached for his own wine once he had eaten a few bites.

The Stranger was frowning at his bowl.

It would have been amusing if Hob could be certain that he wasn’t feeling pressured to eat with him. As it was, he found himself just about to speak, to tell him he didn’t have to, that he wouldn’t be offended, when one slim hand picked up the provided spoon and scooped up a small amount to test. Hob watched him blow on it lightly, as if suddenly concerned with the heat, then found himself waiting patiently for his reaction as the Stranger chewed thoughtfully. There was a minute frown; similar to his response to the wine, so clearly unused to the flavour, and then a nod of approval before he dipped the spoon back in again. Hob took a sip of wine to hide his own pleased smile, unable to shake a hint a pride even as he remained entirely baffled at seeing him actually eat.

“You are staring.” The Stranger said, amused.

“It’s weird.” Hob answered without thinking. “I’ve never seen you—”

“There are a lot of things you have never seen, Hob Gadling.” The interruption was soft, but unmistakable, firm only in how there was no expectation that Hob would keep talking once he’d started to speak. “This will not be the last.”

“Don’t feel pressured though.” Hob said carefully, insistent because he still wasn’t sure. “I know it’s not your preference.”

The next bite was almost rebellious, to prove him wrong, and then the Stranger arched a brow and regarded him steadily. “Do you presume that you could pressure me?”

“I don’t know.” Hob admitted honestly, feeling a twinge of apprehension at how similar the wording was to when they’d had their fight. “Don’t really want to find out.”

He knew that he was edging too close to concern, skirting the line of what the Stranger would tolerate, but he could find no sign of annoyance or anger. His expression remained calm, now tilting towards fond amusement, something almost humouring about it. That should have been condescending but it didn’t feel malicious—more a difference in age, in experience, as if Hob was the one who was being treated gently rather than the other way around—and perhaps it was an acceptance of his prior missteps. This soft humouring of his extended questioning now less a rankling at the perceived insult of expressed concern, more an acknowledgement of Hob’s tentative mapping of the Stranger’s boundaries, his worry about pushing too far.

“You have no need for such fear,” The Stranger said with a calm smile, the glow of power in his eyes soothing rather than overwhelming, like the reassuring presence of the North Star. “I would not have accepted if I did not want to.”

“Just let me know if something goes too far.” Hob replied seriously, even as he found himself relaxing, because he needed to make sure his friend knew he would always have the opportunity for a way out. “I don’t want to lose you again.”

For a moment Hob thought he’d protest, began to prepare for it as he watched his Stranger stir the stew thoughtfully, a deliberation to the action that managed to make a simple clockwise rotation effortlessly intimidating. It was very clear he wanted to refuse to admit that Hob had even hurt him but, luckily, his Stranger was more than smart enough to recognise that even he wasn’t silver-tongued enough to refute that. “Very well.”

“So,” Hob said, mollified by the response, letting his tone turn light as he gestured towards the stew. “How is it?”

His friend didn’t seem to be holding anything against him, moving on just as quickly from the slightly awkward place their conversation had gone, and laughed softly. “I believe I am supposed to say that it is very good but—”

“Oi!”

The Stranger continued undeterred, eyes bright. “I find that I have little experience of human food to compare it to.”

“Then it can easily be considered the best food you’ve ever tasted.” Hob retorted, unwilling to let him get away with teasing him without fighting back.

“Quite.” His Stranger smirked, a playful little taunt in his eyes.

Hob could never hold back a smile around him, found himself grinning now, something like contentment settling into his bones at the return to such easy banter. They finished the food but remained seated while they drank the wine, and Hob decided he’d clear the table once they were done with the first glass. The Stranger was still taking small, experimental sips, though he was quick to confirm that it was still pleasant when Hob asked, but it was obvious something about the taste must be confounding him. They talked a little more of this century—honestly there was so much to say that Hob still hadn’t managed to cover even a fraction of it—and then somehow they drifted back to talking about Lucienne.

The Stranger seemed to have something on his mind. “She thought it odd that you didn’t know my name.”

Hob deliberately ignored the implied question. “Yeah, I know.”

There was a smile to acknowledge his avoidance, a familiar intrigued gleam in his eyes at the successful challenge, and the Stranger allowed himself to be goaded into asking the question out right. “Would you request it?”

“If you want.” Hob shrugged, honestly not that bothered either way even if he considered that might seem a little strange. “There has to be a reason why you haven’t told me. You can always think about it, decide if you want to, and tell me next time we meet.”

His friend frowned with uncharacteristic uncertainty.

It was as if the Stranger was wondering if he was deliberately misinterpreting what he’d said, obviously unused having to clarify what he meant, which had probably started to become a more familiar occurrence the more time he spent with Hob. The light in pale blue eyes remained that glimmer of twinkling stars, the gleam of it an uncanny hint of the power within, but there was suspicion in the way he searched his face. The intensity of his regard was the same as it had been back in the inn, when he’d been looking for a trick, and as before he didn’t find one. He settled back in his chair with a considering hum, sipped at the last of his wine while he mulled over whatever it was that had bothered him.

After a moment the Stranger spoke, tilting his head to the side in a now familiar birdlike movement, a hint of goading challenge in his voice. “It does not bother you? The possibility of a no.”

There was something really disturbing in how he phrased that.

Hob was struck by difference between this and their previous discussion; his Stranger hadn’t seemed overly bothered then, amused by the suggestion that he’d be pressured to eat if he didn’t want to, relaxed while Hob had been the one concerned. Then there had been the playful negotiation back at the inn, how the Stranger had obviously enjoyed the thrill of it, and so it couldn’t be that he considered the request itself an overstep. Hob had backed down, was even more certain now that it had been the right decision, because he found something incredibly wrong in how his Stranger seemed to be expecting his response to be anger. It was an uncomfortable implication that he really didn’t want to follow to its natural conclusion, the beginnings of a question he didn’t want to ask, an idea that nonetheless ended up fully formed.

Who hadn’t wanted to take no for an answer?

Chapter Text

“I’ve known you hundreds of years without a name—why would it?”

The Stranger stayed silent.

It had always been difficult to read him, Hob had considered him almost entirely inscrutable until he’d learned to look closer, find those subtler cues that could speak so loudly if you paid attention to them.

It wasn’t quite suspicion in those starry eyes; there was no tension in his jaw, no sign of real stress the way there had been when they’d had their first and only fight, a calmer sort of regard even if it remained just as intense. If anything, the Stranger hadn’t even seemed to notice the uncomfortable thing he’d just implied, appeared curious rather than accusatory, and Hob wondered how his friend could so easily overlook something so serious. Maybe it was because the Stranger was clearly focusing on something else. The keen intelligence in that piercing gaze was looking for motive, assessing something he hadn’t ever dealt with—a relationship he’d perhaps never had, friendship without transaction or expectation—that same thing that had so stumped him when last they’d spoken at the inn.

Had that been the reason the Stranger had been trapped?

Had someone tried to take something from him that he hadn’t wanted to give?

It was clutching at straws, a judgement without enough evidence to know for sure, and the uncertainty of that was enough that Hob reconsidered asking him outright. He’d learned something of when to be careful, was getting the measure of what might be a push too far, and the subject of his Stranger’s imprisonment was one he didn’t yet feel comfortable enough to broach.

Hob didn’t think his friend even knew he was testing him.

“I said before that I’m not going to force you.” Hob tried to stay casual, calm, because there was an awful lot riding on him getting this right. Just like in the pub, just as with all his interactions with his Stranger. “I don’t need to know everything about you to be your friend. Honestly I’m pretty patient, and you’re not very open, so it works out. And hey, we can always build to it in another six hundred years.”

The Stranger set his empty wine glass on the table, gentle enough that it didn’t make a sound, and leant forward with a raised brow. “You aren’t curious?”

“Well, yes, but mostly because all this talk of realms and creations can be very confusing.” Hob admitted with a wry smile, then realised that might sound like he was fishing, knew he needed to be direct. “I just—some people are secretive, and that’s fine, you don’t owe me every detail of your life.”

The Stranger didn’t seem able to let it go.

“You’re not annoyed that I am not as open with you as you are with me?”

It was as if he needed to be sure, as if he was hunting for annoyance, searching for evidence of the judgement he expected to find, and if Hob hadn’t spoken to Lucienne he might have been insulted by that. He might have been offended if he hadn’t seen the look on his Stranger’s face when he’d spoken of a betrayal he hadn’t even recognised as one. There was tension in him now, building steadily, a coiled sort of power in the way he sat, hand resting curled around the stem of his glass. One elegant finger traced it, slid down to circle the base, a motion that was as far from a fidget as Hob had ever seen even as it seemed to serve the purpose of one.

“Not really.” Hob replied cheerfully, knowing the honesty in his voice was probably the best reassurance, trying to find what would soothe him. “To be honest, I was more annoyed when you didn’t want to admit we were friends, but that wasn’t about secrets.”

The Stranger paused with his finger halfway back up the stem of his wine glass. “I see.”

“You don’t need to change for me.” Hob said bluntly, watching as the slender digit slid all the way up to the bowl of the glass. “I’ve known you for seven hundred years, I don’t want that. You are who you are and I—“

Love you for it.

“—won’t ask you to be someone different.” He finished with a little shrug, deliberately ignoring what he’d instinctively wanted to say.

“It seems everyone wants me to be different.” His Stranger admitted quietly, a precious offering of insight into whatever was churning within him, as if consoled enough to do it. He’d relaxed once more, lost that coiled tension, hand now resting loosely on the table, but there was something resigned in his tone. “Easier. More open, perhaps. Less prone to anger. But I cannot. I am not.”

“Yeah, I know.” Hob said fondly, almost dreamily, because as sullen as his Stranger could be, as obtuse, his quiet demeanour was soft and kind. His silence had always been warm. “It’s ok. You aren’t that bad.”

It seemed to cut through the rest of the tension.

His Stranger laughed softly, raised a brow. “But I am some sort of bad?”

“Don’t get clever with me.” Hob rolled his eyes, but his smile didn’t fade. “You can be grouchy for sure, and quiet, but not bad.”

For a moment his Stranger hesitated.

It was as if he wanted to argue, or admit to something that had been missed, but then the moment passed and he shrugged. The roll of the shoulders was smooth, another of those casual movements elevated to imperiality, a kings inability to be swayed to the mundane. The Stranger smiled almost slyly. “A glowing recommendation to be sure.”

Hob wondered at the pause, filed it away for later. “I thought so too.”

The Stranger reached for the half empty bottle of wine, divided the remainder between their two glasses, and then took another slow sip. The silence was companionable, fell around them like the soft warmth of a summer night, and Hob let it linger as he reached for his own glass. The wine was good—even if it had been ridiculously overpriced—and he found himself considering buying it again. The rich flavour had accompanied the stew quite well; a fine compliment to the hearty meal, the soothing nature of it, that recipe for cold winter nights or those times where comfort was needed, and Hob wondered if that association meant something to the Stranger. He wondered if his friend could feel that too, even if he hadn’t eaten human food before, because even if Hob couldn’t give his Stranger a hug the least he could do was make sure he ate something warm.

“Thanks for trying it.”

The words slipped out on impulse—perhaps he should blame the wine, blame the slight buzz he felt for how he’d become so loose lipped—but Hob found he didn’t regret them. It was polite, after all, to thank his friend for how he’d renegotiated his boundaries in order to try something new.

The Stranger tilted his head. “You worked hard to prepare it for me, you chose a meal that meant something to you.”

There was something else there, something he wasn’t quite saying, or maybe something Hob wasn’t quite hearing, an implication of why it was different from other foods. Hob wondered if his friend may have picked up on why he’d chosen to make it after all.

He frowned, followed his instincts. “Would you enjoy it if I cooked for you again?”

“Yes.” The Stranger replied without hesitation.

“I’ll be sure to remember that,” Hob smiled, standing up and picking up his empty bowl from the table. “Let’s go wash up and then I’ll give you a tour.”

He reached out a hand for the Stranger’s bowl.

The Stranger stood, took Hob’s bowl instead of offering his own, brushing his hand against his in what Hob would mistake for a casual touch if it was anyone else. Not here though, not when his friend had spent centuries being so very good at folding himself away from anything accidental. The skin that touched his was icy cold, somehow managing not to be uncomfortable, and Hob barely had time to register the touch before it was gone. His brain still short circuited though, because the Stranger had never touched him before. Hob picked both wine glasses up off the table without really registering what he was doing, following his friend to the kitchen in a daze. When he came back to himself he was treated to the incredibly bizarre sight of his Stranger doing the washing up, and it seemed that the impromptu competition of increasingly bizarre events had a very obvious winner.

To be perfectly honest, Hob almost dropped the wine glasses.

And for a moment he just stared.

It was those damned arms again, slender and pale, the muscles flexing smoothly under the skin and Hob couldn’t quite help how his eyes trailed up to where they disappeared under his shirt. The black material was thin, a loose fit, and he could clearly see the outline of shoulder blades, the curve of his Stranger’s neck as his head bent over the sink. He’d never seen him quite like this, never been treated to the sight of his unguarded back, because even in the years where he’d forgone a coat the Stranger had always worn quite substantial layers.

Now Hob found himself curious about the skin under thin cotton, found his gaze slipping down the length of his Stranger’s spine without conscious thought.

After the shock wore off—and after he got his inappropriate gawking under control—Hob found himself almost offended. It wasn’t because the Stranger was a king or anything like that, but because he was a guest and there were rules. Currently his Stranger was wilfully ignoring them, scrubbing effortlessly at the inside of the pot Hob had used to make the stew, every movement still so very elegant, seemingly completely oblivious to the horror he was now inspiring. Hob wondered if he could nudge him out the way so he could do it himself, wasted precious time trying to figure out how to do that politely, without offending his prickly friend, and by the time he’d thought it through and started to approach him he was already done.

“Well?” His Stranger said expectantly, raising a brow at the step he’d taken towards him, drying his hands with a kitchen towel.

His smirk was knowing. Infuriatingly so.

“C’mon.” Hob replied instead of addressing the amusement in his friends expression, setting the wine glasses down on the counter and leading him from the room. “You’ve already seen the kitchen and the living room.”

Hob showed him the rest of the apartment—pointed out the remaining rooms and allowed the Stranger decide if he wanted to peer past the door, trying not to fumble when he pointed out the bedroom, acting as nervous as a teenager with a first crush. The spare room seemed to draw his attention, the Stranger zeroing in on it with some sort of hidden talent, as if he’d already known it was significant before he’d even stepped inside. The boxes were piled up and ready to go, stacked neatly here so they didn’t take up the main area, half his apartment packed up to be taken away. His Stranger examined the room with a cool curiosity, almost scientific in his assessment, as if cataloguing the structure of it in his mind, before he turned that piercing gaze on Hob.

“You are leaving.”

It wasn’t a question.

“Yes.” Hob smiled as he shrugged, leaning nonchalantly against the door frame. “I stayed too long.”

The Stranger frowned, seemed to recognise why that might be, must have remembered when Hob had said he’d been waiting for him.

“Where will you go?”

“Edinburgh.” Hob said easily, having spent the last six months carefully planning the move. “It’ll be a strange few years, transitioning into a new identity, and I’ll probably have to move again before I settle, but that’s currently the planed destination.”

Again, his Stranger proved so very perceptive; the frown deepened, glowing eyes narrowed, lips thinning to a tense line. “You’re worried.”

“This world is different.” Hob agreed, not even bothering to ask how he knew, how he’d been able to tell. “The technology I spent so long waxing on about? I wasn’t lying when I said it makes it a lot harder to fake a life. It’s no longer as easy to forge papers, not when everything’s becoming electronic, and this is the first time I’ll have to work around it.”

His Stranger tilted his head, exposed the full length of his pale throat, drawing attention to a glimpse of his collarbone. “I will help you.”

“You don’t need—“

“We are friends, are we not?” The interruption came smooth, undaunted, a sly glance that both dared him to argue further and succeeded in shutting him right up. “Is that not what friends do for each other?”

“Alright. You’ve got me there.” Hob still hadn’t gotten used to it, found his heart leapt in a way that was becoming more and more familiar every time his Stranger admitted they were friends, unable to help but feel giddy by it even if he was now using it to win this round. It was a effortlessly simple verbal trap, an elegant application of intellect, because Hob couldn’t say no without undermining his own argument.

And they both knew it.

“Besides,” His Stranger added slowly, a rolling caress of sound, smirking now as he pinned Hob to the spot with a single glance from those pale, glittering eyes. “By your own admission, are you not something of mine?”

Hob couldn’t help but laugh even as he hoped he wasn’t blushing. “You’re enjoying that a little too much.”

“Not nearly as much as I could.”

The comment stumped him.

It was an almost idle muse, as if a thought had slipped out, as if the Stranger was ever one to speak carelessly, and it had a weight to it that Hob couldn’t quite get the measure of. Hob was glad his friend had turned away as he spoke, unsure of what his Stranger would have found his expression had he remained in his line of sight, and watched as he raised a pale hand to rest on top of one of the stacks of boxes. There was a curious sort of deliberation to the movement, a purposeful care in how he flattened his hand on the cool carboard, and for a moment he didn’t move at all. Hob almost spoke, almost asked what he was thinking, but his Stranger slid his hand along that top box just as the urge arose. The index finger traced the edge, oddly savouring, as if he was reading something from the plain material, before the Stranger let go entirely with a soft, thoughtful hum.

He stepped further inside the room, towards the neatly made bed, the sheets fresh even though Hob lived alone, and when he turned back around to face him there was a uncomfortable knowing in his eyes.

Not pity, but understanding, as if the Stranger had read the very soul of him from just this one room.

As if he cherished it.

It was curious enough that Hob almost missed what he said, caught the whispered words only because the commanding nature of his friends presence was absolute enough that even a daydream couldn’t hold a candle to it. “You are sad to go.”

“It’s always hard,” Hob replied quietly, an ache in his voice he’d never let anyone see, the truth a relief when he spent so much time telling lies. “Leaving one life behind, knowing I can never return to it. I’ve done it so many times but it doesn’t get easier, I still mourn every one of them.”

“It hurts you.” His Stranger said, another of those keen observations, as if the light in his eyes could shine unflinchingly to every far off corner, no matter how shaded. No matter how hidden. “To leave.”

“Leaving is part of being human,” Hob agreed with a shrug, the words coming with an ease that spoke of how long they’d been bottled up. How long he’d spent churning this over in his mind without an outlet for what he’d learned. “It’s just the case that I always do it first. Being immortal—it’s the trade, the price, because everyone does it but living forever means that I do it more.”

“It is a lot to carry, for a human.”

Hob wasn’t offended, there was no condescension in his Stranger’s tone. “The longer the years, the heavier the burden. But the longer the years the more of me there is. It evens out. More pain, more joy—they go together.”

“You might yet change your mind about your condition,” His Stranger said quietly, an intensity to his tone that belied its softness.

“Nah.” Hob grinned. “I’ve got so much to live for.”

His Stranger smiled then, a soft little thing, something like wonder unfurling in his expression like a flower under the light of the sun. “Indeed.”

Perhaps he hadn’t been expecting to find someone of a similar mettle.

How long have you lived? Hob found himself thinking, the familiar questions bubbling up the same way they always did.

How many have you had to leave behind?

What he said was—

“And you? How’s your realm?”

“It is different for me,” the Stranger said after a worryingly long moment of silence, expression seeming to swing between an impenetrable blankness and something that seemed almost fragile. As if indecisive over the truth he wanted to tell. “My realm—it is a part of me, an extension perhaps, and while I was detained it decayed. They would have seen it happen, my creations, though many of them left before it crumbled entirely.”

The ‘and they did nothing’ went unsaid.

“And now?”

“I returned and it was all broken,” His Stranger continued quietly, decision made it seemed, because there was a pain in his voice that he seemed unwilling to disguise. “I could not fix it until I regained my strength. I had known that things would be different, that it might have been damaged but seeing it—“

Hob remembered how it had felt to lose his home, how he’d scrimped and saved and made sure he’d never be in such a position again. “Can’t have been easy.”

“No matter, it is now restored.”

He wondered if that was half the problem, how easy it had been to fix, because making something whole didn’t fix the pain of it shattering in the first place.

Hob thought about how often he should have died, how he’d walked away instead, how he’d had nightmares anyway. Perhaps it was something about how healing had been foiled by looking for a bullet wound he’d never find, unable to watch it fade to a scar, lost instead to the horror of an injury that had already disappeared. The punishment a body could take should be finite, an instance where it protected you and said enough, but Hob—well, he’d walked away from so much without a scratch, the horror of it carved into his mind, over and over, dozens of wounds that should have killed him. Crippled him. The swords and knives, the bullets, the time he’d been drowned, starved, sickened from plague—the corpse he should have been multiplied, piled up and rotted in his mind, the dichotomy of looking fine but knowing you weren’t, because his body healed faster than his mind could keep up with.

Hob knew how it felt to choke on his own blood, to frantically try and hold pieces of himself together, the slick horror of slotting organs back inside shredded skin.

The Stranger hadn’t been telling him anything new when he’d told him he could still be hurt.

Hob had needed to find a way to deal with that.

The time it took to heal was how a hurt could be soothed, peace could live in the measures taken to fix it—a memory, soothing lullabies in the dead of night, arms holding tight when he’d had a fever– the simple victory in weathering a storm, of fixing the gate after the wind ripped it off. Immortality hadn’t taken all of that away. Hob remembered rebuilding after the death of his wife, after his son, after losing everything, and how the pain had soothed only after he’d had a chance to rage. How he’d needed to rage. Then had come the first new house, the first new flowers blooming in the garden after months of toil, the simplicity of it a blessing after all that grief. Hob remembered seeing the Stranger too, of finally being able to tell him of what had happened, of finally being able to close that door even as he’d been at his very lowest.

Cutting out the middle, losing that time, well, Hob didn’t know what that would do to someone. Even if they were a god.

Especially if they were a god.

“Hob?”

He realised how long he’d been silent, lost in thought. “Sorry.”

“You are bothered by it,” The Stranger said shrewdly, eyes narrowed as they flicked across his face. “It discomforts you.”

“Just know how hard it is.” Hob said carefully, sensing a hint of the dangerous temper he knew could be provoked by wounded pride. “To lose so much so quickly.”

“There are losses that are not so easily undone.” The Stranger was stepping closer now, away from the stacks of boxes and the impeccably made bed no one had ever used, the same grief in his eyes that Hob had seen at the inn. “This one could hardly be called as such.”

It might not even be a lie.

And yet there had been pain in his Stranger’s voice when he’d spoken of his ruined home—as raw as if he was still bleeding—even as ‘home’ had never been the word he’d used.

The comparison to other losses might have been more revealing than his friend had intended, gave some idea as to the shape of these other, secret, wounds. It was another line to add to that unfinished marble statue, still sat before a sculptor holding a chisel raised to keep on carving, because it seemed pain wasn’t done with him. Hob didn’t think his Stranger had found a neat little catharsis. The tears hadn’t fallen yet. The wrath hadn’t burned out. Hob felt the same anger as before, the same furious rage at whatever had trapped him, at those who had known and refused to help. At those who hadn’t but were almost as guilty, who had so severely misjudged his Stranger’s character—at himself for the same crime—because even if he had already apologised it didn’t seem good enough.

Action was also needed to make amends.

“We didn’t try your wine.” Hob said as the Stranger stopped barely a foot away from him, close enough that he could count every eyelash if so inclined, realising too late that he’d changed the subject quite abruptly.

“We will try it next we meet,” the Stranger replied, not seeming to mind.

It reminded Hob of what they’d somehow forgotten to talk about, of what had been implied but not explicitly said, because even if his Stranger had said he’d help him when he moved they’d not yet discussed when their next meeting was going to be.

“So this isn’t a onetime thing?” Hob asked bluntly, leading them back to the dining table as he spoke, half turned so he could continue their discussion over his shoulder. “We didn’t actually finish our conversation.”

“You were right.” His Stranger said softly as he followed, as silent as a ghost for all the sound his footsteps made. “About the danger, about this new world we find ourselves in. I will not take the chance something might happen. We can meet more regularly, if that is still what you wish.”

“Yeah, it is.” Hob sighed, relieved by the confirmation, but also needing to make something clear before they parted ways. He turned to face his friend when they reached the table. “You know I didn’t mean to upset you, right?”

The Stranger frowned as if he’d said something foolish. “You raised a sound point, one I had overlooked.”

“Yes but I didn’t intend for it to change your mind. I wasn’t trying to manipulate you.”

“I know.” He seemed almost amused by the concern, a small smile playing at his mouth, as if the very idea was foreign to him. It was reassuring—what with the whole business of his Stranger’s confusion over the reasoning for Hob’s acceptance of the possibility of a no—and he was glad his friend still thought so well of him. “You need not worry.”

“Ok then.” Hob said warmly, releasing a tension he hadn’t realised he’d been holding. “So when can I next expect you?”

“I shall meet you in Edinburgh.” The Stranger smiled, looking around at the apartment with another of those curiously analytical glances. “Once you have moved.”

“Going to give me a day? A time?” Hob asked lightly.

“I will send word.”

He didn’t elaborate further.

Hob had to admit he actually quite enjoyed the challenge of how his Stranger could be so intentionally confounding.

“Would you like to speak to Lucienne again?” The Stranger asked as he reached for his coat, slipping it back on as he prepared to leave. “I will tell her of the compliment you paid her.”

Hob could recognise an attempt to soothe when he saw one.

He’d admitted to loneliness back at the inn, after all, and had just made it clear that what he left behind hurt him. The Stranger always listened so intently, but he’d never tried to intervene before, and Hob found himself filled with warmth even as it made him feel oddly like a child being ushered towards a potential new friend.

“Yeah, I would.” Hob replied, rolling his eyes fondly. “If it’s ok?”

Now he sounded like a child asking for permission to go off and play.

The Stranger smiled. “I will inform her. She will contact you herself.”

“In a dream?”

“Yes.” The Stranger seemed amused by what must be some private joke. “In a dream.”

“Alright then.” Hob said with a grin, undaunted by the tease of what he didn’t know. “I suppose I’ll see you in Edinburgh then?”

The Stranger nodded.

Hob walked him to the door, watched as the light in his eyes faded to something he could no longer see, power shoved beneath the skin so fast it felt like the air had been punched from his lungs. It reminded Hob half of a predator hiding in the grass, half of a diamond making itself appear a piece of coal. His Stranger opened the door, lingered for a moment; suddenly in between states, stars once again cascading in his eyes, pale skin lit by its own subtle glow, a contemplation of further disguise in how he had paused. There was an impish humour in the Stranger’s smile, a mischief that softened some of the sharpness in his refined features, wild like the tousled strands of his dark hair and just as pretty.

“Next time, Hob Gadling.” His Stranger said slowly, that familiar savouring purr of sound, a strange weight to his tone because when his friend made a promise he gave it as prophecy. “I will tell you my name.”

Hob froze.

That smile abruptly became a smirk.

“Or one of them, at least.”

Chapter Text

“So how’d it go?”

Hob laughed at Anna’s slightly salacious smile, her teasing wink. “Good.”

It had been a couple of days since the Stranger’s visit—days in which Hob had been replaying those last words over and over in his head—and Anna had knocked on his door to casually ask what his plans were for the week. Hob had been delighted to tell her that he already knew about the surprise party. Beatrice had done her best to keep it a secret, nodding politely when he’d casually mentioned what day the university was planning its own celebration, but Hob was not easy to fool. He’d immediately seen through the ruse, raised a brow as he stared her down, and Beatrice had thrown her hands up in frustration as she confirmed his suspicions. Anna’s reaction had been similar, she’d rolled her eyes when he’d told her that he knew, and after asking if he’d had lunch yet she’d invited herself inside and ordered them both some pizza.

It seemed the quest for revenge was warring with politeness—she ended up waiting until they’d both eaten a slice before asking the first question.

“Vague.” Anna grinned at him from her place next to Hob on the couch, turned slightly to face him, a blanket thrown over her legs, eyes bright despite her teasing tone. She reached for another slice of pizza as she spoke. “You’ve been keeping secrets.”

His affected expression of innocence hid how that cut a little too deep. “Me?“

“Yeah.”

“Well what did I do?”

“Your friend.” She said pointedly, a deliberate emphasis on the word, as she carefully selected her desired pizza slice and moved it to the plate on her lap. “You didn’t tell me he was—”

Anna trailed off with a sudden frown, as if the description was harder to put into words than she’d imagined, suddenly second guessing what she’d been about to say. It reminded Hob of what his Stranger had said about startling his neighbour, and he found himself quite amused by the perplexed expression that crossed Anna’s face.

Hob laughed. “Was what?”

His amusement seemed to snap her out of it.

“When you said your friend was coming over you didn’t say he was some kind of—of goth Prince who, by the way, happens to be absolutely terrifying.” Anna exclaimed, gesticulating wildly with the pizza crust she held in her hand, seemingly unable to contain herself. “And my god I thought that was bad enough, but he stopped to talk and I swear I almost died. The way he—well, goodness I haven’t blushed that much since—“

Hob stopped smirking long enough to frown. “What?”

“Oh! Shit. Nothing.” Anna seemed to realise she’d said too much, eyes widening in surprise at what she’d revealed, embarrassed, but when she ducked her head she couldn’t entirely hide her pleased smiles from his eyes. Hob found himself bemused, whatever his Stranger had said to her must have been nice. “The point is that you’re entertaining royalty and you didn’t tell me!”

It was true. His Stranger was a king. “It’s his business, I don’t ask.”

“A runaway royal?” Her eyes widened even further, head tilting back up to gape at him. “Your life is weird.”

You have no idea.

Hob shrugged, smiled guilelessly like the innocent man he wasn’t. “Oh I think it’s otherwise pretty normal.”

Anna laughed, took a bite of her slice of pizza, expression once again sly. “So did he like the wine?”

“Yeah, he brought some too but we didn’t get to it.”

“Oh?” Anna seemed impressed. “That’s quite a smooth way to ensure a second date, you know.”

Hob couldn’t help his small chuckle, shaking his head fondly, certain that was not at all what his Stranger had been intending. “I told you we aren’t dating.”

“I know. Didn’t mean to push it.” Her smile softened, suddenly worried, eyes searching his face as if concerned she’d pushed the joke too far. There was the beginnings of guilt in the way Anna bit her lip, a need to ensure she hadn’t overstepped. “You know I’m only teasing right?”

“Yeah, I know.” Hob smiled comfortingly, not at all bothered by the easy banter. “I’m not offended.”

“It’s just—you were so anxious about seeing him,” Anna said carefully, fiddling with the edge of the blanket, struggling to meet his eyes. There was obviously something more that was bothering her. “It must have been some fight you two had.”

Hob grimaced. “Yeah. It was.”

There was a moment of silence.

“I had a dream that I told Ian his feet look like trolls.” Anna admitted abruptly, smirking victoriously at his startled burst of laughter, confidence returning at the sound of his amusement. She seemed emboldened by it. “The weird thing is it’s actually true, but god forbid I ever tell him that. Some lies are necessary you know. Dream Ian broke the coffee table.”

He’d heard the story before.

It still made Hob laugh, even as he remembered something strange.

Anna had complained that the coffee table had broken a few weeks before.

Hob had gone over to see if it could be salvaged, remembered how he’d helped her sweep up shards of glass, watching her wince as she moved. Stitches, she’d said with a shrug, for a set of cuts across her back. It was that day, that bizarre day when everything had gone so very wrong, where everyone had—

The day that—

“You’ve never mentioned him before, this friend.” Anna was saying, pulling him from his thoughts, pausing with a sigh. “Urgh. I’m dancing around what I want to ask. Can I be nosy?”

“If you’d like.” Hob shrugged.

“What was the fight about?”

He took a moment to think of how to explain.

This was a lie here he needed to tell, a falsehood that he needed to figure out, the truth impossible to give in its entirety. Hob ate another bite of his pizza while he thought, chewed slowly so the lull in conversation wasn’t awkward. Even then he couldn’t find an easy way to translate what had happened, had only tentative guesses at why his friend had reacted so intensely, finding that it was still something he didn’t fully understand.

“I overstepped, crossed a boundary without realising. Offended him.”

It was too vague an answer.

Anna frowned, but didn’t push further. “And then you fell out of contact?”

Hob smiled tightly. “Something like that.”

My friend was in trouble and no one helped him, Hob thought but didn’t say, even those that knew left him alone. I think I’m the only one who’s apologised for thinking the worst.

“And now?”

“I think things are getting better.” Hob replied, the smile coming easy this time, the words not even close to being a lie. The once tentative hope felt more solid now, something strong enough to show off, to be proud of. “We’ve agreed to meet more often. It was—difficult, before. He takes his job pretty seriously.”

Anna grinned. “So he is going to meet you in Edinburgh?”

“He said he’s going to help me settle in.” Hob confirmed, still smiling, unable to stop really, though he must admit he still had no idea how the Stranger was going to help him. He didn’t know nearly enough about the mysterious powers his friend possessed to make a guess of it. “I’ll see him after I move up.”

“I’ll leave you to it then,” Anna announced abruptly, getting up from the couch, folding the blanket into a neat square before setting it back down. She picked up her plate. “I’ll swing by tomorrow so we can head to the inn together?”

The leaving party.

Hob had both been looking forward to it and dreading it in equal measure, unable to help but feel slightly sick at what it meant, but he smiled and nodded. “About six?”

“Better to aim for five.” Anna grinned. “We’ve got a lot planned.”

“Going to be making me dinner?”

“Something like that.”

Hob followed her to the kitchen, intending to take the plate off her hands, but just like the Stranger she was much too quick. Anna shushed his protests, washed up her plate and dried it, returning it to the cupboard, and then made her way to the door. She left with a jaunty little wave, mischievous, closing the door gently behind her.

Hob stood in his living room for a moment, silent and still.

He thought he understood something of the Strangers reluctance to get close to people.

Hob had been a lord once, owned a grand house and everything, and more recently, spent some years as a Professor. He’d owned countless businesses and he knew the rules. A good manager doesn’t shit down. It made sense that his Stranger would never want to confide in his subjects, in his creations, because even Lucienne was a part of whatever realm he had to keep running. Even she was something of an employee, something of what he always had to be a king for. Hob could understand how lonely that would make someone. He knew what it was to keep pain bitten back, to smile and lie the same way you’d lied a thousand times before. The tread of old ground could still sting, no matter how familiar the path; it’s a different pain, a different reason perhaps, a different necessity, but it’s a line Hob also had to walk.

That oh so fragile distinction between distance and comfort, of loneliness and danger.

No one can ever truly know him.

Except, perhaps, for one.

Hob might not be able to be that for the Stranger, but he was someone outside of his realm, some unique constant unbeholden to his rules. An anomaly.

A friend.

They closed the New Inn early.

It was a good venue for a party, small but cosy, and since Hob already owned it he’d considered it better than having his friends worry about hiring a place out. He’d still wanted to pay his staff for a full shift, felt more than a little cheeky at cutting it short, but Paul and Beatrice wouldn’t hear of taking money for attending a party, and there wasn’t really anything he could do to force them. Hob would just have to drop some extra money in their accounts when he issued their next pay check.

Their last pay check before he faked his death.

It wasn’t the leaving do the university was throwing for him, was smaller and more intimate than the faculty function he’d attend later in the week, but there was something nice about the more intimate gathering. To be honest, it reminded him of the in class celebrations he’d been having all week, the sincerity of a caffeine deprived student ambling over to hand him a card. There had been many such encounters—the countless times ‘See ya around Dr G!’ had been bellowed down corridors as he passed was slightly mindboggling—all just as memorable as each other. Hob had been particularly fond of the new student, a young woman who’d recently woken up from Sleeping Sickness, handing him a gift from her whole class.

Hob still remembered the fist bump one student had given him.

He wondered what his Stranger would have made of someone attempting to do that to him. Hob decided that an expression of perplexed affront was probably the best someone was going to get, depending on what mood they caught him in.

“What are you smiling at?” Beatrice asked, already shooing Paul away from the bar.

