Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It is a typical Saturday evening in the Burgess Manor. Fawney Rig, stuffed to bursting, with hundreds of young and impressionable faces. With hoards of people desperate to catch a glimpse of the Magus, to hear him parrot his tales of great fortune and dark magic.

It is a scene she knows well, a part she could play blind and deaf should Roderick require it. The doting, adoring mistress to his unknowable, powerful, lord of the house.

Ethel Cripps yawns into her glass of scotch as she listens to Roderick tell each of them the same damned story over and over.

'The Devil'

He always says.

'A fallen angel'

He brags.

'An ancient deity clenched within my fist'

The ridiculousness of that last sentiment makes her snort aloud, startling both Burgess and the man he is speaking to. Surprisingly, it is not one she has heard before, though the unique nature of his newest brag does nothing to dissuade its outlandishness.

Roderick could hardly make a fist these days, let alone trap someone within it. No, these days, he took -more often- to using a coward's weapon.

His cane.

She can feel Roderick's eyes on her before she sees them, feel them sinking into her with his poisonous, barely-concealed rage.

He never used to be so quick to anger, there had been a time where he was charming, kind even. Though -she supposes- that that kindness was as meticulously manufactured as the front he puts on now.

She covers her faux pa quickly with a cough, feeling the Magus' hand tighten warningly around her arm.

The man across from her, whom Roderick had been lying to so spectacularly, looks between them worriedly, eyes searching Ethel's face with more care than any man usually bothered to show her when she was dressed like this. When she was paraded around in tiny garments of Roderick's choosing, with little more dignity than the beheaded animals that lined his walls.

He seems kinder than any man associated with the Magus should. He wears his formality a little haphazardly, endearingly, in a way that suggests he isn't used to such glamour. When he speaks, Ethel finds it hard to believe he's ever raised his voice, especially not to a woman.

She feels as though he is peering into her soul as he regards her, as if he may know the secret of Roderick's cruelty which she tries so desperately to hide.

She attempts to quell the thoughtful man's worries with a smile, knowing better now than to place a hand on him. She knows Roderick would not care for it.

"How rude of me," she says, trying to sound normal past her tightly constricting throat.

"I was somewhere entirely else," she covers, watching as the man before her laughs politely. His amber eyes still tracking her concernedly.

"Not a problem," he reassures her with a gentle smile.

"Cannot imagine it's very interesting to listen to us old buggers talk about business all evening," he jokes.

When he laughs, a hair falls into his face, having escaped from the tie at the nape of his neck. In the light, it looks almost auburn. Ethel tries to keep herself from staring too long.

It's been so long since she's felt- seen. So long since anyone has looked at her with anything other than lust in their eyes.

"You do not look very old," she offers playfully, falling easily back into her role as hostess.

Roderick's grip tightens to nearly painful.

"Oh thank you, dear, but I'm old enough to be your father," he disagrees, eyeing the older man with poorly concealed contempt.

Ethel now understands why she might never have met the man before. This is certainly his first time at one of the Magus' parties, and if he continues to act so flagrantly toward Roderick, she knows it will be the last.

He must be here for the showing, she realises, stomach tightening at the thought.

She is nearly desperate to have the dreadful thing beneath the floorboards gone, but the idea of auctioning the poor creature off to the highest bidder makes her insides twist.

"You're far too modest, Mr..." she stops when she realises she is yet to learn the man's name.

The gentleman smiles once more, holding a hand out for Ethel to shake.

She lets out a disbelieving sort of laugh, no one that Roderick keeps around would ever consider speaking to her past crass comments, let alone with such formality.

"Stranger," he supplies, grasping her hand tightly as he shakes. Ethel is sure she imagines it, but he seems to squeeze her fingers reassuringly before releasing her.

"Robyn Stranger."

***

"Can't believe we're gunna be out of a job tomorrow," a harsh voice, with a crude accent pulls Dream of the Endless from his time-addled stupor.

With a decade having past in this dreaded basement, all the being can seem to do is stare clandestinely through the glass and imagine he were somewhere else.

Anyone who knew his purpose, who understood what he truly was, might suppose that to be easy. The King of stories should effortlessly be able to keep his quiet mind entertained. Dream however, has found that assumption to be categorically false. Without his connection to the Dreaming, to the dreamers themselves and the objects of his power, he has little more imagination than any mortal, and with the lack of stimulation, and the intermittent horror of his confinement, he feels his mind slowly melting.

A hollow puddle of its former glory. A decadent sundae left in the sun, with none of its former shape or function or appeal.

He rues what has become of him under Burgess' evil eye.

For years Dream sat upright, jaw clenched, brow furrowed, in direct disobedience of the man who deigned to think himself a fit captor of something as powerful as he.

But after a lengthy defiance, the entity tired. He now lies at the base of the glass sphere that sures his confinement, eyes fixed unseeingly on the gold runes scrawled across the floor. The hollowness of his mind like a constant dripping into a bottomless bucket. Infuriating and ultimately useless.

Now though, the voice startles him back to his dreaded reality, not for it's presence -he's not known a single moment's solitude since his confinement- no, it's the contents of the guard's admission that grasps his attention.

He claims they both will be out of a job, meaning they will no longer have to guard the Endless.

Dream knows better than to feel hopeful, than to hinge his expectations on that foul man to do the just thing and release him. No, Dream knows better than to feel optimistic, and so the most terrible dread envelopes him.

He wonders what horror Burgess has concocted to do away with him. He cannot fathom a prison worse than this.

An imagine of him concreted beneath the floor, trapped in perpetuity, in this awful place, assaults his vision before he can contain it.

He strains to hear more of the guards' conversation.

"What did you expect?" the guard to the man's left, the one with the ginger hair, offers. Dream has not even the foggiest grasp on any of the men's names. All of his captors seemingly flow together like water in a fast moving stream.

"It doesn't do anything. It's certainly not brought his son back," the freckled man, continues, once more speaking about Dream as though he were not present, as though he were farm stock that wouldn't bear milk or eggs. As if he were, by virtue of his inaction, not fulfilling a sworn duty.

"It's certainly kept the master young. And his misses besides. Kept 'em in this fancy house with all their fancy jewels. You can't tell me the Magus is that good a businessman," the first guard offers disbelievingly, blowing smoke from his cigar into the chilled basement air.

The rush of anger Dream feels toward the men, and their cavalier mocking of his plight, startles him with its insistence. He imagines wrapping his hands unflinchingly around the man's neck until he hears it break, until he feels the bone give way under his touch. He imagines crushing the man's disgusting roll of tobacco into the ground, so he might finally be free of the suffocating scent.

He gasps in an unfortunately stagnant breath.

He's not known fresh air in years.

"Rumour has it," the second guard offers, eyeing Dream suspiciously due to the sudden noise.

The Endless has almost come to terms with being gawked at like a caged zoo animal.

Almost.

"The Magus has been working. Thinks he can do it again. Get it right this time. He doesn't actually think this one's the devil, or death or whoever. Gunna sell it to the highest bidder," he explains nonchalantly.

Dream feels panic ignite inside of him, as if someone reached a cruel hand down his throat and lit a match.

He cannot fathom the idea that he may be traded like some paltry thing, that Burgess has had his fill of the Endless' torment, and furthermore seeks to torment another for his insipid gain.

He imagines his sister as he is, chained, broken. It's an unbearable thought.

"I don't think it is either," the first man responds, laughter bubbling in his chest.

Dream feels further resentment ache inside of him, like an organ wrecked by drink. Both men begin to laugh, very much at his expense.

"No devil would allow this."

***

Hob Gadling hates Roderick Burgess.

He hates the near-excessive opulence of the man's home, he hates the smug, holier-than-thou way in which he regards the starstruck children that have the misfortune of making his acquaintance, and he hates the manner in which he holds the woman he claims to love now. His hand wrapped around her bare bicep with enough force that the skin moulds to the shape of his unruly fist.

He's hated Roderick for decades, since he was unfortunate enough to meet the man from the opposite side of a table of cards. Since he saw the brute lay hands on his remaining son.

Hob had stayed too late at a party -over a decade ago now- and witnessed Alexander wander unwittingly into their game after a nightmare.

He still remembers the boy's wet eyes, the way he gasped when Burgess struck him, the betrayal in his tiny, trembling lips.

Seeing Burgess' hand tighten around Ethel now, makes Hob nearly blind with fury.

He only remains out of duty.

Hob had (deliberately) almost (blissfully) managed to forget about the bastard Burgess, years having past since that fateful night, until he'd heard his dreadful name again, passed around as a bit of gossip at a party.

Alas, the frustratingly well-preserved bastard hadn't died.

Instead, Hob heard talk of the man Roderick has been keeping in the basement, the poor mortal that the 'Magus' has convinced himself is keeping him young and rich.

He heard rumour of Burgess and his devil, and knew something needed to be done.

It was fortuitous for Hob that just weeks later, the Magus had decided to auction off the poor soul, and that 'Robyn Stranger' had a sizeable enough wealth to be considered a viable buyer.

He stands now, desperately clenching his fists and biting his tongue, hoping to remain enough in the awful man's graces to be a part of the bid.

This isn't the first time he's unearthed some horrid deception, since he's ended some awful scheme.

He has made quite the business of moving around the country, tracking supposed magic users, and liberating the poor souls kept in their grasp.

Whether it was sideshows, or stage acts, or seance tables, there was always someone being manipulated, always someone being taken advantage of, and Hob wouldn't stand for that. He couldn't.

He'd seen far too much injustice- played part in too much injustice- to tolerate it now.

"I hope I will see you later," Burgess says placatingly, transparently desperate to end their conversation and the invigorated look in his mistress' eye at Hob's presence.

Hob doesn't mind her intrigue, though it feels very much like he imagines a teacher feels when a young boy brings her flowers he's picked from the schoolyard. There is a fondness, a tenderness, a gentle endearment, but nothing near attraction. He'd meant what he said when he told the girl that she was young enough to be his daughter.

Instead of saying anything else, Hob simply nods at the man's words, too filled with indignant rage to even force a smile. He watches as Burgess leads Ethel away, filled with a reciprocal sort of sorrow for the young woman's torment.

***

Being led down the basement stairs is far more nerve-wracking than Hob had anticipated.

He is quite used to darkness -by virtue of his birth predating electricity- and furthermore, used to the suffering one might imagine kept in the confines of a basement, however as he watches Burgess turn the ancient-looking key inside its lock, he feels panic take off in his chest like a startled bird.

He can feel his heart rattling around in his chest, feel it thumping in his ears as they take their first steps below the floor.

In his haste, he accidentally tracks atop the man in front of him, the sound of their shoes scuffing together nearly deafening when magnified by the stone walls.

Hob's apologises are cut off by the younger gentleman's harsh tone.