“Nothing.” Hob shrugged, watching as the bartender acquiesced with an fond eyeroll, allowing the woman full control of the drinks.

She seemed too distracted to question him.

Beatrice quickly got to work, made Hob a cocktail that was definitely too strong, a concoction that tasted delicious but he was fairly sure was entirely of her own design. She didn’t seem at all concerned with measuring out the units. Paul sighed as he watched her, resigned, the mental tally of how much it all cost clearly visible on his face, but he was smiling. He’d arranged for food, a spread of it across two tables that had been shoved together. Anna, on the other hand, unreservedly cheered her on, sipped happily at her own drink when it was handed to her.

After a moment she revealed that the box she’d brought with them contained a cake decorated with ‘Don’t forget us you arsehole’ written across it in icing, obviously homemade and looking delicious.

Hob smiled knowingly. “How much did you bribe your fiancé for that?”

“Shh! Ian likes you, did it for free.”

“And the writing?”

“Ok, fair,” Anna smirked. “He wanted to say something sweet before I put a stop to it. He apologises for missing tonight, by the way.”

Hob didn’t mind, knew he’d still get to see Ian before he left, and made sure to reassure his friend that it was alright. They continued to drink as the other guests began to arrive, steadily trickling in, patiently waiting for who would arrive first, and Hob grinned as the door opened to reveal the couple who lived down the hall from him and Anna.

Peter clapped a hand on his back. “Nice to see you mate.”

“How’re the kids?” Hob replied with a smile, looking between them both knowingly. “Heard something about a lost tooth?”

Jane beamed. “First one! Elissa was so excited for the tooth fairy to arrive.”

“I bet.” Hob said, matching the brightness of her smile, then allowed his expression to turn serious. “And your sister? She keeping well? I heard she’s still in the hospital.”

“Doctors say she’ll be out soon,” Jane replied, sounding relieved at being able to report the good news, a worry in her eyes that was only half soothed, tentatively hopeful. “Though she’ll have to take it easy for a while once she comes home.”

“Glad to hear it.” Hob said, his concern honest, even as he tried to remember what had happened to her, perplexed as he realised that he didn’t know. The only thing he remembered was that she’d been injured a few weeks ago. “You’ll have to give her my best.”

“You can come visit before you leave if you want.” Jane replied softly, the sort of hopeful one could only be after nearly losing someone dear to them. “I know she’d love to see you.”

Hob promised that he would, watched with a frown as they wandered over to the bar, unable to put his finger on what was bothering him, and then found himself distracted as the door opened again. Simran was next, a young woman who tended to do evening shifts and closes (Hob hadn’t seen her in a few weeks, had given her as much time off as she needed after her mother had died), then Harj and Michelle. They were followed by Nick and Jason (his arm in a cast), then Abi. Mrs Smith—oh please can me Janet—popped by to give him something to take with him when he moved, a wrapped gift she placed on the table next to the food. Her hands were soft, wrinkled, crows feet indenting the corners of her eyes, laugh lines crinkling the corners of her mouth. There were streaks of grey silvering her dark red hair, marks of a life well lived.

“I heard about your daughter.” Hob said carefully when he greeted her. “She woke up?”

Mrs Smith smiled, her eyes glassy, her voice choked. “She did.”

He pulled her into a hug. “Then we have something else to celebrate.”

Beatrice’s girlfriend Holly appeared an hour in, kissed her on the cheek, and then shyly offered Hob a wrapped present.

It seemed to inspire a flurry of gift giving.

There were lots of little souvenirs; an air freshener to put in his car, a doormat for his new place, some fridge magnets of London landmarks so he ‘didn’t forget what Big Ben looked like’. Abi bought him a mug. Hob got a knitted scarf from Peter. Mrs Smith’s gift turned out to be a set of Christmas decorations, something to remember her by when he put up the tree.

Anna had bought him several packets of seeds.

When Hob looked up she seemed embarrassed, shrugging with a blush. “I thought you might want to grow them. In your new place.”

“Thanks Anna,” Hob said, pulling her into a hug to hide his suddenly glassy eyes.

They brought the cake over, handed him the knife to cut it, and Hob was just about to slice it when—

“We need a picture.” Beatrice exclaimed excitedly. “Squish in!”

“Hob doesn’t like photos.”

He shrugged. “I think I can manage the one.”

They gathered around him, Paul slung an arm around his shoulders, Anna taking the chair on his other side. They all smiled as Beatrice raised her phone, watched her frown as she shuffled to get the right angle, tapping the screen and muttering about filters. Hob had to admit technology changed so fast it was hard to keep up, kept a minimal online presence, and wasn’t as practised as he could have been. It doubled as an effective guise, allowed him to hide behind the pretence of being of the wrong generation to understand, something he wouldn’t be able to do for much longer.

Jason yelled for her to hurry up and she shushed him, but told them all to smile.

“I’ll send it to you.” Beatrice said before he could even ask to look at the picture, already tapping away. “I know you don’t like Facebook.”

“Or Instagram.” Paul chimed in.

His phone lit up with the notification and Hob swiped at his screen to open the picture. It was probably a mistake to do so here, but his slightly drunk brain didn’t care, and he found himself momentarily frozen when he looked at it.

Hob glanced between the photo—the smiling faces, this collection of people he’d never see again—and the gifts piled up on the table in front of him. He’d take these things into his new life, these souvenirs, these soon to be relics of something put to rest. Some of it he’d need to be careful with, the photos, the things that left a trace, because the crisp HD pictures were something he’ll always have to hide. It had been one of his favourite inventions, the memories he could save with only the press of a button. There was a gift in it, a curse too, the ability to look at his own smiling face, the ones next to him, an instant frozen in time.

He could come back to it in one hundred years, this life that was far away but not lost, because Hob could take things with him, but never people.

He would have time to cry later.

For now Hob enjoyed the time he had left with them, drank and ate cake and failed at playing darts. Despite his broken arm, Jason beat all of them quite easily, which was an incredibly impressive feat given how he wasn’t even able to use his dominant hand. Beatrice continued to make cocktails, pouring pints and shots, serving mocktails for those who didn’t drink, and Holly let him try some of hers to prove they were just as good. Eventually the night started to wind down, Jane and Peter heading off first to put the kids to bed, hugging him tightly as if now was the final goodbye. Soon almost everyone had followed, leaving after extracting promises to stay in touch.

Promises Hob would never keep.

It left only a few of them—Holly and Beatrice, Paul and Anna—and one of them decided it would be a perfect idea to bring out a game of monopoly.

The least said about that the better.

They’d all known that it would be a mistake to play something that could get so vicious, but to be honest they’d all been well on their way to drunk by that point, so logic wasn’t really at the forefront of anyone’s minds. Lots of things sounded like excellent ideas while drunk.

Like casually mentioning his Stranger.

“Is this the secret boyfriend?” Holly whispered loudly, the only one of them still sober and therefore having no excuse for the monopoly fiasco.

Beatrice blushed. “Well—”

“Hob’s got a secret boyfriend?” Paul asked with a frown, evidently having missed all previous insinuation, despite being at the bar when his Stranger had shown up. “Is this the guy from last week?”

Anna nodded. “I think so. Turned up the other day.”

Hob rolled his eyes. “We’re friends.”

“Right. So what’s he like then?” Paul said, still frowning, something innocently curious in his expression. “Beatrice, Anna—you’ve met him properly, what do we think?”

“Don’t I get to explain?” Hob said dryly.

“We need an unbiased opinion.” Paul retorted smoothly, the logic of the slightly drunk impossible to refute, eyes flicking between Beatrice and Anna as if deciding who to call on first. Eventually he seemed to decide to go with the person he knew best. “Beatrice?”

“It’s going to sound a little weird…”

Hob watched as Holly nudged her girlfriend, smiled encouragingly.

Beatrice sighed. “Fine. He spoke to me and I felt like I’d heard his voice before, as if he used to read me bedtime stories or something.”

Anna blinked. “That’s so weird! I felt exactly the same. He looked at me and—”

She paused, then fidgeted.

“Never mind.”

“You can’t leave it there!” Beatrice exclaimed. “Not after what I just admitted. C’mon…”

Hob had to admit he was curious too.

Anna hesitated, frowning, just as embarrassed as she’d been the day before, and Hob wondered if she was going to make another remark about royalty. “You’re going to think I’m being silly.”

“No, go on.”

“I had the weirdest feeling of relief when I saw him, of familiarity—as if he’s someone I know who’s been away a long time, someone I’ve missed so dearly my heart ached at the sight of him.” She laughed, shaking her head as if in disbelief. “How odd is that?”

Hob didn’t find it odd at all.

“What’s his name then?” Paul said suddenly, taking all of this in stride with remarkable ease, turning to Hob with an expectant frown as he asked the one question no one else seemed to have thought of.

Hob’s half-drunk brain promptly stalled.

“Jeremy.” He blurted out.

It was the first name that had popped into his head.

“You could have asked him to come tonight, we wouldn’t have minded the extra person.” Paul replied with a comforting smile, as if trying to reassure him that he didn’t need to be worried about making a new friend. “Would have been interesting to officially meet this mystery man.”

“Maybe I’ll bring him when I come down to visit.”

“You better!”

Hob laughed with them, even as he knew that he won’t.

Rather than focusing on the pain of that, and the slightly ridiculous notion of explaining to his Stranger why he had to answer to the name Jeremy, Hob found himself fascinated by the ease of this. There was a marvel here, something precious about sitting around a table discussing his crush—his male crush—because even if he was coyly denying it the very insinuation was something that would have once gotten him arrested. Hob’s realisation of his attraction to men hadn’t been slow going, but his acceptance of it had, because it was so very hard to believe that something was good when the whole world insisted on telling you it wasn’t. For a long time it had been a source of shame, something to be hidden, and then merely another reason to fear.

He was enjoying this celebration of it.

Hob and Anna were almost the last to leave, Beatrice practically throwing them out when they tried to help with clean up—“I’ll bill you for it” she said with a grin—stumbling out the door and into a taxi. There was graffiti nearby, the derelict building that had been the old Inn had been vandalised a couple of weeks ago. Hob was careful with his bag of gifts, the box of leftover cake, and had no spare hands with which to help Anna as she wobbled her way up the stairs of their apartment building. She held him tight as she wished him goodnight, pulling away with a slightly sad smile, and it was just another goodbye in an endless string of them.

Another ending.

Hob will pack up his bags, his colleagues will throw him their leaving do, and there won’t be any tears because he’ll promise to write. He won’t. Robert Gadling will die suddenly two weeks after he left and his ‘brother’ will continue on. In a couple of decades he’ll come back down, maybe as a secret son, and everyone will say how much he looks like his dad. He’ll look old colleagues in the eye and pretend he does not know them, that he was not at their wedding, that he did not hold their new-born children, and it will hurt as it always does. He may even see Anna again, move back in to this apartment, and he will look her in the eye and lie when she tells him how much he reminds her of a friend.

That’s if she remembered him at all.

Every new place is sand in an hour glass, the ticking of a clock, and perhaps that countdown is what they feel too, his mortal friends, because it seems time runs out for everyone.

Even him.

Hob always left some of the packing until the last day.

It was part of the method; carefully leaving things so that he’d have something to do, making sure he was kept busy in the meantime, a way to prevent him from being alone with his thoughts.

It made it easier, and Hob welcomed the distraction.

Anna had said she was going to pop by to see him off, already suspiciously teary eyed, and Hob needed the calm of work still left unfinished lest he start crying himself. The kitchen was done, cutlery packed away, dishes stacked with bubble wrap to cushion them. The fridge was empty, the cupboards bare, and all in all it almost looked like it had when he’d moved it. The skeleton of the life he’d lived here exposed to the elements, stripped to the root, the pale bone of it now so very garish to his eyes. Something in this space rang hollow, eerie like a ghost, because Hob was a day between never stepping foot in here again.

Last week it had been a home—next week it would be a memory.

Hob was sending the majority of his stuff up to Edinburgh in a van, the remainder he’d take with him in his car as he travelled. A flight would be quicker, and he’d even considered taking the train instead, having found that he quite liked watching the countryside pass by. He’d settled on a long drive, decided that he’d pick up a new car once he was settled. It was the beginnings of the transition into his new identity, easier to travel like this than to have to buy tickets, because Hob was trying to do his best to avoid an obvious trail. There were other reasons too, psychological ones. A clean break would be better.

The last thing Hob packed were the gifts.

He picked up the Stranger’s bottle of wine, made sure to wrap it well so that it wouldn’t smash, placing it carefully into the box. Next time they’d share it.

Next time—

Hob paused, overcome with a feeling of something tantalisingly unfamiliar, frowning because something about this was different. He looked at the bottle in his hands, followed the train of thought, the plan he’d made, that little link he’d created between this life and the next. He was doing more than taking something with him this time.

He was burying one identity in preparation for another, moving place forever—

And for the first time, Hob had someone waiting for him.

Chapter Text

The first night was always one of the hardest.

Hob arrived in Edinburgh the same the day he left London, pulling off the motorway just as the sun began to set, and when he arrived at his new flat the landlady was there to give him the keys. Julia greeted him with a smile, unperturbed by his subdued demeanour, mistaking it for tiredness. Hob left what he’d brought with him in the car, unlocked the door to a cold, empty space filled with boxes he didn’t want to unpack. Some he had to by necessity, items he needed, fresh sheets to make the bed. The rest he left for later—perhaps when he’d moved again, the gifts too painful to look at, they weren’t yet the comfort they’d been meant as—because the drive had given distance, but right now it only felt like miles.

Time hadn’t yet worked on this wound.

Hob felt like he could turn back, could laugh and say he’d changed his mind, could stay, but that was a familiar feeling. A red herring to enhance the plot. A familiar audience wouldn’t fall for it, but Hob wasn’t watching, was living, was the actor on the stage saying the same lines they’d said a thousand times before.

He couldn’t turn back.

For a moment Hob was blinded by the rage of it, a sickening bitterness at how unfair it was, something dangerous and ugly suddenly clawing to be let out. Did it make him greedy? To want more? To want more time when he’d had so much already? Hob didn’t know. Perhaps it did, or perhaps it just made him human, but there was something ugly within that too because sometimes there was agony in being what you were.

Sometimes there was loneliness.

The kitchen was bare, utensils and plates still packed away, and Hob just couldn’t face it tonight. He ordered a takeaway instead, and as he ate it alone he couldn’t help but remember the pizza he’d shared with Anna, the way they’d both laughed.

The tears came then—that clawing thing within him not so ugly after all—they rolled down his cheeks, still more falling when he angrily brushed them away.

It took a long time for them to stop.

It took even longer for him to drag himself to bed, and that night Hob found himself falling into an unsettled sleep.

It was something of a mundane horror, a dream where everything seemed just a little bit off, different from how sometimes even the most horrifying nightmare didn’t make the sleeping mind so much as flinch. It was indistinct, a creeping anxiety, a sense of wrong pervading till a whisper became a screech. Then it soothed, felt like something reached in and blunted the edges, took the pain somehow. No, that wasn’t right, it wasn’t taken, just moved somewhere different. For later. A sharing of a load rather than bearing it for him. It was a familiar feeling, Hob’s sleeping mind realised, though one recently missed, and he welcomed it back like an old friend he’d longed to see again.

This was the way it was, the way it should always be, the feeling of being known.

As if someone walked beside him in the dark.

Hob had the weirdest feeling he was being stalked by a raven.

First the bird was perched on his car.

Then it had flown by him on his first trip to the supermarket—surprising him so much he’d completely forgotten to buy some plant pots on his way back—then it had been perched on the tree outside his flat. Then it had appeared on his window sill when he was doing the washing up, beady eyes fixed on him. Hob had very nearly dropped a plate. He’d realised then that he’d also seen it on his drive up, nonchalantly circling the service station he’d stopped at for petrol. There wasn’t really any logical explanation for it, and Hob tried putting it out of his mind because he was currently too busy for weirdness, focusing on setting up everything he’d need to begin the transition into his new life.

There was a technique to this.

A transition phase between one life and the next. Hob couldn’t settle yet, needed to shed his old life first, was currently stuck like a caterpillar in a chrysalis as new wings formed.

He wouldn’t be going back to academia—not for a good few decades at least—because the circles were small and the entire community knew each other far too well for him to get away with it. Hob couldn’t slot back in, couldn’t join without compromising himself, and he needed to wait long enough that he wouldn’t be recognised. To be honest, he actually didn’t know how he’d be able to return even if he was considering the option—needed paper records, a portfolio of work, an array of contacts who could vouch for him, and it might all end up being too hard to fake.

Hob would cross that bridge when he came to it.

For now he began preparing to kill the current Hob Gadling identity. This had been the first time in a long time he’d used his real name, and Hob had given careful thought to what he’d changed it to. The name on the lease he’d signed for Julia was Robert Garner. It wasn’t so different that he might have trouble remembering, trouble transitioning to it, but it wasn’t so similar that he’d give himself away.

Robert would stay for now, he’d decided, but the surname had needed to go.

It took days for him to muster up the motivation to empty his car.

What prompted him was the need to sell it, to switch vehicles quickly, and to do that Hob needed to move the boxes. There were only a couple, primarily the gifts, and as Hob grabbed the first one he heard a sound from behind him, the awkward cough of someone trying to get his attention without being rude.

“Hello?”

He turned, already smiling. “Yeah?”

The man who’d spoken was young, more of a boy really, with dark green eyes and light brown hair, slightly gangly with what must have been a recent growth spurt. He smiled hesitantly, obviously a little shy.

Hob knew he should have done this at night.

There was a flash of panic, of pain; the memory of Anna’s enthusiastic greeting when they’d first met, her carefree laughter, Paul’s gentle smile as he remained so very unflappable, Mrs Smith’s kind eyes, Beatrice’s—

It was too soon.

To be honest, Hob had entirely overlooked the fact that people might try and talk to him, attention utterly absorbed by the complicate tangle of new lies he was going to have to tell. It was foolish of him. Still, he could fix this, Hob would be the quiet neighbour no one remembered, someone who didn’t make a mark, someone who—

“Would you like some help?”

“I—” Say no. “Yeah, sure.”

Damnit.

“I’m Sam,” The boy offered, still slightly shy. “I stay in flat 5.”

“Hob,” He replied, trying to think of a way to extract himself from future assumptions of sociability. What had he said last time he’d had to do something like this? “I’ve just moved into number 9, but I’m only here temporarily.”

“Same as Ada then,” Sam shrugged, shuffling foot to foot as if sensing something of his mood. “They’re waiting on a visa to work in Canada.”

Hob sighed.

He handed over one of the boxes. Sam smiled brightly, waited while he grabbed another, glanced between him and the car, obviously calculating how much was left. He jerked his head towards the box in his hands. “This one isn’t too heavy, I can take two.”

Between them they quickly emptied the car, the amount of trips back and forth cut in half by the assistance, and soon all of the boxes were stacked on the living room table.

Sam turned to him with another shy smile. “Have you met anyone else yet?”

Hob had not.

It snowballed.

As soon as he answered no to Sam’s question his fate was sealed, because Hob was introduced to most of the other residents in his building in what felt like a single day. First, the family that lived next door, then the student that lived on the other side, and most recently the elderly couple that lived down the hall. He’d been invited over for tea, stopped for a couple of friendly chats in the hallway, and somehow Hob found that he’d offered to babysit next week. That one had slipped out before he could stop it, the child in question his six year old neighbour whose birthday would come up before he’d leave.

Hob would have to get her something.

It was stupid—of course it was, almost masochistic—the pain he was setting himself up for by doing this, but he couldn’t help it.

Hob couldn’t stop.

This was the start of the cycle, the root of what had made leaving London so very hard, because Anna and Paul and Beatrice had once been just as new. They’d been just as—

He needed a distraction.

Hob decided to spend some time making the flat look a little more lived in.

He still couldn’t face the gifts—though he’d made a note that he still needed to buy some pots for the seeds—but the rest he could make a start on.

Hob found himself turning on the TV as he worked, letting it run in the background, barely listening to the news. There were reports of reconstruction following damage, following vandalism, arson, a worldwide pandemic of broken infrastructure that the global community had spent the last few weeks rebuilding. Hob suddenly heard a name he recognised, snapping to attention as he listened. Richard Madoc, the author, had been hospitalised following what appeared to be some sort of mental breakdown at one of his lectures. Hob knew of him, had never met him of course, but he’d shot to fame quite recently.

Hob had read his first book.

To be honest, the others didn’t seem quite the same, a change in style he couldn’t put his finger on, a feeling he’d been unable to shake.

The next story was a piece on those who had woken up from Sleeping Sickness, the rehabilitation efforts being put in place for millions of displaced people. Some had been afflicted for decades, reported living a whole life in a dream, and much of what they had left behind no longer existed. There was a charity being set up, donations flooding in, a network of volunteers to help them adjust to life. It reminded him of that new student, so determined to return to normality, the others like her he had encountered in the past few weeks.

The news changed.

It was a report on the record breaking numbers of patients admitted for serious injury in the last few weeks. How it was the same all around the world. Hob listened with a frown, knowing there was something he was missing, something that seemed so very familiar. The report was nothing new, he’d heard it before, a similar story ran at least once every day, but Hob couldn’t quite put his finger on what had caught his interest.

Thinking about it felt trying to remember a dream.

Hob turned the TV off after the story finished, unsettled without knowing why, some age old instinct sitting up to take notice.

The feeling faded by the time he’d made a cup of tea.

By the time evening rolled around he didn’t remember it at all.

Hob slept and found himself on a cliff.

The height didn’t scare him, the wind somehow didn’t bowl him over. It should have made his eyes sting, but even as it buffeted the sea it didn’t touch him. Hob was dressed warmly, a thick coat, scarf and gloves, but even then the chill didn’t register. The sky was clear and bright, sun high in the sky, and Hob sat there in a folded chair and gazed out across the ocean. The sea glittered under the light like the scales of a great snake, the waves a curving undulation as Hob watched them break against the shore.

He wondered why his mind had chosen this as their meeting place.

“Hello Lucienne.”

Hob knew she was there without needing to turn around.

“Hello, Hob Gadling.”

She pulled up a chair beside him, the piece of furniture appearing out of nowhere, and once seated began to unscrew the lid of a silver thermos. Hob didn’t question its appearance. Lucienne poured what was undoubtedly tea into the lid, passed it over to him, and he took it with a smile. She poured another for herself, a mug appearing for her use, and for a moment they sat in silence as they both took a sip.

Then Hob turned to her. “Surprised to see me again?”

Lucienne smirked, her dark eyes sharp behind her glasses, matched his teasing tone. “I must admit I was not expecting such a favourable reaction from him. Your advice, it seems, was sound.”

“Hey, I was also expecting anger.” Hob replied with a shrug, because the goal of his suggestion hadn’t been to provoke a favourable response, but to give his Stranger the opportunity for an honest one. “Though I take it your talk about gossip went well?”

“Better than expected.” Lucienne admitted.

Hob took another sip from his cup, wry. “I see you brought your own tea this time.”

“It seemed fair.”

“Should I be offended?” Hob teased, raising the lid of the thermos in toast. “Or is my ‘acceptable’ tea still good enough for your tastes?”

Lucienne smiled, unrepentant. “He told you about that then?”

“Yeah.” Hob cupped the lid with gloved hands, wondering how his dream self could still feel it’s warmth. Then, because it had been playing on his mind and now seemed as good a time as any— “You wouldn’t happen to know anything about being stalked by ravens would you?”

Lucienne laughed. “That would be Matthew.”

“…Matthew?”

“Yes.”

She offered no further clarification.

Hob grinned. “Another mystery to add to the pile.”

“You do seem to enjoy them.” Lucienne smiled, took a slow, careful sip of her tea, an understated elegance that seemed almost pragmatic. She paused, then added— “He’ll be along to see you tomorrow.”

Hob almost choked on his tea.

Lucienne smirked, a sharp tilt to her lips. “Not what you were expecting?”

“I usually have one hundred years of notice.” Hob replied dryly.

“Miss it?”

“Not a chance.”

Lucienne’s smirk slid towards a softer smile, peaceful as she turned to look out across the waves. “This is a nice dream. Somewhere you know?”

“Not really,” Hob shrugged, watching as the waves churned, crashing against rock, the roaring sound somehow muffled but not declawed. “I thought it might be somewhere you did?”

“It could be.”

“In his realm?”

Neither of them required clarification on who he meant.

An incline of her head. “Perhaps.”

“What’s it like there?”

“It’s…beautiful. Indescribable really. The things he can create, the things he makes.” Lucienne didn’t seem to realise how her expression changed as she spoke, the soft, awed smile that blossomed along with her words. “I feel honoured to be a part of it.”

Hob couldn’t help but ask, was careful with wording even as he didn’t think this was a secret. “He told me it needed fixing.”

“Yes.” Lucienne grimaced, smile turning sour. “It was damaged by his absence, enough that I knew that something must have gone wrong.”

“But you stayed.”

“I followed the rules.” Lucienne was unflinching in the face of accusation. It wasn’t a retort though, wasn’t a challenge, because there was something of an agreement in her tone. Something of shame. “Yes I stayed.”

“Why?” Hob demanded. “If you knew something was—"

“Maybe I should have left, tried to go and find him. Maybe things would have turned out differently if I had.” Lucienne interrupted softly, eyes distant as she seemed to peer through time. “Or at least if I’d gone to the other Endless for help.”

“I still don’t know what that is.” Hob sighed.

Her expression turned sharp, tightened with worry, concerned she’d accidentally revealed a secret. “But you do know that’s what he is?”

“Yeah, he told me.” Hob smiled, something of his frustration draining away, because as much as he didn’t want to understand he did. “But—in some ways I think I get it. I waited for him too, didn’t go looking when he didn’t show up.”

“You had less cause for concern than I did.” Lucienne replied shortly, his attempt at comfort provoking the grimace his anger had failed to find. “You’re right about the mistake I made, I watched everything start to crumble, remained to oversee the library, knew what it meant, and still I—“

She fell silent, frowning.

Angry.

What exactly had his Stranger said? Hob frowned. “It’s more than a link, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“You knew this,” Hob’s couldn’t keep the rage from his tone, rising back up with force, and to be honest he didn’t really try. “You—”

His Stranger had said it was a part of him.

And if that were true, if the realm he ruled really was an extension of him, then had they all been watching his soul shatter? The thought horrified him—made him feel a little sick, nauseated by what such an unravelling might have looked like—even as Hob couldn’t deny that it made a disturbing amount of sense. The pain in his Stranger’s voice took on new context, because this would be something he’d utterly despise, discomforted by the knowledge that his creations had seen something so intimate.

Hob considered it worse that they had seen it and done nothing.

He met Lucienne’s eyes, found he finally understood the shape of her guilt. “You’re trying to make up for it, aren’t you?”

“I don’t know.” Lucienne admitted with a small sigh, jaw set in determination. “But I do know that when I stuck to my role, did what I was supposed to do, I failed him. We all failed him. I can’t do that again.”

Hob could empathise with that. “I can’t either.”

“He’s not even upset with me. At the fact I stayed. As far as he’s concerned I did everything right. When he reappeared he—“ Lucienne smiled softly, as if the memory was good, but soon softness was replaced by steel. Her fingers tightened around her mug of tea. “Well. I know differently. I know that I did the bare minimum, did something that feels less than nothing, and it might be enough for him but it’s not enough for me.”

“How human of you.” Hob winked, the tease something akin to the offering of an olive branch. “That’s what his criticism would be.“

Lucienne relaxed, her eyes danced with some hidden joke. “Indeed.”

For a moment there was a companionable silence.

Below them waves churned, thrashing against rock, and Hob realised that he didn’t actually know much about her. To be fair, it was only their second meeting, but unless he wanted to mirror the precedent of the meetings with his Stranger Hob better start asking some questions. There was more to it, of course, he didn’t want her to think her only value to him was the person they both loved, both shared, and Hob didn’t think his Stranger wanted that either.

“So,” Hob said. “You’re a librarian?”

“Like none you’ve ever known.” Lucienne smirked.

“How long have you been his librarian?”

“At least as long as you’ve been alive.”

Hob blinked. “I don’t often meet people older than me.”

“No, I imagine you don’t.” She softened, seemed truly sympathetic. “That must be hard. I’m used to those with a longer lifespan, so much so that my own doesn’t feel strange. The loss experienced by such a long life must weigh heavily on you.”

Hob shrugged. “It’s not what defines the experience. It doesn’t counter the gain.”

“It still hurts though.” Lucienne said quietly, perceptive.

Hob thought about all the people he’d left behind. The loss of his wife, their son, the countless friends he’d seen die, the countless others he hadn’t. He didn’t talk about it. There had never been anyone other than the Stranger to do it with, no one else to really explain the pain to because Hob was always shoving it aside. He worked through it alone. Always alone. We’re born alone, we die alone, but maybe not. Maybe there was something in the instinct to smile through gritted teeth, to smile through death.

Maybe his Stranger had given him more than a friend.

This was a chance to be honest.

“Yeah.” Hob said finally. “It still hurts.”

They looked out over the cliff.

Maybe that’s what this place was, or what it could be, a strange representation of what that long life meant. The waves a ceaseless eroding tide, the cliff receding more and more with each passing year, and if Hob stayed sat in this chair he’d eventually tumble into the sea. A mortal lifespan didn’t even need to have that as a consideration, not like he did, and perhaps it’s part of it. This half metaphor an example of how it wasn’t a test of endurance, or of stamina, because no one would call a cliff face weak for receding in the wake of the sea. Hob found connection in that, a thrum of sameness at the metaphor, but as with all things it didn’t come close to capturing the full measure of the complexities of existence.

The true duality of what it was to be alive.

Perhaps he was a mortal man sitting far back on a cliff face, watching as his end approached, perhaps he was the rock being steadily worn away, but perhaps he was also the sea. Perhaps Hob was that ceaseless force of natural erosion, chipping away at eternity year by year.

Perhaps he was all of them.

Or none.

“I don’t think I really understand,” Hob found himself admitting. “What it means to live forever.”

Lucienne nodded. “I don’t think any of us do.”

“Does that bother you sometimes?”

“Not really,” Lucienne replied, surprising in how she matched Hob’s instinctive answer, a flippancy in her tone that he found resonated. The ability to be so casual earned by years of experiencing a new normal. “I think it would rather lose some of its appeal if we did.”

“I have so much to live for.” Hob whispered.

Lucienne smiled. “There is a lot that must be done.”

They sat and finished the tea.

Hob remembered his Stranger’s subtle encouragement, couldn’t help but feel like something of this had been planned, couldn’t help but smile fondly at the thought. It seemed his Stranger had once again proven just how perceptive he could be, because Hob was sure this wasn’t just for his benefit—

She’d been lonely too.

Hob went to the supermarket before his Stanger arrived.

Maggie—one half of the elderly couple who lived down the hall—had made him a pie, and while Hob wanted to share it with his Stranger, he also made a couple of sandwiches to snack on. He’d forgotten the plant pots again, but at least he’d remembered to buy some cakes from the bakery. Once prepared, all that was left to do was wait for him to show up, and Hob found himself once again carried away by the same giddy anticipation as before, though now with a tantalisingly new flavour.

A name.

Was the Stranger really going to tell him?

They seemed to have found a pattern to their meetings. It began almost exactly the same way it had had last time they met, that gentle knock on the door, and when Hob opened it his friend greeted him with the same soft smile.

“Hello, Hob Gadling.”

The Stranger followed him inside; a pale figure clad in black, glancing around with a familiar expression of analytical assessment, taking the space in, the half-hearted effort to unpack, and he must realise how bare it was in comparison to the last.

What his friend might think of that didn’t bother him. Hob watched him step further into the room, waiting for the guise to drop, wondering if he’d find something new in the moment of it now he was paying more attention. Hob was certain he didn’t look away, but somehow he still missed it, the split second change akin to a veil lifting. There was no memory to examine, only the feeling of how the change could have ever been missed.

What unfurled from that slim frame wasn’t heavy.

It wasn’t oppressive—even as Hob knew that it very easily could become so—more the weighted blanket he’d compared his Stranger to back at the inn. This was the same grounding power. It was the comfort found in a dark night, the scattering of stars that glowed soft but so unmistakable, because when his Stranger turned and smiled it felt like a long awaited return. He filled a space Hob hadn’t realised was lacking. Stars were once again in those pale eyes. Silver. A soft glow of twilight, of dusk, the evening slowly winding down towards a place of wonder and mystery.

If the witching hour was a person it’d be him.

Hob couldn’t help but smile back, relaxed as he led him to the table. The Stranger sat down; still wrapped in his black coat with its upturned collar, having chosen the shorter one today, pale skin a tease of what he’d seen before. Hob told himself he wasn’t disappointed he hadn’t taken it off, giving up when the feeling curled in his gut anyway, settling on telling himself he didn’t have a right to be.

A smirk. “I have something for you.”

The Stranger was suddenly setting something down on the table, the gift appearing out of thin air, a collection of ceramic objects—

Plant pots.

Hob must admit his jaw dropped.

How had he known?

The Stranger smiled, a playful glimmer in those glowing eyes, amused by his shock even as he showed immense satisfaction at his provocation of it. “You did say you’d like to be brought gifts.”

Hob had the strangest urge to blush.

“Didn’t expect you to be so good at it.” He smiled to soften what might have otherwise sounded quite insulting, leant back in his chair and grinned. “Don’t suppose you’ve got any ideas for what to give my six year old neighbour for her birthday?”

It was supposed to be a joke.

Hob really should have known better. The Stranger tilted his head to the side, considered the question for barely a moment, response swift. “A toy—a red tractor.”

If it had been anyone else and he’d have thought it a joke, a guess, but the unwavering knowledge in how his friend always spoke was undeniable. Hob still laughed, shook his head. “How do you do that?”

The answer was sly. “Are you certain you want me to tell you?”

Hob grinned. “Nope.”

As always the mystery was exciting.

“The move was successful, then?” His Stranger asked after a moment, solemn but sincere. “Even though you are not yet settled?”

“I need to pick a new alias.” Hob said with a shrug, remembering how his friend had offered his help and still not really knowing what that meant. “I’ve got a transitional one at least, but I’ll need another for once I’m settled. Thinking of moving back up to the Highlands for a few years, or maybe Haddington.”

“Have you settled on a name?”

“Yeah, I’ve got a few options. Just got to settle on a date of birth.”

“For this life,” The Stranger made suggestion sound like fact, a straight path rather than a diverging crossroad. “Why don’t you pick your real birthday?”

Hob hadn’t thought of that, knew the last time he’d done such a thing was long enough ago that it was once again safe. He felt warmed by it, couldn’t help his smile. “Yeah. I think I will.”

An answering smile greeted him, small but pleased, and for a moment Hob was content by silence, to watch as his Stranger picked up one of the sandwiches, taking a curious little bite before daring a larger one. The thoughtful expression was familiar, an interrogation of every molecule, and Hob nudged the plate closer to him, careful of the pots, encouraging but not pushing. Still, there was something he wanted to ask, a curious thought—

“My friends seemed to know you.” Hob began hesitantly, trying to puzzle out what he’d noticed. “Even though they’d only just met you.”

“And that surprises you?”

The amusement in his Stranger's tone gave him pause.

There was a sly humour in his eyes, a mischievous sort of pride, and Hob thought about what Anna and Beatrice had said, reassessing the words. He thought back to his own first meeting with the Stranger, all those centuries ago. Hob remembered a strange feeling of familiarity, mistaken in the remembrance as his own foreknowledge, and realised with a start that he hadn’t been alarmed by this strange man coming up to talk to him, only curious. Unsettled afterwards maybe, but that had because of the instinctive understanding that the weird exchange hadn’t been a joke.

Huh.

“I knew you too.” Hob realised, stunned by how he’d never realised. “I—“

His Stranger was smiling.

“I think it might be time I introduced myself properly.” He said silkily, soft and warm, that low voice a familiar purring caress of syllables. “My name, Hob Gadling—“

The pause was deliberate.

“Is Dream.”

Chapter Text

“You know that actually doesn’t answer my question.” Hob said dryly; internally he was reeling, thoughts clamouring, tripping over themselves as they greedily repeated that name over and over. “About how they knew you. About how I knew you.”

His Stran—Dream, smiled. “I don’t really think you need me to tell you that.”

Maybe he didn’t.

Maybe Hob already knew—maybe he’d known from the instant his friend had said it, before even—something so obvious that he should have known right from the start. He wondered if Dream had been amused by that, been patient throughout the centuries, waiting for Hob to remember what he’d missed. Perhaps this was merely a reminder, a nudge in the right direction, something he needed to puzzle through himself, because Hob had known Dream when he’d first met him even if there had still been so much more knowing to be done.

He’d recognised him.

Because it wasn’t just a name.

Hob knew he’d been told more than he’d yet realised.

He knew that this was more than an olive branch—more than what to call his friend, was information, a gift—somehow the answer to every question Hob had ever had or ever would have. It could be unravelled, right here and now, teased apart to reveal what lay beneath. He’d been given the cipher for a language he was still learning how to speak, a shortcut, a code to this great mystery that meant he could skip all attempts at decrypting it and get straight to the solution.

Dream didn’t seem to mind his silence.

He watched Hob curiously, leaning back in his chair as he finished the sandwich held in his slender hands, allowing him to think without comment. There was no doubt he knew what realisation Hob had come to, no doubt at all, the interest in his pale eyes something else—

The question of what Hob would do next.

“Dream.” He said, finally daring to try saying it out loud.

That pleased smile grew even more so.

The change was subtle; it didn’t tilt upwards, remained barely a quirk of his lips, but something about it deepened. Intensity could always be found if you looked for it, now Hob found it growing within the bright light of his eyes. It wasn’t quite pride now, was adjacent, more selfish, something closer to a preen, and Hob wondered if it wasn’t just the simple pleasure of hearing someone say his name after six hundred years.

There had certainly been a fair amount of build-up, of suspense, a gathering of momentum, all to reach this point. This place they found themselves, this crossroads.

There was a moment where Hob could have asked.

Oh he was curious—a well of it, an intensity that felt like an itch—because he could have given voice to every question, every little thing that didn’t make sense, lined them all up on the table like wishes and gone through them one by one. The story of how Dream had been trapped, the reason for Hob’s immortality, the truth of exactly what and who his friend was. Hob was certain he would answer, that his Stranger would smile that enigmatic, indulgent, smile and let him ask whatever he wished.

It wasn’t what Hob wanted; he let the moment go, let it end without saying a word, allowed it to fade from possibility to past.

This was part of knowing, after all, the steps it took, the time, and cheating to it would only deny Hob what a glorious opportunity it could be. He’d rather build to it, stack it stone by stone, lay the bricks with his own hands, because the learning was half of the knowing. This was the pattern he was establishing, the thing he did, to not delve and dig when given the smallest glimpse of what lay beneath. This was the same as when Dream had told him that he’d been missing, because sometimes someone just wanted to talk without being questioned, without being pushed for more.

Sometimes someone wanted to share one secret and not another.

It was worth it even if Hob didn’t always get it right.

He didn’t think it would always be possible to guess the extent of what his friend wanted to share with him, knew there was no way to know for sure except to take the plunge and ask. Hob needed to make sure he could find the limit of that—the shape of it, of when Dream would become uncomfortable—knew he needed to sketch out the line between asking the right question and asking the wrong one.

This time Dream broke the silence. “I’m sure you still have questions.”

Ah, there it was.

It was that hint of a beckon—the King gesturing a hesitant petitioner to come closer—an invitation, permission granted, confirmation that asking was indeed alright.

“Don’t I always?” Hob smiled. “I find my list keeps growing.”

“Perhaps I shall allow three.” Dream replied slyly; an opening move, that first offer, initiating the game by asking Hob if he wanted to barter.

“For this whole conversation?” Hob said cheekily, wondering how negotiating had turned into their own strange way of measuring boundaries, of mapping the limits while teasing each other at the same time. “That’s not many.”

Dream smiled. “Relating to my name. To what it means.”

“How about three questions at every meeting?” Hob countered, just because he could, these conversations that had always been one way now becoming so much more.

The glimmer in those eyes was definitely delight.

“Oh? So now you wish for me to make things easy?” That smooth purr was back, the dip in timbre, something rich that always made Hob want to shiver. “This time I will indulge you, but next time I will allow you the chance to make three guesses, and I will offer no clues.”

Hob grinned, just as thrilled as Dream was by the game. “Alright.”

“Then ask your questions.”

A hidden anxiety seemed to ease.

Hob hadn’t realised it was something he’d even been worried about. This hadn’t changed anything. It was still the same person sat opposite—still his friend, still his Stranger, even as he wasn’t really so much a stranger at all—the name an illumination of all Hob already known, the shape of what he hadn’t still familiar even as it remained hidden in the dark. The name, truly, hadn’t been needed, hadn’t been demanded, but Hob couldn’t deny that it felt good to know it. To say it.

To have a word for all his friend was.

Dream?

Yeah. That seemed about right.

And maybe his friend had been worried too—that this would change things, a step taken with no turning back—wary about a permanent blurring of lines.

Hadn’t he said he stepped away from his role to relax?

It could be part of the reason Dream had waited hundreds of years to tell him his name. Hob wasn’t sure either of them were really ready for him to entirely sacrifice his contextless view. These meetings were the place where day met night, that in between, that special witching hour, the edge of two tectonic plates. A neutral zone where they could both escape—take off something of a guise, put down responsibility, step out of a role the same as stepping out of one’s shoes to leave them at the door.

They could be part of each other’s lives while remaining outsiders to the attrition of it, to the storm of it, to the lies they needed to tell to live it.

Perhaps these meetings were a sanctuary for them both.

“It’s quite an unusual name.” Hob found himself musing.

He realised too late that could be taken as an insult.

“For a human perhaps.” Dream replied, thankfully amused by the comment if his small smile was anything to go by, calm and dignified, unruffled. “But I am not human.”

“Endless.” Hob recalled, frowning because beyond its semantic meaning it meant nothing to him. “I still have no idea what that is by the way.”

“It would be easy to look it up.”

He’d said something similar back at the inn. That same implicit question now returned to his tone, and knowing that his oh so powerful friend was stumped by motive made Hob grin. “I think I’d rather start guessing.”

Dream laughed, an unfairly lovely sound. “Very well.”

“How long do you think it’ll take me?” Hob teased, invigorated by the sound of his amusement, the beauty in his smile. “Shall we place bets?”

For a moment that smile fell, some unnamed thing flickering in his eyes, too fast to even catch a memory of, but then he smirked. Dream’s eyes glimmered. “Oh I’m not sure if you want to do that.”

There was something there, another thing to add to his list of mysteries, another shape he had unknowingly stumbled into in the dark. It was one of the drawbacks of incomplete illumination, of slowly mapping a room with nothing but a flickering candle to guide the way. There were probably going to be lot of them, these things he could crash into, tables and chairs, sturdy enough to give Hob a bruised knee, or ornaments of a finer material easily shattered on the floor.

They were all things he’d need to make sure he didn’t knock over; lampshades and the like, picture frames on shelves, ornaments—

Glass.

“You said Dream was one of your names.” Hob said suddenly, diverting the subject from the thing he’d tripped into, unsure of whether it would bruise him, or Dream.

Entirely unwilling to find out.

“Cheating already?” Dream teased, quietly playful, now leaning forward in his seat and resting one hand on the table. “Or is that to be your first question?”

“No, let me think.” Hob paused, thoughtful because if he only got three questions then he didn’t want to waste them. He still didn’t want to risk pushing too far, to misjudge, wanted to start somewhere safe. “So, the red tractor?”

Dream’s arched brow was effortlessly imperial. “I do not think that is a complete question.”

It was a fair point.

What Hob meant was how he’d known to say it.

To be honest it wasn’t just the tractor, was other things too, that night in 1889, that name he shouldn’t have known, the secrets to go along with it. Hob found his eyes straying to the plant pots on the table, the gift that had been so apt. It was more than perception, more than an uncanny ability to read people, because Hob was fairly certain his friend followed a different set of cues altogether. Not facial expressions, not tone of voice, not even body language. Dream read something else—used some other thing to inform his interactions—read it so well he could pick a gift for a child he’d never even met.

If life was a play it was as if Dream sat holding the script.

“You knew of it because she wants it,” Hob said slowly, puzzling through his thoughts, ending up with a question that actually felt relatively well-reasoned for all it was a stab in the dark. “Because she dreams of it?”

Another smile.

“Perhaps.” Dream replied, mysterious in a way that should have been maddening. “Perhaps I know something of every dream, every yearning fantasy, every simple wish. Perhaps I can walk every place the subconscious mind can go.”

“Ok,” Hob said slowly, frowning because wow, he didn’t even know how to begin to unpack what that implied. It inspired another question, the whisper of it in his mind, the ‘are you a god?’ trying to slip its way out, but what he ended up asking was—

“What does that feel like?”

Dream stilled.

Oh shit.

“You can veto if you want.” Hob said quickly, unwilling for his question to become exactly the minefield he’d wanted to avoid. “Choose not to answer.”

Still Dream didn’t move; eyes fixed on Hob, measuring him the same way he had back at the inn, that piercing gaze that sliced right to the bone. He seemed surprised, as if confronted with something new, something unique, a question he’d never been asked. The stars within his eyes were turning to look—a contemplation of whether to trust, deciding whether to fall, to allow themselves to be seen close up—

“I will answer.”

Hob nodded. And waited.

“An ocean.” Dream said after a moment.

His tone echoed as if layered with another voice, something threaded within it, recognisable as a precursor to the tone he’d used at the inn. Inexplicable and inescapable and building as he continued—

“An ocean spread across a world; patches of storm, patches of calm, the turbulence of fifty foot waves contrasting with the stillness of seas where the sky and water meet as one.” Dream paused, purposeful, not to gather his thoughts but to give Hob a chance to digest them. “There is a churning under the water, currents of such speed they could tear a body to shreds, others that meander without such violence. I am one drop of water, I am but one wave, I am the stillness and the storm—I am all of it and none of it and I will be this forever.”

Perhaps Hob had been right about him being a god after all.

“That sounds like a lot.”

“It’s not a lot,” Dream’s voice quickly lost its dual tone, went quiet. “It’s me.”

Fuck, he hadn’t meant it like that. “I didn’t mean to imply—"

Dream didn’t give him time to finish. “I know what you meant. The incomprehension you feel isn’t an insult.”

“But it is, isn’t it?”

Hob sighed, knowing he was right, could tell from Dream’s stilted response, the sudden stiffness in his answer. He found the words playing back in his mind, the explanation so lyrical but the context just out of reach. “I want to understand.”

“You cannot.”

He wanted to argue, to protest, instead watched how Dream seemed so very tense, not ready to run, not close to repeating 1889, but on the edge of pulling everything inwards.

It was the opposite to what he’d seen at the New Inn, power pulled in rather than let out. Hob found a dimness in the glow of his eyes, in the fading glimmer of light, the bright shining thing that he was seemingly a second from snuffing itself out. Like a star becoming a black hole. Or maybe not, maybe it was turning away, maybe it would just return to being hidden.

Maybe Dream was a moment away from deciding that Hob was no longer allowed to look.

It was a moment too dangerous to get wrong.

Hob paused, looked past instinct—the part of him that said of course I can understand you please I won’t let you down, please let me in—and found that the answer Dream needed was perhaps a little different to the one Hob wanted to give. Yes he was still learning, unravelling the mystery of his friend, but Dream didn’t need him to prove something. The certainty in his tone hadn’t been closeminded, hadn’t been the stubborn determination to shoulder something alone.

It had been the reality of experience.

“Maybe not.” Hob admitted; knowing it was the truth, knowing that he didn’t understand, that it was possible he never would, because maybe it truly was a question of incompatible experiences. That wasn’t the issue though, wasn’t the sticking point, wasn’t the hinge that could swing the door to their relationship shut.

Or keep it open.

“Maybe I’ll never understand,” Hob continued; admitting it easily, without guilt, without shame, unflinching because that didn’t matter— “But I accept you anyway.”

Another moment of that sudden stillness.

Then a sudden smile.

Hob knew it was the right answer; Dream seemed more than mollified by his response, more than satisfied, because for a split second his expression could only be described as yearning. The fingers on the table twitched, curled inwards by a fraction, moved as if wanting to reach out and touch those words. He was no longer pulling inwards, power stretching out like a cat in the afternoon sun, languid and so very warm.

And yet his response was soft. “I suppose I can live with that.”

Hob smiled, relieved, then sighed because he couldn’t leave it there. “Dream I—"

“Hush,” His friend said, abrupt but not unkind, tone so soothing it seemed to melt the anxiety right out of Hob’s bones. There was concern in the slight creasing of Dream’s brow, a hint of confusion, because apparently his friend was still baffled by apologies. “All is well. You should have some sandwiches.”

The plate was nudged his way.

“You can’t distract me with food,” Hob said incredulously, even as he picked up a sandwich from the pile. “I still need to say that I’m sorry. And I am—really.”

“I know.” Dream replied.

Hob nodded, pleased to have gotten it out, then took a bite of his sandwich while he steadied himself. Dream had heard him out, hadn’t been angry this time, just hurt, and that was both better and worse than if Hob had triggered that volatile temper. It would probably happen again, navigating boundaries was hard, was always going to lead to hiccups, but damn if it didn’t give Hob a heart attack every time.

He still had one question left though. “So can I ask something else?”

“You may.”

“Your realm…” Hob began, trailing off because if his friend was called Dream then it didn’t take a leap of logic to guess where he might live. “I know you rule over it but what exactly is it?”

“It is called the Dreaming.”

Hob frowned. “How does it work?”

A small chuckle. “That’s a lot of information in return for one question.”

“Alright, that’s fair.” Hob thought for a moment, took his time as he finished the rest of his sandwich. He found that the words he was looking for still wouldn’t come. “I might need to think on that a little more.”

“Are you to be guessing the answer at our next meeting?”

“Seems so.”

“Then?”

“I’ll ask another one instead.” Hob said, refusing to give it up. “When you spoke about your creations what did you really mean?”

“Dreams,” He shrugged, then fixed Hob with a look of solemn intent. “And nightmares.”

“Right.”

Hob had experienced his fair share of those, his fair share of moments waking shivering and shaking in the dark. He was haunted by his own ghosts. Hell, sometimes he was the ghost. And Dream created them? Or, at least, his creations were aligned with them? Perhaps it worked something like the red tractor, a thing plucked out, recognised for what it was but not planted there by another. Perhaps it was like a seed that needed water.

Hob didn’t quite know how he felt about that, or even if he was right.

There was still so much within it to understand.

He moved on.

“And Lucienne?” Hob remembered their last meeting, that place he was certain he’d never seen before. “When I see her am I coming into your realm, or is she coming into my dream?”

“Perhaps it’s a bit of both.” Dream replied enigmatically, the response so very similar to what Lucienne had said when he’d asked a similar question. Hob had been right about them being alike. “Your three questions are up—I answered that one for free.”

“It’s not related to your name as far as I can tell.” Hob countered with a shrug and a unapologetic grin. “Just a nice normal question about the new friend that I’ve made. I know that was the outcome you intended, by the way.”

Dream smirked. “I don’t know what you mean.”

Hob laughed. “Sure you don’t.”

“And you,” Dream said softly. “Will you allow me my own questions?”

Now it was Hob’s turn to smirk. “I suppose it’s only fair.”

“Then I suppose I should ask what you’d been calling me before you knew my name.”

“Stranger, mostly.” Hob replied, unembarrassed by it, trying not to think of how often the word ‘his’ had made its way in front of that description in his thoughts.

“Oh?” Dream tilted his head, eyes a warm silver glow. “And am I still a stranger?”

“No.” Hob said with a small laugh. “I don’t think you’ve ever been.”

Dream seemed to like that—smirked, smug, something else Hob didn’t recognise—hummed his acknowledgement as he reached for another sandwich. It was another of those casual movements elevated, an aplomb to it, a precision in the subtle flex of that pale hand. Dream hadn’t been made for the mundane, watching this was like finding the Mona Lisa at a garden sale, as jarring as Hob had found seeing him doing the washing up. He couldn’t deny that it was nice too, the contrast bizarre but compelling.

Hob had never been able to stop watching how he moved.

“Tell me of your journey.” Dream said, still soft but so very commanding, taking small bites of his sandwich, apparently still intrigued by the flavour. “Tell me of what has transpired since last we spoke.”

Hob found himself quickly skipping to the creation of his new identity.

There was a fair bit to do.

He’d need a new passport for his new name, a new birth certificate and drivers licence, as well as somehow finding a way to get a new National Insurance number. Hob had some experience with this already, had needed at least some of those documents sorted out first because he’d needed to give ID to his landlord. Hob had known a guy in London that he’d reached out to—been nervous about forgeries, concerned about getting them right—and was still unsure how his false passport would hold up if it faced more determined scrutiny than his landlady.

Hob would renew it again, not just to soothe his own unease, but because he was still figuring out all of the details of this new alias, and he needed to be certain it would hold up before he settled long term.

Dream was quiet, expression unreadable, listening intently as he explained.

Hob appreciated it, the solemn gaze, the way he’d watch and listen with such genuine curiosity. The lack of an overt reaction didn’t bother him, the way he sat so still, expression calm despite the intensity of his eyes. Dream seemed strangely used to listening, oddly suited to it, an ability to sit there without judgment. It was familiar, always comforting—an exception being that awkward conversation about slavery that shamed Hob to this day—because it had always felt like no matter what Hob had to say his Stranger would always listen.

Always be interested.

It might just be a part of whatever he was, something Dream could be for other people, but that didn’t make it any less a treasure.

“I will help you.” Dream said solemnly once he’d finished, the same promise he’d made back in London. The same confidence in his voice. “There is a risk here that I find unacceptable.”

Hob still felt guilty that he’d taken it so to heart, that impulsive thing he’d said to him back at the inn, the threat of being trapped by someone.

“It’s part of the process.” Hob shrugged, trying to reassure. “Part of never dying.”

“I will not have it. I will not have you in danger.” Dream said, a gravity in his eyes like the scar of a deep wound, a promise in his voice like he already knew what would happen if it was broken. “You have my name now. Call for me, and I will answer.”

Hob frowned. “Call how?”

“Say it before you sleep.”

The way he spoke the words made Hob fear a blush.

He knew there was nothing he could do about any rising colour in his cheeks, nothing but pray, and so Hob kept his tone steady through sheer force of will. “And otherwise? The help you offered?”

Dream raised a brow. “The threat is drawing attention is it not? The risk of being noticed.”

“Yeah.”

“I can assist with that,” Dream said, sly. “I can be—distracting.”

What the hell did he mean by that?

“Dream—”

But his friend was already rising from his chair and turning to peer around the flat.

This was more than the cursory glance Dream had cast around when he’d first entered. Hob watched him, the fluid way he moved, treading through the world so purposefully he wouldn’t cause so much as cause a ripple if he didn’t want to. The coat was still on, but Hob knew what lay beneath, knew the way those lithe muscles flexed, knew the movement of them beneath the skin.

He knew how thin that black shirt really was.

Dream examined his flat while Hob examined him; first a sweep of the living room, gravitating towards the empty bookcase in the corner, then raising a hand to one of the shelves. The sleeve of his coat slipped down, revealed the hint of a pale wrist, the skin there just as unblemished as he imagined the rest of it to be. Hob didn’t feel bad about observing him, didn’t feel like it was one way, because as before his friend seemed able to read the very soul of him from this one room. It was only fair to be allowed something of the reverse.

Dream glanced back over his shoulder. “Where are your books?”

“Still in boxes in the spare room.”

Hob watched as his friend nodded, tracing an empty shelf as if contemplating its grain, fingers splaying to rest his hand flat on its surface. “Lucienne will enjoy enquiring after your tastes, though I believe she can be quite particular regarding her own.”

“Yeah, I can definitely see that.” Hob said, standing up and grabbing the plate of sandwiches. “I think I’m done with these, so unless you want more I’m going to put them away.”

Dream followed him to the kitchen.

Hob found a roll of cling film in one draw, wrapped the plate up and put it away, took the pie out of the fridge and set it on the side. He’d had only been shopping for basics, knew full well the fridge was barely stocked—though Dream seemed uninterested in snooping in it—knew that the cupboards were very nearly empty. Even if his friend didn’t open them he seemed to know, to sense, spent a moment staring at the doors as if the empty space within could speak to him somehow. He spared the pie a cursory glance, drawn to something else instead.

Dream’s eyes had found the phone laying on the counter.

Hob would need to replace that too.

It had been left abandoned in the kitchen since he’d arrived, the battery dead, and he hadn’t yet been able to muster up the courage to so much as plug it in to charge. He couldn’t face the messages.

Anna would have asked if he was alright.

Dream seemed to gravitate to the box of gifts next, still sitting on the kitchen worktop, again knowing it was important, fingers curiously trailing over it before he opened the lid. Hob felt his own fingers clench, curling into loose fists, realised he was uncomfortable, anxious, stood there watching Dream look at the gifts with something trembling in his veins. He was taken aback, surprised when he recognised the feeling as the urge to intervene, to snatch the box back, to force Dream to stop looking.

It made Hob feel slightly ungrateful.

It wasn’t that he didn’t want him here—not that at all, wasn’t this the first time he could take someone with him?—because apparently having company was good, taking something with him was good, but there was still something irritable squirming within him.

Something that didn’t like being seen.

And yet Dream had witnessed more than this; the wound of his wife’s death, his sons, the years of poverty that had followed. Hob had seen his Stranger while grieving, starving, but never so early on as this. There was a difference in that, something Hob hadn’t thought would matter, because Dream may have seen him at his lowest but he’d never watched him fall. It felt private somehow, private like the grief in Dream’s eyes when Hob had pushed at the New Inn, private because maybe he wasn’t familiar enough with the shape of this pain for it to feel like his yet.

To let someone else know it.

So maybe Hob couldn’t yet be as open as he’d thought he was, said that he was, because maybe he had another thing in common with Dream—

Maybe Hob also didn’t like someone else seeing him bleed.

Chapter Text

Dream had caught him in transition.

It was a time that Hob had never been seen in; now he felt under a microscope, caught under a spotlight, dissected by it. This was the consequence of having someone waiting for him—someone who understood, someone who could know—because what had always been private pain was now uncomfortably visible. Hob found something dual in that, something both good and bad, because despite trusting his audience, trusting Dream, it still felt as if the curtain hadn’t rolled down during the interval. The play had not gone as planned; Hob was left standing on the stage instead, stuck following the ending of a scene that had only ever gone one way, exposed and unprepared because there was no script for this.

There were no rehearsed lines.

Dream glanced at Hob.

“You shouldn’t keep these tucked away.”

Hob had never cared about how much those glowing eyes saw, found himself wondering at it now, once again questioning the exact nature of what he looked for. Where did Dream find his cues? Part of Hob wanted him to look away, didn’t know what the light here could illuminate, didn’t know which of the things within him his friend would know not to touch.

Hob found himself shrugging. “I’ll do it later.”

Dream tilted his head, eyes piercing. “The thought pains you.”

“Yeah.”

Hob didn’t know what he put in the word, didn’t know how he sounded, didn’t want to sound like anything at all. Thankfully Dream only nodded, already shutting the box, so very gentle, a reverence in the movement that ached because there was respect here. It was evident just from the way he moved, the deliberation in how he touched the box, a handling of something unspeakably delicate but undeniably powerful.

These were hands that knew just what was in their grasp.

Then Dream turned to the pie.

“Is this to be dinner?”

“Er—yeah.” Hob was grateful for the change in subject, even as the abruptness of it nearly gave him whiplash. This was the spotlight withdrawn, the curtain rolled down, an audience that was deliberately turning away.

A frown. “I will consider trying it. If that is satisfactory?”

Hob laughed, fingers uncurling, the tease in that tone just as comfortable as the perplexity in Dream’s frown. “Yeah. Unless you’ve got somewhere to be?”

There wasn’t really an excuse for that, the question Hob asked without sparing the content a second thought, a bit too daring even if he was a little off balanced. His guard had dipped too low; it was an impulsive thing to say, slipping out before he could pull it back, ridiculous because of course he did of course—

“No.” Dream replied.

Oh.

That was—

“I’m going to have to go shopping soon,” Hob said, an admittance as much as an acknowledgement of how empty they both knew his cupboards to be. Then, caught by that same wave of impulsively— “I could go now if you would like to come?”

“That would be acceptable.”

The solemn response came before Hob had even processed what he’d actually said, actually asked, still reeling from the surprise that he’d dared suggest it at all. The offer was accepted just as he was about to apologise and withdraw it. Hob found himself grinning though, no longer feeling trapped under a microscope, returned to a place where testing boundaries felt comfortable. Here was the hint of something new, the excitement of it, bringing novelty as well because it felt a little weird to invite Dream outside, to go somewhere with him that wasn’t the New Inn.

Unprecedented.

Hob made sure to put the pie back in the fridge while they were away.

He found himself curious; didn’t know what Dream would look like, in full light, in the backdrop of something other than the inn or his apartment. Would it even suit him? Hob watched for the shift as they left his flat, managed not to miss it, found a moment where Dream folded in on himself; birds wings tucked tight to the body, not like a wound, not like pain, something opposite because Hob remembered quite vividly what it was to put intestines back into your own body. This wasn’t that at all, wasn’t mutilation, this being walked beside him like he’d hidden away in his own shadow and yet—

Sunlight suited him.

Hob had known this, of course, had seen him sat under the afternoon sun back at the New Inn, but the confirmation felt different. Dream was solid under it, solid even as he remained so very pale, and Hob didn’t know why he’d almost expected him to be translucent here. Maybe he’d thought him unique to the witching hour, some fantastical thing that retreated from the normal, a clash of genre in seeing him somewhere mundane. But maybe a shadow stretched deep and dark, maybe this solidity was the mirror of all Hob could no longer see.

He led Dream to his car, the one Hob still needed to sell, was brought up short when he realised there was a bird perched on it. A raven like the one that had been stalking him, all glossy feathers and gleaming black eyes. And hadn’t Lucienne said—

“This is Matthew.” Dream said quietly.

The raven clicked its beak at the sound of its name, wings fluttering, soaring through the air as it flew to land on Dream’s shoulder. Hob stared as the raven peered back at him, clawed feet a delicate curl in the shoulder of Dream’s dark coat, feathered head cocked curiously to one side.

Hob tried to pretend this wasn’t incredibly weird.

“Hi, erm, Matthew.”

“Hi Hob.” The raven replied.

Hob was fairly certain he almost had a heart attack.

“Dream.” Hob said calmly—or hoped he said calmly, could admit that he was entirely unable to tell whether he actually succeeded—eyes gone wide. “Your raven just talked.”

“He does that quite a lot actually,” Dream replied sourly, entirely relaxed as if having a raven perched on his shoulder was an everyday occurrence, sounding rather exasperated and missing Hob’s point entirely. “It can be quite vexing.”

Vexing.

“Er—boss? I think your boyfriend is freaking out.”

The word boyfriend just made it worse.

Dream merely raised a brow, so calm he obviously hadn’t really realised what his raven had actually said, thank god, head turning the slightest bit towards the bird. His reply was sullen, yet still strangely dignified, an indulgence that was almost light-hearted when compared to his usual solemn gravity. “Perhaps you should return to the Dreaming then.”

“But I wanted to—”

“Wanted to what?”

“Well, Lucienne already got to meet him, and you told me to keep an eye on him,” Matthew replied, and Hob realised that not only had he been right about his raven stalker, but that Lucienne must have known he’d been asked to follow him.

Her smile now made a lot more sense.

“—wanted to meet him too. So here I am.”

Dream sighed, not so much irritated as still leaning into what must be a very familiar game. “Very well.”

“You know with the major arcana still—"

“Matthew.” Dream said sharply.

“Oops.” The raven somehow managed to sound perfectly contrite while remaining entirely unapologetic. “Sorry boss.”

Indulgence, it seemed, would only stretch so far.

Hob wondered how they negotiated it, this obvious push and pull in their relationship, the way it seemed to allow Dream an opportunity to enjoy some harmless bickering. Matthew’s slip of the tongue had evidently been a step too far—there was annoyance in the set of Dream’s jaw, a tightening around his pale eyes—and maybe that explained it. A slip. A collision of two carefully separate entities, an unplanned crossover with something shared with Hob, sudden and unapproved. Maybe Dream didn’t like interference into what he considered his, lenient right up until one game compromised another, this the frustration of a match interrupted, fun very nearly spoiled by carelessness.

Perhaps that was part of the reason Hob hadn’t met Matthew yet.

If this impromptu meeting had shown him anything at all, then this propensity to run his mouth must be a common thing. Hob was fairly sure there would be no more secrets left if they’d been introduced sooner.

Hob had a feeling he’d have learnt Dream’s name within the first two seconds.

It was another confirmation, more proof his thoughts had been on the right track, because Hob had already guessed that this mystery was being allowed to play out. It was a staggered set of revelations, prolonged not simply because of their individual boundaries, but because of a conscious choice. A deliberate shaping of it. Hob was enjoying the slow reveal—like the tease of skin at Dream’s neck, the slow slide of those sleeves when he raised a hand, the novelty of that one time he’d removed the coat entirely—something good about getting to admire each piece one by one.

And now he knew for sure that Dream was enjoying it too.

“Well—” Matthew coughed to clear his throat, which seemed anatomically impossible for a bird and yet was managed nonetheless. “I’ll see you later then.”

The raven cocked its head; an affectionate preen of his beak in Dream’s dark hair, delicate even as it ruffled the strands by a margin, an act that Hob was sure would be both incredibly daring and incredibly stupid were anyone else to try. The response was far too mild to reflect how incredible the allowance was, his friend endured it without comment, as tolerant as the parent of a particularly clingy child who didn’t want to go to school.

Then the bird was once again taking flight.

“Shall we go then?” Dream said nonchalantly.

And that was that.

There was a Tesco’s Express nearby, which, though small, would be more than good enough for his current needs. There was a superstore down the road, far better stocked, but Hob thought it might be better to go somewhere a little less daunting for someone’s first ever trip to a supermarket. Dream followed him inside, less hesitant and more expectant, watching with his customary intensity as Hob picked up a basket.

“What do you require?”

Hob showed him the list.

“I do not mind holding the basket.” Dream offered magnanimously.

Their hands brushed as he reached for it, far too delicate to be called something so uncouth as a grab, another taste of icy cold skin, so tantalisingly soft against Hob’s fingers. It was another touch that Hob couldn’t be sure was accidental even as he could think of no reason why it would be deliberate. Dream didn’t seem at all perturbed; a strange half smile softening the sharp lines of his face, slender hands wrapping carefully around the handle, holding it with careful precision as Hob found what he needed on the shelves.

“Can you get some strawberries for me?” Hob asked absently, frowning as he tried to find a mango that hadn’t ripened all the way. “Should just be a little further down.”

Dream nodded; obliging, moved with all the fluid motion of a dancer, each instant of it poetry to watch, a rhyme in the space between his steps, a rhythm. He looked out of place at last, it seemed this really was a clash of genre, because this wasn’t something anyone would go looking in a supermarket to find. Hob was here though—

And he was definitely looking.

Not for the first time Hob found his eyes dipping lower, another savouring glance that could only be called greedy, lingering for a moment before he hastily corrected his drifting attention. Hob still couldn’t help the slow drag as he forced it back up, encountering a resistance like molasses, lost to following what he could see of those long, long legs with his eyes. Familiarity simply added a flavour of anticipation; the firm muscles in those tight jeans, the tantalising way they hugged what he could see of Dream’s thighs, the disappointment he felt when he got to the hem of his coat. It wasn’t the same as that moment in Hob’s flat though, wasn’t mutual, and it certainly wasn’t anything even close to being platonic.

Observing was fine but ogling?

“Hob?”

Dream frowned as he placed a container of strawberries in the basket.

“Sorry I was…” Hob smiled apologetically.

Dream’s eyes glimmered, teasing him with just a hint of light. “What were you thinking about?”

Hob was determined to play this casual, shrugged. “Oh nothing much.”

“Hm.” That smirk seemed almost knowing—another of those mistaken implications of flirtation—but it couldn’t be. Hob had daydreamed like that at almost every meeting they’d ever had.

Keyword dream.

Oh.

And suddenly Hob was reminded—in wonderfully stunning, unnecessarily vivid detail—that his first sex dream involving a man had also featured Dream quite heavily. Hob didn’t know it was possible to be embarrassed by something five hundred years or so after it had happened but right now he was more than managing to feel an overwhelming amount of sheer mortification. He didn’t know exactly what his friend knew, what he could glean, this particular sort of illumination risking a secret of a different kind. Hob tried to blot it from his mind, to not think of it at all, to not remember anything whatsoever about the contents of that dream.

It had been quite memorable.

Fuck. No.

No it hadn’t.

Not memorable at all.

Hob was so focused on how not memorable it had been that he’d entirely forgotten he’d been in the middle of a conversation. Apparently he’d gotten off easy—maybe even been allowed to get away with it, maybe even been indulged—because Dream had simply turned back to the shelves while Hob’s thoughts spiralled.

He seemed perplexed.

Hob wondered what had inspired the reluctant not quite fascination but something close to it on his friends face. Truthfully Dream’s expression seemed closer to disgust, the same reaction he usually had to human food, as if personally offended by whatever had caught his attention. There was nothing to suggest he was uncomfortable—quite the contrary, he’d walked into the shop with an easy, instinctive confidence, as if the world moved for him instead of around him—so Hob wasn’t really concerned. He followed Dream’s gaze to the apples, found him now looking down at one with an unreadable expression, almost lost in thought.

As if chasing a memory.

“You want one?”

The twist in Dream’s expression was predictable, a return to that familiar sullen disgust. “No.”

“Anything particular you have against them?” Hob said dryly.

Dream laughed, soft but warm. “I do not usually like eating human food.”

“Yeah, I know,” Hob replied with a smile. He paused, unsure of whether to push further, and then shrugged. “I’ll go get the milk if you want to pick up the vegetables?”

A noncommittal hum.

It was just attentive enough for him to feel he’d been dismissed from an audience.

Hob chuckled as he walked away.

This was almost the last thing on the list, so Hob made sure to grab some pasta when he doubled back, surprised to find Dream now stood listening intently to an elderly woman. Hob noted the walking stick, the cut bisecting her temple, the way Dream’s eyes remained fixed on the wound as she talked. There was something curious about it, a pain subtle but unhidden, the moment before a flinch. Hob couldn’t quite hear what she said, but he could see that the basket held in Dream’s slim hands now contained several items that had definitely not been on the list.

“—be sure to take care now.” The woman said, a particular kind of hearty warmth in her voice that Hob had only ever found in Scotland.

Dream nodded solemnly. “And you, Eliza Roberts.”

Hob approached just as she was walking away, still mulling over that curious expression, filing the question away as he placed the milk and pasta into the basket held in Dream’s hands.

“You’ve picked up a few things?”

Dream blinked into the basket as if he hadn’t noticed anything unusual in the new additions. “I was advised they were essential items.”

Hob laughed. “I see. Well, I think between the two of us we have everything. Ok to go?”

Dream nodded.

Hob put the pie in the oven when they got back.

He put the shopping away in his cupboards while he preheated the oven, set the timer once it was in, and then walked back into the living room to find Dream filling up his previously empty bookshelves.

He was almost halfway done.

The moment stayed mired in silence, lost to it, because Hob had to admit he couldn’t think of a single thing to say. Instead he found himself once again admiring Dream’s fingers, long and slender, agile as they carefully slid each book into place. It seemed he’d been unimpressed enough at the half-hearted effort Hob had made at filling his bookcase to make an attempt of it himself. There were some definite opinions on the arrangement, Dream was intent on his task even as he acknowledged Hob’s appearance, one unreadable glance in his direction as he reached carefully into the now opened cardboard boxes resting at his feet.

Dream would have had to go into the spare room to find them.