"I'd watch your step, or you'll be forced into debt replacing these shoes," he warns, a cacophony of laughter following his words.

Hob feels his cheeks heat with the roasting he's received. Despite being a wealthy man, Hob's exploits have made him somewhat unpopular with the affluent masses. With those who would think words like 'liberating' to be unsavoury.

Silence engulfs the dozen or so men, as they reach the bottom of the stairs.

As one of the last of them, Hob is unsure of what has caused their expeditious quiet, until he too reaches the last step, making his way through the imposing iron gates.

In the centre of the room, flanked by two armed guards, stands a giant, transparent sphere. Inside, a trembling, emaciated figure, the man's skin impossibly pale in the stark basement lights.

For a moment it feels as though no one breathes. No one dare speak, whether for fear or shock.

It is one thing to hear about a greater-than-human being trapped within a basement and another to see it.

Hob wonders how they've kept the poor man fed, or bathed or even toileted in such an elaborate cage. He sees no doors, or bars. No key holes or locks. The only answer he can formulate is that they mustn't. That he must never leave...

Hob thinks- perhaps for the first time since 1889- that he is in the presence of something inhuman.

As his frantic eyes adjust to the brightness of the globe, he catches just a glimpse of familiar unkempt, raven hair. His relentlessly stuttering heart seems to freeze in his chest, his mind shouting at him, thrashing, like a prisoner forced into solitary confinement, aghast and disbelieving.

It's unfathomable, inconceivable...

Hob's worst fears are confirmed as the being entrapped before him lifts his head.

***

Dream expects more time than he gets after the revelation that he is to be sold like a head of cattle. What with the way the hours have crawled in the decade since his confinement, he expects longer than what feels like a single moment, before the woeful auction begins.

He feels dread coil like barbed wire around his heart as the rambunctious men descend the stairs, each more loathsome than the last.

He can see the hunger in their wide, searching eyes, the entitlement in their crude smiles.

He feels a dreadful regret push its way forward, he cannot help the insidious thought that Roderick may be the best of his captors. He fears what another man might do to him.

Though this confinement has been tortuous, it pains him to think of what further terror might befall him at the hands of these men.

He's known cruelty, he himself has dispensed it. The promise of cruelty on the faces of the men before him is enough to drive even the sanest of mortal men mad.

And Dream himself is none of those things.

His horrid musing are interrupted, as the two final buyers walk through the gates, a familiar set of terrified, amber eyes meeting his.

Hob Gadling stands before him.

In the group of men who control his fate.

He watches the realisation of who he is strike across the other man's drawn features, alarm setting him alight for only a moment, before he steels himself, turning his eyes back to Burgess as the repugnant man begins speaking.

"Gentlemen," he begins, greeting the men. All of whom, aside from Hob, practically foam at the mouth with anticipation.

Dream knows these men.

He knows their dreams. Endless casino tables and club girls and spinning roulette wheels. Endless business meetings, and stock purchases and hands of cards. Their entire lives are a gamble, they live and breathe for the thrill of it.

There is always another painting or sports mobile or set of golf clubs, another mistress, another nightclub, another diamond. These men never have their fill. They are gluttons in every sense.

Dream rues his station at their next purchase.

He cannot help but look at Hob. Watch him as he nods along distractedly with Burgess' words.

He can hear the Magus spouting some nonsense about hell, painting Dream as a profiteer of misfortune. He can hear the vile man saying that for the right price, he might teach one of these lucky men how to harness that power and use it for their own gain.

Dream can practically see the dollar signs behind their eyes.

All except Hob.

Hob looks as though he has seen a ghost. And Dream supposes he very nearly has. It has been almost forty years since they've seen one another, since the Endless foolishly abandoned the man before him for the inference that they were friends.

He can see the man's wet, desperate eyes that night, as clearly as he can see his own pathetic reflection in the glass surface of his cage. He can feel his chest ache with regret, the moment his feet leave the tavern. Feel Hob's cries after him like a tether, attempting -with impressive force- to pull him back into the mortal's orbit.

He'd been foolish to neglect such fervent regret. He'd been stubborn, cowardly. He'd betrayed Hob.

He'd broken a centuries old tradition with his own hubris.

He supposes Hob must hate him.

The poisonous realisation thrums through Dream like lightning, electrifying each of his nerve-endings with dread.

Hob might hate him.

Hob might want revenge.

Hob might see him bought simply so he can wreak havoc on the Endless. So he can hurt Dream, in the any way he sees fit.

The Endless places a panicked hand to the glass. Hob is the only one still looking at him, his eyes growing glassy with Dream's movement.

What a sight he must be, so fallen as this, so frail and hollow. So meek and repulsive.

"Let us start the bidding," Roderick declares, calling Dream back from the spiral of his thoughts, spelling his doom with the crack of his cane against the cold, granite floor.

Dream watches Hob start, watches his mouth open.

He can see a fearful determination in the other man's eyes.

For one terrifying moment, Dream is certain the man intends to win him, so that he may enact his vengeance, the terror of it bringing the Endless to his feet.

"Twenty thousand!" Hob declares forcefully, his bid bouncing treacherously off of the stone walls.

The men around him seemingly balk at his forcefulness. There is an aching moment of silence.

Dream cannot allow it.

He will not.

He knows how he might act, had the roles been reversed. If Hob had humiliated him so, and Dream had been positioned perfectly to liberate or destroy him. The Endless might have found himself compelled the lengthen the man's suffering, to take glee in retribution.

He knows too that it would be deserved. Hob's hatred.

He would have every right to damn the Endless as Dream had so readily abandoned him.

Dream realises that not even the moniker of friend might save him, as he so righteously denied it from the other man.

He has spelled his own doom, felled himself with his own weapon. Hob Gadling is now spectacularly placed for revenge.

"Twenty five thousand," another bid comes forth from somewhere behind Hob. Dream cannot see, nor care, past his desperation to be kept away from the man he is now sure despises him.

"Thirty five thousand!" Hob booms.

Dream's hands curl into fists in his desperation. He strikes them forcefully against the glass.

Every man in the room startles as though the Endless' fists were a weapon.

He opens his mouth, sound pouring from him for the first time in ten torturous years.

"No!" he screams.

Chapter Text

Hob's world shatters the moment the caged being is revealed to be his oldest-

Friend?

Stranger?

Enemy?

None of those words feel quite right, none of them ring quite true. They each feel to Hob like an ill-fitting shoe, pinching in different places, aching. Each wrong in some way or another.

Perhaps it is that none of them feel momentous enough, that none seem to warrant the feeling inside his chest, the deep, clawing ache that blossoms there in the wake of his revelation.

For if they were friends he should only feel relief, for finding the man again, for having a chance to come to his aid... he should not feel so deeply scorned as he does now.

And if they are enemies, he should not feel so righteously angered by the other man's confinement, he should feel nothing but untethered glee.

And, worse still, if they are strangers, as the man behind the glass might have him believe, then Hob should feel nothing at all...

Though nothing could be father from the truth.

Hob feels the revelation of his friend's capture fracture him down the centre, splitting him in half, severing his heart from his chest the way an earthquake unrests trees from the ground, torn up by their roots.

He gasps in a sharp, painful breath, but no relief follows. He is sure that this new, nightmarish reality, this cacophony of warring emotions, has broken him, likely beyond repair.

He knows he should hate the man before him, should revel in his confinement. He should tap against the glass as if his stranger were an apathetic zoo animal that he might mock for entertainment.

It would be right. It would be just. And yet, as Hob regards the glass cage in horror, he cannot make himself feel any of the spite he should.

The man that trembles before him now, gave him everything, gifted him the life he so desperately clings to, with only his company expected in return. Every joyous experience Hob has had since 1389 is by his stranger's will alone.

The man before him gave him everything and just as quickly, destroyed him.

He had broken Hob's heart, for daring to suggest they were friends (heaven forbid he had suggested anything more).

Hob had lain himself bare for the stranger and that self-important, supercilious man had looked him in the eyes and deemed him unworthy.

He'd never known heartbreak like that.

He'd never known such blatant rejection.

The memory should fill him with rage. It should make him want to flee, to condemn the stranger to whatever fate would befall him at the hands of these abhorrent men.

It should make him want his friend to hurt.

But it doesn't.

It never could.

Hob could no sooner be cruel to his stranger than he could take a blade and unrest his own heart from the cage of his chest.

So much of him, is attributable to the man before him.

To reject him now, would be like raising a hand to the cheek of his creator -the godly being expecting a caress- and instead striking them harshly. It would be like grasping the gates of heaven only to condemn himself to hell. It would mean damnation, in every sense.

Hob has to force his eyes back to Burgess as the man begins to speak.

He tries his hardest to remain planted to the floor, despite the bodily insistence to charge forward and rip Roderick limb from limb.

He is filled with such a burning, aching fury that it is all he can do to remain where he stands. The compulsion to enact vengeance for his caged friend enough that he nearly bites through his tongue to keep from screaming.

Hob's hands clench to fists. He can barely hear what horror Burgess is imparting to his disgusting peers. He cannot keep his eyes from the cage, from his lost friend.

He watches the man he's known for centuries, place a desperate hand against the glass. Hob imagines it a cry for help, a last stand from his failing body.

He was a fool to think he could ever show the stranger contempt. That he could ever muster anything other than deep, cloying devotion.

He can hardly stand the sight of his stranger as he is, so cold and frail and humiliated as this.

He never could have hurt him. Whatever the man had done.

A determined realisation settles beneath Hob's ribs, fire filling the spaces between bone, so that every breath he takes burns with righteous indignation.

He swears a silent oath to the stranger, to his friend, that even if it requires ending the life of every other mortal in this room, he will do what is needed to save him.

"Let us begin the bidding," Burgess declares.

Hob prays his friend's liberation will not come to blows.

***

His stranger's cry echoes throughout the spacious basement, in such a way that it sounds as though his pleading lips are just inches from Hob's ear.

The group is evidently jostled by the unexpected noise, by the desperate denial, every man falling completely silent.

In the dreaded quiet, Hob watches two men flee, back up the stairs and toward safety.

He wonders for a moment, whether they're cowards or geniuses.

He whips his head back around to his stranger, fists still pressed against the glass, an anguished sort of horror in his wet, cerulean eyes.

He looks as though he was startled by his own exclamation. His lips tremble with the effort.

Hob feels something like shame lash at his insides like hot oil spitting from a pan. He cannot help but feel as though the man is denying him, despite the implication making little sense.

Is it possible that the stranger detests him so, that he would rather remain caged and bound than be relinquished to his care?

Is it possible that in expressing his devotion, Hob has fractured their relationship beyond repair?

Is it possible that his friend despises him that much?

Burgess too seems startled by the stranger's defiance, he casts shocked, impertinent eyes on the being, his eyebrows raised as if he cannot believe his audacity.