He’d have needed to know which to bring out, might have even needed a few trips to carry them all, and that meant he would have seen how very bare it was.

This wasn’t the skeleton of Hob’s old apartment—wasn’t a body rotted away, had never had flesh to flush with the glow of life—a place that couldn’t be robbed because it’d always been empty. The bed in that room had never been made up, the redundancy of the action uninitiated, the thing it represented stored, packed away like the gifts Hob couldn’t bear to look at.

“The books,” Dream said as if answering a question that had not been asked. “They should, at least, be displayed.”

Hob remembered the careful way Dream had shut the box in the kitchen.

He remembered how he’d known when to turn away, how now he’d seemed to have gauged exactly what might test that line without crossing it. This wasn’t a spotlight, wasn’t a moment stuck on stage, instead a newly fashioned set of pages to add to the existing script. To revise it. A rehearsal, a test reading, a chance to scrawl notes across the suggested additions, to practise how certain words might sound if Hob wanted to try saying them aloud.

“Maybe when I move I’ll ask you to pack them up again.” Hob said lightly, finding that the teasing came easy, buoyant without a hint of drag. “Save myself the work.”

“Perhaps you should.” Dream agreed softly, slotting another book into place, playing at being demure because his side profile did absolutely nothing to hide his pleased smirk.

Then Dream picked up Richard Madoc’s book.

It was something Hob had almost forgotten he’d had, a book he’d only read once—

Dream’s expression didn’t change as he traced a finger along the cover, a slow exploration of the lettering, head tilted down to read. Hob felt like it should have though; had the impression of a storm gathering just beyond his senses, or a burning that he couldn’t see, the magnitude colossal but unknowable because he didn’t have the ability to look. His senses were the thing that was faulty, insufficient, but Hob was fairly sure if he could see it he’d be blinded all over again. This was that hole in his memory, what he’d seen his friend become back at the New Inn—or reveal, maybe something of what he really was—the secret of it unfolding in the dark.

Unfolding barely a few feet away.

“Dream?” Hob said as he took a step closer, heart a fluttering thud in his ears, some instinct telling him the world had been set on fire, that this unseen thing could very much still hurt him, still—

It was gone.

The only sign anything was amiss was that Dream returned Madoc’s book to the box rather than putting in on the shelf, picking up another before he returned to filling up the bookcase. He seemed utterly disinclined to explain what had just happened, even as Hob realised he’d also not asked him a question.

He didn’t really have one.

Hob lacked both the words and understanding of what he’d just witnessed, couldn’t even begin to guess at what it meant, but he had a need to say something nonetheless. It bubbled up, the question chosen from an idle sweep of his friends black clad form, he'd been reminded of something that was missing, an odd feeling that something he’d been so used to seeing was no longer there.

“What happened to your ruby?”

Dream didn’t even pause as he reached for another book. “Perhaps I deemed it far too tempting an item to wear so openly.”

Hob didn’t think that was necessarily true.

He didn’t think his friend would stop wearing something out of fear.

“It was taken,” Dream continued before Hob could even consider if this was a falsehood he could call him out on, slotting a final book into place on the shelf. “While I was trapped.”

Hob hadn’t considered that—hadn’t been thinking about what might have happened at all—the thought of it too abstract and too terrible to contemplate. The topic had been left untouched since that first meeting at the New Inn, since Hob had almost overstepped again, now they’d found their way back. Dream was offering something again, offering trust, telling Hob this while knowing it opened a door. He couldn’t help it, not now that he had something to extrapolate from, because possibilities arose, ideas, connections. Hob could see an uncomfortable context behind what Dream had said last time they met, that moment when he’d asked if Hob was bothered by the possibility of a no.

He’d never been more certain he’d given the right answer.

“Did you get it back?”

“Yes.” Dream shrugged, idle in a way that felt a little too casual, a clue that it was scripted in the contrast to the precise way he naturally moved. “It was not what they wanted.”

Hob asked the question even as he feared the answer. “What did they want?”

“My sister.”

“But they got—”

A smirk, cruel, both darkly smug and overwhelmingly vicious. “Me.”

The thing in the dark seemed to have remembered it had a body to use, eyes that could glitter, solidifying in bone rather than unfolding unseen. This part of Dream deigned stoop to sit across lights spectrum, made of itself a shard, miasma changing state because it wanted to be known. Hob didn’t feel even a shred of sympathy for his friends captors—if this was what they’d faced it served them right—but beyond that he know how soft Dream’s eyes could be.

How warm.

It certainly added yet another new spin to an already awful situation. Hob remembered what Dream had said back at the inn, about how his family had been too busy to help, and it seemed there was still something about that whole thing that could make him angrier. It had been deplorable then, unthinkable, but now—

“They wanted her and they got you? And she knew this?”

Dream nodded.

Slow, like he’d not realised what had been wrong in what he’d said, distracted from the remembrance of what an uncooperative prisoner he’d evidently been. The dark thing within him slipped away, malice replaced with a curiosity identical to when they’d spoken back at the Inn, as if Hob’s concern was a puzzle piece he didn’t think quite fit. As if Dream was trying to figure out how to tell him he’d put it in the wrong place.

“That’s not what a family is.” Hob was unable to help himself because he needed Dream to know, thought about what he’d lost, thought about how precious such a thing was, how he’d cherish what those beings so easily gave up.

How he did cherish what they so easily gave up.

“It’s not what a family does.”

“I know.” Dream said softly, trying to mollify him as he had before, except now there was something fragile peeking out of those eyes. A pain as sharp as glass. “I’ve seen it dreamt of often enough.”

Hob supposed he had.

He didn’t know what powers his family had, what domains they might cover, but even as he also didn’t really know what Dream did he guessed that maybe it was unique even amongst his own kind. Maybe he could know it in a way they didn’t, maybe he knew what family meant to a human in a way his siblings could never understand.

Maybe he could feel it.

Hob thought of his own grief; his own desperate yearning, the memories softened by time but still so cherished, a dream he still had over and over and over. The beloved shape of his wife’s smile—oh Eleanor, my love, how the loss of you still aches—so welcome when it visited his subconscious even though it came with hurt. The times he dreamt something different, a better outcome, swapped the pain of stolen time with the pain of holding a wrinkled hand at the end of it all. If his friend could somehow feel the shape of that, if it was somehow part of what he was—

Well.

Hob was more than aware that he was just one human.

What must it feel like? The weight of it all? Dream had already told him, hadn’t he, described an ocean, and if Hob was just one drop.

How must the contrast to his own family sting?

“They shouldn’t have left you there.” Hob said again, unwilling to back down, unwilling to pretend he wasn’t angry, because he couldn’t leave this perception unchallenged. “It wasn’t right. Don’t try and tell me it was.”

“You need not be so troubled by it on my behalf.”

Dream smiled, fond, that same gentleness that made Hob feel like he was the one being handled so very carefully. Not with condescension; the respect paid to a butterfly held cupped in hands that could easily crush it, the careful untangling of a fox caught in a snare, another moment where it became clear just how old Dream was. It made Hob feel so very young, but this time he also knew that being treated so gently didn’t mean that Dream wasn’t still hurt.

Hob shrugged. “I’m human. I can’t look at it any other way. I won’t.”

“I would not ask you to,” Dream said gently, his eyes a dizzying, limitless space, lit by intermittent stars cradled somewhere dark but unquestioningly warm. “Only soothe how it troubles you.”

“It’s not your job to—” Hob paused, sighed, laughed as he realised the potential folly in finishing the sentence. “I guess it is isn’t it?”

Dream smirked. “Indeed.”

“Leave it be then, this time. Let it be another exception.”

“Requesting still more boons?” Dream replied lightly, as indulgent as he’d been towards Matthew’s affectionate—and rather audacious—preen of his hair. “Careful I don’t start requiring things in return.”

Hob didn’t necessarily think he was deflecting.

At the same time he had to admit he didn’t actually know for sure.

“Thank you for trusting me.” Hob settled on saying, needing to acknowledge that too, meaning it because he was more than aware of how precious such a thing as trust really was. “Not just with this, but with your name.”

“Such things are safe with you.”

Something about that quiet admission made Hob’s heart ache.

He didn’t quite know what to do with it, not really pain, a weight that gave reason to strength. Despite everything, despite how uncomfortable sharing had proven it could be, this felt like something of a milestone in their friendship.

Progression.

Even with all the uncertainty, the changing of their careful sanctuary, it wouldn’t damage the playful contest they both so enjoyed. Hob supposed it was only natural that the slow reveal of skin would sometimes reveal a scar. This was more deviation, more adjustments to the status quo, but he found the more it shifted the more he wondered if it would be better to consider this as the widening of a boundary rather than the shrinking of one.

They were folding things in rather than taking things out.

It wasn’t so bad, to have more, Hob thought, tentative but then with a growing sense of rightness. More of his friend, more of that strange feeling of kinship, more of Dream—

More of this.

Hob remembered the wine, still tucked away with the gifts he’d been given, felt strangely emboldened to the point he was willing to risk opening the box. It was different this time, he did it himself, alone in the kitchen, popped the lid with deliberate purpose because he’d chosen this. Hob took out Dream’s gift—found his eyes drawn to the others, tracing them, the scarf, the fridge magnets, the seeds—caught the pain as it blossomed, cradled it, let it burn him, then moved it aside for later. Hob returned to the table, set the bottle down alongside two glasses he’d brought from the kitchen, Dream taking the seat opposite him as had long since been their custom.

The stars that crowned his eyes were the same as before, the same as always. It would be easy to feel pinned, exposed, to feel like Hob needed to offer an explanation, to feel seen in the same uncomfortable way as before.

But he didn’t.

Hob opened the bottle, poured them both a glass. “Six hundred years later he tells me his name—I think this is quite the occasion.”

Dream smiled.

Chapter Text

Dream raised his glass.

He held it up for a moment, expectant, and once Hob realised what he intended he raised his own with a soft smile.

The glasses met with a quiet clink, the touch of it so close and yet so far from skin on skin, fingertips barely centimetres apart. Hob wanted to reach out—ached to be brave enough, frozen under the intimacy of an almost touch—tempted almost to stupidity. The moment passed, they set the glasses back down, and Hob watched Dream’s fingers curl idly around the stem, found the index moving in a familiar motion up to the base, the stroke of the finger smooth along the wineglass. Hob had considered it a fidget before, and maybe he’d been right, but now he also thought it might be some sort of compulsion.

Dream didn’t even seem aware he was doing it.

Hob was certain that sort of inattention was highly unusual.

“Aren’t you going to try it?”

“What? Oh—” Hob realised he’d once again been caught staring, been silent long enough for it to be noticed, and this time when he lifted his glass it was to take a sip of the wine.

Good god.

He nearly drained the glass—forgetting that you didn’t down wine, lost for a moment to how delicious it was—unable to help but tip his head back. The taste was almost indescribable really, absolutely nothing like he’d been expecting; fresh but so very sweet, the flavours bursting across his tongue, overwhelming the nerves, and Hob only managed to slow down through sheer force of will. He licked his lips, trying not to sigh, then purposefully, and calmly, set the glass down even as he chased the last of its taste.

“Good?” Dream asked innocently.

Oh that little shit.

“I thought dream wine would taste a bit lacklustre in the real world.” Hob said once he’d composed himself, tone even as he did his best to act as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened.

His friend smirked. “What makes you think this is the only ‘real’ world?”

That was a fair point.

Hob didn’t think he could argue with it—also didn’t really see the need to—shrugged instead and took another sip, now prepared for how wonderful the wine was. He went slower this time, still couldn’t quite supress the urge to lick his lips, knew that he imagined the avid way Dream watched the movement of his tongue. That particular misinterpretation of his friends intentions would be the fault of the wine, the alcohol currently slinking its way into his system, because Hob’s glass was almost empty already.

Maybe he could ask Dream to bring some more.

“I’m going to go get the pie.” Hob said.

It wasn’t the most graceful of retreats—clumsy enough to inspire a soft chuckle—but it served its purpose because Hob actually did need to check that it was ready.

It didn’t take too long to set the table. Dream helped, wordlessly taking the dish from him and setting it down, far too indomitable for Hob to even suggest that he allow him to do it. They sat down to eat; Dream’s pale eyes on Hob as he served him a plate, one delicate hand reaching to pick up his fork, the other reaching towards the bottle of wine.

Absently topping up Hob’s glass.

“You never answered my question,” Dream said. “Do you like the wine?”

Hob grinned. “I wouldn’t say no if you brought me another bottle.”

Dream smiled.

He ate silently, each bite deliberate, still so obviously unused to it, a prim sort of delicacy in every movement. Dream seemed content; no hint of disgust, a softness around the eyes, and once again Hob suspected something about the element of the making, the reason for it, mattered to his friend. He still remembered what Dream had said about how Hob had chosen a meal that meant something to him. Perhaps he was tasting that same thing here, the Shephard’s pie rich and hearty like the stew Hob had made, alive with something that was so very hard to find in a restaurant.

Maggie was an excellent cook.

Hob was definitely going to be telling her so when he thanked her.

“Same time next week then?”

“Yes.” Dream agreed, pausing with his fork barely touching mashed potato. “And remember. If you are ever in danger—"

“Call for you.”

Say his name before Hob went to sleep.

“Paper will work just as well,” Dream said thoughtfully, as if offering an alternative. “If you write my name and burn it with the intent to call me to you. Saying it before sleep would be better, but for a more immediate need you may require something else.”

“I’ll remember.”

Hob cleared away the plates once Dream left.

He was once again alone in his flat, the emptiness weighting the silence, the echo of it a physical thing. Hob rinsed out the pie dish before leaving it to soak, returning to the living room to put the empty boxes away in the spare room. He found himself making the bed, not even thinking about it, moving things around so the space was more useable, then reorganising the bookshelves a little. Dream’s opinions on ordering needed a little personalisation. Hob slipped to it; testing now he was unobserved, the ease catching him off guard, because this could be a private rehearsal, a read through he could do alone.

It felt familiar, but not painful.

He’d proposed extra meetings to try and help his friend.

It hadn’t been the only motive—far from it, there had been something selfish too, something greedy—but he’d seen a wound and wanted to help. Yet it seemed Dream had also been helping him; Hob wondered how he could give back, wondered if he really could, thought about what Dream had said about such things being safe with him and knew that somehow he already was. It wasn’t transactional, nothing of the sort, because friendship was supposed to be a give and take, mutual support.

Mutual love.

Hob sighed; thought about what Dream had said about his sister, his family, about the betrayal that was so much worse than Hob had first assumed.

He still couldn’t fix it, couldn’t heal it, but perhaps Hob could do still do something. If Dream had been trapped then maybe next time Hob could take him outside again, out into the light, but like today maybe he needed an excuse for it. A way to justify it—a guise, a game, something double edged for the trickster, something practical for the king—maybe he could hide this by making it a series of tasks.

Dream had enjoyed coming shopping.

And Hob still had to sell his car, could hold off until the next visit.

He went to bed, found himself struggling, wondering because his friend was called Dream and he didn’t entirely understand what that meant. It felt like calling up instinct, trying to put something impossible into words, the reason why humans both feared and loved the dark. That place of sanctuary, of cocooned warmth, of prickling danger because maybe the subconscious never really slept alone. Even Hob’s own restless mind couldn’t resist for long, slipping into a peaceful sleep—soothed, held, cradled—awoke to sunlight streaming through his curtains.

He went to the kitchen to get a glass of water.

Hob saw his phone still sitting on the side; paused, then plugged it in, heart beating so very fast as he charged it enough to turn on. The last time he’d done this there had been no mobile phones, and even if this was novel Hob knew it would open him up to more pain. He did it anyway. He could be brave. This was allowed; Hob could have something with his friends before he left them for good, could grab this opportunity with both hands and hold on tight even as it burned.

The notifications came fast, each one bringing pain, but Hob was smiling as he read the messages.

He kept smiling as he replied.

Hob Gadling wasn’t dead yet.

“So he told you his name?” Lucienne asked.

“Yeah, one of them—Dream.”

It still felt new to say.

Thinking of him as Dream felt right but unfamiliar, suited him even as it remained a name he was still unused to. Hob’s thoughts couldn’t help but want to follow the pattern of ‘his Stranger’ but thinking his Dream felt very different and a lot less platonic.

“Anything else?” Lucienne asked.

“I asked three questions,” Hob said with a shrug, cheerful. “And to be honest I still don’t really understand the answers.”

They were back by that towering cliff, this time sat at its base, the wind gentler here. There was sand beneath Hob’s feet, the chair legs sinking into it as he shifted, and the tide must have just gone out because it was wet with the water from the sea. The waves were calmer today, lapping gently at the shore a dozen feet away rather than beating relentlessly at the base of the cliffs. Lucienne had joined him shortly after he’d appeared, as before somehow knowing he’d arrived, sitting down in a chair next to him.

Now she laughed, a soft, fond smile. “That doesn’t surprise me.”

Lucienne had brought biscuits this time.

She offered him some, still chuckling, tipped the packet in his direction and waited while he grabbed a couple. They were chocolate digestives—the real ones instead of an imitation—a very nice choice. Hob ate them while he watched the waves, enjoying the peaceful lull, brushed crumbs from his clothes and turned back to Lucienne.

“Next time I’m going to start guessing, so no helping me cheat.”

Lucienne snorted, the first indelicate move he’d seen her make. “Did you really think I would.”

“No,” Hob smirked. “But I needed to say it anyway.”

It was a beautiful, murky, day; sea still shimmering even under dim light, waves a hypnotic back and forth, the smell of sea salt sharp in the air. It stretched towards the horizon, met it, joined it like a seam, the surface telling him so much and yet somehow almost nothing of what lay beneath. It was familiar; the ocean mostly undiscovered even in the waking world, less known about it than the stars in the sky, and Hob wondered if in this place he could dive to the bottom and find out for himself.

Dream had stars in his eyes too.

And here Hob was reminded of what else he’d said he was, because looking at these waves Hob found he could still only understand very little of what his friend had said.

He could only comprehend a small part of what it might feel like.

“Dream told me something else.” Hob said impulsively, still watching the waves. “Changed his mind about an answer he wanted to give.”

Out of the corner of his eye he watched as Lucienne stilled, pursing her lips as if wanting to frown. “That’s not usual for him.”

Hob remembered their previous conversation, wondered how to tread around this, began carefully. “You know what happened to him, when he was missing?”

“Yes.”

“I still don’t. And I don’t want to. But he told me why he was there—that his sister was the real target, that his family knew and did nothing.” Hob needed to get this out with someone who might share his outrage, who might add to it rather than soothe it. “They just left him there, left him trapped wherever he was.”

Lucienne nodded. “Such things aren’t unusual for the Endless.”

Her own voice was tight with anger.

“They are for me. For us.” Hob replied, disgusted by it. “I don’t even know what actually happened, but I’m just so angry.”

“I am too.” Lucienne admitted quietly.

There was nothing timid in her reply, Lucienne was quiet as if gentling her tone, eyes sharp behind her glasses.

She was quiet as if it was the only thing holding her back.

“I’ll still wait until he tells me,” Hob added, still needing to make sure she knew that he wasn’t fishing. “But I can’t just forget it.”

He couldn’t forget that he didn’t actually know how long Dream had spent trapped.

Hob hadn’t asked, hadn’t wanted to think about it, hadn’t wanted to go down that rabbit hole when his friend hadn’t needed further questioning. It mattered though—didn’t it?—because the length of time also measured how long there’d been for minds to change. Had he waited for them to? How long might Dream have waited for his family to come for him, for anyone to come? And Hob only really had one real marker for this, the missed meeting over thirty years ago, but that meant he’d been a prisoner since at least 1989.

It made Hob feel sick.

“He called her sister.” Hob said quietly.

That had been it for him, the word that revealed the most, because whatever relationship they had it couldn’t be anything but. Regardless of how human Hob was, how different an Endless might be, Dream had still called them family. Despite saying that they worked differently he’d still used human words.

He’d said sister.

And that was supposed to mean something.

She betrayed you, Hob had wanted to say, but, just as with his creations, he had an inkling Dream already knew that.

“I know.” Lucienne said.

There was a sadness in her voice.

Hob didn’t know if he’d reminded her of her own feelings of betrayal, her own guilt, still remembered how he’d called her out on it last time.

He let the topic be. “I met Matthew too.”

“He told me.” Lucienne took the olive branch for what it was; smirked, her eyes dancing with a wickedly delighted humour. “He said you, and I quote, ‘freaked out’.”

“To be fair I didn’t know that he could talk.” Hob replied pointedly, not quite an accusation but something of its nature, just the soft kind one used to tease a friend.

Lucienne shrugged, unrepentant. “It must have slipped my mind.”

“I’m sure it did.”

Hob very deliberately did not bring up the fact Matthew had used the word boyfriend.

“Dream reshelved my books.” Hob said.

Lucienne smiled. “He told me.”

“He was very insistent.”

“I can imagine he was,” Lucienne said, still amused, less teasing now as her contentment went light and warm and fond. “It’s important to him, to me. My library contains everything, even those things that are not to my taste. I look after it all nonetheless.”

“Decent wages?”

Hob had to admit the question was more than a little cheeky.

A laugh. “Oh we don’t paid. Really no need for it. Currency has no place here.”

“Of course.” Hob said dryly. “Would you show me the library one day?”

Lucienne nodded. “One day.”

There was a certainty to it that caught Hob off guard.

It was one rarely found, the vagueness of the timing not a counter to the offer, not a way out because later really meant never. Hob could have this, would perhaps have it, and yet he didn’t know what that might feel like. It was different to the promises he’d made to Anna before he left, to Beatrice and Paul, different because this wasn’t lying through your teeth.

“How are you holding up?” Lucienne asked; shrewd, eyes sharp but not cold, piercing in a similar way to Dream’s. “It’s not been long since the move.”

“I’m alright.”

She didn’t hesitate to call him out. “You seem sad.”

“Do I?” Hob shrugged casually; cursing internally, unaware of where he’d slipped up, because usually he hid it better.

He was good at smiling through pain.

It was Anna’s texts, Paul and Beatrice’s, all the messages he’d received from all the people he was in the process of losing. It was saying that he’s settling in well with his brother when the last of Hob’s family had died centuries ago.

Anna wanted to FaceTime.

Even as he was running out of days Hob couldn’t quite take that yet.

“Sorry,” Lucienne said, not an apology for the words but for the recoil, the flinch she’d seen in him. “That was rude.”

He’d been open with her before.

“I miss my friends.” Hob admitted. “I’m making new ones but—"

The lack of knowing in their faces hurts, these new people he found himself meeting still just strangers to him. The sheer pain of introductions. The loneliness. Never any parents, never any family, popping up as a singular person. The intricacy to the lies he told; mentioning people no one would ever meet, unable to show family photos and having to come up with a reason why, unable to make introductions. Even still the warmth they paid him was so vey genuine—Sam’s offer to help him carry boxes, Maggie’s gift of a pie—an extended hand without needing to know him.

It was kindness granted just because they could.

That hurt too, in the weirdest of ways, hurt and hurt and hurt.

“And you?” Hob asked. “How’re you doing?”

“Busy.”

The answer was succinct. It wasn’t really what he’d meant, wasn’t really an answer either, but he’d let her get away with it. Lucienne’s expression had smoothed out, gone almost blank, a tightness in the corner of her eyes.

Perhaps she wasn’t quite ready to share.

“I see.” Hob replied, back to teasing lightness. “Glad you’ve still got time to pop into my dream.”

“A spare five minutes.” Lucienne said without missing a beat.

“An escape from Matthew?” Hob offered slyly.

She took the excuse graciously. “If one could ever be found.”

Hob laughed. “Yeah.”

He returned to watching the waves; wondered if Dream could feel him here, feel him in this dream, knew that he probably could.

Dream was the hand that guided theses tides, the definition to these rules of physics, the one that had written them. Here, in this dream, in any dream, perhaps that cliff face didn’t need to erode at all, perhaps the sea could swirl and crash as it pleased. A flip side to that, a danger in not being able to trust natures otherwise irrefutable laws. Hob supposed it could go the other way, rock crumbling faster than was natural, nature colliding while directed by something else. It might make it possible to have an eternity of this—

It might make it possible for it to disappear in an instant.

Hob had now met his neighbours daughter properly.

The girl, Lizzie, was very shy—which made sense when being introduced to a new person—and Hob had already been over for dinner. Her parents needed a babysitter and they wanted to have a test run, an hour to see how their daughter would adjust. It had gone pretty well, he thought that she was warming up to him, because the instant he’d brought out the coloured pencils and paper Lizzie seemed to deem him an acceptable human being.

She’d drawn him a picture of a tiger.

Hob had already bought her birthday gift—the red truck Dream had suggested, now wrapped up and waiting—found something simple in it, a peace rather than a yearning. As much as she reminded him of the daughter he’d never had, of the son who’d died so young, it was something other than pain. Or additional to it. A chance.

An opportunity.

He wondered if he might remain in teaching after all.

Maybe primary school age. There was one in Haddington—the place he’d tentatively settled on for now—and Hob had begun browsing housing listings, just to get a feel for what was out there. He didn’t know if he was quite ready to commit yet. He still didn’t know if his head was in the right space for it. The week had passed by, time running out, because Anna had remembered their conversation about Edinburgh castle.

She wanted to visit.

Hob hadn’t yet replied; fingers hovering over the phone screen, the words he wanted to say stuck somewhere in the trembling of his hand.

I’m sorry, Hob wanted to type.

I know I didn’t say a proper goodbye, but I’ll never see you again.

It hurt like it always did, like he’d told Dream, Lucienne, but there was more too because Hob could transition into this new life with a whisper of the previous. He could take the pain for all it could give him, weather it as he began to build something again. It wasn’t just the new people; it was these more frequent meetings with Dream, days passing to find Hob spending a morning expecting his arrival. That in itself wasn’t unusual, a scene reworked while at its core so much remained the same, a play between two actors, but the rest of the cast was forever changing. The rest of the roles forever being recast.

He heard voices outside his door.

Familiar voices.

Hob wasn’t surprised at all when he opened his door to see Dream talking to Maggie. She was elderly, slightly fragile with it though still quite formidable, skin paper thin and hair almost entirely white. There was something in her face, a frown, that same expression Hob had seen before, of trying to place how she knew Dream, the thing Hob was still puzzling out himself. He’d become used to seeing it, felt like he’d been let in on a private joke.

“Awrite Hob?”

“Afternoon Maggie,” Hob replied with a warm smile. “Thanks again for the pie.”

She smiled back. “Was nae bother, glad you enjoyed it.”

“It was well made,” Dream said courteously; voice a richly rolling sound, deep but somehow unfalteringly soft when he was being gentle. “You have my thanks as well.”

Maggie seemed happy to hear it.

Her smile widened, eyes so very bright, remaining so even as she shuffled closer to the door to her flat. “Well, that’s me, I’ll let yer both get on.”

“Where would you like to begin today?” Dream asked as he entered the flat. “Would you like to make your first guess?”

This was familiar too; the unfurling power, the glow in his friends eyes—

Oh those beautiful eyes.

Hob still couldn’t imagine something more lovely. He knew he could search the whole world and never find that shade of blue, knew he could spend eternity looking up into the night sky and still be unable to find every one of those stars.

Hob smiled. “Maybe in a minute.”

Dream’s smile was sharp, his voice a teasing croon, coy like a predator who’d cornered its prey. “Stuck?”

“No.” Hob laughed. “Just taking my time.”

“Hmm.” Another of those smiles, a hand trailing over the back of a chair, a slow caress of the wood. “Do not worry, I have not forgotten your gift.”

Hob really needed to remind himself that Dream wasn’t flirting with him.

His friend glanced back towards the door.

“You make friends quickly.”

Hob shrugged. It wasn’t anything special. “I’ve had a lot of practise.”

There was a bitterness there that he could taste.

Dream was far too clever not to have caught it, eyes narrowing almost imperceptivity, but he didn’t immediately call Hob on it. “What are we to do today?”

“Well, it depends.” Hob shrugged; had his own plan for this, his own cause to smile slyly, preferred to keep his moves in this game far more understated than Dream’s. “I was thinking of selling my car.”

“I will follow your lead.” Dream said smoothly.

“Then we should have a cup of tea before we go.” Hob replied.

His friend nodded, stood in front of the table, curious because Lizzie’s drawing lay upon it.

Dream sat down, traced the outline of the tiger with a careful finger, entirely fascinated. He was still looking at it when Hob returned, distracted but not entirely, wasn’t surprised when Hob set the mug next to him. Instead Dream’s attention shifted, a smooth transition; Hob watched how his fingers cupped the mug, the way his eyes now watched the stream curling through the air. A strange sort of contentment, of fascination, a quiet appreciation for something so very simple.

An artist’s easy admiration for something made with love.

He immediately shied away from the thought, the question of whether Dream knew what Hob felt for him, locked it away so it didn’t ruin the moment as he continued to watch. Hob sat across from, Dream loose limbed and relaxed, always so poised but never like he’s posed, an elegance that somehow complimented his dishevelled hair. Hob had seen it neat, long, found the wild disarray ridiculously enticing, temptation to sink one’s fingers into those tousled locks.

Dream took a sip of the tea, tentative, then with more confidence as he evidently realised he enjoyed the taste.

Hob’s phone lit up with a notification.

Dream’s eyes strayed to it, flicked back to him, assessed how Hob didn’t even make a move towards it. “May I ask a question?”

Hob nodded even as he knew what it was probably going to be. “Sure.”

“Why are you saddened by your friend’s attempts to contact you?”

“Anna’s asked to visit. She wants—”

He sighed, frustrated.

“It’s almost the last day.” Hob paused to take a sip of tea, to warm himself with it, to remember how to be brave. “And I’ve already said goodbye, already left, but there’s one thing still to go because soon I’m dead to them.”

“You feel guilty.”

“I feel like a liar.” Hob said because he did, and because he was.

Dream frowned.

“The funeral.” Hob added, the reality something he’d been trying not to think about. “As soon as I announce my death it’ll all be over, they won’t even have a body to bury, and my non-existent brother certainly won’t be coming by to answer any questions.”

“Then perhaps I might be able to assist,” Dream said, his own hands still curled around his mug of tea. “I can go.”

Hob stared at him.

“I do not have to make a real appearance, not if it would be inappropriate. It makes no difference whether I go there in the physical world,” Dream continued, unperturbed by Hob’s silence even as the softness of his tone acknowledged he knew the reason for it. “Those minds are mine regardless. I can soothe from afar.”

Hob found himself unable to speak.

“I will go.” Dream said again. “If it will help.”

The choice mattered.

“I can soothe it for them,” Dream said quietly; earnest, so unbelievably gentle, the glow in his eyes that same addictive warmth. “I can soothe it for you.”

Hob didn’t doubt for a second that he could.

He just didn’t know if he should accept; found the idea that Dream could go back to them, to anyone, could look whenever he wanted, far too tempting to trust himself with. Hob knew the compulsion to keep attached would be too much, that he’d ask and ask and keep asking, perhaps never fully able to let it go. He wanted it, god did he want it, was afraid he might ask him to do it all the time, might take advantage if he dared accept this once.

Dream was watching him knowingly.

Once again Hob wondered who he’d lost.

“I will only let you know insofar as what will help you. But I think this will help you, I will blunt the edges of this break so that it can heal.”

Dream wasn’t pushing, wasn’t forcing—had seen how he’d frozen and known it wasn’t rejection—was offering, obviously remembering what Hob had said last time. It was a care that burrowed deep into his chest; slipped past all defences, no danger here, knocked gently on his heart and was invited inside. Hob’s eyes stung, welling with tears, he pushed them back.

Smiled.

Dream frowned. “Why do you smile through pain?”

Hob blinked, shrugged. “Just do.”

“I can smile through all of human pain.” Dream said quietly.

“Do you laugh with all our joy?”

“On occasion.”

Hob believed it.

Do you cry with us? He thought, unbidden. Do you rage when we rage?

Dream had wanted to soothe last time; Hob saw something in him that wanted to do it now—I grieve with you, I feel with you—and maybe it didn’t matter that Hob was just one drop in that ocean. Maybe there was nothing small about it. Because hadn’t Dream said that he was also one drop? And whether king or god or something bigger than both that meant sameness, it meant comfort.

Dream would cradle a drop in his hands.

Hob had a sudden thought.

“Er—they might call you Jeremy.”

Dream raised a brow, an offended and yet resigned dignity to his solemn tone. “As far as monikers go it is not the worst.”

Hob couldn’t fight the urge to explain himself. “I panicked, spoke without thinking.”

The tilt to his friends lips was the ghost of a smirk. “Humans often do.”

It should have sounded like an insult.

Yet Dream’s tone was one of unmistakable fondness.

Hob laughed. “Yeah yeah, humans are flawed alright.”

“Aren’t we all.” Dream replied.

There was a peculiar gravity in how he said that.

“It’s worth it though, isn’t it?” Hob found himself saying. “This is all worth it.”

Dream watched him patiently, waiting, silent because Hob already knew the answer.

Hob laughed. “Yeah. It’s worth it.”

He still found it hard even as he believed it; the wound was fresh, so very fresh, but it was also so very human. It wasn’t just his, never had been and never would be, because this wasn’t unique to immortality. It wasn’t something Hob could ever escape. The magnitude might be unique but the rest was shared experience—the loss, the grief, the rage and crippling loneliness—the pain had always been part of being alive.

The price of it.

Chapter Text

They left after finishing their tea.

To be honest Hob already knew which car he was getting—had spent a fair amount of time browsing Gumtree ads—had already reached out to the owner and only needed to go and pick it up. His sports car was a trace too many (slightly too flashy to be honest) and maybe he shouldn’t have left it this long but he’d wanted to take Dream with him. Hob had to drive out of Edinburgh to get to it; he didn’t have his new license yet, but he knew he needed to get rid of the car before he announced his death.

It was a place out of the way.

The intention was an exchange of vehicles.

Dream was solemn as always when they got into the car, putting his seatbelt on with same level of undue concentration Hob remembered from when they’d gone shopping. He was obviously unused to it but not unskilled, a precise calibration; a smooth play of tendons and muscle, bone, the novelty of the action only an added flavour. Hob turned the key in the ignition, the engine rumbling smoothly to life, pulling out onto the main road. They passed a dilapidated building, gutted by fire, and Dream frowned; a strange sort of pain, akin to guilt, something that had to be looked for even as there was no attempt to obscure it.

“You know, cars had only been invented for three years last we officially met.” Hob said as the building disappeared behind them, Dream’s frown disappearing with it as he listened intently. “It’s a little unbelievable how fast things move.”

Hob very clearly remembered his first car.

“It is a rather impressive invention.” Dream agreed primly; fondly, something of a parents congratulations for a child’s first steps, free from condescension. “Though much altered from its original form.”

“You listen to me describe things but you’ve got to already know them, right? Like how you always seem to know people’s names.” Hob asked, eyes on the road but watching Dream out of his periphery. “That’s my first guess by the way.”

Dream nodded. “Yes.”

“Why ask at all?”

“I have always liked hearing how you say it.” Dream replied with a small smile.

That made sense, aligned with Hob’s memories, the first meeting when he’d been so very curious, transfixed when Hob had spoken about chimneys. Now he thought about it, the expression had been similar to the wonder he’d shown for Lizzie’s tiger drawing. Hob remembered being taken aback by how enthralling it had been, how it had felt the first time Dream had smiled. No defence could ever be mounted against it.

Hob knew he’d had absolutely no chance.

And he was perfectly ok with that.

“Must have gotten tedious sometimes,” Hob teased; outside the city had turned to countryside, a stretch of green fields. “Hearing me blather on about handkerchiefs. Or better ploughs for farming. You listen well though.”

“Simplicity is as fine a flavour as any.” Dream replied seriously, though he still smiled at Hob’s light tone, appreciating the joke for what it was even as he offered his rebuttal. “A dream is still a dream no matter how small, no matter how simple, I do not see the point of setting them in competition nor do I believe it can even truly be done.”

Hob found that strangely bolstering to hear.

For his part Dream seemed content to look out of the window, smiling softly, enriched by this just as he had been by Lizzie’s picture. Hob no longer had to wonder about that, because Dream had just given him the answer as to why.

Hadn’t he?

Hob had considered it the appreciation of an artist, and now he got to watch what that looked like. Dream wasn’t caught by it, not snared, but enticed; drawn in gently, tugged closer by something he had seen, something he had spotted out of the corner of his eye, and for the first time Hob thought that perhaps he was not so kingly after all. Or a king of a different kind because this wasn’t sovereignty in the way he’d known it. Opulence wasn’t the only way to draw him. Perhaps Hob had been too distracted by the ruby —by its sheer decadent wealth—missing that despite how well he always dressed Dream clothed himself simply. All in black, sleek and beautiful, but almost austere.

Practical.

The sort of being for whom a simple stretch of countryside was enough for this, a humble dream, for him to look so utterly at peace just by watching the green hills roll by.

“You are staring.” Dream said mildly without even turning his head, not displeased, not a reproach, a preening half smile Hob had become so very familiar with. “Eyes on the road.”

He’d been caught again.

How many times before Dream became suspicious?

There hadn’t really been anything too revealing in that half daydream, thoughts strictly platonic, and Hob might be over thinking it. To be honest it was originally going to be Hob’s first guess, but he didn’t know how to ask him about daydreams without revealing why he was so invested, without giving his friend cause to look closer the next time Hob’s mind wandered. If he knew there was nothing he could do about it—nothing Dream had been doing differently for six hundred years—but if he didn’t then it could change things too far.

Maybe later.

After Hob measured if this was another overstep, shored up enough bravery to justify the risk.

The risk of potentially losing Dream’s small, soft smile.

“It’s nice to see you happy,” Hob said without thinking—and wasn’t that part of the trend too?—kept his expression even because while presumptuous any damage was already done. “Not that you’re usually miserable I mean.”

Wow just going back to digging holes hmm?

Dream chuckled; soft, decadent, a spoon dipped in chocolate, the thickness of it sticking to one’s lips despite even the most determined sweeping of tongue. “Your compliments need work, but the sentiment behind them is pleasing.”

Hob rolled his eyes. “Yeah yeah.”

“However I do remember one remark in particular that you made about my eyes.” Dream smirked. “Care to rethink it?”

Hob was not going to rise to the bait. “No.”

Dream laughed again. “I see.”

A beat of silence.

It was comfortable, warm, deliciously so; something Hob had never thought he could have, not after how Dream had walked out in 1889, tense with offended anger, expression set in stone. He vividly remembered the tears that had glimmered in his eyes.

“Hob?”

Dream’s voice was so soft, a murmur, a caress.

“Hn?”

“Thank you,” Dream said carefully, still staring out the window, pausing to take a breath Hob suspected was unneeded. Not shoring up courage but opening himself up for attack, risking it as he added—

“It is nice to be happy too.”

It was said with such genuine warmth, a sort of careful acceptance, handled as if the compliment was fragile. As if unused to such things being said without heat, without insult, or perhaps without feeling like he needed to look for one. Hob remembered him doing that; when they’d met again at the New Inn, less so now with every meeting since, how Dream had acted as if trying to find the trick.

The trap.

God Dream kept finding new ways to rip out Hob’s heart.

How deep must a betrayal bite to have given Dream cause to feel this way about admitting happiness? And yet it was progress; more evidence that Dream really did trust him, a weighty thing he’d been given and Hob would burn the world to keep it safe.

They arrived at a quaint little house.

Dream put his hand on Hob’s shoulder before he knocked on the door. It felt significant, more than the thrill of initiated touch, but he couldn’t figure out why that was. Yet for a moment Dream’s fingers rested there, a chill seeping through Hob’s clothes, weighty but without forcing him down. It was the impression of a mountain above him, curious because Hob felt so light when it was taken away.

“Afternoon.”

The man who opened the door greeted them with a mumble, looking at Hob sort of blankly, his gaze somehow to the left of his shoulder as if he wasn’t really seeing him at all. He was an elderly man, gnarled like the roots of some great tree, scowling as he squinted in the bright summer light as if wondering why he couldn’t hold onto the memory of Hob’s face.

“Alright.” Hob greeted, slightly off balance. “Are you Isaac Scott? I’m here about the ad?”

“Keys.” The man, presumably Isaac, grumbled.

“Mind if I take a look first?”

More grumbling, more blank stares, made all the more bizarre because Isaac seemed not to notice Dream at all. Hob followed him to the car—a slightly beaten up KA—kept Dream in his peripheral, and for the first time he looked out of place, set apart. It became increasingly clear that whatever he’d done had hidden them both, obscured Hob somehow, nudged him slightly out of phase while removing Dream from view entirely.

If this was animation they’d have a different frame rate.

Under this summer sun, against the backdrop of lush green fields and gravelled road, Dream watched silently with patient, all seeing eyes. The odd umbrella over them both meant Hob could once again see the glow; felt the sense of something waiting, something that could wait for an eternity, perched there as a spectator but always peering out of the dark.

A power unnoticed but it didn’t need to be, went on ticking regardless, wasn’t granted strength by being seen and wasn’t robbed when it was not.

Hob struggled to tear his eyes away.

Isaac handed him the keys to the car. Hob hummed thoughtfully as he examined it, popped the hood and looked inside. He wasn’t expecting anything special, knew he’d sell this within a year to complete the transition, but was pleasantly surprised by how good a condition it seemed to be in. Hob still took his time, needed to be sure, but it didn’t take long for him to be certain that he wasn’t going to break down ten minutes up the road. Still…

Yeah he was trading down.

It wasn’t really news—it had been a deliberate pick after all—and the test drive confirmed it, however Isaac suddenly seemed reluctant to abide by their agreement. He’d zeroed in on the MOT, pretending he didn’t believe it was genuine, saying that a car in such good condition wouldn’t be exchanged like this.

“Then it seems you’re getting the better end of the deal.” Hob replied evenly.

Isaac scowled.

It turned into a time consuming negotiation.

For a while he wouldn’t budge, not so much suspicious as wondering what more he could get, and whatever Dream had done meant that Isaac also missed the way Hob straightened. A shift in posture usually got the message across when Hob needed it to, a deliberate blurring of that careful line he always walked. Hob had been a soldier for centuries and he was still dangerous, but this man didn’t see it. Right now he couldn’t see it.

Then Dream moved.

He stepped smoothly back into frame; made himself noticeable, noticed, cast off whatever spell he’d worked as if shrugging out of a coat. Hob imagined he could see it drop to the floor, hear it land with a soft little thump, the reveal of what he knew lay beneath not really a surprise at all.

“I believe my friend is correct.”

Fuck.

Hob shivered, couldn’t help it, because that voice reached inside his chest and put his heart in a vice and Dream hadn’t even spoken to him. It was compelling—still so very attractive, Hob really not caring what that said about his taste in men—casually intimidating, instinctive, almost accidental if Dream was likely to do something carelessly. Somehow it reminded Hob of a nightmare he’d had, of battlefields and plague, a sudden familiarity because Hob could have sworn he saw Dream there, found a memory of him stood untouched in the midst of a battlefield.

Isaac had gone white.

“Y-yeh.” He stammered. “All good.”

Dream smiled; nasty, the joy of getting what he wanted mixed with the disappointment of halted wrath.

Hob remained hidden.

That was the point of this, wasn’t it?, the reason behind that hand on his shoulder, the help Dream had offered was to alleviate risk. To obscure the trail he was leaving. Hopefully next time Hob would be more prepared, less uneasy about changing technology, but he couldn’t deny it felt good to have a break. He knew he couldn’t allow himself to fall out of practise though, these skills were important—independence, safety—evidence that he knew the world.

That Hob lived in it and learned it.

The exchange went smoothly after that, a boring exchange of documents, and when they drove away in Hob’s new car he couldn’t help but wonder what else his friend could hide. He thought of what Dream revealed to him and speculated how much was still to come. It wasn’t the need to know more, Hob wasn’t entitled to all secrets, wasn’t owed them, but he worried about whether he’d missed something important. Hob worried if his contentment at learning how to read his friend might be wrong, might be lulled, how—even with all Dream was so freely showing him—that he might still be tricked.

It wasn’t a charitable thought.

Hob knew the word tricked was wrong, harsher than what he actually meant because it wasn’t really the truth at all. He’d do what he always did when he didn’t understand, what he knew was best, would ask questions, would talk. Because if you never ask you’d never know, and if Hob never tried he’d never fail, never succeed.

“You hid me from view.” Hob said tentatively, trying to puzzle out what Dream had done even as he didn’t really comprehend it. “Did you make it so he’ll think he dreamt it?”

“Is that your second guess?”

“Yeah.”

“You are almost correct.” Dream said slyly; honest but with a hint of guile, the mystery of a storyteller far more benevolent than that of a trickster. “Would you like further explanation?”

Hob laughed. “Nah. Let me think on it.”

“Very well.”

There was more though, more to ask because—

“I don’t think it’s usual for you, using your powers to obscure a human this way. You were worried when I said I could be trapped, when I admitted that moving was going to be tricky this time.” Hob said, eyes carefully on the road. “Was it because of what happened to you?”

He dared suggest that.

Dream didn’t so much as blink.

He didn’t draw back in offence, and progress really had been made hadn’t it?

“Not entirely.” Dream replied, an answer that would have seemed a vague escape if not for the thoughtful way he spoke. An admittance, an opening to something more than what Hob had already guessed. “My own imprisonment was an irritation, no captor had the ability to do me any harm, it was a boring span of years.”

The sentence seemed to hang.

Hob remembered the grief in Dream’s starlit eyes, the sheer pain, the way his whole body had tensed with it. The way it had seemed carved into him.

“But?”

“But others are far more delicate,” Dream said softly, deciding to continue, to share this with him even as he did not give any names. “And I would not see another harmed because I failed to protect them.”

You deserve that too, Hob almost said.

He knew it would be a step too far, didn’t mean it as a responsibility, not implying weakness, but because protection isn’t granted just in the absence of strength. It is not a one way flow from strong to weak, not a branding of such.

Not a judgement.

Dream would see it as such; the pointing out of a flaw, of a lack of faith in what he was, a criticism of not being enough. And so Hob would continue to keep it quiet, to wrap his concern in other things, to blunt it from the knife his friend perceived it as. There was no use in trying to explain, the wound it would cause not worth it, because Hob knew this would only be taken as an insult that he didn’t mean.

“You think I’m delicate?” Hob said instead, teasing with a wink.

Dream smirked. “I think I’d like to be gentle with you.”

Hob’s phone started to ring before he could reply, Anna requesting FaceTime, and Hob declined the call after he changed lane. He felt Dream’s eyes on him, too noticeable to be ignored, power touching Hob’s skin and slipping beneath, that gaze that peered down to his bones. It wasn’t intrusive today, no prickling unease, but Hob felt like he needed to explain anyway.

“Can you tell her I can’t answer when I’m driving?”

“Hm.”

Dream plucked the phone from the stand, unlocked it with the code Hob provided, paused for a moment before tapping out a reply. As far as texting was concerned he was faster than Hob had thought he’d be for one unpractised, fingers confident across the keys, the only sign of novelty his small confused frown when Anna replied.

The cheery ping of a notification seemed to perplex him.

“Nice to speak again Jeremy,” Dream read smoothly, relaying the message with the frown firmly affixed to his face. “Hob settling in well?”

There was a pause.

“She has accompanied her message with an odd symbol.” Dream said, informing Hob as if holding him accountable for what his eyes were forced to read. “I believe it is supposed to be a wink?”

Hob kept his eyes on the road. “Modern communication eh?”

“Yes.” Dream settled back into his seat, not a slouch but something pliant, relaxed as if hunkering down to make his reply. Almost akin to settling in to read a good book. “Hm.”

Hob spared a moment of trepidation for what he was saying—a moment of humour for how Dream had to have clarified the text was from Jeremy—used it to cover the pain. “Oi! No gossiping.”

“Do you presume to stop me?”

“I will stop this car.” Hob teased, glancing quickly in his direction.

Another of those smirks, Dream not even deigning to meet his eyes as he read another of Anna’s messages. “I’m sure you will.”

There wasn’t any real discomfort, any real worry, if anything there was something nice about this. Interesting and fascinating in watching him communicate with someone Hob cared for. It was an introduction of sorts, more than how they’d already bumped into each other back in London. Hob knew Anna might tease but she’d keep his boundaries, had seen it in the look in her eyes when she’d thought she’d gone too far.

This adrenaline was something else, anticipation maybe. A swelling warmth.

Love, perhaps.

There was difference in what he felt for Dream; room for it to grow, the fond memories of their meetings now a fondness that grew in the present, developing while Hob looked. It was love that needed watering—still only a seed, in many ways Dream was someone he barely knew—a relationship made more by each new thing they learned together, like the years with Eleanor, a slow reveal in every day.

Hob was pulling into the outskirts of Edinburgh when Dream said.

“Anna would like to speak to you virtually when we return to your place of residence.”

He had not read the message verbatim this time, obviously Dream had deliberately chosen not to let the words ‘FaceTime’ pass his lips.

Hob didn’t answer for a long moment.

This was an encore; stepping out after the final lines, returning to the stage to bow with a flourish, to smile to let the audience know the tragedy was just a play, a step outside the repetition of it all. Or maybe to add a scene—Dream’s new pages accepted, Hob’s additions scribbled in the margins—this new end they were creating together.

This new scene they’d written.

A role promoted to main cast. Dream’s place not in the ensemble, not in rare appearances or in single lines. The confirmation of what Hob had thought before, this now a play between them both, two roles with the others rotating in and out. It was something new, something more than footsteps slotting back into the tread of where he’d been before, the road diverting.

Off the beaten path we go, Hob thought.

“Yeah. Tell her I’ll be free in about half an hour.”

They returned to Hob’s flat.

“Do you want another cup of tea?”

In truth Hob was already moving towards the kitchen, wondering what he was going to make for lunch, had realised that he hadn’t actually prepared anything beforehand. Maybe they could have a lasagne, or—

“Perhaps you would like your gift first?”

Hob turned, noticed Dream now carrying something in his hands, a clear and lidless box that he couldn’t yet see inside. His friend set it on the table, carefully, next to Lizzie’s drawing, eyes straying to the tiger for a moment. Hob found himself curious, this strange feeling in his chest like butterflies every time Dream gave him a gift, approached and looked inside the box.

It was a tortoise.

There was a heat lamp shining on its form; it was small, tiny even, the shell a jewel of black and gold hues, and Hob knew that it would fit quite comfortably in the palm of his hand, wouldn’t even span the width of it. He found himself looking down at an equally tiny head, at solid black eyes, symmetrical markings on the top. There were large scales on the front legs, the shell somewhat oblong. There were other things besides, a bag of containers filled with what must be food, and a dazed part of Hob’s mind thought that his friend had gifted him something of a starter kit.

“You brought me a tortoise?” Hob was unable to help the giddy smile spreading across his face, the leaping warmth in his heart.

Dream frowned as if unsure if he was being insulted. “Yes.”

“You’re—“ Adorable. Sweet. Thoughtful. “Thank you.”

Now Dream smiled, frown smoothing out like ripples fading from the surface of a lake, as always so open when he knew he wasn’t being mocked. “She is a Greek tortoise, only a few weeks old—“

An uncharacteristic pause.

His friend seemed oddly hesitant, an adjustment of a hold he wasn’t quite sure was delicate enough. Dream wasn’t uncertain, wasn’t unsure, was testing strain on a thread he knew wouldn’t snap but would be careful with regardless.

“She’ll live over a hundred years.” Dream finished gently.

Hob had already had an inkling, knew enough of biology after all. He smiled, wobbly, went for a joke to let his friend know this was alright. “Can you guarantee that?”

The humour missed, ended up sounding a little broken.

Dream only nodded. “I can.”

“Did you bring food?”

“I did.” Dream nodded again, gestured to the additional bag, spoke in a tone that was imperially precise. “Greek tortoises eat a selection of wild vegetation. I brought enough for this week, at least.”

“Dream I know nothing about looking after a tortoise.”

“I presume you can learn?”

From his rather limited knowledge Hob guessed he’d need a terrarium, more food stuffs, a water bowl…

There was so much he didn’t know; about what she’d need, what was right for her, the way to keep a tortoise healthy and happy. Hob reached gingerly into the box, not really expecting much, extending his fingers and feeling her little head butting gently against his skin. The scales were still soft, her shell seemed delicate as he traced it carefully. She was so young, a barely born thing, a new little life that blinked into being and now peered up at Hob with black eyes that gleamed like polished obsidian.

Over one hundred years, Dream had said.

Well.

Hello Celia, Hob thought idly, the name coming to him as his fingertip still stroked her head, let’s see what we can do with that time.

He looked back up at Dream.

“Yeah. I can learn.”

“Good.”

“Though now I’ve got to go buy what I need to look after a tortoise.” Hob joked; humour landing this time, tone just as light as he intended, as light as the giddy feeling in his heart.

“What will you call her?”

“Celia.“ Hob said. “You’re lucky she’s still small. I’ll be able to wait until I move to get her something bigger than what I can fit in this flat.”

“Then you have decided?”

“I’m starting to look.”

Dream frowned curiously. “Tell me when you have picked one you wish to consider further.”

“Ok.” Hob agreed easily. “Why?”

“So that I may accompany you.” Dream said, then paused as if realising he hadn’t asked permission. “If you are amenable?”

Surely he had heard him wrong. “You want to look at a house with me?”

“Yes.”

Maybe they’d both had the same idea for using tasks as a way to obscure.

The game a shared set of moves, a shared way to heal; building a new garden, Dream perhaps finding a similar reassurance in offering assistance, a wound soothed by carrying out his function. Hob didn’t have enough time to ask, to think on it further, because he realised half an hour had almost passed. Hob checked his phone a minute before it began to ring, answered before he lost his nerve. Anna’s smiling face filled the screen, eyes soft when she saw him, eyes flicking to Dream with the same welcoming warmth.

“Hello Jeremy.”

Dream didn’t even react to the name, smooth as if it was the one he was born with, smiled, indulgent, and nodded his own greeting. “Nice to see you well, Anna Roberts.”

“Hi Anna.” Hob spoke next, watched as the angle of the video changed to include Anna’s fiancé in the shot. “Hi Ian.”

“Good to see you mate.”

Anna beamed. “Show us the new place!”

Hob panned around the room, feeling oddly lucky for Dream’s insistence on making the flatlook more lived in, knew Anna would have noticed empty shelves. He wasn’t hiding Celia from the view of the camera, her box still sitting on the table, and knew the exact moment she was spotted.

“Is that a tortoise?”

“Yeah.” Hob grinned. “A gift.”

Anna smiled, cheeky, the comment she wanted to make bold in her eyes.

They chattered on; aimlessly, preciously, the words themselves did and didn’t matter because Hob was drinking in their faces. He still managed to learn that Beatrice was staying on at the inn past the summer, that Ian was considering opening a bakery. Hob’s smile was affixed to his face, locked there so he could focus on taking them in, and he wondered if perhaps he’d FaceTime Beatrice next. He still couldn’t tell them the truth, was still lying, but the resentment for the way he had to live felt lessened, like it was draining by the second.

Maybe this was a better goodbye.

Dream gave him a moment once the call ended.

He did it without acknowledging it, without even making it clear that’s what he was doing, but Hob knew the way he turned away was respectful. The tears came again; that choking thing, that not ugly part of Hob rising up and spilling out, but just as with every single one of those times before they did stop. And when they did Dream was still here, was turning back to Hob with a small smile.

He set a cup of tea in front of him.

Hob hadn’t even heard him boil the kettle.

There was a moment where he stared stupidly before he glanced back up, a warmth within him that had nothing and everything to do with the simplicity of being offered a steaming mug of tea. Dream was looking at his bookcase, had turned away again, not in dismissal but perhaps to give him more privacy if it was required.

“I see you’ve reorganised your shelves.” Dream said after a minute or so of silence.

“Just a little.” Hob replied, shrugging.

Dream hummed.

“You have a librarian but you don’t keep books just for leisure, do you?” Hob thought back to his conversation with Lucienne, to the careful way Dream handled the books. “Stories mean something to you don’t they.”

“Don’t they to you?”

Hob knew enough of Dream to recognise the sly humour in his voice, the hint of what was a private joke, filed the implication away to think on later. Dream picked up his copy of Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, turned with a smirk, read a single line in his lilting, lyrical voice. Hob hadn’t been able to speak it like this for centuries, not with another person who’d been there, who’d lived how the language sounded.

He felt something almost shatter within him.

Another breaking to be sure, but one that made Hob feel so very light.

His mother had spoken to him in that tongue.

It was too painful to hear every day. Hob survived by looking forward, by putting one foot in front of the other, had stayed away from teaching languages and older forms of literature for this exact reason. He was a different person now.

It would never be what it was.

That spring was gone, never to come again, those trees had wintered long ago and lost all of their leaves. Hob’s mother’s voice a fragment, a whisper on the wind. The flavour was nice though, to have a hint of it; like a lingering scent, perfume fading, the echo of laughter from another room. This was listening to beloved voices through the door, or maybe playing a favourite record, hearing it crackle with age.

A blissful reminisce.

Other memories would become the same. Hob thought about them all; Paul and Beatrice, thought about the loss, thought about the picture Lizzie had drawn for him. He thought about Sam and Ada, Maggie. The lives a new intersection, the others diverged, now moving away from his but Hob had been allowed this final touchpoint. He’d been able to see them blossom, to finally say something of a goodbye, to feel something of how alive they were and how alive Hob was too. There were memories beyond that, beyond it and behind, a long line of smiling faces, so alike Anna’s and so different.

It was like this every time.

This tread of old ground not only something to mourn—a ending but not the ending—was hope, a chance.

I can take it, Hob thought, if this is what I can get for the price I have to pay—

Then I can take it.

Chapter Text

On the day Hob Gadling died he was out buying supplies for his tortoise.

It was a good distraction.

The days that followed grew less and less painful, grief preparing its pilgrimage into fondness. Sleep came easy, harmless dreams that didn’t mean anything at all, the ones where there was no twist to unravel, no hope that needed to be clung to because he felt cradled instead. Hob once again wondered how far Dream’s hand extended; how much he saw, how much he soothed, felt strangely self-reflective as he tried to figure it out, as if trying to unpick his own genetic code. It was something so normal, not mundane but standard, the whole thing like looking in the mirror and finding himself surprised by the colours in his own eyes.

Announcing his death still hurt.

Yet it was pain that could be carried, a burden he could bare, Hob finding it centred primarily around the funeral. Some of it was that same familiar grief, digging like a shard of glass, but Hob realised he was also anxious about sending the friend who’d been referred to as the ‘secret boyfriend’ to meet the very people who had teased him about it. This was the start of letting go.

The start of moving on.

Hob got a haircut.

In many ways it was a forced change; would be followed by a change of clothes to adjust to fashions, then a shift in the words he used, the knowledge he had, because Hob was joining a new generation now. He’d made a habit of living the same set of years, had perfected the method, because choosing an age was always a careful balance. It had to be young enough to give him the most time before he had to move on while still being believable. Hob had to change now so that he was in line with the new era he was pretending to be part of.

A chameleon in a crowd he didn’t belong to.

Never would.

Yet Hob didn’t turn away when next Sam knocked on his door, the teenager shuffling foot to foot when he opened it, a stuttering explanation of why he was there revealed to be a request for advice. It turned out he was dyslexic, was trying to access support from his university and needed help filling out an application for assistance. This time offering to help felt like a balm on a stinging wound rather than salt rubbed into it, felt like yearning for connection and being met halfway.

Hob was glad to invite him in.

Sam’s eyes lit up as soon as he stepped inside.

“A tortoise!”

“So it would seem.” Hob said wryly, watching as Sam made an immediate beeline for the terrarium. “She’s called Celia.”

“She’s really cool,” Sam was peering inside curiously. “Those markings are very distinctive, where did you get her?”

“She was a gift.”

They set down to work. After a while Hob realised he could hear something strange, the sound of music through the walls, someone playing the piano. He paused to listen because it had been a common sound over the past few days. It could be a little stilted, every now and then the sound would falter, an obvious sign of the learning curve of a new player. Hob was just about to return to the conversation when there was another knock on the door—turned out he was very popular today—found Maggie stood outside with a small container in her hands.

“My wee grandson is learning to play. Thought I’d bring you something to encourage patience.” She explained, handing him what turned out to be a cake.

Hob took it with a frown. “Anyone been giving you trouble?”

“Oh no, nothing of the like,” Maggie replied with a laugh.

“Would you like to come in for some tea?” Hob offered.

Maggie demurred again. “No no, I’ll best get on.”

Sam chose that moment to interrupt, overcoming his soft spoken nature long enough to raise his voice. “Hob’s got a tortoise!”

There was suddenly a softness in Maggie’s smile like a little glow as she beamed, an excited awe that seemed to melt decades from her face. Hob dutifully moved out of the way so she could have a look. He grinned as the elderly woman made her way over to the glass enclosure, obviously eager to see, the jittery excitement to her steps almost identical to the way Sam had moved not twenty minutes previous.

“Aww look at the wee thing!”

Celia merely continued munching her food.

She took delicate little bites, shell gleaming under the lamp as she was cooed at, the angle showing off the glitter of gold. It was a preen for all he knew the tortoise couldn’t have known she was being complimented. Strangely enough it reminded Hob of Dream—and he really was far gone if that was a comparison he was making—though he didn’t think anyone would be inclined to coo at his solemn friend.

“A gift from my friend,” Hob explained warmly. “Her name is Celia.”

“Fine name,” Maggie said; still hovering by the cage, transfixed in simple joy. “Take care of the lass Hob.”

“I will.”

“That’s a fine man you’ve got too,” Maggie added, making an increasingly familiar assumption about his relationship with Dream. “Sweet of him to get you her.”

“Um.” Hob blushed. “We aren’t dating.”

It was somehow much more awkward than his conversation with Beatrice.

Not because he didn’t really know her yet but—well, it felt slightly wrong to be having this sort of conversation with a sweet old lady who’d just brought him a cake. Maggie was the fourth person who’d picked up on it though; it must be Hob projecting, and though he really hoped Dream hadn’t noticed he was becoming increasingly aware that probably wasn’t possible. Dream must be ignoring it then, politely turning away, setting it aside as neatly and as carefully as he’d closed the box of gifts.

The association gave Hob pause.

There was a moment where his heart lurched, feeling full to bursting, feeling something fragile and yet curiously unbreakable.

“Hurry up and ask him.” Maggie told him knowingly. “Before someone else snaps him up.”

“Er…” Hob didn’t really know how to even begin to explain the complexities of his crush. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

She nodded. “Get him something nice to say thank you.”

That was actually a very good point.

Fuck.

Dream had bought him the wine, the plant pots, then Celia, and Hob hadn’t even realised that he hadn’t yet gotten Dream a gift in return. Hob had been rude hadn’t he? His friend had been so smooth about it too, enough to not even trigger the thought, hadn’t so much as hinted, so—

Maggie smiled. “I’ll bring some scones round hmm?”

“Nah I should make them myself if I’m going to give them to him.” Hob replied warmly, mind already racing with possibilities, with ideas, because surely he was allowed to spoil his friend too? “Thanks though.”

“Would you like my recipe?” Maggie offered thoughtfully. “It belonged to my gran.”

“Are you sure?”

“It’s no bother.”

Hob found himself nodding. “That would be great actually. Thanks Maggie.”

“And Hob? I dinnae mean to assume.” Maggie was earnest, just as apologetic as Beatrice had been when she’d made a similar assumption. Just as apologetic as Anna when she felt she’d overstepped. “He’s a good lad though.”

Hob wondered what association Dream evoked in her.

The familiarity was there, just as it was in everyone who had met him, her tone wistful. She didn’t verbalise it but obviously felt it, her eyes soft. Perhaps it was a gentler remembrance, a memory drifting to the forefront of her mind.

“It’s ok. He’s been my friend for a long time.”

It was true, fascination had come first; the question of what he was, followed by the desire for that pale skin and slim form, for the long fingers, the pink lips. It was so familiar to Hob now, an admiration made of every meeting—he’d not been exaggerating about how often he’d daydreamed—having started because, well, there wasn’t really anyone more perfect for a sexual awakening. Everything about Dream had done it, inspired the revelation of being into men, though the resulting shame had not been his friends fault at all, how Hob had hidden it for so many centuries.

He'd had only really accepted it in the last fifty or so years, been able to work out the knots of shame and fear. Embracing it in a world that was now starting to embrace him back.

But it had started with Dream.

She nodded as if he’d said something else. “I’ll leave you to it—Sam, it’s nice to see you lad.”

“Bye Maggie.” Sam said shyly.

It was somewhat awkward the boy had witnessed all of that.

Hob sat down with him again, doing his best to pretend strange had happened, smiling encouragingly. “Let’s take another look at this application shall we?”

They shared the cake, continued to work to the sound of music, to that slightly stumbling series of notes, and Sam didn’t mention anything about crushes or make any implications Hob was dating his oldest friend. What a lad. He walked him through it, helped him figure out what to write, sat with him as he carefully filled it out. They drafted it, typed the words on Hob’s laptop—a font easy for Sam to read—and the teenager relaxed from the tense thing he’d been when he’d first asked Hob for help. They finished half of the application and then agreed to meet another day.

“Ada’s visa came through,” Sam said when he was packing up to go, the statement turned up like a question. “She’s leaving for Canada next semester. We’re having a party.”

Hob swallowed around a lump in his throat. “Yeah?”

Sam nodded. “The whole building is putting something together. Would you like to come?”

How strange to be on the other side of this, to be part of a crowd being left behind, a reminder of its lack of uniqueness that felt bittersweet. It was a cycle of normality, life staged like this, staged by periods of leaving and arriving.

“Yeah.” Hob smiled. “I would.”

Hob stared uncomprehendingly at the letter he’d received.

It was somehow every document he needed.

An exact copy of every form he’d filled out, still waiting to for him to decide how to get it forged. Passport, driver’s license, birth certificate, educational qualifications—up to a masters, something he hadn’t yet attempted to fake even as it was the limit of what he thought he could get away with—a national insurance card. A p60.

All official.

With an apology for having misplaced the records.

Hob knew it was Dream.

He just didn’t know how.

What Hob did know was that he’d spoken to him about all the things he’d need. Perhaps that was Dream’s gift this time, though it was a little early for their meeting, the relief that Hob no longer had to think about it. Not for another few decades at least—though this time he’d need to be proactive, need to somehow figure out how to keep up with this technological boom—no time to consider it because there was still so much more to do. Hob himself was narrowing down a list of potential properties, now also trying to figure out what would be a suitable gift for his friend, planning on taking him out again for their next meeting.

On the day Dream was due to meet him a raven tapped impatiently on his kitchen window.

Hob almost dropped the plate he was holding, had been in the middle of doing the washing up, stunned as the raven flapped its wings in irritation. Telling the difference between birds wasn’t a talent he possessed, but there was really only one raven who would be tapping on his window and getting prissy when he didn’t let him in fast enough. Though Hob had to also admit Matthew was like no other raven he’d ever seen; so fine, like a sketch come to life, an artist’s loving rendering in every glossy feather.

Hob unlatched his window.

“What the fuck Matthew.”

The raven hopped onto his counter and peered up at him with gleaming black eyes, unimpressed with his tone. “Good afternoon to you too.”

Hob finished rinsing off the plate in his hand. “What are you doing here?”

Matthew cocked his head. “Seems rude to follow you around without saying hello.”

“You’re still stalking me?”

“Guarding.” Matthew insisted with an offended shake of those glossy feathers. “Stalking sounds so dirty.”

“Guarding?” Hob snorted, placing the plate he’d been washing on the rack to dry, draining the water from the sink. He looked the raven up and down, this tiny body stood delicately on his kitchen worktop. “You’re a bird. What’re you going to do?”

Matthew snapped his beak.

Then sighed.

“The boss is the one who will do something.”

“Of course he will.” Hob smiled; fond, more tender than he’d meant to reveal, a hint of appreciation for all that power that was far from platonic.

“Also he er, sent me to tell you he’s been delayed.” Matthew said hesitantly, almost nervous as clawed feet shuffled, as his wings settled into place with a motion like a shiver. “He might need to postpone this appointment. But he also wanted me to tell you that the other, erm, engagement will go ahead as planned.”

The funeral.

Hob felt a flood of alarm, of guilt, the drop of it like a stone because shit his friend had said he was busy with his realm back at the New Inn. They’d been meeting anyway—because of worry, Hob reminded himself bitterly, because what I said hurt him—and while he trusted Dream’s assurances that he wasn’t being pressured Hob hadn’t really been checking in as he should. He may have missed something, and while a wound may have been soothed by carrying out his function Hob also knew how seriously Dream took his role.

Enough to feel beholden to a promise.

Next time he’d ask properly, make sure, because if need be Hob would relent—would wait one hundred years, take that meeting in 2089 as their next negotiation—because he’d already had so much. They’d already almost doubled the amount of times they’d met. Hob had been enjoying this, of course he had, but perhaps it was time still borrowed that he needed to pay back.

Hob could ignore how greedy he was for more.

“Next week then?” He shrugged, frowned because maybe that was also too soon and he didn’t want it to seem like a deadline. “Or the week after?”

Matthew seemed taken aback by his response, as far as a bird could be anyway, cocking his head to the side like he couldn’t figure Hob out. The black of his eyes gleamed silver in the light. “You aren’t curious about why he isn’t coming?”

“I’ll just ask him when I see him.”

“Lucienne said you were weird.”

Hob laughed. “Look who’s talking.”

To be honest the existence of a talking bird was something he was still wrapping his head around. It wasn’t really the strangest thing that had happened, wasn’t even the strangest thing he’d ever considered, but it was the weirdness of the everyday.

Not grandiose—just peculiar.

“Did he create you?” Hob asked curiously. “Are you a dream or a nightmare?”

Matthew squawked. “I am a raven.”

Hob raised a brow.

The wings fluttered. “Ask the boss ok?”

“Ah.” Hob smiled. “You’re another mystery then?”

“He said I could tell you if I wanted. It’s my story.” Matthew replied, head cocked to the side as he seemed to contemplate how he wanted to phrase his reply. “But I think he’d enjoy your guesses.”

“He deserves to enjoy things.”

“Between you, me and Lucienne I think we’ve got that covered.”

It had been a little over a week since their missed meeting when Dream arrived.

For the second time the meeting was unexpected—Hob was finishing off the last of the application for Disabled Students Allowance with Sam when he knocked on the door—just after noon. Dream stood on the threshold to his flat with another bottle of wine held in his hands, an odd sort of stiffness in his frame, as if unsure of the reception he’d receive. Hob felt reassured to see him; a relief he tried to hide, not sure he could explain the fear to Sam, not sure if he knew how to explain it to Dream.

Yet the tension concerned him.

It was almost identical to when they met at the new inn, a careful sculpting in how Dream held himself. Power wasn’t just folded in this time, tucked away until they were alone, Hob found a stonelike cast to what he knew was supple skin, the solidity of marble rather than just a mirror of its smooth perfection.

“I apologise for rescheduling our appointment.” Dream began with deliberate pronunciation, each word crisp with perfect enunciation. It sounded scripted but endearingly so, nothing insincere in how he was obviously still unused to apologising. “My delay was not intentional.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Hob soothed, light hearted but still needing to make the lack of obligation clear, not wanting to confuse the lines of friendship and duty. He hadn’t been let down. “We’re friends right? This normal for a friendship.”

“I suppose.” Dream tilted his head. “You cut your hair.”

Hob smiled. “Just a little.”

“It is a pleasing change.” Dream informed him primly. “I would not be opposed to you cutting your hair this way again.”

Behind him Sam dropped his pencil with a murmured “fuck.”

Hob did his best not to laugh.