"It speaks," he accuses, narrowing his eyes on the cage. Hob feels a most potent grief as he watches his friend shrink into the shadows, curling in on himself in fear.

The mortal takes two steps forward before he can stop himself, separating from the sea of men scrambling to their freedom with fear.

If Hob were smart he would join them. He would turn his back on the conniving, bastard Burgess. He would risk no further harm on a being who evidently wants nothing to do with him. He would break his own heart to save his own skin.

Hob knows though, that any such thoughts are useless. He knows deep in the marrow of his bones, that he could never leave now.

Not if he was given another thousand years.

He is planted to the floor with a desperation so visceral, it feels as though his friend has knotted a rope around his heart and is pulling relentlessly on the pathetic muscle, drawing him ever-nearer.

"Say it again!" Burgess commands, striking his cane ruthlessly against the glass. The stranger flinches, mournful, tear-stained eyes finding Hob.

There is so much terror, so much woe in his forlorn gaze that Hob feels tears wet his own face in response.

"Speak to me!" Roderick rages, striking the hilt of his cane into the glass over and over until a fissure appears in the pristine surface.

For a moment everything stops. Burgess stills as if expecting a blow. For the first time in their unfortunately lengthy acquaintance, Hob sees fear in the old man's eyes.

The last of the men flee. Their footsteps echoing hastily up the basement stairs until only Hob, the Magus and his guards remain.

Burgess studies the crack for a moment, barely concealed horror making his eyes bulge strangely from his head. Whatever his concern though, the room remains eerily quiet. The sound of jagged breathing (the source of which Hob can only guess at) the only disruption to the suffocating silence.

"I think you'll find my bid unchallenged," Hob speaks after an aching moment, desperate to keep the trembling from his voice.

Burgess and the stranger both whip their heads around as though the man had fired a gun.

"He's not for sale," Burgess dismisses, waving his hand for effect. Hob feels panic leech under his skin, like ice injected directly into his veins, the idea that his friend may already be lost chilling him to his bones.

"Don't tell me you've changed your mind," he goads boldly, fighting against his own terror as he moves closer to the Magus. The guards raise their guns in response. Hob throws his hands up in surrender.

He cannot help his eyes from drifting once more to his friend, he is looking between Burgess and Hob as if he were faced with a guillotine and a firing squad, the hopelessness palpable and heart wrenching.

"It would appear he has more to offer than he has let on. I obviously have more work to do," Burgess comments.

He nods to one of his guards.

"Send Ethel for his things. We'll see what reaction we can get from him," he instructs, eyes glistening with renewed, demented determination.

"And send for a repairman. I need to fortify this glass!"

Hob watches Burgess circle the sphere carefully, eyeing his stranger as though he were a particularly illustrious coat he fancied on sale.

He could kill the man where he stands.

"One hundred thousand," Hob offers, his voice cracking in desperation. He cannot help the trembling of his body, the panic driving him nearly mad.

He cannot leave without liberating his stranger.

He cannot surrender to the will of Roderick Burgess.

He'd sooner die than abandon his friend.

"Are you still here?" Burgess jabs, offhandedly, lifting his head to regard Hob as though he were something particularly odorous he'd stepped in.

"I'm not leaving," Hob argues. When his eyes catch the stranger, there are glistening tears cast across his slender cheeks.

Hob aches in a way he didn't know he could, with a fervent need to wipe those tears away.

"I doubt that very much. Escort him out," Burgess rebuts, nodding to the final guard.

Hob feels something snap inside of him, the tender threads of his morality, falling to his feet as if they were no more valuable than dead leaves fallen from a tree.

His hand is on his concealed gun before he has sense to stop himself, his finger finding the trigger as if it were the digit's home.

He fires two shots in impossibly quick succession, and in return, feels a slug from the guard's gun sink into the soft flesh of his thigh.

He doesn't even scream. The pleasure of watching his shell tear through Roderick's shoulder, more potent than anything as trivial as pain.

He watches Burgess falls to his knees, clenching fruitlessly at the free-bleeding wound, before collapsing to the ground, his crimson blood mixing insidiously with the gold paint that adorns the floor.

The second of Hob's rounds, though put slightly off course by the impact of the guard's bullet in his flesh, lands -as intended- in the glass cage, fracturing it spectacularly.

Hob figured it might, given Roderick's fear of compromising its integrity earlier.

He gasps with relief as the sphere erupts into a fine mist of glass. His friend's eyes morphing from a bereft sapphire to the most incredible electric blue.

A high pitched ringing brings the guard in front of Hob to his knees. He drops the weapon in his hands, falling to the floor as if put hastily to sleep.

Hob too is taken to his knees by the sound, he grasps at the wound on his thigh, as he watches his stranger step out of his cage on trembling legs.

He doesn't make it far.

Hob realises horrifically as the man gets closer that he too was caught by the wayward round, the bullet still lodged in his chest, directly above his heart. It is enough to kill a mortal man.

Hob thanks a God he scarcely believes in that his friend is so much more than mortal.

Though he does not bleed, his stranger clutches his wound as though it is agonising, stumbling over the stray leg of the remaining guard.

Hob is pushing himself to his feet before he can consider his own blood loss.

He is mere steps from the man, holding his arms out with the intent to catch him, when the stranger pulls back, stopping with such haste that he rocks on his heels. Hob moves desperately to break his fall, but slips on the ever-increasing gore, the inertia of his grasp bringing both men to their knees.

Hob bites his tongue so hard with the pain that he tastes blood. As he scrambles to ensure the other man's safety, the stranger clambers away from his touch.

Hob watches his hand move protectively to the wound on his chest. There are tears welling in his eyes. He looks more akin to a beaten animal than a man.

"You're hurt," Hob tries, raising a trembling hand toward the stranger, perhaps to wipe the tears from the man's cheek as he felt earlier so compelled.

The stranger shakes his head fervently, fear creasing deep lines into his brow.

Hob attempts to move forward again, but agony electrifies him to his place. With the thrill of his stranger's escape waning, the searing pain in his leg becomes undeniable, he presses a hand back to the wound, feeling the room spin around him.

When his eyes meet the stranger's, there is tentative concern where moments ago fear had been.

"I'm hurt too," he offers, removing his hand as if to articulate his point. Blood rushes from the wound.

His mute companion lurches forward, pushing Hob's hand back to its place. Keeping pressure. Hob strangles a groan.

"Thank you," he whispers.

They are close enough now that Hob can see his friend's wound, more clearly, atop his bare chest. He can see dark lines emanating from the space where the bullet is lodged. His stranger trembles all over, his skin unimaginably pale.

Though the man is clearly not mortal, he is very evidently able to hurt.

Hob attempts once more, with his free hand, to touch the man's face. To wipe the aching tears from his cheeks.

The stranger flinches as if Hob had struck him.

"Woah," Hob whispers, as if his friend were a spooked horse he were desperately trying to reign.

"I'm not going to hurt you," he promises, moving his hand away to assuage the other man's worries.

There is a hesitant relief in the stranger's sparkling eyes, he has yet to move his other hand from Hob's injury. He has his brow furrowed as he regards the mortal intently, as if he doesn't know whether or not to trust him.

"Did you think I was going to hurt you?" Hob asks, realisation washing over him like icy waves dashed over a rocky shore.

The stranger did not hate him. He did not object to the sale because he loathed Hob so. He was afraid.

Afraid that Hob would hurt him.

His stranger nods, confirming Hob's suspicion. His eyes are still guarded. He is yet to say a single word.

"That's why you didn't want Burgess to sell you to me?" he continues, feeling the implication of his words sting in his gut.

He feels wretched about the idea of owning another person, even if only on paper, it is far too akin to his sins of the past, the guilt of it far too painful to relive.

"I never would have hurt you," he reassures the man, patting the hand that rests over his upper thigh. They're both now smeared with gore, tan and pale skin linked together in a sea of red.

The stranger looks at their hands, interlocked over the wound, a tear cresting his waterline. It falls down his face in a singular, aching wave.

This time, the being does not flinch when Hob reaches up to wipe it away.

He can only hold the man's face for a moment, one precious moment, as the pain in his leg demands attention. He lets out an involuntary groan.

The stranger starts with concern, though remains silent.

Hob worries he may never speak again.

"I'm okay," he reassures the other man gently, biting at his bottom lip in a feeble attempt to keep tears from his voice.

"It's alright. I'm okay. We're okay," he soothes.

The stranger shakes his head ardently, distress as plain on his face, as if he shouted the phrase over and over.

"It won't kill me, friend," Hob tries to joke. The taste of blood in his mouth when he laughs though, is enough to destroy any joviality.

He watches for a moment as his friend absorbs the scene in front of him, his eyes flicker from where they kneel, to the stairs, to their fallen foes.

He holds up a finger, as though imploring Hob to wait, before withdrawing for a moment.

Hob is nearly too busy mourning the loss of the stranger's touch to be floored by his nudity. It isn't until he watches the being strip the unconscious guard of his coat, wrapping it tightly around himself that he understands that despite being supernatural, his friend reeks of humanity. Of shame.

Hob watches his stranger wince with the pained movement, before returning to his side.

The quivering man (very determinedly) wraps his arm around Hob's shoulders, helping the mortal to his feet.

Hob cannot help the pained moan that the movement elicits.

He feels his stranger's arm move to brace under his armpit, curling protectively around the far side of his body, the way one might help an injured teammate off of a sports field. He feels fondness swell inside of him, more insistent than any pain or fear.

His friend points with his free hand then, toward the stairs, his face a question mark.

'Do you think you can bear it?'

After centuries of listening to the man's low, melodious voice, Hob can practically hear him in his head now. He mourns the beautiful tone of his speech, and aches with the idea that he may never hear it again, outside of the stranger's earlier plea for mercy.

Hob nods at his friend, hand tightening to nearly painful around his own wound. He feels the stranger tighten his grip too, planting his feet resolvedly.

Hob cannot help the near delirious laugh that escapes him.

"Let's get the bloody hell out of here."

Chapter Text

The trek to Hob's vehicle would be unbearable, were it not for the heat the other man produces, for the feeling of his warm, achingly human skin, thawing the Endless through his stolen coat.

It had been so cold in his cage. So desperately cold. After a decade, confined to the frigid depths of the Burgess manor, Dream had become accustomed to the goosebumps constantly raised across the skin of his mortal form, accustomed to the deep clawing of cold air as it moved uselessly inside of his lungs.

He thought he had been used to the sensation, used to the terrible cold...

When Hob Gadling had touched him for the first time, however, he realised just how sorely he'd missed the warmth his saviour so effortlessly provided.

He had wanted to weep, to open his mouth and wail until all that was left of the Earth, was he and the gentle man before him.

He hadn't though.

He hadn't made a single sound since his escape.

If was as if, with his cruel words and striking hand, Burgess had stolen the air from his lungs, the words from his lips. As if the man had reached a vicious hand down his throat and torn his vocal cords from their home there.

It was not as though Dream did not want to speak.

He wanted desperately to thank Hob, to have him know that he was a fool to misplace his faith, to question the mortal's allegiance.

He wanted to tell Hob that he had to have been completely mad when he looked into the mortal's careful, amber eyes and seen malice. That he had never, not once in their centuries long companionship, found anger inside the other man's gaze. That he had been too frenzied by fear, by torment, to remember that, to see what was truly there. A deep, heartbreaking geniality, a most tender care.

Hob still looks at him now, as the pair limp, bodies interlocked, tracking blood past the unconscious partygoers that line the floors of Fawney Rig.

"Did you do that?" Hob asks breathlessly, as they finally push through the front door.

They stumble a bit in the entryway, causing the mortal to brace a trembling hand against the doorframe.

Hob stops with a heaving breath, casting his eyes on Dream, awaiting an answer, once more giving him the opportunity to speak.

Once more, words evade him.

Instead he nods, dropping his head self-consciously.

It is clear that Hob Gadling is no longer the slave-trading man he was in 1789, it is clear that he now strives for good. To heal some of the harm he has inflicted. Perhaps if Dream had stuck around longer that night in 1889, he would have known the goodness in Hob Gadling without the other man having to take a bullet for him.

He feels shame coil like severed wire in his stomach. Hob must think the Endless a monster for what he has done.

Dream draws in a sharp breath as the other man slowly takes him by the chin, moving his hand from the doorway to do so. Despite his weakened limb and the Endless' pain, they remain steady in this singular, tender moment under the architrave.

"Good job," Hob huffs, a gentle, amused smile pulling over his worn features.

Despite his joviality, Dream can see the toll his rescue has taken on the mortal. He can see the colour that has drained from his face, the sweat that lines his brow.

Without thinking, he reaches forward and presses the back of his hand to the man's forehead, very much mimicking care he's only seen in dreams. Where once the man was burning hot, warm enough to sustain them both, he is now ice cold. Dream feels concern clench in the pit of his stomach.

Again, mimicking what he has only beheld in the minds of others, he takes the hem of his meagre covering in his hands, ripping it harshly in a way that tears pain through his chest. He bites his lip to keep from crying out, until he has torn a sizeable chunk of fabric from his coat.

He ignores the further pain that rushes through him as he leans downward, wrapping Hob's wound as carefully as he can with shaking hands, before drawing the makeshift bandage together tightly.

The mortal cries out in pain, grasping desperately at the Endless' hand.

The forceful touch, no matter how unintentional, startles Dream. He feels -for a fleeting moment- very much like a wild animal with its limb caught in the metal jaws of a trap.

In his panic, he pulls away from the man's touch hastily. Hob has to cling to the doorframe once more to remain upright.

For a moment they only stare at one another. Hob with a sorrowful understanding and Dream with a deep, abashed shame. He feels the heat of it in his cheeks. He can feel himself trembling all over, his heart a gathered fist.

He hates what has become of him. This vulnerability that he cannot seem to quench. He hates being so seen as this, so known as this. He hates moreso that Hob can see it too. That a man he has respected- revered so deeply for so long must see him as he is. But a shell of what he was.

Once it is clear his panic has passed, Hob reaches toward Dream slowly, as one might approach a wounded animal. He catches the Endless' hand in his, soaked in gore, and puts it to his lips. A gentle display of surrender.

"I'm sorry," he whispers, again so soft that Dream wants to weep.

He does not deserve this care. So genuine. He can hardly stand the look in the other man's eyes.

Hob continues -for a period that is probably seconds but feels like incredibly like eons- to hold Dream's hand in his, regarding it with a strange sort of fondness that the Endless is sure has more to do with blood loss than affection.

A laugh rumbles through the mortal. He winces with the pain before he can stop himself.

Dream starts once more with alarm.

Hob gives him a weak smile.

"You worry too much," he teases, though he can barely make it through the sentence for his breathlessness. The clenched fist in the Dream's gut morphs to a striking serpent, his worry like fangs sunk into flesh.

He wrinkles his brow incredulously in response, eyes flickering from his waning companion to the field of abandoned cars.

"I suppose you're right," Hob concedes, looking from the doorway to the valet parking as though he faced an uphill trek across an endless desert. Dream can hardly feel the ache in his chest over his concern for the other man.

"If we've got any chance of making it home, we better go now."

***

Driving home, as simply as Hob can explain it, feels like riding a bicycle, that's been set on fire.

The pain in his leg so extreme that he rues his decision to drive past his house to a more reclusive location, as the sun mounts over the horizon.

Thanks to his stranger's makeshift bandage, blood no longer flows freely from his wound. Hob can feel his body's efforts to replace some of the marked blood loss as he drives, though it does nothing to dispel the pain.

He is only furthermore distressed by the man in the passenger's seat, his eyes set on the lightening morning sky with woeful apprehension, as though with the dawn he may turn to dust.

Hob can only wonder how long it's been since he's seen the sun. How long it has been since it's touched his skin.

Were they both not so injured, he might pull over and let his friend out. Might wait, so that the being could feel the warmth of the morning sky heat his ivory complexion.

He swallows down the fantasy.

Regardless of their pain, regardless of what has happened, there is no guarantee that his stranger will want to continue this rendezvous past what is necessary.

Hob can only hope that the other man will let him fish the bullet from his chest before he disappears, with the same fervour as he abandoned the mortal in 1889.

He chokes on the memory, letting out a gasping breath he didn't know he was holding.

The man to his side is startled by the sound.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry," he covers lamely, fixing his eyes back on the road.

He expects no audible reply from his friend, and indeed none comes. Instead, the being reaches out a tender hand and places it just beneath Hob's wound. The act itself a question.

'Does it pain you terribly?'

He can hear the man inquire. Despite everything, despite his uncertainty about where they stand, the man's obvious care makes his stomach clench feebly with hope.

"It's alright," he reassures his stranger gently, absentmindedly placing his hand atop the other man's and squeezing softly.

He is still learning what his friend will allow. Touches he initiates, gentle touches, all seem to bring him comfort.

It's touches that are marked by haste or violence that frighten him.

Hob can only imagine the horror that has tormented his once-formidable friend so.

"I've endured a lot worse," he tells the stranger, laughing humourlessly at his own plight.

The other man makes a disconcerted face that draws another chuckle from Hob.

He's never seen so much emotion from the other man. Despite having lost the ability to communicate as they normally do, they are now more intimately linked than ever.

"Did I ever tell you about the time I got halfway drawn and quartered?" he asks, watching mortification sweep across his friend's face.

"It felt good for about a minute and a half. Like a really good stretch but after that..." his story is interrupted as his stranger places a hand on his chest, stilling him.

He shakes his head.

"Don't like that one?" Hob asks, so infatuated with the intrigue in the other man's winsome eyes that he nearly runs off of the road.

He corrects the steering wheel quickly, without alarming his companion or unresting the man's hand from his chest. He chuckles abashedly, looking at the being once more, trying again to hear the stranger's voice in his mind.

His friend's hand drifts to above his heart, he taps it twice as if articulating an obvious point.

'Tell me something good'

Hob cannot help the smile that pulls across his face. He fixes his eyes on the road.

He tries to think of all of the joy in his life, all of the momentous happiness he has felt. He tries to find a story that his friend might like, one that might even make him smile.

How Hob misses his smile.

"My son loved to ride horses," he begins quietly, his heart racing against the other man's hand.

He watches the being settle back into his seat, evidently pleased with the story's introduction.

Hob proceeds to do what he has always done in the presence of his companion.

He tells him about his life.

***

Hob has a hunting lodge tucked away in countryside.

He tells Dream as they drive through endless rolling fields and grassy knolls toward their destination, that it will be easier to defend than his manor home. That if there is any fall out from his escape, that he does not want to involve his staff in the struggle. Though he doubts it will come to that. He tells Dream that they should be safe there.

Safe.

The word is nearly beyond belief.

Dream hasn't been safe in a decade.

He supposes, he's never truly been safe in his life.

Whether it be threats from the underworld, the mortal realm or his own family, he's never known true, lasting safety.

He thinks he would like to know safety with Hob.

He definitely wants it for the other man.

The endearment he had felt upon realising the man's intentions were pure, has only blossomed in the wake of their time together.

Hob is such a storyteller. Always has been. Dream realises that even without his ability to speak, they have the most incredible conversations.

Hob Gadling is unlike any mortal he's ever known.

It is not a new revelation. He had realised that Hob was unique the moment he saw him in the White Horse in 1389. But now, just the two of them under the rising sun, he allows himself to feel it. The warmth, the familiarity, the ardent affection.

The sun has reached its peak by the time they arrive at the lodge. The cabin is modestly sized, dark wood set against a beautiful green backdrop.

It is so different to the four walls he's known for years that Dream grows tearful at the sight of it.

He feels something like fledging hope, mount inside of him as he helps Hob up the few steps toward the door.

He feels for the first time, watching Hob turn the key in its lock, that he might finally be free.

He had feared for so long that this was some cruel trick of his mind. Something like a nightmare. That he would return to himself any moment, back inside of his cage, pressed desperately against the glass...

The image of Burgess standing before him, striking his cane and screaming, makes him take pause.

Hob flicks his head around concernedly.

"We're so close now, love," he encourages.

Dream feels the term of endearment strike down to the very core of his being. The word like lightning against his skin.

He doesn't deserve it.

He cannot even manage the simple task of entering an unknown dwelling without panic swallowing him whole.

He is a joke. A mockery of an Endless.

He nods sternly, guiding Hob over to the sitting area.

The mortal falls backward into the brown leather seat with a sharp gasp, his eyes welling with tears.

Dream stands unsurely above him, watching as his head lolls backward in relief.

"Ha," he lets out a relieved sound, his chest rising and falling with the effort of their movement.

"Thank you," he whispers.

'Don't thank me'

Dream wants to say.

He wants to tell Hob that, for the monument of his sins, physical assistance is very much the least the Endless could do.

He wants to tell Hob that he could spend his existence indebted to him and it still would not be enough.

"How do you feel?" Hob asks after a moment, sitting forward so that he might take one of Dream's hands in his, running his thumb over the crimson and ivory plains of his skin.

Dream cannot fathom a time, mere hours ago, wherein he rebuked the other man's touch. Now he craves it, in much the same way as humans thirst and infants cry and wounds bleed. It is inherent, undeniable.

When the Endless shrugs, he cannot help the small, bemused smile that the movement elicits.