The amusement proved too strong though, too warm, too light to do anything but bubble upwards. He couldn’t quite hold it in; chuckled, caught the sharpness of offended pride in Dream’s tense jaw, then the way his eyes flicked behind him, a judgement too quick for Hob to soothe. By the time he’d opened his mouth to explain Dream was already softening with a moment like an ‘aha’ as he seemed to realise what Hob was really laughing at.

“This is Sam,” Hob said, moving aside so Dream could enter his flat. “He lives in number 5.”

“It’s, erm, it’s nice to meet you sir.” Sam said quietly.

Dream blinked.

One slow fluttering of dark eyelashes, almost a marker for how he tempered sharp imperiality. He didn’t seem warmer, that would imply he was cold before, but—comforting, soothing, power behind you rather than in front, like that hand on Hob’s shoulder or the weighted blanket he’d sometimes compared Dream to. The North Star shone like a beacon for all, for the lost, for the weary, for even the traveller who knew their way. Sam’s shoulders loosened by a margin, Dream stepped past Hob to walk over, sat in his vacated chair and peered curiously at Sam’s face as he set the wine on the table. He was suddenly so very unthreatening; dangerous yes, somehow still that, but not triggering any instinct in response to it.

There was a difference between stumbling into a dragons lair and knowing you were part of its hoard.

“It is pleasing to meet you as well Sam Harding,” Dream said at last; deep voice a lulling thing, a rocking ebb and flow, the tide of a great glittering sea rippling in and out. “You are in your first year of university study correct?”

“Yes,” Sam said brightly, instantly at ease, unperturbed, still somewhat shy but not threatened to it. “Did Hob tell you?”

Dream allowed a bit of sharpness to return to his smirk. “Something like that.”

“Are you the one who got him Celia?”

Dream nodded.

Sam beamed. “She’s beautiful!”

For a moment he seemed stunned, then smug as the comment was greedily accepted, no demure humility here. Dream made no secret of his preening pleasure. “She is.”

Sam bit his lip, gathered his stuff. “I should leave you to it.”

“Have you concluded your business with Hob?”

“Yeah.” Sam said, then shrugged because that wasn’t really true. “Just about.”

He walked to the door, turned away from Dream and Hob was prepared for the wide eyed expression, was looking for the shock he knew he’d find. And, then, as he left, the way Sam turned with that frown of perplexed familiarity, now trying to place where he’d seen Dream before. It was over in a moment though; the door closed, Dream shook off the remnants of his standard spell, sat with glowing eyes, still slightly tense, those fine features achingly perfect but not empty, a supernova wrapped in a black coat.

A candle.

“I believe I am getting better at not startling your friends.” Dream said solemnly.

Hob laughed.

Again.

“You are—sorry, you are, but,” Hob smiled reassuringly in case his friend took offense, unable to prevent the way he was still chuckling. “You’re still quite striking.”

“Striking?” Dream said the word as if judging the way he’d been measured. “I suppose I am.”

Distracting, Hob remembered him saying.

He found it the more apt word.

Dream rose from the chair; examining Celia’s terrarium curiously, a fascinated approval in how his eyes flicked over her gleaming form, pleasure in the quirk of his lips. “Hello Celia.”

Then he raised a hand and ran a finger down the length of the glass, contemplative, shoulders slowly loosening as if wings wanted to uncurl, the quiet only breached by the sound of music. Maggie’s grandson was starting his daily practise on the piano. The slightly faltering sound drew Dream’s attention. He closed his eyes as if trying to place it, smiled softly in obvious enjoyment as he listened, when he opened them he seemed lighter, the glow softer, silver melting in preparation to be forged.

Dream tilted his head and addressed Hob. “I see you have been shopping?”

He didn’t mention the funeral.

It seemed Dream was waiting for Hob to introduce the topic, letting him lead the conversation, no intent to take control. He was undoubtably kingly but this had always been a meeting of equals, Hob could admire the crown he wore without being beholden to it. He really was an envoy from a distant kingdom, not a rival or a subject, but a visitor who could break bread and share secrets.

Or pain.

So after telling him about buying the terrarium Hob dared to ask.

“How was my funeral?”

“I believe it may be improper to say that it was good,” Dream replied slowly. “But it is clear how many lives you have touched, and how much your friends love you. My presence was welcomed as if I was not an outsider. Even in their own grief they made a place for me; both as a part of your life, and as someone who they perceived as suffering a loss. You chose them well. They mourn you, shed tears, have raised toasts in celebration of your life. It might not be my place to say, but this life was one well lived.”

“Thanks Dream.”

The words felt inadequate for all he didn’t know what else to say.

“Anna said I should visit the castle,” Dream frowned.

Hob laughed, surprised to it, now felt tears prickling his eyes. “Do you want to go?”

“She also asked if she could give me a hug.” Dream seemed to have not heard his question, frown deepening, apparently particularly disturbed by the remembrance. “I am not sure why. I have been hugged before.”

“Just not your thing?”

Dream shrugged.

Hob would never force.

He would never pressure, affection only affection if it was given in a way both enjoyed, still unsure of how Dream preferred to receive it.

“It’s because hugs can be nice. They’re comforting.” Hob said, feeling particularly brave when he added. “I can show you.”

He should really stop being surprised when Dream said yes.

There was some trepidation for it, for contact, not fear but something adjacent only without the sting. They were of a similar height; Dream didn’t move, let him approach, didn’t tense when Hob laid a questing hand on his shoulder because his stillness wasn’t anxiety. Hob was looking for that, after all, just in case, found another of those moments where it felt like Dream was the one being careful, unsure of whether a sudden move would spook.

How strange that was, to approach with care and be received by it, a mirror intent.

The knowledge that they both could hurt each other.

Not that they would—never, Hob would never—but it was naïve to forget that it was possible to do so by accident, naïve not to have the skills in place to be careful, to say sorry when you got it wrong. Hob went slowly, wrapped his arms around him and damn Dream was tiny; physically at least, a slip of a thing he could fold away, all the more obvious like this. An arm went around Dream’s waist, the other hand cupping the back of his neck, and while it might an imposition instinct drew his hand there. Hob ended up cradling the back of his skull, moving aside his coat collar, little finger brushing against the first delicate vertebrae of Dream’s spine.

The skin was cold.

It was that familiar feeling of ice, glacial to the point of very nearly numbing, but as before it was also wonderfully soft. Hob found himself playing with the hair at the nape of Dream neck, idle, soothing, and that was very much a new thing.

The strands were soft too.

“You were right,” Dream said quietly, face against his neck, breath tickling his skin. “This is nice.”

He’d leant against Hob, the lean muscle hinting at the incredible strength here, arms moving too, carefully wrapping around him as if following his lead. There was a wonder in this, in how he could possibly manage to hold everything Dream was in his arms, an act of faith in how Dream could allow him to do it. Hob had wanted to give him this back at the inn, when Dream had told him he’d been trapped, had felt the same yearning every time they’d met since.

Not to crush but to endure together.

“Yeah. It is.”

“I believe it is required for humans to have a sufficient amount of close contact.” Dream replied, sounding like he was quoting an encyclopaedia, something abstract but known to be the truth. “It is not so for me, but valued all the same.”

“Unneeded but wanted?”

A smile against his neck. “Something like that.”

There was more though, this was selfish too, or maybe not because a hug was mutual, a sharing of comfort rather than greedily coveting it. Hob felt himself relax, emotion leaching out like relief, but he needed to be sure, needed to pay attention because Dream wasn’t human and he might need something else. Hob couldn’t take it for granted that just because he recognised this as an act of comfort that it really was.

Dream had said it was nice though.

“What do you like about it?”

What can I take from this to give you again.

“The meaning.” Dream replied instantly. “What is beneath. It is closeness irrespective of physical distance, care rather than what could just be the motion of it. Touch itself merely transports, translates, a way for a mind confined to a body to reach out beyond itself and be reached for in return.”

Hob smiled, couldn’t help it, found so much in those words to make his insides melt. “I suppose you aren’t similarly confined?”

“No.” Dream said.

Hob was still holding him; Dream so very systematic with new experiences, would have it as thoroughly as he could, collecting an abundance of data for later review. It was platonic touch, precious because it didn’t need to be, a choice to keep it so because while it was lovely to hold the being that he adored, this wasn’t for that.

This was connection.

Intimate yes, but not inherently sexual.

“You called yourself a liar but it is not so,” Dream began softly after another moment, and Hob froze with a finger stroking the hair at the nape of his neck. “The love you gave and were given in return is so very real, and while you did not share all details you let them see your soul. You let them have it, Hob Gadling, despite the certainty of pain you let them hold it for a while and you held them in return. You are not a liar, you are human.”

He could react unobserved.

Hob was the one allowed privacy for all Dream’s face was the one hidden. His friend spoke with a different sort of deliberation now, the enunciation music like a cello; the vibrato of the strings, of running a bow across them slowly, a note that could be mournful just as it could be comforting.

Dream could make tears of every string.

“A heart isn’t shared by details, by the exactness of names, by facts, is not tainted by a wrongly numbered year. A wrongly given age. A heart isn’t encyclopaedic, isn’t a biography.” Dream smiled against his neck, showed no sign of pulling away even when Hob gripped him tight in response to his words. “There is more than one way to be known. Your fear of misrepresentation is misplaced; I can list each dwelling you’ve lived in, each alias, each period of employment, each of your favourite foods. But I would not know you at all if I had not also been shown what you sound like when you laugh, how your fingers tremble when you cry.”

Anna had known when Hob was uncomfortable.

She had cared about pushing too far; Beatrice too, and now Maggie, Sam in his own way. They’d brought him things—the gifts, the cake, the pie—just to bring him joy, to see him smile. A smile that might have been through gritted teeth, might have been through pain—

But it had still been a smile.

“Would you want to visit the castle together?” Hob asked quietly; allowing the subject to change, to move on, daring to lean his cheek against Dream’s hair, closing his eyes for a moment, breathing this in. “We could go today?”

“That would be acceptable.”

A huff of laughter. “No need to sound so enthused.”

“I have a palace of my own.”

A snort. “Yeah, I suppose you do.”

“I built it.”

“Are you saying nothing here can compare?”

“Not at all.”

Hob remembered how Dream had admired Lizzie’s drawing, of what he’d said in the car about the redundancy of pitting dreams against each other. Today he’d listened to the sound of music with an enduring, honest awe even as it faltered because Dream didn’t care for perfection—embodied that strangely unique form of kingliness—for a mystical being he was remarkably fond of the mundane.

The ordinary.

He placed the same amount of value in the broken.

Hob was reminded, then, of that sensation of someone walking beside him in the dark, knew exactly who it was and wondered how he could have ever missed it. That’s why Hob had known Dream, why everyone did; the expressions of fondness, of knowing, were for someone who loved the small dreams as much as the grand ones, who could be trusted to cradle them safely because perhaps Dream always had. He was somehow with them while they slept, the one who picked them up when they fell, who soothed a nightmare just as often as he inspired it. Hob wasn’t really surprised, this wasn’t really a revelation, had finally managed to define something he walked past every day.

Dream was the one who walked beside him in the dark.

The familiarity, the fondness, must be a way to give back, to say thank you, to treasure what cried with them, what raged with them, what found joy with them. Dream was that presence, that concept, that outstretched hand always reaching out to share the load. Perhaps that’s what he meant—

Perhaps that’s what Dream was.

Chapter Text

It was going to take some time to digest it all.

Hob thought about what Dream had said about knowing where he’d lived, how he felt about touch, about what his friend really was. The piano was still playing in the background; his hand was still on Dream’s waist, above the shirt, so nearly skin on skin, the other lingering on his shoulder. A moment later and the touch was gone, no regret at its loss, this a sacrifice that meant he could see Dream smiling. It was pleased, a little smug, more than a little soft because his eyes had crinkled at the corners, no haughty arrogance here. Perhaps he’d somehow caught Hob’s realisation—the epicentre of it something loud, the lightning strike of recognition sizzling—always so knowing.

Always so perceptive.

Hob thought about the certainty of experience, considered this the wonder of waiting hundreds of years for a riddle to be answered correctly. Perhaps Dream was preening under being seen for what might just feel like the very first time. Finally, that smile seemed to say—

You’ve caught up.

“You’ve been with me,” Hob said softly (with us, with my wife, my son, my—). “You’ve been there from the start. You are there. Always.”

“Yes.”

The image of him on untouched on a battlefield rose unbidden to the forefront of his mind.

Hob had fought in wars, killed, had done it with hands slick with blood, it congealing thick and sticky in his hair. Hob had felt his organs tumble from a wound and known he should be dead, spent decades shivering under the pain of phantom hurts. The nightmares had come. The dreams. Somewhere along the way they’d been lost—had that been when he was trapped?—and Hob remembered the feeling of it all coming back, remembered Anna saying how meeting Dream had felt like an ache, someone she’d dearly missed.

“Are you a god?” Hob asked.

It was one of the questions he’d been turning over and over in his mind.

Dream shrugged. “Some consider me as such.”

“…you’re not though?”

“I am me.” Dream said simply, as if there was a distinction, a clear clarification in his statement. He sighed as if being called a god was inconvenient.

Hob frowned, trying to wrap his head around it. “You can’t really read my mind though, right?”

“No.” Dream said, a familiar true but not quite tone. Then—

“But I can feel it.”

It made Hob want to shiver, persuaded him to it, persuaded like a hand carding warm and soft through his hair. The intimacy of Dream’s powers, of his being, his function—however limited Hob’s understanding of it was—proved what he’d said about touch. Dream was always under the skin, wasn’t he, this solemn being who rarely engaged in physical touch, this being who could so easily know all Hob was but wanted to be invited to it instead. Hob wanted to ask, wanted to be brave enough to know, an idle thought to quirk his lips and ask what exactly Dream could feel.

Instead Hob nodded, stripped all implication from his tone before he replied.

“A good feeling?”

“Passable enough to allow a hug,” Dream said slyly; eyes a silver glow, except perhaps silver was the wrong word, because silver tarnished and Hob didn’t think this light would ever fade. “Though I am still considering the rest.”

“Passable?” Hob snorted, shook his head. “I feel like I should be offended.”

“Are you?”

It was half serious, half teasing, the counter to the light-hearted turn their conversation had taken. Hob wondered what he may have really meant by passable, found the answer in the memory of Matthew’s beak gliding affectionately through Dream’s hair. He knew that few must be allowed to touch, knew now what touch might mean to someone who held the glow of a mind in drops of a swirling sea, held it like an ant on a fingertip.

Dream had leant against him as if trusting he wouldn’t hurt him.

As if knowing it.

“Offended? No.” Hob replied. “I’m not.”

“Then perhaps one day I will allow another.” Dream said. “If you would like.”

“I suppose that’s two guesses gone,” Hob replied wryly, trying to ignore how his heart fluttered at the offer. “Though I’d argue one at least was something I already knew.”

“If you’d like to secure three more you will need to prove your bargaining power.” Dream said smoothly, eyes a tantalising dare, the same fae-like pleasure at the prospect of a game, only lacking any hint of a fairies cruelty. “I should like to be persuaded before I give something away for free.”

“And here I thought you’d like to spoil me.”

“Perhaps I’ve been doing a little too much of it.” Dream rebutted.

It was very clearly a joke.

But it reminded Hob of something else he needed to say.

“I’m sorry if I’ve imposed.” Hob said quickly; nervous, not of anger but of how he’d overstepped, uncomfortable with being careless without realising. It felt clumsy. “I know you’d said you had a lot of work to do, back at the Inn.”

“I offered my assistance. Did you not say such things are normal for a friendship?” Dream chuckled, entirely unperturbed, no hint of worry in this supple relaxation. “I should think you’d know better than to ignore your own advice.”

“I do.” Hob also remembered something Dream had said, about whether he was bothered by the possibility of a no, would make it clear the answer was always an option. “But promise you’ll tell me if we need to revaluate how often we meet?”

“I promise.”

Dream stopped teasing; spoke as if the world moved with him, another prophecy, no god speaking through him because if anything he was the one to give an oracle their gift. It untwisted the concern, Dream knew that Hob was serious, would make the parameters clear to ease the fear of an overstep. He seemed to deem the topic closed; Hob found himself reopening it, unable to help himself, no longer worried but still somewhat uncertain.

“But—”

Dream raised a brow.

“I know your realm is important to you.” Hob said quickly, fighting the urge to squirm under that gaze, a feeling that very much wasn’t unpleasant but was certainly inappropriate for the current situation. “I don’t want to make things harder.”

“You do not even know what caused the delay.”

“I don’t.” Hob admitted. “And you don’t need to tell me if you don’t want to.”

His friend remained unimpressed. “You have not asked.”

Dream seemed put out by that.

Hob laughed; gently, without mocking, suspected this was something similar to how Dream had met him at the inn, that same desire to tell him, to share, to confide. He realised he’d thwarted it without even meaning to. “Ok. What happened?”

“There is something wrong in my realm.” Dream replied easily, as if he’d merely been waiting for the appropriate opening, for an opportunity that might just double as permission. “It required a moment of investigation.”

“Is it resolved?” Hob frowned.

“Not yet.”

For a moment he considered asking about that, then considered the careful mix of boundaries, the line between what was ok to share and what wasn’t. It was a separate topic, another step taken, another door to open and this one might just be locked. Hob shrugged. “Well. Tell me more next time we meet?”

Dream smiled. “Very well.”

“Matthew came by.” Hob said; easing the topic along, no lingering, no hint that he might want to peak behind the curtain. “Apparently he’s guarding me?”

“Yes.”

“How?” Hob asked.

Why?

“When my raven is with you I am with you.” Dream said simply.

Hob remembered a gleam of silver in those black eyes.

It was safer to think about that rather than the possessive undercurrent to Dream’s words. There was nothing threatening, nothing cloying, nothing of the danger of taking. Nothing of the coldness of it. Hob felt like the drop of water cradled in slim hands. It was more of that weighted blanket, more of that dragon guarding its hoard—

A claim nonetheless.

“Tea before we go?” Hob blurted out.

He took the wine Dream had bought into the kitchen, tucked it away to have another day, wanted to savour it. Hob thought about what to have for dinner while he boiled the kettle, carefully adding a teaspoon of sugar to both cups, wondering if it was even Dream’s preference. He remembered the one Dream had made for him, wondered if any hints of tension he may have missed would be soothed by it, unsure if just because he couldn’t see them that they were really gone.

Hob handed him the mug. “What does it taste like to you?”

Dream took a sip. “Water and leaves.”

Hob snorted. “Thanks.”

“Warmth.” Dream continued, soft, sounding almost like he was saying something else. Saying— “The quiet of a rainy day. The calm after. Something sweet besides.”

“That’ll be the sugar.” Hob said.

“Of course.” Dream replied, an edge of significance in his tone, his eyes.

“The sugar.”

They visited the castle.

On the way Hob realised he hadn’t even tried disguising this as an errand. There was no pretence for practicality here. Hob had changed the pattern this time, changed tact, been even bolder than he’d first thought.

It seemed this time neither of them had needed an excuse.

Edinburgh was still a city of scaffolds, construction ongoing up and down the royal mile, though in truth Hob had seen enough of the news to know this was still a common sight across the country. He once again caught a strange look on Dream’s face as they drove. He’d ask him about it, eventually, would add it to the list of questions he had time to go through at his leisure, afforded an eternity for which to be gentle. Perhaps Dream could indulge in that too; time enough to be slow if he wanted, to be careful, another reason for the mystery of their game, no hourglass urging him onwards because Hob was immortal too.

Even this castle couldn’t hold up as well.

It was more a fortress than a palace, couldn’t withstand the test of gentleness, couldn’t last under it. The moment of it needed to be grasped with both hands, clenched tight, lived like a mortal life and defended as fiercely as one.

“How’s it compare to yours?” Hob asked teasingly.

They’d bought tickets, stepped in past the entrance, braced on either side by a summer crowd that chattered unawares as they passed almost unseen. Dream walked with his hands slipped into his pockets, collar turned upwards over the delicate skin of his neck, pale under the light. He remained facing ahead, eyes flicking over the stonework, quietly fascinated as he smiled.

“I told you I do not compare dreams.”

“You did.” Hob agreed. “But that doesn’t answer my question.”

“One will last forever,” Dream replied. “And one will not.”

It seemed they’d had the same thought.

Hob wanted to know more. “What does that mean to you?”

Dream turned his head; still keeping pace with him across the courtyard, following the crowd, a preternatural sense of who was where that meant he didn’t miss a step. His expression seemed like it should be sad but wasn’t, wasn’t sad at all; for all Hob had learned about him he couldn’t decipher it, couldn’t figure out what it meant. Dream’s eyes caught the light, a reflection, a gift, the sunlight almost matching the stars currently hidden somewhere within.

His voice was soft as he replied.

“Inspiration.”

Oh I’ll never understand you will I?

Hob mused it with a smile; the thought affectionate (a tenderness he kept in his heart rather than chance Dream feeling any of its ache, no bruise here, only care, only lo—)

He paused, hesitated—

Reached out and took hold of Dream’s hand.

The fingers he entwined his own with were icy cold, silky soft, and he’d spent centuries admiring them whenever Dream rested a hand on a table while wishing he could touch. Even the accidental brush of hands when they’d gone shopping had still set him to yearning. The urge fulfilled revealed it wasn’t greed, wasn’t wanting simply to have, because Hob would spend centuries admiring them still.

“Is this alright?” He asked.

Hob kept his grip loose, light, knew Dream could probably slip out of it anyway but needed to make sure his intent was clear.

Dream looked down at their entwined hands.

He didn’t seem stunned, or angry, or uncomfortable, no boundaries breached for all this had been the first day they’d ever actually touched. Hob’s suggestion of friendship and its resulting aftermath so very long ago; Dream somewhat smug, somewhat covetous, that possessive claim sneaking back into his expression as if lured there by something sweet. As before there was warmth in it; Dream’s fingers curling back, entwining with his too, the answer to Hob’s question before he even spoke to confirm it.

“Yes.” Dream said. “This is alright.”

“Good.”

They continued inside; past stone, this castle only a couple of centuries older than Hob, the Great Hall even younger, added in 1513, now lovingly preserved for them to walk through. Hob felt a pang of nostalgia, then something else, a stitch torn from a far more recent wound.

Anna had wanted to bring him here, Hob thought, a tightness in his chest, she’d wanted to visit because she’d thought he might like it and—

Dream’s fingers gently squeezed his.

After leaving the castle they browsed the market set up outside. Dream once again passing through the crowd unnoticed, the same unnatural power extending to Hob. He was delicate with the world, treading through it like it was something fragile. It reminded Hob how good a listener he was, because maybe this was part of why.

He lived as an observer.

Hob wondered how much of his life was lived tucked away like this, if there was anyone he could be himself with, if there was anyone allowed to know how much he shone. But there was, wasn’t there, Dream’s creations knew what he was.

Hob abruptly sobered.

He’d never forgive himself for leaving Dream trapped but at least he hadn’t known he was missing. His creations had, still left him, dreams and nightmares that he’d made, and how must that feel? To have the very essence of hope and fear abandon you, the entirety of its spectrum deeming it acceptable. Even if they thought he’d left first Hob would have thought a nightmare angry enough to seek him out, would have thought a Dream good enough to do the same. If they didn’t, hadn’t, then what did that say for the essence of what they truly were?

Maybe he was thinking too far into this, extrapolating without evidence.

Hob was still angry though, regardless of what they represented, still enraged by how they could have betrayed him.

Dream stopped at a stall selling glass figurines.

He seemed fascinated by them. Hob watched as he trailed his fingers over a snow globe, strangely transfixed, then moved to gently pick it up. Hob had seen this before; an index finger tracing a wineglass, controlled but not deliberate, now repeating the motion over the curve of a sphere. As far as realisations went he was certainly adding to his count, because there was an answer here to what was behind these perfect but impulsive moves.

It was something to do with glass.

When would the ruler of a different realm, the realm of dreams, have become so familiar with the texture of glass they’d begun to unconsciously seek it out?

Hob suspected he already knew the answer to that.

It churned within him as he watched. Dream took a moment to admire what he held, turning it back and forth in the light, before he set it back down silently. He turned his gaze onto the man behind the stall, seemed not to notice the wide eyes, the way they were gaping at him.

“They are beautiful,” Dream said, solemn, genuine, a weight in his voice like a current of heated air meeting one that was cold. God stepping of their throne to take hold of a petitioners calloused hands. “You have a rare talent.”

“I—oh.” They stumbled over their reply. “Tha’s mighty nice of you.”

His revelation about glass was territory Hob couldn’t even guess the danger of.

Dream tilted his head.

He turned away from the stall to examine him. Hob examined him back, could read him easier now, realised just how familiar he’d become with Dream’s mannerisms, with what they meant. It wasn’t a perfect translation of course, would never be even if Dream was human, the unspoken cues far from inscrutable but still a language he wasn’t fluent in. Hob’s misstep in 1989 had taught him what might happen if he fell back on what was familiar, assessing a human need, how by doing so it was all too easy to end up looking in the wrong place, perhaps missing a wound.

Overlooking a very real, very deep one.

There was a secret here, an unfamiliar thing, and Hob would not ask a question ill thought out. He wasn’t afraid, never afraid, but he’d made a choice over the centuries. He may be immortal, may have rejected death—

Hob may not go gentle but he would be gentle.

When they got back to his flat Hob fed Celia, tipped some more vegetation into her bowl, made sure she had enough water. He’d placed the terrarium on a cabinet next to the bookcase, in the space between it and the door to the spare room. The tortoise was growing, still tiny, not so newly born as yesterday and yet still so very new. She nudged her head into Hob’s fingertip when he reached gently towards her.

It felt like she was greeting him too.

Hob let himself pause, sinking into the moment, had one guess left and while he knew Dream would still answer questions he didn’t want to risk their meetings becoming interrogations. He didn’t want to overburden him. Hob thought about which one to ask, how to ask it, thought about how long Dream might have been missing.

Thought about glass.

“I’ve seen you with glass,” Hob said. “It’s striking. I’m not sure I know what it means.”

Dream frowned. “I had not noticed.”

The edge to his tone was frustration, perhaps at the lapse, at what he might have revealed not just to Hob but to others. Perhaps to the creations who had so betrayed him. This was private, as with so much, was hidden, a potential indication of other slip ups.

Hob knew Dream would despise that.

“Sorry,” He backed off, silence an easy space to fill with retreat, already planning on changing the subject. “I didn’t mean—”

“For a long time glass was all I had to touch.”

Funny how a single sentence could make the entire world stand still.

Hob nearly forgot how to breath. “Excuse me. What?”

Dream had said it so casually, a muse of sound, and Hob was reminded of how his friend had spoken about his imprisonment back at the New Inn. He was reminded of where Dream’s focus was, where his hurt had been, and wondered once again if he was missing a wound here too simply by looking in the wrong place.

“You are angry again.” Dream replied; fascinated by it, calculating as if he wanted to pick the feeling apart, eyes gleaming like he was trying to capture it with his light.

“Yeah, I am. Fuck.” Hob had to admit it wasn’t his most eloquent moment, a roaring in his ears like a call to war, like bloodlust. “How long was it?”

How long did it take to change the habits of an immortal?

He thought of the Sleeping Sickness and realised the date people had started to wake up was suspiciously recent. As disconcertingly significant as it’s start—one hundred years ago, and no it couldn’t be, it couldn’t—a sudden event that Hob remembered all too well. He’d felt a change, the world had felt a change, then as time had gone on he’d become one of the only people to remember something different.

But he hadn’t been the only one to feel it when Dream came back.

Dream asked a question rather than answer his own. “Would you like to know what happened?”

Hob knew the right way to respond to this. “Would you like to tell me?”

Dream paused. “Perhaps not yet.”

“Not ever if you don’t want to.”

“I know.” Dream smiled; pleased, flattered—

Safe.

The defensive tension had been gone for some time, softened to this lightness instead, Dream no longer interpreting worry as an accusation of failure. He seemed to recognise it as gentle care, losing the habit of expecting an attack, of looking for judgement. There would be another misstep, of course, it was inevitable.

Yet whatever it was Hob knew they’d work through it.

“Maybe I’ll check in again.” Hob said warmly, then turned his tone to teasing. “We’ll add it to the list of things to revisit before 2089.”

“Not for your two meetings before then?” Dream said slyly; a reminder of the transition, obligation a playful guise for friendship, a mask at a party where all present knew who was beneath. “This list may be getting a little too long.”

“Well I also want you to cook dinner with me today.” Hob smiled with a shrug. “But it needs some time in the oven so I’d like to do that now.”

“Demanding.” Dream replied lightly.

He was already standing up.

The coat was slung carefully over the back of a chair—finally, some inappropriate part of Hob’s brain said—returned pale skin to Hob’s eyes, the potential of watching how he moved made reality, the muscles a flexing flow beneath his skin. Dream followed him to the kitchen, a shame because Hob’s traitorous mind really wanted to watch him walk, wanted to see what it looked like without the coat, to admire each step.

“What are we making?”

Hob opened the fridge, began to gather the ingredients. “Chicken casserole.”

“I see.”

Hob smiled. “Can you chop the vegetables?”

“I can.”

Dream was wickedly good with a knife.

Hob didn’t know something as mundane as chopping vegetables could be so fascinating to watch. He supposed he shouldn’t really be surprised, this was just more of how Dream was in the world, how he moved through it with such precision. Hob’s fascination with it had been long since accepted—daydreams turning to outright ogling in supermarkets—nothing boring about it, a strange oxymoron instead. Dream moved with a grace that was so very uncontrolled, not trained to it, not against instinct, not a rewrite of it because this was instinct.

“Staring again?”

Hob laughed. “You caught me.”

His heart belied the casual tone, thudding away in his chest, curious because he wasn’t afraid at all. In fact Hob seemed to have found bravery, seemed to have become foolish with it, wondering if it might be alright to reach out.

To touch again.

The moment passed, it seemed he wasn’t quite brave enough, fingers twitching as he stirred the casserole to a boil. He let it sit, turning away to get two plates out of a cupboard, eyes catching on the box of gifts hidden at the back, paused, swallowed.

Spoke.

“You said my friends mourned, that they also laughed, raised toasts.” Hob said, voice a little unsteady when he asked. “Would you celebrate that life with me?”

Dream nodded. “I will.”

Hob needed to hide his trembling, shaking hands. He busied himself with cleaning up—had manged to dissuade Dream from doing the washing up ever since that first time—found his friend helping him now, stepping smoothly around him, the preternatural sense a mirror of how he’d walked through the castle. This time Hob couldn’t keep him from it, turned to put the chopping board in the sink and found a slim hand reaching to take it from him. Dream turned to start the water running, a prim dismissal, and Hob was already opening his mouth to protest when—

“You can wash the plates after dinner.”

Hob rolled his eyes, fond. “Alright. I’ll hold you to that.”

He found himself drifting to a familiar box, hesitating, questing inside only to remove two particular items. Hob tried not to look at the rest, focused on the mug and not the seeds, the fridge magnet rather than the scarf. Dream’s back was turned—Hob wondered if he’d known, wondered just how deliberate this was—no chance for pain to be observed as he carefully placed the mug on the counter.

Dream didn’t even look up when the magnet snapped into place on the fridge.

“Hopefully it’ll taste as good as the first meal I made you.” Hob said after a moment, a minute where he listened to running water and let grief burn. “Now you’ve got more to compare it to.”

Dream dried his hands. “I suspect you will take offense if I say I liked Maggie’s pie best.”

Grief cracked, became malleable enough to shift towards a smile. “And after all the trouble I’ve gone through to cook for you.”

“I believe I chopped the vegetables.”

The tea towel was placed to one side. Dream leaning against the countertop—now smiling as he had while drinking the tea Hob had made him, the same significance in his eyes— content as he watched the casserole bubbling away on the stove. It was as if he could see something else, even without tasting it, as if just by looking he could find something so very sweet.

As if Dream could read the love Hob had hummed above it while he stirred.

He finally asked.

“It’s how it’s made isn’t it?” Hob said, made his third and final guess, sought confirmation of what he thought he’d seen. “It’s why.”

Dream smiled. “Yes.”

“You can feel—”

Hob found he couldn’t say it.

“I can.” Dream didn’t make him continue, smoothed the stutter, filled the space as he stumbled over the word. “But I believe you already knew that.”

“That’s…” Hob had a sudden realisation. “So you have been flirting with me.”

“Couldn’t you tell?”

Dream raised a brow, almost incredulous. There was something light about it, something so very pleased, almost proud, and Hob was struck speechless by it. He was reminded of how he hadn’t cared when Matthew had called him his boyfriend. He finally had confirmation that Dream had understood exactly what the raven had said.

“Oh.” Hob said. “No, no I don’t think that I could.”

“And now that you know?”

There was no demand in Dream’s voice.

It asked with no expectation, truth sought with nothing but the same curiosity as always, the same quiet promise of listening. The same interest as when he asked Hob questions every century. Perhaps that was rare, to be someone he didn’t expect things from, to be a person that Dream didn’t make demands of.

Hob wasn’t really thinking about that though.

“I—” Hob said, faltered, swallowed. “Can I think about it?”

It had been just his for so very long.

He didn’t know whether he was ready for it to be shared, for it to be seen, to be shown. It was too intimate, too raw, so deep in his heart he’d have to dig it up. This wasn’t the wound the box of gifts had been, not the discomfort at being seen to bleed, but an intimacy that felt like too much all the same. Perhaps Hob was still too used to being the only actor on stage. Perhaps he’d grown accustomed to following the same script, not yet ready to change all the way, the new additions still so novel though definitely not unwanted.

Dream seemed to have expected his answer. “Yes.”

“Erm, you don’t have to,” Stop, Hob thought, I don’t want to lose it. “You can still—”

“Nothing need change until you request it.” Dream said gently.

“And when I do?” Hob asked boldly; wanted to give him the promise of it, the certainty that one day he would be ready, wanted him to know this wasn’t rejection.

“Then—” Dream hesitated for the first time, something worried, a flicker of pain in his eyes, caution that for a moment outweighed his usual care. Then it was gone, back to what Hob recognised; the butterfly, the drop, the thread he wouldn’t snap, a refusal to even allow the risk of it. “Then we will need to talk.”

Hob nodded.

“So when did you know?”

“When I saw you again. When you said that you could be captured.” Dream replied without asking for clarification on what Hob meant by the question. “When I left the New Inn to return to the Dreaming and nearly destroyed it. When you didn’t push for more meetings. When you offered me that first bowl of stew. When you said you were something of mine because you are.”

Hob stared stupidly for far longer than he’d admit.

“That’s—” He swallowed—what did Dream mean he’d nearly destroyed the Dreaming?—tried again. “That’s more than one moment.”

“Is that not what this is?” Dream said; a question that could mean anything, life, love, their meetings, could mean anything and yet here it could only be one thing. “A collection of moments.”

Hob nodded. “Then you’re realising it still?”

Dream smiled. “I will be realising it always.”

Always.

That was just another word for eternity, for immortal, for an infinity of moments just like this. The press of it could drown him, the roar, the weight of it ocean heavy because that was also what forever was. Hob could understand something of it—not all, his statement to Lucienne holding true—could feel what a promise it was. Hob might be unsure of what to do with it but he’d still grip it tight, would cradle it, would cherish it and grow it like the seed it really was. The seed that had grown like his love for Eleanor, that was growing still, moment by moment.

“Something to revisit before 2089?” Dream added lightly.

Hob laughed. “Sounds about right.”

The casserole was ready to be transferred into the oven, the oven safe dish heated to red hot. Hob grabbed the discarded dishtowel, but Dream was already opening the oven door, already reaching for the casserole dish with bare hands—

It was a reflex to warn him. “Be careful—“

Dream placed the dish inside and shut the door; unharmed, delicate fingers not so delicate at all, not even noticing that it should have been far too hot to touch.

Hob instantly realised how redundant his warning was.

“Such concern.” Dream crooned.

“Yeah yeah.” Hob took the teasing on the chin, nearly blushed because he had no tolerance now he knew Dream was actually flirting with him. “We can’t all have skin like yours.”

Dream laughed.