He's not sure he's ever, in eons of life, moved his shoulders in such a way. He is once again overwhelmed by the sense that the voicelessness that has befallen him has, in some way, freed him. Without the propriety of speech -without his constant need to analyse the implication of each and every word that falls from his lips before speaking- he has been able to reveal more of himself to Hob than he ever could have with words.

Hob chuckles too at the gesture. Dream feels an irrevocable endearment tug at his insides.

"Not quite sure how to take that one," he teases, dropping Dream's hand and running both of his palms down his face exhaustedly.

"What's say we get these no good bullets out and then think about a bath. I'd like to be covered in a lot less blood than I am," he offers, looking up at the Endless expectedly.

Dream nods once more. Feeling for the first time since their escape, the true ache in his chest. He can feel his Endless power attempting to keep his mortal shell alive, but faltering around the remaining shrapnel in his chest.

Though it never stood a chance at killing him, it succeeds in bringing a tear to his eye now.

Hob tuts gently.

"Think I know what that one means."

***

His stranger insists that he go first. Thrusting the medical kit -the mortal has had stowed in the bathroom since the war- into his hands after a lengthy search for it, under Hob's instruction.

Despite Hob's worries about harming him, the stranger opens his coat to the mortal without hesitation or complaint, the chest and arms of the jacket covering his lap, as he patiently awaits care.

If Hob were treating himself, he would have no hesitation. He would dig around with the forceps ruthlessly until every, niggling piece of metal had been freed from his torn skin.

He cannot do that to his friend.

He cannot bear the idea of harming him after all that he has faced.

"I..." he struggles for the words, his hand shaking with the weight of the metal instrument.

The stranger tilts his head in question. There is no fear in his eyes. He now trusts Hob implicitly.

The mortal is brought nearly to tears by the swift evolution of their companionship.

Hob feels it too.

He feels as though something has changed between them, shifted. It feels now like the man before him truly is his friend, that they truly care for one another.

Hob definitely cares for his stranger.

He cares for him in a way he hasn't cared for another being since his wife, and later his child.

He feels such a fierce protectiveness for the man that he cannot make himself rue what violence he wrought at Fawney Rig.

If the police were to knock down his door for the crime, he would hold his hands out willingly for the cuffs. He would swear in front of a jury that he did what he did to protect the man before him. He would swear to do it again.

He would gladly hang for knowing that his friend was safe.

"I don't want to hurt you," he explains, his free hand stuttering nervously over the other man's chest for a tether point. He tries not to stare too long at the cool slopes of his skin, tight and firm, only marred by black lines, like ink spilling from the wound.

His friend grabs his unoccupied hand insistently, pressing it to his chest, the message is abundantly clear.

'I trust you'

Hob moves closer to the other being, attempting to ignore the now throbbing pain in his own leg. He braces his hand around the other man's neck to steady himself.

The stranger closes his eyes as Hob advances, preparing for the pain, offering so much trust to the mortal that he nearly chokes on it.

Hob cannot delay the incursion any longer. Using the forceps -now steadied by his friend's faith- he grasps the round in the man's chest, yanking the metal outward quickly to avoid the lengthening of his pain. The stranger makes no sound as Hob removes the bullet, and discards his tools on the couch beside, the only indication of his suffering is the desperate grasping of his hand to Hob's uninjured thigh.

He hears his friend draw a shaking breath.

"It's done. It's done. You're alright," he soothes, unwittingly drawing the man closer by the neck, pressing his head into the crook of his shoulder.

His friend still has his hand clamped around Hob's leg, squeezing with enough strength to cause him pain, did his other limb not currently feel like it was on fire.

They stay like that for a moment, both breathing as though they have been running, before the other man pulls back, looking at Hob with shining eyes.

He places the hand -that has been so tensely wrapped around Hob's thigh- to the mortal's chest, tapping lightly on his skin.

'Thank you'

He can hear the man saying.

"Don't thank me," he says in response, guilt a fully bloomed flower in the well of his chest.

"I'm the one who did that to you," he laments.

The other man looks baffled for a moment, before his face settles with understanding.

He shakes his head.

'No'

He points a long, pale finger to the centre of Hob's chest.

'You'

Hob can practically hear the man's impossibly low voice.

He points again.

'You saved me'

And despite the inference, despite knowing that he did wrest the other man from his prison, Hob cannot help the guilt he feels. He cannot stand the notion that he has added to his friend's suffering.

When his eyes meet his stranger's once more, they're filled with fervent concern, the sincerity of which only deepens his guilt, like a serrated blade flexed within a wound, lengthening the cut.

The care the other man displays for him now, the care he holds for a man who hours earlier was betting on him like a prized horse, who had put a bullet through his chest, threatens to undo Hob once and for all.

He waves his concerned companion off placatingly, trying desperately to keep tears welled in his eyes from falling down his cheeks. He coughs out a laugh, plastering a false smile on his face.

"How 'bout that bath?"

***

Hob returns from the bathroom feeling much renewed, the skin around his newly bullet-free wound stinging with the cool air.

He knows it will be mere hours until the hole closes over, until he and his friend bear no marks of Burgess' torment. He quite likes the idea that soon there will be no physical link between his stranger and that awful man.

He finds his companion sitting uncertainly on the edge of the bed, like a bird perched on a wind-shaken branch, preparing to take flight, his eyes fixed on the fire that crackles gently in the bedroom hearth.

Hob cannot help but stare for a moment at the other man's beauty. He now wears some of the mortal’s sleep shorts, his chest still bare. The wound above his heart has all but disappeared, a small pinkish scar the only indication that he had been harmed at all.

He looks so fragile like this, flames flickering behind his night-sky eyes.

He's so beautiful, so achingly beautiful, that the idea of anyone trying to hurt him fills Hob with untenable rage.

He is nearly too consumed by his wrath to notice the bandage held tightly in the other man's narrow hands.

The stranger starts, frightened, as Hob's movement causes the wooden floorboards to creak beneath his unsteady tread, but he settles just as quickly at the sight of him. The mortal too settles, with his stranger's eyes on him, it's nearly impossible to feel anything close to anger.

He watches the other man stand, on thankfully surer legs, taking Hob by the hands and guiding him to sit on the edge of the bed.

Despite his confusion, Hob lets himself be guided. It isn't until the being kneels at Hob's feet, pulling upward on the leg of the man's boxers that he makes a sound of alarm.

The stranger stills confusedly.

"What are you doing?" Hob asks, a little breathlessly.

His friend holds up the bandage in his hand, as though his intentions were obvious.

Hob feels embarrassment rush up his neck, colouring his face a surely humiliating shade of red.

"Ah," he agrees, nodding to the man at his feet.

His stranger works diligently to wrap the wound, the soft caress of his hands on Hob's thighs nearly enough to end his immortal life. He aches to wipe away the stray hairs that fall into the man's face as he works.

Hob cannot stand to look at the sweet, gentle man any longer. He casts his eyes up to the wooden slatted ceiling for something to do, trying desperately not to gasp aloud at each brush of the being's hand on his inner thigh.

Mercifully, his friend finishes his work quickly, patting Hob soothingly on his thigh to gain his attention, as if it had been elsewhere for even a moment. A great storm could have torn the roof off of the place and the only thing Hob Gadling would be able to recall would be the electric feeling of the other man's unmarred, ivory hands against his skin.

When Hob looks down at the being, he has an endearingly pleased grin on his face, his usually demure features alight with his success.

Hob feels the same foolish grin pull at his own cheeks.

"Thank you..." he stops.

He realises now that he has yet, on top of everything else, to learn the man's name. It seems an unimportant consideration, given what they have just endured, but he aches to thank the man properly, to hear his friend's name in his mouth. To taste it.

"I wish I knew what to call you," he whispers wistfully.

His friend's face draws inward with self-ridicule. Hob moves quickly to quell his discomfort.

"It's not your fault," he soothes, a saddened smile pulling at the corner of his mouth.

"None of it is. You take as long as you need- it- it just feels so odd to call you stranger after all we've been through," he explains.

His friend's face softens. He moves from his place on the floor to the bed beside Hob, contemplatively.

After a moment, he moves his hand to point at the head of the bed, as if the contents itself were a clue as to his name.

Hob feels incredulousness furrow his brow.

"Are we to play charades?" he asks teasingly. To his surprise his friend nods.

Hob wracks his mind for what name could possibly be ascertained from his sheets.

"Well I don't believe any mother cruel enough to name her child, pillow," he jokes.

The other man huffs out his own laugh.

If nothing else, Hob is delighted that he has been able to coax that old, half-smile to his friend's face.

"Though to your credit I don't even know if you have a mother. Nor what names are acceptable for whatever it is you are," he continues.

He watches in near disbelief as his friend lays his two palms together, holding his hands to the side of his head as though he were miming sleep.

He feels such fervent affection for the man that he nearly forgets what he is doing. It isn't until the being looks at him expectantly that Hob remembers his task.

"It's not sleep, or rest? I've no clue where to begin, dear." He laughs.

The other man regards Hob hesitantly for a moment, before reaching forward, light from the fire reflecting off of his bare, porcelain skin the way the snow reflects the sun.

He places an ever-so-gentle pointer finger to Hob's temple, tapping encouragingly.

Hob just about melts with the realisation.

"Dream," he says, so softly that he is surprised the other man hears it.

His friend grasps him by the face, a delighted smile pulling across his cheeks. He nods enthusiastically.

"Dream," Hob says again, testing the name on his tongue. There is such palpable joy between them, that for a moment nothing else matters.

His friend's confinement, their fraught time at the manor, the idea that this all could end any moment. It all seems small compared to the joy that is in Dream's eyes as he regards the mortal.

Dream

Hob feels tears pool in his eyes once more. He tries desperately to control them, but they fall despite his best efforts, making waves down his cheeks.

The other man's features crease with concern. His eyes flicker worriedly between Hob's, trying to figure out the cause of the man's suffering.

He removes one hand from the mortal's cheek and presses it to his leg.

'Is it this that troubles you?'

Hob can hear the man ask.

He shakes his head in response. Too overcome to speak.

It feels as though all of the torment of the evening prior has finally caught up with him, crashing over him like a formidable wave, leaving him thrashing about and breathless below the surface.

Dream takes him by the chin, forcing Hob's eyes back to his.

'What is it?'

They question desperately.

Hob shakes his head again, further tears pouring down his cheeks. He wipes them away with his hand. Worry still occupies his friend's gleaming, cerulean eyes.

"I'm just relieved- that you're here. That you're safe," he explains, though he knows it makes little sense.

How does he explain to the other man that his presence has made the mortal so blissfully happy, that his heart aches with it?

How does he explain that his companionship has made it so, that he finally feels peace, and is terrified he might never feel it again?

How does Hob explain that it is beginning to feel, terrifyingly, like he needs him?

Though he expects confusion, Dream merely nods at his admission, wiping away a stray tear, Hob had missed, with his thumb.

He moves his hand from the cradle of Hob's cheek to his own chest, atop his rapidly fading scar, whereabouts his mortal heart might beat. Whereabouts Hob's hammers insistently against his ribs.

Once again, the implication of his action is achingly clear.

'I feel the same'

Dream's eyes shine as he regards Hob, as he waits with endearing patience for the man to regain himself. Hob draws shuddering breaths that seemingly refuse to fill his lungs.

After a moment, the man before him tilts his head backward, gesturing once more to the bed. Hob lets out a wet sort of laugh.

"Yeah," he agrees gently, exhaling a jagged breath.

"Let's go to bed."

***

He awakens to the sound of Dream screaming.

A sound that he has never heard before, but would recognise in an instant.

The noise electrifies his body, making him sit bolt upright, his eyes searching the now dark room -lit only by moonlight and dying embers- for the source of the sound.

Beside him is the man whose safety had been in question. He too is upright, but curled in on himself, his arms pulled protectively around his knees.

His face is wet with tears, his eyes finding Hob in the darkness. It is clear, given the lack of tangible foes within the confines of the bedroom, that his friend has had a nightmare.

"Oh Dream," he whispers, offering his embrace to the man. His friend does not hesitate before pulling Hob to him desperately, wrapping his arms around the mortal with an urgency that is nearly painful.

The smaller man's whole body trembles, his breathing like that of a frightened bird, his chest rising and falling with distressing speed.

Hob feels his heart clench inside his chest, feels it ache with a grief he's only newly known.

It's reciprocal heartache. It's someone else's pain, someone else's distress. It's hurting for someone you love.

"It's okay, Dream," he says soothingly, curling a hand in the man's raven hair. He holds the being so fervently that one might imagine he were trying to piece him back together by force.

The other man is equally forceful, his hand curled tightly around Hob's bicep.

"I'm here. I'm here. You're not alone," he soothes repeatedly, feeling the man's panicked breath slow against his chest.

Eventually, he stills in Hob's arms, a strangled sob the only sound from the otherwise mute man.

In his stillness, Hob withdraws a fraction, with the intention of turning on the -newly installed- electric ceiling light to quell the man's fear.

Dream catches him by the hand before he is even half way out of bed, his frightened eyes nearly black in the darkness.

"Do-" his mouth forms as though to make a word. Hob stills.

"Don't go," Dream whispers.

***

The near-encapsulating fear formed in his chest by the idea of Hob Gadling forsaking him is enough to force the words from his lips.

They come out like a tune from a scratched record, clunky and so quiet that he isn't sure that Hob has heard, until the man sits back down on the edge of the bed, his eyes wide.

To the mortal's credit, he does not coo over Dream as though he were a babe uttering his first syllable. Instead, there is a quiet sort of wonder, and enough longing in his gaze that Dream thinks he must have died and gone to mortal heaven.

No one, not his wife or any of his lovers past, have ever looked at him with such unfettered awe, such obvious, keeling devotion.

"I..." Hob stutters over his own words, reaching a jittering hand up to cup the Endless' face.

"I was just going to turn on the light," he explains, voice tight.

Dream is floored by the clawing, desperate affection that thrashes suddenly within him. Having been denied for so long, his longing is like a feral dog. It bites and tears at his insides, insistent, hungry.

Hob looks so incredibly beautiful in the light of the dying fire, the rays of the moon shining in his umber hair. He's so gentle, so tender, so romantically, classically handsome. Dream could never create anything as incredible as the soft curve of the man's jaw, of the arch of his nose or the wrinkles that form beside his eyelids as he regards Dream with that awe-struck smile.

"I don't need it," Dream admits, his body's fervent longing outweighing the logic of his mind.

He rushes forward, pressing his lips to Hob Gadling desperately.

***

Chapter Text

***

Mortals will tell you that the universe began with a big bang. A phenomena by which energy and heat caused, in a single instant, the creation of everything that is known.

Kissing Hob Gadling feels very much like Dream imagines the Big Bang might, were the singular event confined to the space within his chest.

The moment their lips touch, Dream feels something awaken in him, something bloom, something crack open and fracture. A need -so long forgotten- that it sends a visceral shiver through his being.

Kissing Hob Gadling feels like he imagines the first dawn must have felt, light peaking over the horizon for the first time, bright and unmissable and blissfully warm.

He realises in the instant that their lips touch, that he might never again ache for anything, as much as the feeling of the mortal against him.

In an act that can only be described as a small miracle, Hob kisses him back.

He draws in a shocked breath against Dream's lips, but does not hesitate for even a moment before returning the fervent affection.

They come together like a meteorite and the crust of the Earth. Slamming into one another with heat and energy.

It feels a little bit like, with their fire, they're consuming all oxygen within the room, each man gasping as though they are struggling for breath.

Dream pulls Hob insistently closer, curling a hand in the front of his pyjama shirt. The man lets himself be guided, lets himself relent enthusiastically to the Endless' will.

Dream isn't sure how they will ever be able to stop. Neither of them age, nor will they die without the requirements of their flesh and blood. It feels as if, if he lets it, this desperate hunger might consume them both into perpetuity.

***

Dream kisses like perhaps he had died, like a man who had begged God to let him return to Earth, so that he might kiss his lover one last time.

He kisses as if he might have never been kissed, though it were his sole purpose. He kisses with such fervent, obvious want that Hob nearly forgets they've never done this before.

He is almost able to convince himself that this is how all of their meetings, since the beginning, have gone.

He imagines, as Dream pulls him closer, the being doing so throughout the ages.

He pictures how it might feel to undo the buttons on one of the man's complicated coats, or to run his fingers through that once-long, raven hair. He imagines having kissed the man after their fight with Constantine, both of them so high on the thrill of combat that they collapsed into one another with the passion of a dying star.

Of course -outside of Hob Gadling's fantasies- those things didn't occur, but in the other man's wanton embrace it is easy to forget, it feels as though Hob's known this ardent touch for centuries.

He allows himself to get lost in the movement of the smaller man, the way he drags his hand down Hob's trembling, heaving chest. The way he cranes his neck just so, welcoming Hob's mouth with his own.

He is so overcome by the heat, by the all-encompassing desire, that he does not think twice before grabbing the man's face desperately in his hands.

The second his palms make contact with the being's skin, he remembers what he has learnt, the set of unspoken rules they have fallen into.

Dream freezes as though Hob has slapped him, moving backward on his arms and bottom until there is a least a foot of rumpled sheets between them.

His chest rises and falls with the effort of his escape, his wet, forlorn eyes regarding Hob with shame and sorrow.

The mortal feels guilt and dread pool inside of him, spilling throughout his organs until they ache with the pain of it.

"I'm sorry," he whispers, holding his hands up in surrender to the man.

"I'm so sorry."

The other being's face softens, tears welling in his eyes. He doesn't fear Hob. That much is clear. But what is also certain, is that this act, the moment that they're both aching to share, will require more care than their previous desperation would allow.

Hob stands from his side of the bed, slowly, as to ensure Dream can see every one of his movements in the dying light.

He moves over to the fireplace, stoking the embers with hopes to reignite the flame.

He succeeds, and the room glows with gentle orange light.

He sits before Dream then, on the other man's side of the bed, feet planted to the floor. He reaches out a tender hand to cradle his cheek. The smaller man nudges his face into Hob's palm, the way an insistent pet might demand affection. He is still, despite his fear, desperate for the mortal's touch.

Hob uses the soft hold he has on the man's face to wipe away his tears. With his free hand he takes Dream's wrist, pressing the being's palm to his chest, before returning his own touch to the bare chest of his companion.

Eventually, the man's breathing levels, in time with Hob's sure, slow breath. The sorrow in his eyes is replaced with a more hesitant longing.

Hob feels that previous all-consuming want tug at his insides, as though desire were a puppet master and he was a marionette.

"Do you want to stop?" he asks, voice impossibly low.

He gasps in a jagged breath as Dream pulls him nearer, once more by the fabric of his shirt, his hand bunched desperately in the folds.

He presses the gentlest of kisses to the side of Hob's mouth, breathing in deeply as though the simple act is the most pleasure he has ever known.

He shakes his head, evidently still without the use of his words in times of distress.

'Don't stop'

Hob hears the man's voice in his mind.

He swallows hard.

He allows, with knowledge of the other man's consent, some of the fire from earlier to stir in the pit of his stomach, anticipation like a tightly coiled wire in his gut.

"Tell me what you want," he begs, the words barely audible in the heaviness of his breath. Dream's eyes too shine with want, he allows the cerulean pupils to glide down the length of Hob's body, as though he were undressing the mortal with his eyes.

He takes Hob by the face, moving slowly closer to the man until he is able to position himself in his lap, knees braced against the yielding mattress.

He looks down at the mortal with such undeniable want, that once more without words, the message is abundantly clear.

'I want you'

Hob shuts his eyes for a moment, trying desperately to slow his now rapid breathing, to slow the incessant beating of his heart and the effects of the man's presence in his lap on his body.

He will not allow himself to get carried away again, he will not allow this moment to be tarnished by his own selfish want.

It is nearly impossible to keep his hands from the other man's ivory chest. He keeps them pressed against the mattress to ensure they will not stray.

"You want me?" Hob asks, wanting to be perfectly sure of the other man's intent. The anticipation of his companion's confirmation threatens to eat him alive.

When he finally opens his eyes, Dream beams down at him with a most-gentle, fond smile. A smile the mortal imagines is reserved for those dearest to the being, a smile he never could have hoped to see.

He runs his thumbs across Hob's cheeks, eliciting a shiver from the man as he nods slowly, exaggeratedly, as if to ensure that the mortal sees it.

"Can I touch you?" Hob asks, his throat tight with the longing that is now threatening to strangle him.

The other man nods once more, his hands sliding down the sides of Hob's face and body until he holds the mortal by the wrists, guiding his hands to rest on his hips, before his own return to the larger man's face.

Dream leans forward then, pressing his lips wantonly to the other man’s mouth, holding his body so closely to Hob's that he can feel the imprint of the being's bones on his skin.

He is once more infatuated by the way it feels to kiss Dream, by the desperate yearning that fills him. Consuming, elating, unyielding.

He knows the other man can feel it too, as he rocks against him, the friction between them making him gasp aloud.

He pulls away from Dream's hungry mouth with another jagged breath, eyes finding the being's once more.

They're dark with hunger now, the cloying, the longing threatening to destroy them both.

Hob moves forward until his lips are a whisper from the man's throat.

"Can I kiss you here?" he asks, though his own voice sounds far away. He can barely hear anything past the sound of rushing blood in his ears.

The strained movement that his words elicit from the other man, makes its so that Hob's lips brush his Adam's apple as he swallows. He feels more than sees Dream nod.