It was left it at that, the admittance that he’d been flirting, because Dream didn’t push any further. Hob had been right that he’d been turning away from it all this time, allowing Hob privacy, allowing him to hide.

Does it bother you, Hob thought suddenly. The possibility of a no?

It was as uncharitable a thought as calling him a trickster, was just as unbidden, just as accidental. There was something else that better described what what Hob truly meant; Dream’s awareness of the pressure of it, his intimate experience with it perhaps, this careful respect a result of being treated with the very opposite. Dream holding back the tide of that ocean, the weight of forever only given with Hob’s choice, letting it lap gently at Hob’s feet instead, letting him wade in the waves that crested just off the shore.

Sometimes a dream was a yearning you weren’t ready to admit, to share.

Hob knew he loved him.

He just wasn’t ready to say it out loud.

Chapter Text

Hob wondered why his mind kept bringing him back here.

There was a familiar cliff face in the distance; Hob’s view of it now from a boat, sailing that swirl of sea he’d often admired, the water azure under the shimmering sun. The waves were mostly still and calm, a gentle buoyant force, setting the little boat to bobbing in the sea. It felt playful, teasing because there was nothing Hob could do to keep them so, even in this dream he wasn’t sure he could calm them if they felt the urge to rage. Hob found himself looking pensively towards the cliffs in the distance, towards the shore, the sand he could barely see.

This was a dream, after all, one that had first taken him to a cottage. It wasn’t an immoveable state, wasn’t this one static place.

So why here again?

Lucienne had joined him what felt like a few minutes ago—could have been hours, could have been seconds—stood next to him as she leant against the railing of the boat. She hadn’t mentioned the shorter hair, had greeted him stiffly, not with the suspicion of their first meeting but with a distracted sort of frostiness. There was a tension this time, Lucienne’s smile tight, and maybe it was the reason why Dream had delayed their last appointment hanging between them, both studiously ignoring it.

He didn’t ask if things were alright.

Hob didn’t mention what he’d learned about Dream’s glass prison. He had a better idea for how to break the tension, what might help make her smile, knew at the very least it wouldn’t be something she was expecting. Hob had finally settled on a cottage he liked—had spent a fair amount of time browsing different listings—spent even longer trying to build up the courage to actually book a viewing.

“Tell Dream I’ve booked a house viewing,” Hob said, deliberately casual as he rested his arms against the railing of the boat, the metal cold even through his sleeves, the sea breeze ruffling his hair. “It’s this Friday.”

The librarian tilted her head, turned her own eyes away from the sea, obviously wondering why he was telling her this. Her expression was faintly skeptical behind the delicate rims of her glasses, tone dry as she replied.

“I see.”

Hob smirked. “He said he wanted to come.”

Lucienne looked stunned.

As much as it only lasted a split second it was still a victorious moment. She was very obviously caught off guard, perplexed and yet unwilling to let him score the point, expression immediately returning to neutral. Victory was his regardless—Hob had seen how Lucienne’s jaw had almost dropped even if she’d reigned in it, even if she’d diverted the urge—now switching it to a far more dignified method of demonstrating her surprise.

The raise of Lucienne’s brow was incredulous.

“It’s in Haddington, around three o’clock.” Hob added, unashamed at being a little smug. “And it’s a forty minute drive so…”

Lucienne outright laughed, tension loosening like the grip her hands had on the side of the boat, a natural ease that softened some of the sharpness. “Are you asking me to make sure he isn’t late?”

“I’m sure you’ll find a way to word it.” Hob grinned.

Always, Dream had said.

Hob found that he couldn’t quite get that out of his head, the conversation repeating, that particular moment becoming a popular replay in the collection of a friendship that had spanned centuries. He wondered if the memory of it would ever start to feel worn, or if it would only become more cherished, a photograph kept tucked away in a wallet. Safe but always close. This felt like a shift, a ships helm turned by the barest of degrees, an angle that nonetheless would slowly ensure the course changed entirely. The destination had been altered, a place unknown and uncharted, and Hob didn’t yet know what that meant.

He wondered if things might feel different after last time.

They didn’t.

When Dream arrived there was no awkwardness. Perhaps some of the transition was already complete, the helm had already been turned, after all, because when Dream smiled Hob didn’t feel self-conscious, didn’t feel pressured to make a choice. Dream greeted him by saying his full name and the shiver it provoked was the same as always.

Intimate, but pleasant.

Dream still smirked as their eyes met.

Then he softened, waited, and when the moment passed he didn’t press. He didn’t mention their previous conversation, didn’t ask if Hob had thought about what he’d said, merely glanced curiously around the room. It wasn’t quite like dodging a bullet.

It was far too gentle a feeling for that.

Perhaps it could be described as taking a book off a shelf and reading the blurb, pausing, then carefully putting it back. Hob could choose to pick it up again, to flip it open, could choose to pick out another instead. He could do still more because the helm could be turned back, that tiny change in angle corrected, the destination returned to that original course.

“So Lucienne gave you my message.”

Dream nodded. “She did.”

Since Dream’s last visit Hob had added more to the flat, bought some soil for the seeds Anna had given him, added more magnets to the fridge—London Bridge as well as Big Ben, a red bus and a telephone box—found looking at them no longer hurt. There was a slowness to this grief that now felt like visiting a grave. Hob was placing flowers on that buried thing, this completed end that didn’t require him to leave everything behind. The sneaky look back, a glance over one’s shoulder. A haunting for all Hob wasn’t a ghost. Though perhaps he was, what was a ghost anyway? Alive but something else too. A relic.

A moment.

Dream was still smiling; pale like marble, warm like flame, like the stew Hob had made for him that first time they’d shared a meal. “I have a gift for you.”

Hob took it from him, a small parcel wrapped in tissue paper, found that now he was feeling slightly flustered. It felt good though, felt safe, and he opened the gift to find a fridge magnet depicting Edinburgh Castle.

“Last time you asked me to tell you if I wanted to revaluate our meetings. Originally I was just going to help you settle in,” Dream said softly, a sibilance so sweet, pausing as if wanting to give Hob time to gather his thoughts. “But would you like it if I continued visiting once you’ve found yourself a home?”

Hob was tracing the magnet. “Are you sure?”

Dream nodded.

It was the reversal of Hob’s first request, now coming from Dream, control of what this could be shared between them. The reinforcement of equality, this push and pull that they both carefully maintained, the foundation of the friendship they were building dug deep. Perhaps the love too, this fondness he found he still didn’t understand, and that inspired another question because while Hob had asked when.

Perhaps he should have also asked why.

“Every week?” Hob asked.

“I was rather thinking we could leave that to negotiation.”

“Of course.” Hob laughed, elated by that playful tone, finding a marvel in the easy flirtation he could now enjoy as such. “Would you like to meet in a dream too? If we’re making this more long term than it seems only fair I should come visit you, rather than always expecting you to come to me.”

Dream hesitated.

Hob could tell immediately that his friend didn’t want to—as if he wanted to keep some of this status quo, this place he could escape to—it reminded him of the moment in the kitchen, how he’d felt when Dream had touched the box of gifts. It was something a bit too revealing, something that cut a little too deep.

“Or maybe not.” Hob shrugged.

“I—”

“You don’t need to explain.”

Dream studied him silently for a moment, calculating but not intrusive, then seemed content to move on. “Shall we go?”

“Yeah, do you want to have dinner after?” Hob asked, would make his own check in, would offer his own measurement of comfort. “I’m babysitting Lizzie tonight but I thought we could cook something again.”

Dream smiled. “Very well.”

The car journey was as similar to the last as to almost be a replay, a transposing of that moment, a dream repeated. Hob explained that the place he’d chosen was a cottage in Haddington, chattered away as his friend listened intently, Dream once again smiling as he stared out the window. Once they arrived Dream unbuckled his seatbelt, stepped smoothly out of the car; Hob once again reminded of a dancer, or perhaps a gymnast, frowning because that wasn’t quite right. He’d seen something else too—made obvious when they’d met Isaac, subtle here but still unmistakeable—grace more like a martial artist. Deadly.

Something with an edge.

Hob joined Dream on the gravelled path, opened the gate to let him through, and then led the way towards the house.

The pictures hadn’t done it justice.

It was a detached property, two storeys, and he realised it appeared quite similar to the cottage he’d first met Lucienne in the Dreaming, had the same quaint charm, the same promise of comfort. Hob hadn’t chosen it to match his memories, the resemblance truly accidental, yet it warmed him all the same. They knocked on the door, were quickly greeted by the real estate agent—she reached out to shake Hob’s hand, had only noticed him first because Dream was lingering behind—a woman with hazel eyes and a practised smile.

It became a little less so when she greeted Dream.

As always Hob enjoyed watching the reaction to his friend.

Her eyes widened, the smile turning warmer, and while she didn’t reach for his slim hand—didn’t dare, instinctive just as Beatrice had been when she hadn’t considered asking him to get his own drink—it was a respect that was deferential but not distant. Hob realised he’d just demonstrated something of it himself, had opened the gate for Dream without even thinking about it. He wondered what Molly saw in his friend, remembered the prince Anna had thought he’d been, knew at the very least she recognised him without knowing why.

Dream nodded his acknowledgement; ritualistic, warm, used to this, his lips quirking upwards, soft and genuine for all he appeared amused. Hob had never thought his friend was particularly sociable but, looking at the small smile on his face—

He was actually enjoying himself.

“My name is Molly.” The estate agent said. “Let me show you both around.”

Hob knew from the moment he walked inside this place was perfect.

“Will it be the two of you moving in?” Molly asked politely.

Hob was currently inspecting the kitchen worktops—a lovely granite that sparkled just a little in the light—glad he was turned away to hide the sudden heat flooding to his cheeks.

“There will also be a tortoise.”

Dream had answered before he could figure out how to respond, took control, and all the questions that followed began to be directed at him. This wasn’t what he’d done when they’d met Isaac; a subtle use of power for all its aim was to draw attention, a steady unfolding, a gradual alteration of phases handled with precision. Dream drew focus like gravity, invisible but unescapable, both forces so strong and yet taking centuries to be named. The intention was familiar, the result the same as when Hob had sold his car, because he could walk around the house at his leisure. Hob could think in silence, could see if he could imagine himself living here.

“How many rooms does it have?”

Dream spoke and it made Hob want to shiver, deep and smooth, sibilant, rich, even when he spoke softly it seemed to crawl its way into Hob’s bones. A power in how he didn’t need to raise it but still made people lean in to listen.

Distracting, he’d said.

Hob had believed Dream then, had seen something of it when picking up his car, but watching him now—

Molly wasn’t going to remember Hob at all.

Hob watched Dream walk carefully around the house, clever eyes slowly taking it in, his thin frame somehow never swamped by his dark coat. There were two bedrooms, one for Hob and the customary spare, an ache within his heart as he walked inside to look around. It was a familiar pain because even though Hob knew it would never be used he found himself inspecting it carefully anyway, pleased that it wasn’t too small, pleased to have it to offer. Outside the cottage there was a garden, a patio providing space for a table and chairs, the lawn surrounded by a border of flower beds.

Hob could use a garden right now; the peace found in its planting, perhaps finally using the seeds Anna had given him, a longing within him to watch things grow.

They spent some time there.

Molly explained that the current owners had been renovating, that the garden still needed replanting, the flower beds only recently added. Hob turned towards her just as Dream smiled, a slight little thing, unreasonably lovely, meeting Hob’s eyes as if he’d been waiting for him to turn around. It was well past middy; the sun still a yearning highlight in dark hair, the wind ruffling it with affection, and even with power pulled back he was dizzying to look sometimes. A sense of vertigo found when peering into his eyes.

Perhaps the longer Hob lived the better he’d get at it.

“It’s quite secluded,” Dream said.

It felt like a question for him.

Hob truly didn’t mind, knew that maybe his friend was wondering if he should be worried about the isolation, about the loneliness Hob had admitted to back at the New Inn. It was nice to take a step back every few decades—nice as well as a necessity, as well as a way to stay safe—because Hob truly appreciated the chance to refresh. To live quietly for a while. Besides, it was close enough to what he needed, neighbours still on either side, and Hob knew that one day he’d have the pleasure of getting restless.

His heart wouldn’t ache at the thought of moving back to a city.

“Secluded is nice,” Hob said.

He already knew he’d be putting in an offer.

They were making dinner when Lizzie arrived.

George dropped his daughter off; looked as if he wanted to hug her, seemed to think better of it, offered his hand and smiled when the girl reached up to brush her fingers against his own. She was tall for her age, blonde hair braided in two French plaits, eyes a light blue behind her glasses. This was the future recipient of the red tractor Hob currently had wrapped up and hidden away. When George left Lizzie immediately walked up to Celia’s terrarium, slow but with an obvious intent, stood there silently as she peered inside.

Hob smiled.

After a minute or so Lizzie retrieved her crayons from the draw Hob had stored them in between visits, pulled out a few pieces of paper, and then scooted a chair back over to the terrarium. She sat quietly in front of the glass; brow furrowed in concentration as she began to draw, small fingers carefully clasping a crayon, each stroke deliberate.

Celia really was proving to be a hit.

“I will stay with her while you finish preparing the food.” Dream said from behind him.

Hob almost jumped, hadn’t heard him approach.

“Are you sure?”

“Out of the two tasks it is the one I have the most experience with.”

Hob would definitely be asking him for clarification about that.

It was another question for later though—Hob still had all his guesses for the day, perhaps he’d take this round off—because for now he returned to the kitchen. They were making lasagne, Hob just had to assemble it, layering meat and sauce and pasta sheets, and he tried not to be distracted by what Dream had said about taste. Yet he couldn’t manage it, placed that first layer to the memory of Dream’s soft smile when he’d tried the stew, the second to how he’d cupped each mug of tea in his hands. Hob laughed a little once he was done, after he'd put it in the often to cook, because for all he considered this feeling private he really was intent on giving himself away, wasn’t he?

There was no fear in the thought.

Hob’s eyes caught on the fridge magnets, Dream’s gift so innocuous, a wish to commemorate a memory. It could be as platonic as the hug had been, yet it made him yearn, the care his friend was taking absolute and yet their relationship was shifting anyway. For all he’d been the first to reveal his feelings Dream hadn’t done anything more than that.

Perhaps Hob had turned the wheel himself.

When he made his way back to the living room all the lights had been turned off except for the one in Celia’s terrarium, the glow of it enough to see only if you were right next to it.

Which they were.

As always the first thing he saw was Dream.

The glow provided ample light for a silhouette. Hob could make out his tall frame, could find no hint of the eyes Hob knew should glow, were still glowing, were always glowing even if he couldn’t see.

“It was too bright,” Dream said.

Lizzie continued to sit quietly, colouring in the muted light of the terrarium, and she didn’t look up when he spoke. There hadn’t been any sign of discomfort when she’d arrived, the girl didn’t even seem to realise the lights were off, but that didn’t mean anything.

Hob still knew he was right.

He’d have known even if he’d never met Lizzie before because this was Dream.

The way he stood should have seemed like a loom, a threat, but instead there was a strange kinship in his understanding of this. In many ways, Dream was like one of those skittish cats, seeming so aloof until you realised it was because they did not always want to be touched, that they’d been showing their affection this entire time, in the way they preferred, merely by sitting near you. Hob could respect a boundary, could respect how someone needed to be loved, even if he hadn’t yet told his friend it was love he felt for him.

When she left Lizzie left him another picture of Celia; a note scrawled at the top, written so very carefully in pale blue crayon—

“For Hob’s friend.”

It seemed Dream had collected another alias.

That night Hob dreamt a strange dream.

It started off quite mundane.

“There’s a book coming out in a few weeks. It’s called ‘The Silver Door’.” Lucienne said with her customary sharp smile, seemed much more relaxed than before, perhaps a thank you hidden in this gentle greeting. “I’d highly recommend it.”

“Well now I definitely know who I’m coming to for reading recommendations.” Hob said cheerfully, finding warmth in her eyes. “Thanks Lucienne.”

They were back to sitting at the bottom of a cliff.

The sand damp beneath Hob’s feet, clumping to larger grains, the rock pools surrounding them filled with seawater. Lucienne had stepped delicately across one to stand next to him, careful to avoid staining her shoes, always so well dressed and suited to it.

“Don’t thank me yet, you’ve not read the book.” She shrugged, her lips still quirked upwards. “Might not be your taste.”

“We’ll soon fin—”

A crack splintered the air.

Hob stiffened, felt like the ground had fallen out from under him; an earthquake, a glacier sheered in half, ice tumbling into the sea, a flood to end the whole world. Even in a dream the force of the sound made his ears ring, he turned to look, turned just as another sound shattered the air, and this was the Dreaming, all things fantastical possible here—

A crack split the cliffside.

He was quite certain that was not supposed to happen.

Hob knew because it felt so deeply wrong to look at, felt like foundations dissolving, felt like being torn out at the root. He looked to Lucienne, wide eyed, found no comfort in her horrified face—a flash of fear, of bone deep dread—a terror that only confirmed his own.

“You need to go,” Lucienne said quickly, already ushering him away. “You need to—”

Hob woke up.

He could wait a week.

Dream had said that whatever had been going on with his realm wasn’t yet resolved. This must be something to do with that, Hob couldn’t call him just because he was worried, would wait until the day of their standard appointment. The next night Hob slept and dreamt his usual dreams, no cliff face or ocean in sight, no contact from Lucienne either. That wasn’t the only thing that made them feel off, a sensation like they were trembling, a change so subtle he only noticed it because he knew what Dream was. Hob didn’t see Matthew following him around anymore, couldn’t get back to that shore, couldn’t stop thinking of the moment he’d seen his friends realm crack.

His neighbours noticed his unease.

Ada swung by with an invite to her leaving do, paused halfway through handing it to him, because apparently this feeling was obvious enough to show on his face. She smiled comfortingly but didn’t push, Sam knocked on his door to chatter away excitedly about his application being accepted, the allowance approved for the start of the new year. He sobered when he caught sight of Hob’s worry, still so embarrassingly obvious, and there must have been a conversation between his neighbours at some point because when he next babysat for Lizzie her dad invited him to stay for dinner. It should have snapped him out of it but Hob didn’t want to bury this, so used to hiding what mattered.

It made him realise just how much he’d already integrated. Not only that—

Hob had been welcomed.

Finally he could be honest about something that really hurt, because for all the things he couldn’t tell there were others he could. For one, some of his neighbours had actually met Dream, and so when Maggie stopped him in the hallway one day to ask what was bothering him Hob didn’t see the need to lie.

“I’m worried about my friend.”

She nodded, read whatever Hob was showing in his face, invited him into her flat. Maggie handed him a cup of tea, freshly made, enough to warm him even before he took it from her grasp. Then she’d casually asked if he’d mind taking a quick look at her boiler, informed him that it’d been making strange sounds for weeks and Jane was having trouble finding someone who knew what they were doing. Hob had been taking odd jobs since he’d moved in, little things to keep busy around babysitting Lizzie, and though he hadn’t heard a thing about a faulty boiler he smiled anyway.

Maggie had biscuits waiting for him once he was done.

Hob thanked her before he’d left, went back to his flat to feed Celia, had developed a habit of letting the tortoise out to roam across the table. She was still small, would amble around curiously, the golden tones of her shell gleaming in the light. Hob placed some food next to her, felt tension uncoil as he watched her eat, thought once again of Dream.

Hob had researched the Sleeping Sickness.

He’d tried not to, had wanted to wait until he’d spoken to his friend, had hoped he’d misremembered the date. He hadn’t, found his search only confirmed the horrifying number, the illness having appeared one hundred years ago just as he’d thought. There were far too many coldly clinical articles studying the phenomenon and Hob couldn’t help his curiosity. He couldn’t help his horror, the places his mind began to wonder while contemplating what could cause something like that.

“I hope he’s ok.” Hob said as he stroked Celia’s head, her deep black eyes peering up at him. “He’d said there was a problem in his realm but, if he’s hurt—”

He sighed.

“I hope he’s not hurt.”

Then one night a few days later Hob awoke with a shudder, a gasp, not from a nightmare but to a black hole, to a coldness beneath his ribs like something had just ripped out his heart. Hob braced his hand against his chest, lay tangled in the duvet of his bed, unable to comprehend the pounding pulse he could hear but couldn’t feel. There was a prickling sense of unease, then a sound like the crack Hob had heard in the Dreaming, a sound that came with something else. A memory, an impossible memory, a memory of a day weeks ago—

A day where no one could lie.

Hob was shaking.

He’d been lucky it’d been one of his days off, a day where he was grading students exams, safely locked inside his flat when the screaming started. Hob remembered the sound of shattered glass and splintered wood—oh god Ian really had thrown Anna onto the coffee table—remembered how only luck had spared him what could have been a similar interaction. Only luck had spared him a stray conversation with a neighbour. How had he forgotten this? How could he have? It had felt like his heart had been dug up and out, something powerful making a puppet of him. There’d been a voice, a presence that tied strings tight, yanked them this way and that, no respect for who Hob was because he was just a thing to them. No, worse than a thing—

A monster.

Immortal, the voice had whispered, immortal?

Oh you sad pathetic creature, you’re the worst of them all aren’t you, the worst of all this world filled with liars. It found Eleanor, found Robyn, found Dream, found the yearning Hob had made of imagining the face of the child that he’d lost. That softened fantasy, that beloved sketch, a love ripped from his hands and—no, no you can’t, give them back, my child is dead but give them back—Hob remembered it now. The betrayal. He remembered how it had laughed at his longing; flicked cruelly through all his dreams, looked at his hopes and told him to grow up, that it wasn’t real, that it was foolish.

How naïve you are.

It found everyone he’d ever lost, the spring of his mother’s voice, his father’s smile, Eleanor’s golden hair, found the evergreen of Hob’s love for everyone he’d ever had. This voice set fire to those trees; blew to fan the flames because they’re all dead, all gone, you’re holding onto ashes not memories. It’d tried to make him believe it—

Hob remembered spitting in its face.

Oh it hadn’t liked that, had the cosmos in its hands, may have wanted Hob alive but it certainly didn’t need him whole. That was perhaps the only thing that saved him; still left him pinned, a pressure to make even atoms curdle, a lesson hammered in with force when he kept resisting, when he’d fought back because of course he’d fought back. All of what Hob was had looked up and hissed no, you will not take this from me, I will not give it up. He was but a drop in its hands but he didn’t care, wouldn’t tremble, wouldn’t give in. Yet the power persisted anyway, furious—fingers cracking his chest, had already taken his heart, wiggling inside to find what now kept him fighting—warped as it dug deeper, warped as it mutilated.

You’ll have to kill me.

I’m immortal and you’ll have to find a way to kill me to make me this.

Hob had been shaking then, was shivering now, had known that to get what it wanted it had to make him something no longer human. This wasn’t a blindfold ripped off, wasn’t an uncomfortable truth revealed, this was truth made cruel.

The so called lie is being human.

Nausea had him stumbling to the bathroom, even the remembrance making him sick, had Hob dropping to his knees and dry heaving into the toilet.

What was worse was that he recognised it, the elegant power repurposed by one who had no understanding of grace, no care for replicating it. There’d been no comfort walking beside him, no one carrying the yoke with him, no gentle respect, no turning away, and yet even defiled Hob would know it blind. He knew it for its opposite, knew it because however dark it was he’d known its light—please, please stop, Dream—instinctive like recognising his face, like seeing his Stranger and knowing in his bones there was no betrayal here—

This might be what he could do but it wasn’t what that he was.

This was a replay of a moment but it wasn’t Dream.

Chapter Text

Hob wanted to call for him but couldn’t speak.

He wanted to say Dream’s name and it was almost funny how the first time Hob thought to use it was because his friend might be in danger instead of him. Though to be honest he wasn’t doing so good either, Hob lay on the floor of his bathroom, cheek pressed against cool tiles, shivering uncontrollably and yet unable to move. It felt like hours before something changed; still night, still dark, but there was warmth like the sky was breaking, like sunlight streaming through the clouds. Hob knew that whatever had happened was over, the certainty of that settling like a cool balm, a hand stroking through his hair as something soft and trusted whispered that he should go back to sleep.

Hob stumbled back to bed.

It was still dark when he awoke once more, disoriented without knowing why, getting out of bed to shuffle blearily into his living room and freeze—

Dream was standing there.

Relief hit first, not a punch but a breath exhaled all the same, because it didn’t matter that in the light of Celia’s terrarium Dream was just a silhouette. It didn’t matter that all Hob could see was a glow of eyes in the dark. It was an outline, a sketch, a figure he’d know anywhere because this was Dream—his Dream, everyone’s dream—familiarity that tugged at the instinct in his bones, at the memories of his friends smile. It was instinct turning to real knowledge because Dream had been right about there being different types of knowing.

Hob turned on the light.

Dream blinked as if he hadn’t realised it was dark.

The veneer of his human skin seemed to have thinned; the thin frame still the same, the pale skin, the dark hair, all of it familiar but something within now drifting. The curtain of it gossamer, the veil no longer hiding, the guise no longer grounding. It was something of the uncanny valley, a swerve to the left of human, not so obvious to be deliberate. Still natural. The inhumanity as reflexive as Dream's grace, found in how he stood perhaps, in the bones sitting unnaturally in joint as if the body was too small. Dream peered at him with luminous eyes, a glittering cascade of what Hob had always thought were stars.

For a moment he wasn’t so sure.

“I’ll make us a cup of tea.” Hob said calmly, very aware he was in nothing but a loose t-shirt and a soft pair of trousers, rumpled from sleep. “And then you can tell me all about it?”

Dream seemed to have forgotten how to nod.

Yet he made his agreement clear all the same, because Hob blinked and suddenly Dream was sitting on the sofa, seeming to have decided he wanted to curl up there today. He’d moved without moving, had somehow bent space around him as if not realising it should be impossible. That it was impossible.

As if it was a rule Dream could break simply by forgetting.

Hob tried to be quick. He went to the kitchen, was reaching for the teabags when he paused, ended up making hot chocolate instead. Hob placed one of the mugs on the coffee table in front of Dream, sat down with his own held cupped in his hands, turned towards him. They both leant against the softness of the sofa cushions; Dream seemed to have to have settled into his skin once more, re-familiarised himself with the fabric of the universe, camouflaged to it, aligned with the phase of it, reread the rules it was supposed to follow.

The glow in his eyes was fainter, not muted but controlled.

His friend was looking at the hot chocolate, fascinated as always, even now, even when something had very clearly gone wrong, curious as he examined this new thing he’d been offered. Still in his dark black coat but relaxing, the soul of him coalescing in this room, coiled here as if resting.

As if it had come on in and taken off its shoes.

“I did not mean to arrive unannounced at such an hour.” Dream began, unprompted, sincere, solemn, the same weight here as had been in his apology for being late back in London. “If this inconveniences—“

“Not at all.” Hob interrupted, just as he had back then, just as he always would when the time called for it. “You are welcome. And I just made you hot chocolate.”

Dream nodded. “It would be a waste to leave it.”

“It would.”

Hob could see the beginnings of a small smile as he reached towards the mug, sudden as if he’d given himself permission; the first sip as tentative as when Dream had tried the tea, yet he was elegant even in hesitation, not scripted but flowing, the slant of cursive in the raising of his hands.

Hob resisted the urge to ask him how it tasted.

“I must apologise for what happened earlier.” Dream said quietly, looking up at him over the rim of the mug, his eyes ocean old. “I am glad to see you well.”

There was a question in that.

Hob smiled reassuringly—it wasn’t a lie, wasn’t a lie at all despite the questions he had about what had happened that night—then he took a sip of his own hot chocolate, sighed at the taste. He was glad he’d invested in a quality brand, it was sweet but not too sweet, rich, a treat of indulgence. It chased the chill of residual shivers, smoothed the memory of Hob curled up on the floor, because as always this was comfort shared, Dream’s shining presence soothing. This moment sinking, warmth into muscles, comfortable despite the abrupt way his friend had arrived.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“No.” Dream said.

Ok then. That was fine, distraction it was—

“But I shall.”

The customary aplomb—ever the performer, always so elegant—Hob waited patiently through the pause, waited as Dream took another sip of his drink. His expression pensive; soaking up the comfort perhaps, reclining into the scene as if there was still more warmth to be found, a relief even as tension remained. Hob again wondered what it tasted like, wondered what flavour could be made of love and relief, felt a strange sense that Dream was reaching out, his friend looking and finding something he wasn’t aware he was showing.

Finding it and giving something else back.

“As Endless there are rules that govern us, some official, some less so, but we are not supposed to interfere in the lives of mortals. Not supposed to harm them, not supposed to kill.” Dream said finally, and this time he met Hob’s eyes with something approaching challenge. “I have broken that rule in particular hundreds of times.”

Hob frowned. “There’s more to it, isn’t there?”

“It is not by choice.” Dream replied; the same reassurance as when he’d admitted he’d been trapped, but his tension had softened, Hob’s reaction had soothed him. “There is an event. Something that occurs rarely but consistently. A human develops the power to bring down the walls between dreams, a power they can’t control, can’t maintain. There is no way to prevent it, to take this power from them, and eventually it will destroy them, destroy them as it destroys the Dreaming. It makes them into a bomb, a sleeper agent—”

He paused.

“A vortex.”

Hob frowned. “The walls between dreams? Is that why I saw cracks?”

In truth there was a far more important question.

Did it hurt him?

It made sense that it would, if the walls were coming down, made sense that such a thing would mean that it wasn't just the Dreaming that was threatened. Hob didn’t entirely understand it but he knew they were linked. Had it been like a crack in his soul? The damage not just in the foundations of what he’d built but to what he was.

“Yes. One was supposed to occur while I was trapped,” Dream’s smile was sharp, darkly amused. “Instead it triggered quite recently, as it happens the universe seemed inclined to wait for me to get out.”

The implication in that made Hob feel sick.

“I’d considered the possibility of course.” Dream continued, calm like the eye of a storm, calm only because Hob was looking in the one place the winds didn’t rage. “And I knew that if one did awaken I would need to consider taking…drastic measures to free myself.”

Hob didn’t want to even think about what Dream might mean by that.

But his friend was telling him this for a reason.

The act of speculation still felt crass, felt invasive; persisted anyway, conversations remembered—Dream’s voice saying doesn’t it bother you? the possibility of a no?—and oh Hob didn’t want to think it but he did. He found himself once again considering what could be asked of an immortal. It was clear whoever had captured Dream had been refused, but if a vortex had appeared—

If he’d felt like he had no other choice—

Hob considered what Dream might have forced himself to say yes to.

He swallowed. “What happens if you don’t?”

“The universe dies.”

Hob sighed. “Nothing’s ever easy for you is it?”

“I have long since known that it is purposeless, cruel,” Dream said, his agreement somehow a different angle, as if the question of ease hadn’t even crossed his mind. This was a wry sort of acknowledgment for the horror, a bitterness that wasn’t self-pitying, questioning instead, the question of why. “Even if it had an intended meaning it weaponises a life purely to teach me a lesson. That is not what I am for, that is not what humans are for, it contorts my function. It defiles it. It forces me to defile myself.”

It was cruel, wasn’t it?

Hob could see no reason for its presence in a benevolent universe. Everything he had learned about Dream had shown him how seriously he took his position. This was a choice that was no choice at all; Dream’s own set role, the lines already written, no escape from the stage. Who wrote this play? Who demanded it?

Who clapped their hands each time and said again?

“I’m sorry.”

“Such a thing is taken as it is.” Dream’s smile softened, less bitter, more sad. Yet even sadness wasn't soft, was hard like holding tight, hard like carrying on. “My siblings do not have this burden. I suppose it looks easy to them. One sacrifice for the good of the many.”

Hob sensed he wasn’t done, took careful sips of his hot chocolate and let his friend talk.

“I have been told I have too many rules.” Dream shrugged, his tone one of forceful mildness. “In truth perhaps they are right, perhaps it seems excessive, but my rules are important. Yet others want me to bend them, bend them as if it’s a choice, bend them only when they deem it acceptable because who has once tried to speak up about a vortex?”

Dream laughed.

“This one was called Rose.” His voice now quiet, the hush one used to murmur at the side of a grave, perhaps a homage to all their names because Hob thought that Dream might still mourn them too. “This time another took her place, and that in itself was an event so rare that it will never come again, but the result is still the same. It wasn’t sacrifice. It never is, no heroism in this, in what always has been murder.”

Fine fingers raised the mug to his lips, Dream drank slowly, then sighed. “I would have done it, to protect the universe I would have done it. I would have killed her too. A child. This is not the end, I have killed hundreds of times—”

Dream looked Hob right in the eye.

“I will do it again.”

It was the most Dream had ever spoken at once, the most he’d ever revealed, a reversal of their meetings because it had always been Hob sharing like this. Sharing without apology, without excuses, opening the door for judgement.

“Dream.”

My Dream, my—

Hob didn’t remember reaching out, didn’t remember placing his hand over a pale, cold one, but he must have because that’s where he found himself. For all the centuries he’d spent yearning for this, for all this was the second time he’d done it, Hob was glad both had been to offer comfort, to give. Instinct seemed to know best, because as Hob cupped slender fingers with his own Dream tensed, then relaxed, seemed to soak up comfort from that small touch. He looked down at their clasped hands, the warmth of the hot chocolate seeped around their fingers, the mug still held in Dream’s hand, perhaps savouring what held his, perhaps soothing himself with this

“It is alright.” Dream said, mild, and Hob knew this because he’d said it like this too. He knew when “I will be alright’ could be as much a lie as a truth because you could never know how long it would take, how much pain you’d take first. “It is my function.”

No.

“No it isn’t.” Hob whispered fiercely, squeezed his hand gently and then let it go. “You were right before. You called it defilement and that’s exactly what it is.”

It reminded him of when he’d awoken last night.

The memory itself was distant, muffled, but Hob remembered being wrenched back and forth like a puppet, cruelly jerked by someone else’s strings, forced to play out someone else’s story. The edges of the memory were softer now, half faded, lighter as if the yoke was being shared. Yet Hob knew how it had felt; a script delivered, a role corrupted, and in many ways what Dream was forced to do was just the same.

He was supposed to protect, to teach, not kill.

“About last night.” Hob began, tentative as he tried to figure out how to even ask what he wanted to know. “I felt something…strange. I remembered a day where no one could lie. I was worried something had happened to you.”

“A side effect, the fallout from the walls of the Dreaming starting to crumble. You sensed it too.” Dream explained. “It is unusual that you were so adversely affected, usually I can keep such things from spilling over.”

“It was real, wasn’t it. A real memory.”

“Yes.”

“You made me forget.” Hob said. “You’re still making me forget.”

“Yes.”

Dream answered bluntly, no attempt to dodge or soften, no attempt to hide the truth because that wasn’t what Dream did. He didn’t apologise either, didn’t assume that’s what Hob wanted from him, merely waited with curious eyes for what came next.

“I’m not sure how to feel about that.” Hob said honestly.

“Would you like me to undo it?”

“No.” Hob was certain of that, shuddered at the thought, still nearly deafened by what he knew was just an echo.

“Would you like me to explain what it was?”

Hob thought about it. “Yeah.”

“You recall that my ruby was stolen?” Dream asked, waited for his nod before he continued. “It held a substantial quantity of my power, corrupted the mortal who possessed it, drove them to attempt to engineer my destruction.”

“It didn’t feel like you.” Hob frowned. “It felt—”

Dream allowed him time to continue.

“It felt like being erased, destroyed, turned inside out.” Hob grimaced because even that felt like an inadequate explanation, the wrongness of what he'd felt such an antithesis it defied description, defied logic, defied reality. “For all whoever did it wanted truth all they ended up doing was telling the biggest lie.”

“My power is not just one of creation, can be destruction too,” Dream said; the same guilt Hob remembered from when they'd passed gutted buildings, what he now realised must be a solemn responsibility for it, a refusal to turn away from the damage stolen power had caused. “I put too much of myself within my ruby, the weight of it too vast, the definition of my function too—”

He trailed off.

“Too much?” Hob supplied, a teasing quip to put them both at ease.