It is all he needs, his lips go to work with barely restrained ferocity, sucking at the snow-white skin until the man is moaning with the enthusiasm of Hob's mouth.

He feels the other being take his hands again, pulling his arms so that they completely encapsulate him.

Hob knows exactly what the wordless display means.

'More'

'Closer'

"I..." Hob stutters for his own words as Dream's lips find the sensitive space below his earlobe, sending goosebumps rushing along his skin.

He huffs out a laugh.

"I..." he trembles.

"I want you here," he says, patting the bed to indicate his intentions.

The words come out like a question, to which his partner enthusiastically responds, a quick, succinct nod of his head.

Hob uses the arms he already has, desperately clenched around the man, to drag him from his lap, to lie with his back pressed against the mattress.

Dream gasps with the movement, drawing Hob closer with both his arms and his now unencumbered legs. He wraps them around the mortal's waist, clinging to him insistently.

Hob pulls back from his fervent exploration of the man's body for a moment, concerned that the tightening of the man around him must mean he has moved too quickly once more, but when his eyes find Dream, he sees not an ounce of doubt or hesitation.

He breathes with an open mouth, his chest stuttering with the sharp intakes of his breath. Hob braces the bed with one arm, so that he might cradle the man's face with the other. So that he might lengthen the moment, live in it.

He cannot help but press his lips to the being beneath him again, so incredibly beautiful in the firelight, unkempt raven hair like spilled ink against the white sheets. He looks like an Angel, his dark eyes and hair in stark contrast to the pale slopes of his skin.

Hob trails kisses down the length of the man's body, as though his mouth were the pen of a most-diligent cartographer and Dream's skin were the lines of a map.

He feels the being's heels dig in at his back, he thrusts upward into Hob with something like impatience.

The mortal cannot help the airy laugh that escapes him at the other man's insistence.

Here's Hob, terrified to rush the being before him, while the man in question is driven to the edge of madness by his gentle care.

"You're sure?" he whispers, into the skin of the man's chest, his voice achingly soft. He feels Dream shiver beneath him.

"You're sure you want this?" he repeats.

"Want me?" he questions, pulling back to regard his partner.

He needs to see the man's eyes, needs to know, beyond a shadow of a doubt that this is what he wants.

Despite the desperation clawing and shredding at his insides, any hesitation from Dream would immediately extinguish the flames of his desire.

Part of the allure of this rendezvous, part of the intoxication of it, is the knowing that the other man wants it just as desperately.

"Yes," Dream whispers. He grabs the mortal once more by the neck of his shirt and pulls him into vehement kiss.

The mortal allows himself to get lost in the other man's sure touch, invigorated by the assurance of his words, he moves his weight from the palm of his hand to his elbow, so that they are pressed impossibly closer. He sees no fear in the other man's eyes, no panic for being pinned to the bed by the larger man's weight. Hob lavishes in Dream's trust.

He wants more than anything else to make Dream feel as good as his care has made the mortal feel. He wants nothing more than to please him.

As Hob's trembling hands move to the waistband of the other man's shorts, he hears the being speak once more, bolstering his desire.

"Yes."

***

Dream has never had a mortal home to speak of. He has never had a tangible, corporeal place to call his own.

And while Hob Gadling's cabin is far from his possession, it feels like the place he belongs, as he groggily rouses from sleep.

Light peeks in through the window with the slowly rising sun. The heat of it, combined with the still smouldering fire by his side, enough that sweat instantly clings to him the moment he is lifted from the heavy veil of sleep.

He makes no move to end his discomfort, for that would require extracting himself from Hob's arms (a feat of great magnitude that he isn't sure he'd be able to manage even if his existence were on the line).

Since the unification of their bodies the evening prior, the gentle, passionate meeting of their spirits, it's begun to feel as though they're inextricably linked.

As though, if Hob Gadling were tied to train tracks, and Dream unable to wrest him from danger, he would lie down beside the man, hold him in his arms and let the speeding metal machine do away with them both.

The intensity of the feeling should be frightening. With his newfound vulnerability, it should be terrifying to consider himself tied to the man so endearingly splayed across him.

But it isn't.

It never could be.

Not with Hob's face so gentle and slack in rest, not with the way his sleep-addled breaths cast familiarly, warm air over the sharp plains of Dream's skin.

With the other man's head rested in the hollow of his neck and collar bone, he finds it nearly impossible to feel fear.

Instead of moving from the hearth he and Hob have built with their mortal forms, he tries his best to extinguish the flame in the fireplace using his power. After so long, it feels like flexing a poorly perfused limb, there is a tingling sensation that one might associate with a leg that has fallen asleep.

He closes his eyes and breathes out slowly, the rise of his chest accompanied by the rise of the arm the other man has slung across his frame.

He feels -for the first time in over a decade- pride encapsulate him, as the fireplace goes silent, allowing cool air to envelop his heat kissed skin.

It feels now, with Hob by his side, as though he is not entirely broken. As though he might be able to regain all he has lost.

Though, he realises, dread stirring a wretched cauldron in stomach, that the quest to return to his full power might see Hob put in the way of danger.

His arms tighten unconsciously around the man. He feels panic, with which he is now so intimately acquainted, cackle treacherously inside of him.

He gasps in a jagged breath, unaware of the effect of the sound on the other man until he raises his head drowsily.

"Dream," Hob croons sweetly.

His eyes are barely open, as he rests his head on the Endless' chest to gaze up at him. There is so much contentment, so much lingering pleasure in his honey eyes that Dream feels once again compelled to shed a tear.

Perhaps it isn't worth it.

Perhaps the Dreaming -in his absence- has learned to adapt.

Perhaps he could stay here with Hob Gadling indefinitely.

The other man, not for the first time, is able to read his expressions as though they were words printed on a page.

Any remaining fog clears from his eyes, he pushes himself up and off of Dream's chest so he can regard the man seriously.

"What's wrong?" he asks, reaching down to run a tender thumb across the Endless' cheek.

Dream can barely swallow back tears, he feels them sting in the corners of his eyes.

Where words once again fail him, he opts instead for action, pulling the man desperately toward him, ivory palms sinking into bare, tanned flesh and kissing him as though they were war-torn lovers saying goodbye.

Hob indulges the affection for a moment, gasping in a desperate breath at the other man's insistent exploration of his mouth, before pulling back gently, his forehead creased with concern.

"I'd thought..." he begins, the words thick in his throat. He swallows hard.

"I thought you might have... regretted it. Us. Me," he admits, his eyes shining with vulnerability.

Dream pulls himself into a seated position, with his back resting against the headboard. He shakes his head fervently.

'No'

He wants to say.

'Never'

He wants to impart.

'I could no sooner regret our time together than I could regret my own existence, for they are one in the same, it feels as though I might not have truly been me, until you knew me.'

As that intense of a sentiment is hard to impart without the luxury of words, he reaches his head forward, pressing a kiss to Hob's bare chest, above his heart.

He hopes the other man might understand the message.

Hob's concern softens to endearment and Dream lets the other man guide him into a tight embrace.

He can feel the mortal's heart slamming against his ribcage. He can feel each of his stuttering breaths.

He imagines what it might be like to make a home for himself inside of Hob Gadling's chest. For he is sure that is the only place he might known true and lasting safety.

He imagines Hob's affection for him as a tangible place wherein he might make his home. Where he might make a castle of Hob Gadling's heart. Good and strong as it is.

He isn't aware he is crying, until a stray tear falls from his face, landing on the broad plain of Hob's back.

The mortal pulls back to look at him tenderly, tutting softly.

"Oh my love," he says, so quietly that the tethers binding together the Endless' mortal form nearly snap.

He imagines, even if he were not confined to the space of his human body, that Hob would care for him regardless. That he might find the beauty in the entirety of Dream's being.

He imagines Hob's kindly gaze falling upon the part of him that is his kingdom, with as much awe as he gazed upon his naked form.

He realises, with a deep yearning, that he wants that. All of it.

He wants Hob to know him. Truly.

And for that to happen. He needs to take back what has been stolen from him.

"I..." his attempt to speak is marred by his own breathlessness. Since his escape, speaking has felt as though he has had to extract each word from himself with a scalpel, the process tedious and slow and all together unpleasant.

Hob nods encouragingly at his words, taking him by the face softly. He runs a thumb across the Endless' lips as though he may be able to coax the words gently from their home.

Dream feels further desperate endearment pull at his insides. The feral dog of his longing barely satiated by the closeness of their bodies now.

He wants Hob so vehemently that it is all he can do to keep his longing from swallowing him whole.

He has to remind himself that there are eons for he and Hob to spend together.

That if Hob wills it, they could continue as they are into eternity.

He realises he wants that too.

Wants Hob and he to be the last of Death's visits. As she packs up the universe, leaving only she and Destiny behind.

He wants he and Hob to go last -he first so the Endless should not have to exist without him- so that they might spend every possible second until then pressed together.

"I need," he tries again, to his pleasure more words manage to escape from the steel trap of his mouth. To his further frustration, it is hardly enough to inform the man before him.

"Anything dove," Hob agrees without hesitation.

Dream gets the impression that the intense, fervent infatuation that roils around within him, also exists in the other man. That their time together has only strengthened the affection that they have both secretly held for one another for centuries.

Adoring Hob Gadling, as simply as Dream can explain, has felt like a dam wall giving way.

He had spent centuries erecting the wall, so that it might keep out all manner of the other man's affection, his friendship, his companionship, his love. And his rescue of Dream, had fractured the once-steady structure. The meeting of their mouths and further their bodies, saw the wall obliterated into dust. All of the feelings Dream had been desperately abating flooding his senses until he is nearly drowned in it.

"Anything I have is yours," Hob swears, only further confirming the Endless' suspicion.

Dream takes a deep breath, blowing air outward through circular lips. He presses his forehead to Hob's, as if imbued by the other man's touch.

"I need to find Ethel Cripps."

***

Conveniently for Hob, socialite Ethel Cripps is not what anyone would call reclusive.

Given her status with the newly deceased Magus, she is plastered across the front of every newspaper in the county, the sole survivor of the mass sleeping sickness that enveloped Fawney Rig the night of Dream's escape.

Hob doesn't have to drive very far into the nearest town to find the papers, or the evidence of the hotel in which Ethel is staying, for which he is glad. As the moment he had left Dream in the safety of his cabin, he had felt the most terrible worry envelop him.

Being with Dream as he was, more intimate than any love he has ever known, felt like an irrevocable spell.

It felt like the moment their lips touched, their fate was sealed. That they were sworn to one another.

It felt inevitable, all-consuming. It was the most incredible experience Hob has ever known and yet, if is honest with himself, the idea of wanting the other man so desperately terrifies him.