Dream laughed. “Perhaps. In any case it was misunderstood, warped by the lens with which it was viewed. They saw too much, and in the doing they made it too little.”

Hob remembered when he’d told Dream he might never understand him.

He remembered telling him he accepted him anyway.

Perhaps that’s what the thief had been unable to realise, perhaps they’d picked and picked at what was always going to drown them, incensed by the small part of it they could comprehend. Dream was right, they’d tried to break a piece off, tried to make what little they understood the whole. He remembered Dream talking to the woman in the supermarket, how she'd had a cut above her eye, remembered Dream's expression of guilt every time they went for a drive. Hob remembered watching the news and feeling like he’d almost remembered something. Hob remembered how Jane’s sister had been in hospital.

He remembered fighting back and wondered if everyone else had known it too, if they had felt it like he had.

If they’d fought back how he had.

“Plant some seeds with me.” Hob said impulsively, wanted to turn away from this for now, perhaps would have more questions later, didn't need further explanation because right now he felt far too raw. There was no shame in that, in wanting to be soothed, and Hob thought Dream might like that too. “I don’t have a garden yet but—”

“You will.”

Hob smiled. “I will.”

He drained the last of his hot chocolate, watched as Dream did the same, took the empty mugs back to the kitchen and retrieved the seeds from the box he kept there. It felt right to use them for this, felt easy, and when Hob set the plant pots on the dining table along with the soil and a jug of water there was no tension. He’d have enough left over for when he moved, could test these six; Anna had bought him a mix of perennial seeds, aquilegia, bellis, Canterbury bells, delphiniums and lupins.

Dream took his coat off again.

It was a practical decision, would prevent soil catching in the sleeves, somehow indulgent because this was the pale white skin of Dream’s arms once again on display, the moonlight gleam hidden in his skin the promise of a glow. Hob watched as Dream seemed to gravitate towards Celia; watched his index finger slide down the outside of the glass, heart lurching because he now knew what it meant, aching because even after he’d pointed it out Dream wasn’t trying to hide it.

Hob joined him by the terrarium. "Celia can join us."

They moved to the dining table, Hob placed Celia on it gently and smiled when Dream stroked her small head, smiled and nudged three of the plant pots in his friend's direction. This might get messy but he didn’t care.

They filled them with soil.

They took handfuls of it, sinking fingers into the dirt. Hob wondered how this could compare, this simple thing, to all that Dream could do. Then he remembered what he’d said about simple dreams, how pleased he’d been by Lizzie’s art, the contentment he'd found in staring out the window of Hob’s car. It was more proof of what he’d already known, that somehow Dream was a person for the smaller things too, not continually sublime, not just one grand incredible thing after the other. This universe could curl up with a cup of tea (or even a hot chocolate), could listen to the fumbling notes of a piano recital through the walls of an Edinburgh flat, could hold an ant on their finger and be content with the wonder.

The activity seemed to interest Celia.

The tortoise was intrigued by the soil, plodded towards it, crawled over the rim of the bag and nudged her head inside. Hob picked her up before she could burrow any further, was met with discontent as Celia tried to crawl straight off his palm, butted her head against his fingers when he curled them upwards to dissuade her though she seemed far too polite to bite. Dream smirked as he watched, as Hob grabbed a couple of handfuls of soil and made a small pile of it on the table, then gently placed Celia beside it.

She seemed to approve of this.

At least enough that the tortoise didn’t try burying herself in the bag of soil again.

Hob reached for another handful, the texture of it bare, crumbling to the touch, damp and soft, this the feeling of skin against soil. Dream was ahead of him, had filled a pot already, and Hob watched Dream create a small hole in the earth, placing a seed inside, covering it with soil before moving on to the next. He moved carefully, practised as if he’d done it before, as if used to watching things grow, because for all he'd always kept his nails neat there was no fear at dirtying them. There was no hesitance as Dream dug his fingers into the earth. It was the same clash of the mundane and the divine Hob was always struck by, not like oil and water, nothing casual here either.

Dream displayed duty even in this, accountable in care, a solemn responsibility.

A promise to this seed.

“I’m sorry.” Hob found himself saying again. “For what you must do.”

Slender fingers paused.

“Thank you.” Dream said quietly.

“Does it ever get hard? Not being able to escape it?” Hob asked impulsively, careful as he placed a seed in his own plant pot. “Do you ever wish you could?”

Dream’s response was idle as he reached for another handful of soil. “Do you see it as a problem to be fixed? Would you consider it growth for me to become closer to you, to be human?”

“No. I’m guess I’m just wondering if you ever get a break.”

“There are other ways to relax,” Dream smiled, expression pointed; Hob remembered their first meeting in this century, how Dream had mentioned feeding the pigeons, how he’d implied coming to see Hob was one of those ways he found peace. “Can you have a break from being yourself?”

Well when you put it like that…

“Your name is your job title.” Hob said, unable to help but think about the amount of times he’d changed job role. How bored he’d be if he couldn’t.

“Is that a guess?” Dream teased.

“Yeah.” Hob laughed, dared slip a little bit of implication into his tone, to flirt and mean for Dream to recognise it this time. “Unless you’re willing to give it away for free?”

“Oh you’ll have to be very persuasive in order for me to allow that.” Dream smirked, a warmth alongside the sharpness, an implication all his own before his tone turned serious. “You’ve been many things in your life. They are applications of the self, ways to live who you are, to reinforce it. For me it is different. It is not just what I do, it’s what I am. No keys to pass down, no crown, no title…”

He trailed off.

Dream paused, not uncertain, as always he was choosing the words to make this concept clear.

Then he looked at Hob intently, measuring if he could take what he was about to say, assessing if he wanted to test his mettle. He’d done the same back at the New Inn, been surprised by a sparring partner who could keep up, someone who could play chess with him and understand his moves enough to make for a satisfying game. Some of the veil slipped back, a loosening of control of this body’s careful grounding; Dream spoke with a voice of layered power, smooth and deep, that cello and all its notes both mournful and uplifting, a glimpse behind the curtain calibrated so it didn't burn out Hob’s eyes.

“Would you rip out your heart, Hob Gadling, if it would spare you from feeling any pain? Would you sheer away bravery if it meant never feeling fear? Would you blind yourself, deafen yourself, would you rip out your tongue just because you found something tasted sour?”

Hob had sat frozen from the first word, wide eyed.

“You’d lose a symphony just to avoid hearing one bum note.” Dream continued steadily, a drum beat, not a call to war but the keeping of a rhythm, ensuring all who heard it remained in time. It reminded Hob of when he’d said he was an ocean, was merciless for all this wasn’t punishment, for all this was a reveal. “You’d lose a sunrise. And if you loved to play, to paint, could create masterpieces with your hands…would you cut them off if once they ached? And if you did would you still be yourself at the end of it all, with so many parts removed—even if you could live on, even if you’d done it for a break—would it not just be a savage sort of mutilation in the end?”

Dream paused again.

It was the confidence of knowing even silence belonged to him. Hob watched as Dream stroked Celia’s head, fingers slipping down across the golden tones of her shell, gentle, so aware of his strength he seemed able to make himself a fraction of it.

She blinked, eyes closing, opening once to show her bliss before they closed again.

“I told you I’d be this forever.” Dream said quietly, returned but not diminished, folded away but not gone. “It’s not in pieces. To rip it out is to rip me out whole.”

And Hob finally understood what he’d actually asked.

He’d asked him the equivalent of the question of if Hob wanted to live, more than that—the equivalent of why he didn’t just give up—if he ever wanted to die. The equivalent of looking at Hob now, here, grieving one life while moving into another, seeing the pain of it, and suggesting it might be easier if he did, that it might be better if he threw in the towel. That first question came unbidden to his mind, the one Dream had asked him every century, phrased so carefully—do you still wish to live?

Maybe this had been why.

“Well we won’t be doing that.” Hob said dryly. “Damn. That’s—“

A sly smile. “A lot?”

Hob rolled his eyes even as he smiled back. “I was going to say entirely understandable actually. Now I know what I was really asking, really suggesting. What it means for you. And, well, I’d definitely just assumed it could be a bit of a burden sometimes. But it’s not is it?”

Shit.

He’d only meant that with everything he’d learnt about vortexes that it must be hard.

Dream seemed to see his worry, to catch his meaning. “No. No it isn’t.”

A symphony, he’d said.

A sunrise.

Hob wondered what it could mean, if he was gone, if Dream was gone, perhaps it wouldn’t prevent another vortex at all. Even it if did would it really be anything other than another cruel sacrifice? Hob remembered how it had felt to be robbed of the ability to dream, to be twisted into something so alien it was worse than death. He wondered if that wasn’t what his friend was really describing, wasn’t what Hob had accidentally suggested he do, if taking a break didn’t actually just mean making himself break.

“I think I understand,” Hob said quietly.

Or he thought he understood this, at least, because it was everything Hob was against—the fight he made against giving up, how he would live and live and live—how he'd do it even though he knew the sour thing remained. Perhaps Dream did that too, perhaps there really was no fix for the vortex, nothing to prevent it, and so Dream met with this pain that wasn’t resolved, that wasn’t even hidden, was carried instead, because that was what he was. He untangled, he smoothed, he assisted in it, and for all it meant he'd face a vortex the powers weren’t the problem.

The role wasn’t.

His friend really did enjoy it, didn't he? It invigorated him. It was soothing the hurt. Each time Dream came to see Hob the tension seemed less, and part of that might be him but Hob wasn’t so foolish as to believe that was all of it. The same concept of pain contrasting with joy, part of the experience of being alive but not what defined it. Dream wasn't obscuring that from him—barriers down, relaxing, a softening—perhaps knew he’d understand that without the role memory would remain, memory without purpose, the pain would no longer be worth it.

It would only be a sacrifice of joy.

“You love it don’t you?”

“I find myself bolstered by everything you are, by humanity. For all you lack, for all you strive for.” Dream smiled, pleased, proud, pressing the last seed so very gently into soft earth before reaching for the jug of water. “Such determined cheering. Such a defiant chorus.”

They watched Celia crawl sedately across the table, for all her limbs were small her was gait smooth across the grain of wood.

“I find you might be the most defiant of them all,” Dream said softly, looking up from the plant pot he was currently watering, spoke as gently as his hands had pressed the seeds into earth. "I know what the thief did to you with my ruby, I know how much it hurt you, how much it had available to use to hurt you. How many centuries of life it had to tear out. How much love."

"You know because you feel it too."

"Yes." Dream replied.

He knew what it meant to be human.

Dream knew because he walked with them, with us, raged and cried and held. He saw the sorrow. He saw the fear. Hob remembered how nonplussed he’d been when he’d asked if he was a god. Maybe that was the thing about being so powerful—the complete lack of novelty in it—because perhaps to Dream the dizzying things he could do felt mundane.

Perhaps it didn’t feel special just because it was so vast.

Perhaps he had a better understanding of it. At the top of the ladder you will always look down, but perhaps that was another of those implication Hob didn’t mean—perhaps it was a different perspective, a line on solid ground, both ends drawn towards the other. Both ends finding themselves curious about the other experience. Neither in front or behind.

Adjacent.

Dream knew what it meant to be human.

Perhaps he was trying to make sure that it was worth it.

By the time they set the pots aside there was dark earth staining their fingers, particles clinging to their skin. The white marble of him, Dream’s quiet perfection, his pale hands, those long gleaming fingers, seemed blemished by experience. Yet how like a sculptor, how like the artist Hob knew Dream was, dirt was trapped under both of their fingernails, soil that would need to be dug out and washed away. It was good in the way it was to walk bare foot across grass, to run across a beach and feel sand shift under ones toes. Hob wondered if this was helping, hoped there was a novelty that was at least compelling, found all he had to do to be sure was turn his eyes to Dream’s face and look.

Knowing him wasn’t just learning cues for discomfort.

It was recognising the softness in his smile, his eyes, the warmth there. The quiet nature of his contentment. Maybe Dream didn’t need this human thing, but like so many other things—like the hug Hob had offered him, how he'd reached to hold his hand—perhaps he still wanted it.

Hob could see that it brought Dream joy.

Chapter Text

Hob took the plant pots into the kitchen.

The six of them were lined up on the windowsill, placed where they could greet the morning sun, bask under it as it rose, a place where the seeds they’d planted together could grow under light. He couldn’t help but think of all his friend had said.

He couldn’t help but find there was a question he’d not yet asked.

Hob hoped he wasn’t about to ruin the easy atmosphere.

Dream was still sat at the table when Hob returned, Celia resting in the palm of one slim hand. It could have been just to prevent her from walking off the edge of the table, it could have been simply to hold her. It could have been some combination of the two. Or some third thing yet unknown. Dream’s lips were tilting upwards as one elegant finger stroked softly over Celia’s small head, achingly gentle, a pale contrast to a jewel of a different kind. Hob joined him; sat and watched, knowing he’d never stop being struck by the warmth Dream could put in one of his small smiles, how he looked at Celia with careful fascination.

Hob spoke before he lost his nerve.

“The Sleeping Sickness had something to do with you.”

It could have easily brought the pain back, but Dream’s idle glance upwards remained unperturbed, the light in his eyes still a soft North Star. “It was not done by choice.”

“I know.” Hob agreed, contrite despite his friends easy demeanour. He hadn’t meant to ask him this so clumsily—hadn’t actually asked at all, merely stated, merely hinted—the true question still unspoken.

But not unheard.

Dream paused with his fingertip resting against Celia’s iridescent shell.

After a moment motion resumed; he trailed it delicately across her back, tracing the golden whorls, answering the question Hob had so inelegantly implied. “The Sleeping Sickness was a consequence of my imprisonment.”

There was a truth there that chilled.

Ice numbed but it didn’t surprise, though oh how Hob wished it had surprised, confirmed a suspicion that had always been too terrible to fully unfold. But it wasn’t a suspicion any longer. It was a truth and Hob found he still couldn’t quite comprehend it. He spoke and found a plea in his words. “The first recorded case was one hundred years ago.”

“Yes. It was.”

He’d been held captive for one hundred years.

It made him feel sick. Hob swallowed. “Dream—”

“I am aware of what troubles you. I am aware that this revelation might trouble you even more, that I cannot convince you that there is no need for such concern.” Dream interrupted before horror could crest, amused even in the face of what was about to break against the shore. He stood in front of it and didn’t flinch.

He cut through it like he could spare the flood.

Dream set Celia delicately back down on the table, hand curling around her like cupping a candles lit flame. “I have lived a long time.”

Hob knew something about being old.

Enough that he didn’t think this was an effective rebuttal, didn’t think it was entirely relevant in a situation like this, didn’t know what age had to do with no longer finding pain. “Something doesn’t have to last long to be significant. A split second can change everything.”

He thought about his son.

Dead in a second.

The thought must have been obvious; his friend nodded, the slightest incline of the head made with his usual easy grace, conceding the point.

“Your argument is sound.”

There was nothing insincere in Dream’s voice.

Yet it was clear he still disagreed.

“Your…creations. Your family. One hundred years?” Hob said; stumbled through it, stuttered and tripped over what he already knew but needed to hear again, what Dream had already told him back at the New Inn. “They left you there?”

How could they have left him there.

“Am I allowed to resume counting your questions?” Dream asked, paused with his eyes glittering with humour, with gentleness and patience because he’d chosen this moment to tease. It wasn’t avoidance; was respite, Hob’s question so weighted, the yoke of it shared as Dream tested beginning a new round of their game. After all they’d said tonight somehow they’d returned to familiarity, no boundary put back, an exception running its course. Hob guided to it as surely as the North star of Dream’s eyes.

Whatever had brought Dream to Hob’s flat in the middle of the night had calmed.

But Hob couldn’t speak.

He couldn’t answer the tease with a smile as he normally would.

What was left instead was an echo ringing in his ears because how could the storm have passed when Hob had asked question like this? And Dream knew, didn’t he? He knew because now he nodded, humour gone, solemn—

Did they leave you there?

“Yes.”

“I’m sorry.”

Dream smiled.

“I know.”

There was nothing that could be done to undo it.

But that wasn’t the point. It wasn’t what Hob had realised in the New Inn—wasn’t the point of friendship, wasn’t the point of love—and he wanted to help now just as he had then. It wasn’t about fixing. It wasn’t so mechanical as that. It wasn’t so singular. Hob wanted to give Dream the choice not to be alone.

He wanted—

“Why don’t you stay here tonight?” Hob said impulsively, ignoring the fact that it was rapidly approaching morning. It took a moment to register what an overstep such an invitation might be. “Er—if you’d like to.”

His astonishment at his own audacity was eclipsed only by his surprise at Dream’s muted reaction to it.

Because his friend merely nodded.

“I will send word to Lucienne.”

For all it had been his suggestion Hob found himself starting to feel more than a little flustered when Dream mentioned his royal librarian. He remembered Lucienne’s previous teasing, wondered what she might say about this—but he was far too happy Dream had agreed to spend much time dwelling on that. “Alright, let me get you some spare clothes.”

“Why?”

“You can’t sleep in jeans.” Hob said, bemused by Dream’s small frown, the finely arched brows drawn together. “It would be very uncomfortable.”

“Very well.” Dream smirked. “Am I to wear your things then?”

“Yes.”

“I should like that.”

Knowing Dream was deliberately flirting with him didn’t make him feel any less flustered, rather made it worse actually, a blush doing its best to heat his cheeks. Hob hurried to his room before it could form, found a spare set of clothes, ensured he picked ones that were comfortable for sleep. Soft trousers, a loose t-shirt, long sleeved but still fitting for a summer night. Dream was placing Celia back in her terrarium when Hob returned. He took the offered clothes—their hands brushed, almost deliberate, another tease of icy cold skin—then Dream seemed to pause as if he was considering what to do next.

Hob smiled. “You can change in the bathroom.”

Dream nodded.

It was strange to wait for him to reemerge, and Hob tried not to stare when he did, when Dream stepped out looking like a fantasy he didn’t know he’d had. A new one to daydream about; the divine dressed so casually it was intimate, Hob’s t-shirt hiding otherwise bare skin, Hob’s trousers hiding even more, yet touching it all as Dream walked barefoot across the carpet. It was impossible to stop his eyes from wandering. Honestly Hob was near blameless. Dream caught his stare and smirked, which did absolutely nothing to curtail the want, how all he could think about was how pleased Dream looked wearing Hob’s clothes.

It was very much Hob’s own warm possession.

Not to ground but an anchor, a chosen mooring, a star shining on what he hoped was a favoured spot.

His own claim draping loose over Dream’s fingers.

“Well?” Dream said; smug, still asking for confirmation. “Passable?”

Words Gadling, you know them, c’mon say something. Hob forced himself to remember how to talk. “Yes.”

It earned him a nod.

To be honest it was a little absent. Though not disinterested; Dream still smug, just examining how the sleeves kept falling past his wrists, not trying to roll them up, not in consternation but as if he was mapping the trajectory. As if he was observing the rules of physics. Hob didn’t know where Dream had put his own clothes when he’d changed, considered that with his powers he could just make them disappear at will.

The thought was clamped down before it spiralled into something else.

“I don’t know if you actually sleep.” Hob began, tentative only to be careful. “Are you…is it ok? I don’t want you to be bored.”

Dream looked up from his sleeves. “I do not sleep, but I do rest.”

There was a difference.

It was clear in his voice even if Hob wasn’t sure what it was, where it was, where the line between the two was drawn. “Ok, well—good night then.”

As far as well wishes went it was a little awkward, much more than Hob wanted it to be—he’d wanted to be smooth, to be confident while trying to help his friend—but there was no changing it now. He watched as Dream smiled, soft and so very lovely, turned without being directed to the spare room Hob had never used.

Watching that hit him like a punch to the gut.

An opposite to grief and yet winding him all the same, a wound so old, a wound so long unhealed that all at once had stopped aching. It was dizzying, this moment without pain. Dream opened the door, took a step inside; the spare room Hob always made sure his homes had, similar to the one he’d examined so thoroughly at the house viewing. Similar to the one Dream had read his soul in back in London.

It was finally being used.

A pale hand lingered on the doorframe. Dream half turned to meet Hob’s eyes; once again like he’d read it all, seen it all, looked at the empty room Hob had offered him and known how long he’d wanted to invite someone to stay.

“Good night, Hob.” Dream said quietly.

Hob watched him shut the door before retiring to his room.

The duvet still tangled from earlier, a disarray he scarcely recognised, as if from another time. Hob didn’t think he’d sleep for a while yet. Not with all Dream had told him. He hoped Dream might find some peace here, thought he might stare at the wall separating their two rooms, already beginning to wonder what he looked like reclined in a bed.

But when Hob laid down he drifted off almost immediately.

An ease in it.

Perhaps an ease he’d lost—his mother’s voice carried away by the wind, carried back, a lullaby—found again in this. An immortal allowed to rest. It was unlike any other night’s sleep; a strange magic in the air, perhaps with Dream this close it was hard not to have some sense of all he is. The presence like the hum of electricity, the constant beating of a heart, always there but better heard in silence, because as much as Dream filled a room Hob had nothing to distract him now. Nothing aside from how he felt, a strange intimacy—despite sleeping in separate rooms, a wall between them, Hob felt cocooned.

Sheltered.

That weighted blanket, a mug of hot chocolate before bed.

Warmth seeping into his bones.

Sinking into this lethargic night, this soft darkness, a light dimming to spare his eyes, to tell them it was time to close. That the watch had been set; brought under a ravens wing and kept there, held, safe, and oh how it reminded him of something else, of nightmares changing tone at long last. Hob wondered if Dream could sense the yearning, knew he probably could and that, like so many other things, it stayed unspoken—a conversation without words, cues and hidden lines—stage directions not yet acted upon.

His friend knew the difference between thought and action, between wanting and having, between feeling and touching.

It was the best night’s sleep he’d ever had.

“Did you sleep well?” Dream asked when he made his way to the living room later that day, lips twitching in amusement as Hob yawned. The afternoon sun was high in the sky, had risen to remind him it was time to get up, had woken Hob when it shone through the gaps between his curtains.

“You’re a really great insomnia cure you know?”

Dream smirked. “I do.”

Hob blinked sleep away from his eyes, wandered closer and got a proper look at his friend, and wow this crush was only getting more powerful, wasn’t it? Dream was lounging in the chair with an elegance so natural it seemed lazy, a catlike grace as if sprawled in a patch of sunlight. Dark hair messier than ever, that delicate frame still enveloped in Hob’s borrowed clothes. Dream hadn’t needed to wear them, could have probably just made himself something, or could have changed before Hob woke up. Though in truth the miracle had taken place before that.

Because he hadn’t needed to come here at all.

Dream hadn’t needed to tell Hob about the humans who became vortexes, about what pain that caused him. Hob suddenly wanted to reach out, to touch, a familiar urge to feel those strands of hair under his fingers. It made them flex. Then still more pushed Hob to take a chance; the legs slightly spread, the chair twisted slightly away from the table to reveal it, such treasure to make him brave.

He dared reach out and run a hand through Dream’s hair.

It was as soft as he remembered. Hob couldn’t help but go slow, would make this an unquestioningly gentle thing, a question as much as a nudging of a boundary.

Dream leant into the touch.

“I’m going to make breakfast,” Hob said, somewhat abruptly—withdrawing from temptation because fuck Dream had leant into it, fuck that meant he must have liked it—wanted to slide his hand down to cup Dream’s cheek and test what else he might like. Hob realised too late he might have sounded a little harsh, softened his tone. “Do you want any?”

The retreat was respected just as always. Dream let him step back without comment, addressed his question instead of the way his fingers still twitched. “What are the options?”

“Well I have some fruit, but I could also make some pancakes. Got some square sausage too. And bacon.” Hob shrugged.

Dream frowned.

“Too many options?”

He nodded. “I must admit I do not care for the differences between breakfast fare.”

“Then I’ll make a bit of everything. Would you like tea?” Hob asked—an echo, Dream’s voice saying something sweet—watching as his friend considered.

After a moment he seemed to make his decision. “Yes.”

Dream announced that he would feed Celia while Hob cooked, already rising from the table as he spoke, walking to her terrarium as Hob left the room. He heard him murmuring something soft and gentle too low to make out, muffled even further as the kettle boiled while Hob rifled through his cupboards, pulled ingredients out of his fridge. Hob soon returned to set a mug of tea in front of him, watched long fingers cup around it, the digits curling towards the warmth. Still no chase of sensation, nothing human at all, that not a detriment because it was Dream feeling what was human.

This was him holding it gently.

“So.” Hob began, tearing his eyes away from Dream’s hands before he was caught gawking at them. “What would you like to do today?”

Dream made a small considering sound, raised the tea and took a small sip, eyes peering at Hob from over the rim of the cup. Coyly playful. “Am I to stay for the day as well as the night?”

“Yeah.” Hob grinned, would answer the tease implicit in that soft tone, added the guise of pretence, engaged in the fun of this, of their, game as he continued. “How about I cash in one of my two extra meetings?”

“Hmm.” Dream smiled as he set the mug back down. “I did grant you that.”

“So?”

“So what.”

Hob laughed. “Will you stay?”

“Yes.”

Questions without assumption. That’s what this is—what was confirmed every time, what made it special—because Dream didn’t need him. There was safety in that, relief; Dream was here because he wanted to be.

Dream chose to be.

Hob finished making them breakfast, sat back down after setting out the plates, a selection of different foods just as he’d promised. Hob watched Dream approach the meal with the same careful exploration as every time they’d eaten together, precise as he dished a sample of everything onto his plate. Dream kept each type of food in its own section, ensured they did not touch even as he began to eat. He seemed to enjoy the fruit, picked strawberries and melon slices to try first, smiled when he then tried the pancakes drizzled in maple syrup.

“About last night. When I remembered, what I remembered…” Hob said after a while, after he’d drank his own tea and eaten a generous plateful of pancakes. “I knew it wasn’t you.”

Dream paused.

His knife poised to cut, glowing eyes a gaze that weighed a thought still unseen, deciding whether to speak. It was another of those replays, a topic returned as if they’d walked in a circle. A choice to share because Dream set his knife and fork down with a soft clink and said. “You don’t know what I did to the person who kept me trapped, the punishment I gave and feel no guilt for.”

“I guarantee that the only reason you did something worse to the people who trapped you than I would is because of a difference in power.” Hob retorted; familiar with the cold fury at the thought of what had been done to Dream, even more familiar with what dark things he was capable of even without rage to fuel him. He’d done much that shamed him, but he’d find no shame in this. “Maybe it’s a good thing I can’t do what you can, because I’m fairly sure my own vengeance would have been worse.”

Hob had killed for less.

He’d do more than kill for Dream.

“Vengeance was not the goal.” Dream replied; unflinchingly honest, blunt not with shame, just with the boldness of a truth he wouldn’t obscure. “And you don’t know what I’ve done to others for crimes substantially less.”

He wasn’t wrong.

Hob remembered Dream telling him that he’d punish his creations for breaking the rules.

“No, I don’t.”

Dream seemed mollified by that.

Once they finished eating Hob went to clean up the plates, unsurprised when Dream rose smoothly to help him, though still a little scandalised because his friend was still his guest. It didn’t help that this was noted, that Dream smirked knowingly as he ushered Hob away from the sink. His expression softened to a smile when his gaze landed on the plant pots lining the window sill. Dream stared at them for a moment before beginning to wash up, making short work of it.

“I may miss our next meeting.”

Hob recognised the nonchalant tone but would check in anyway. “Everything is ok…right?”

“I will be otherwise engaged; it’s a family reunion and I did not set the date.” Dream said, paused and then admitted. “I do not wish to go.”

“Then don’t?”

Dream hadn’t seemed to have considered that as a possibility.

Or, maybe, as something he was allowed to do.

Now he tilted his head; curious, probing the new avenue presented to him, looking within it for something Hob didn’t quite understand. Dream’s question was as mild as the subtle glow in his eyes, soft and yet still within the spectrum of piercing. “You don’t need to know why I don’t want to go?”

“It’s not really any of my business.” Hob thought of students he’d had over the years, those that didn’t go home during semester breaks, those that attended graduation alone. “You don’t need to justify why you don’t want to see them.”

A smile in response.

“Maybe you could have dinner with me instead.” Hob said impulsively, then backtracked as his brain caught up with his mouth. “I mean, it’s not a duty, is it?”

“No.”

“Then—erm.” Hob stumbled, a little awkward, as always had made a statement far too bold for anything other than suggesting the renegotiation of a boundary. He realised too late that just like asking Dream to stay this might have been a little bit forward. “If you want.”

“If I want.” Dream repeated, deep voice so very light, teasing as he smiled another of those small, soft smiles. Then, indulgence over, his expression turned solemn. “I will go to the reunion. But perhaps I shall also accept your invitation, perhaps I shall extend my own, perhaps next time I wish to meet with you in the Dreaming.”

“Yeah.” Hob replied, not quite understanding what that meant, stunned and fairly sure he was grinning like a fool. “Yeah that sounds good.”

“Then it is agreed. I will move our appointment to the following evening.” Dream said succinctly, course set now he’d made his judgement. “Now what are we to do today?”

Hob must admit he very nearly missed what Dream said, preoccupied now the invitation was sinking in, knew his friend hadn’t been comfortable with it before and wondering what had changed. Maggie’s advice also came to mind, how Hob had spent weeks turning over and over in his head what would make a perfect gift. It was more than fair given what Dream had been bringing to him. This was a chance to return the favour at last. The silence stretched and Hob realised Dream was still waiting for an answer. “Is there anywhere you’d like to go?”

Dream’s eyes returned to the plant pots.

His gaze lingered there. “A beach.”

There were a couple of options for that.

Hob thought that Dream might like somewhere secluded, thought Tyninghame Beach might be the best bet, somewhat hidden but stunningly beautiful. It was a perfect place to show him, and Hob suggested it once they dressed and left his flat.

They ran straight into Sam.

“Oh! Hi Hob. And…Hob’s friend.” Sam said, shuffling from foot to foot as if unsure of what to do with himself.

“Greetings, Sam.” Dream replied. “It is good to see you well.”

Hob fancied he heard a second part to that sentence—

It is good to see you well after what had happened last night.

“Ada’s party is in a few weeks.” Sam’s eyes darted between the two of them. “I’m not sure if Hob mentioned it…”

“Not yet.” Dream said. “She shall have my well wishes.”

“Yeah.” Sam hesitated.

Hob came to his rescue. “You asking if I’m bringing a plus one?”

Sam beamed. “Only if you’re both free!”

“I will ask Hob for the date.” Dream replied.

Hob would check if he wanted to come when they were alone, knew by now that Dream wasn’t the type to feel pressured into an agreement but still needed to make sure. For now he drove them to the beach; as before Dream stared out of the window, a comfortable silence settling, one Hob was loathe to break. Even a summer in Scotland was still bright, the breeze cool, the crashing of waves like a gentle roar as they got out of the car. Dream took off his socks and shoes the moment they reached the shoreline, stepped lightly across the sand, stood still just before it began to turn damp and sighed.

He looked out towards the waves.

The horizon greeted by what was out of its reach, a reminder that the distance between went both ways, that Dream was a thing it couldn’t touch. Hob found he looked like he belonged there, a thin figure clad in black, coat moving gently about his legs, the breeze ruffling his dark hair. Hob followed; treaded carefully past the footprints Dream had left, set his own beside them, and together they took in the salty scent of the ocean. Together they listened to birdsong in the sky.

They could have been in the Dreaming.

For all they’d never met there it could have been that shore Hob kept returning to, behind them could be that cliff face he’d once seen crack so violently. Dream crouched, uncaring of how his coat brushed across the beach, drew a line through the sand with the tip of a finger, almost curious, as if comparing the sensation to something far more familiar. Then he picked up a handful, dug fingers in as he had with the soil back in Hob’s flat, contemplative as he held it, a moment of stillness before he tipped it back to the ground.

“You were right, back at the inn.”

Hob sensed a pause.

“I do feel betrayed.” Dream continued as he stood, mild despite what he’d admitted, despite the way his expression hardened. “Sometimes I feel a rage so deep I could destroy all I built, destroy all of my creations, turn the entire Dreaming to ash.”

His jaw set.

“Sometimes I want to.”

And in a fraction of a second Dream’s eyes turned black.

They were still starlit, couldn’t be anything else, but light can be so very cold, and this was finding yourself lost in the outreaches of space, naked to the touch of every single star. This was floating alone in the dark, suddenly realising with a creeping horror that the void you floated in wasn’t a void at all. There was something there, surrounding you, ignoring you, and then you shiver and oh how it feels when it turns to look—

It was motion arrested, a force of gravity pushed to contemplation, the ground beneath ones feet. The sky. Momentum paused, halted by power holding up its hand.

It was still Dream.

“I’d want to as well.” Hob said.

It was probably not what he was meant to say, but it was the truth, and it was truth that Dream had asked for. His eyes stayed black; lovely, as unfathomable as the blue, as the glowing silver, what in any spectrum of light was always the same sky. After a moment Dream chuckled, a mystery in that too, blinked and his eyes were pale once more. “What would stop you?”

“I don’t know.” Hob said quietly, but it didn’t really matter did it because maybe Dream had already given his own answer. “But…you love them.”

“Perhaps.”

There was no disagreement in Dream’s voice.

Hob remembered a different ocean, the cliff he’d had tea on, that place in the Dreaming that in many ways matched this beach. Except it was a place where erosion wasn’t a fact, wasn’t a pattern, wasn’t that observable study of geology. Yet there might still be a link; after all what was sand but worn down stone, never lost just changed, what could turn to glass because sand was always forming something new. Only one thing needed to be destroyed first. Cliff faces, mountains of rock, times it rested as shards, times it rendered smooth, and maybe that was potential and it’s lack all at once.

Something that for all it could build a fortress could just as easily form sandcastles.

“They love you.” Hob said.

Dream said nothing this time.

It still wasn’t a denial. But there were things Hob could have that perhaps Dream couldn’t, there were connections Hob made—ones he broke too, uprooted by necessity, tore out—that Dream might be barred from.

Being a god didn’t allow for intimacy.

Hob still wasn’t entirely sure that a god was actually what Dream was. Yet he thought he had something of the definition right; it was function and role, a distance in that, an expectation, the reality of a prayer always that one side spoke and the other listened. And Dream did have something of closeness, an intimacy in all the minds he seemed able to touch, but he had it as a spectator. A guide. A net. He walked unseen amongst them.

And yet those who met him were so willing to give.

They didn’t just recognise him.

Hob had seen that in action—Beatrice, Sam, little Lizzie—but there was always more in the recognition, there was always warmth. Maybe holding all those minds left a mark. Wasn’t that the point of dreams and nightmares? Hob remembered Anna’s words of familiarity, her sense of missing Dream without ever meeting him. Maybe it wasn’t foolish to believe that when given the chance humanity might seek to pay him back, to open a dialogue with this strange thing they could not see, reaching for him the way humans were so very good at. Even in a wish, even in a prayer; even in a meeting once every one hundred years, in one sided conversations listened to so intently, nonetheless sharing.

Nonetheless connecting.

All of it littered across our history; in poems, songs, books, stories and their tropes—the odes to an unnamed thing, to ravens, to dreams.

Maybe he inspired more than even he knew.

Hob thought maybe he could describe that another way, because as much as the reverse was true—

Perhaps humanity could also walk beside their Stranger in the dark.

“I don’t think I understand,” Hob began, the same thing he’d said to Lucienne, the same thing he’d felt when they visited Edinburgh castle, unashamed by the admittance because it didn’t mean failure. “What it means to live forever.”

How very human, Dream’s eyes seemed to say.

They were unmistakably fond.

It wasn’t an insult, he’d turned to face Hob; stood still on the shore, stood like marble, stood like sand. Dream smiled, a deep pain in it, a deep hope, that indescribable thing Hob found himself unable define. At the end of it all this was perhaps the difference, or a difference, or perhaps it was actually something of what made them both the same. Hob knew part of this, he knew what it was to grit teeth against it all, to smile through pain and hope and joy.

There was so much more Hob couldn’t ever know, that ocean of experience he’d never touch, because Dream kept smiling as he said—

“I do.”