He grips the steering wheel with white knuckles the whole drive home.

He cannot help but think of the last time he loved so fervently, so wholeheartedly, without regard for what may happen to his love.

Eleanor had been unlike anyone he had ever known. She had been kind and smart and brave. She had been funny and sweet. She had been the best part of him, for so long, until what they had was lost.

The feeling of holding his wife's limp body in his arms, the scream that rattled through his chest at her loss, is so visceral, that he has to pull the car over for a moment. He has to stop in the dust and press his forehead to the steering wheel until the panic has subsided.

In his mind's eye, he sees very much the same scenario, with Dream taking his Eleanor's place.

He imagines how the grief might only be magnified, compounded by the centuries they've known one another, by the fact that Dream is the only being that truly knows him, has always known him.

He cannot lose him. And thus, it is terrifying to love him.

***

In Hob's absence, Dream attempts further stretching of his power, like an injured athlete retaking the field.

He starts by summoning himself an appropriate garb layer by layer and is doing the buttons of his coat, with surer hands, by the time his lover returns.

He cannot help the anticipation that rattles inside of his chest like a caged animal as he hears Hob's feet on the steps.

He feels giddy (and utterly ridiculous) and has to stop himself from physically rushing to the door the moment it swings open.

Instead, he remains in the bedroom, not-so-secretly hoping for an encore of the events of the night prior.

It may seem foolish to do up this many buttons only to have them undone, but as it stands, Dream is now ruled by sentimentality over logic.

It's been so long since he's felt like this. Since love has brought him joy as opposed to heartache. He's only known the torment of romance for so long, that he lavishes now in the simple ecstasy afforded to him by Hob's care.

He pretends he does not hear as the mortal enters the room, his now healed leg more sure against the wooden floorboards.

He lets out an audible sound of relief as Hob's hand hesitantly touches his shoulder. He takes the man's fingers in his, welcoming the touch.

With the unspoken assurance, Hob engulfs the Endless in his arms, knotting his hands together on the being's chest, pressing a gentle kiss to the space behind his ear.

Dream sighs into the touch, pressing himself backward toward Hob, relaxing into him the way one might sink into a particularly plush bed.

He feels more than hears Hob chuckle.

"Missed me already?" he teases, breathing in deeply as though with the intent to harbour the Endless within his lungs, as though he might keep in there, protected, into perpetuity.

"Undoubtedly," Dream agrees, voice low and rough.

He feels Hob sigh.

"I missed you too," he admits, nuzzling his head into the space between Dream's neck and shoulder.

They stay like that for a moment, breathing one another in, attempting to cling to the freedom of their seclusion to the last possible second.

"We should depart, if we want to return to London, find Ethel and have your belongings back before dusk," Hob's voice breaks the spell of silence between them.

Dream feels anxiety clench within him, like a metal door slamming shut. His arms tighten around Hob's, fear lashing at his insides.

"Perhaps," he begins, hoping he can make it through his sentence, hoping against all he knows to be true that Hob may understand.

"Perhaps I should go alone?" he offers, turning in Hob's arms so he can ensure the man has heard.

The shock Dream finds on the other man's face is evidence enough of his comprehension.

"What?"

He feels Hob's arms tighten imperceptibly around him.

He knows it is not fair.

That because he cares so desperately for Hob, that the other man should have to suffer. That in his caution, he might seperate them.

But the idea of losing Hob, after only just realising the depth of his affection, is beyond comprehension.

"It..."

Dream growls at his own incompetence, at the failing of his speech.

"It is not safe, dearest," he tries, eyes searching Hob's worriedly.

To his surprise, the other man chuckles.

"Knowing you never has been," he jokes.

Dream cannot know for certain if he is referring to their time together in 1789, or Hob's own fraught experiences with immortality which he attributes to the Endless. Either way, it is evident that he fears nothing more than Dream's loss.

"Dream, I..." Hob starts like he is to say something gravely important, but stops himself with a breathy chuckle.

"It's begun to feel like I need you- and I think you feel very much the same. I can't let you face Ethel alone, anymore than I could have left you to rot in that cage," he confesses.

Dream's lips are atop the man's before he can say anymore, before he can make the Endless' non-corporal heart clench any tighter with his dutiful words.

He kisses Hob with all the fervour he had the night prior, feeling that familiar, feral longing clawing at his insides.

"I could never have left you," Dream agrees, hands finding the buttons of Hob's outer coat with a deftness previously denied to him by his confinement. Hob shivers as Dream shrugs the jacket off of his shoulders, running his arms down the mortal's to add to the effect.

The Endless is nearly lost to himself as the man's hands find his own buttons, trailing hot kisses down his face and neck as he works to free him from his clothing. For once, in a rather long existence, he regrets his nearly habitual layering.

When Hob's mouth returns to his though, any and all concern about his state of dress is lost. He cannot focus past the feeling of the man pressed against him, so desperate and warm and wanting.

"I could never have watched you go," Hob agrees breathlessly, guiding the man backward in an act of such grace that Dream imagines it practiced.

He lies himself down on the bed, guiding Hob on top of him.

Reclamation of his power can wait, he thinks flagrantly, as he pulls the man wantonly closer.

Damned or not, he will always have time for Hob Gadling's touch.

***

They knock on the door of Ethel's hotel room for a long while before deciding she isn't in, before deciding the inquest into her space must be taken into their own hands.

Hob, a man of great many talents (in and out of the boudoir) picks the lock and within minutes they stand in the apartment, eyeing the space concernedly.

The once-opulent room is just about torn to shreds, the satiny curtains, plush pillows, even the elaborate furniture wrested from its place. The chandelier that must have hung brightly once above the living room, flickers spectacularly, casting an intermittent, ominous glow on the room.

"What happened here?" Hob asks, eyes flicking worriedly to Dream.

The Endless feels the same anxiety riot within him.

Perhaps they are too late.

Perhaps in his foolish longing he has doomed himself.

His internal berating is interrupted as his eyes catch a flash of white beneath the sofa.

It isn't until Dream spies the small, familiarly shaped sphere, rolled just beneath the couch's edge, that he understands what really happened.

He ducks quickly, taking the object into his hands with something akin to desperation.

"Dream!" Hob starts with alarm at the man's rapid movement.

The Endless is too distracted to respond, the skull in his hands making it impossible to breathe. It is as if the tiny, teeth-riddled eye sockets stare mockingly at him.

The Corinthian.

He had seemingly come for Ethel, to steal Dream's belongings. He had seemingly wanted to continue the man's torment.

And incredibly, Ethel had struck him down. It stands to reason, that she had used Dream's power to unmake him.

Despite his better instincts, Dream feels the most awful grief.

Nightmare or not, he had made the Corinthian. Created him from nothing.

He recalls the story of Adam and Eve, of their betrayal of their creator. He remembers the depiction of God's anger and his subsequent exile of his creations. What Dream doesn't recall, is the grief. No one has ever documented the spectacular grief accompanied with the loss of a creation that has forsaken you.

"Dream, what is it?" Hob asks desperately, clinging to the man by the forearms as he trembles.

Where mere hours ago the Endless had felt powerful and renewed, he now feels akin to his caged self, weak and bereaved and useless.

He shakes his head, tears flinging onto his coat.

Hob pulls the man into his arms with no further questions, knowing he requires comfort above all else.

They're only pulled apart by the sound of footsteps from the hall. The skull in Dream's hand falling to the floor with his alarm.

"Who are you?" a familiar voice asks.

***

Ethel Cripps stands in the flickering light of the landing, her clothes the same as they had been the night of the auction at Fawney Rig. The woman is drenched in blood, seemingly her own, if the lacerations along her arms and chest are any indication. Her eyes glow a fearsome red, her head twitching to the side dementedly as she regards the men.

Hob feels horror and sorrow swell inside of him, a hot air balloon in danger of bursting, of sending him plummeting into the ground below.

Ethel wasn't evil.

She wasn't cruel or vile.

That was Burgess.

Her undoing makes Hob want to weep.

He watches the once-bereft man at his side stiffen, putting himself between Hob and the woman.

"I think you know who I am," Dream responds, his voice surer than Hob has heard it since his escape. Were he not so terrified for his safety, he might even feel proud of his love.

The woman's eyes move strangely in her head, wide and unblinking. She moves the way a character in a flip book might, her actions fractured. As she takes a doll-like step forward, Hob sees the ruby around her neck catch in the low light.

"You were Burgess' plaything," she concedes, a humourless laugh pulling its way from her chest.

Hob feels his own fists tighten in anger. He understands that this is not the woman's fault, that the power of Dream's stone has seemingly bewitched her, alas her cruel words send a rueful heat careening up his spine.

"I was too," she adds hollowly, as though the saddening fact where immaterial, as though it has no barbs with which to harm her.

Her stuttering eyes lock on Dream. Hob feels further panic engulf him like an unruly flame.

"My stone knows you. Wants you. Shame it's too late for that." She smiles, the unsettling grin not quite meeting her eyes.

"I think not," Dream disagrees, starting toward her with an outstretched hand.

Hob starts after him, prepared to defend the man with the entirety of his being if necessary.

He watches in horror as Dream is taken to his knees by an unseen force, his cries of grief mixed with his lover's cry of alarm.

"Uh, uh, uh," Ethel croons, like a mother berating a small child.

Hob watches the woman clench at the stone around her neck, her hand sizzling with the heat from the jewel, though her face does not seem to register the pain. He feels, without his will, his own knees give way.

"Dream!" he cries desperately, throwing himself forward toward the other man's outstretched hand.

"Hob!"

The mortal hears the other man's cry in return, but he can no longer see the being before him, nor the room around them.

The near-deafening, heart-wrenching sound of Dream screaming fills Hob's ears as his vision is lost.

***

Chapter Text

***

There is the feeling of falling. The catching pull in his stomach as he feels the floor shift beneath him. He barely has time to scream, before his legs crunch against hard earth. If he were mortal, the bones might have shattered to dust.

But he isn't and they didn't.

He remains miraculously upright, standing on aching, trembling legs. Eyes searching the darkness for threat, for foe.

He finds none.

Instead, the gentle jingle of chains, so quiet, he thinks it surely imagined.

As his eyes adjust to the low light, he sees where his fall has taken him. Something like the depths of the Earth. A cave, rock and stone joining around him like a clenched fist. The stagnant air burns his lungs, sharp, deep.

There is a mimicry of his inhalation, a jagged intake of breath.

For a moment, he thinks it an echo. The small space making it sound as though his own breath were somewhere far away.

But then comes an exhalation, shaking, gentle.

Dream knows that breath, he would know the feeling of it cast across his bare skin were he rendered deaf and blind.

He knows the tense tug of those lungs, of the sound of the air moving through them. He's laid his head upon that chest and listened to them expand. He knows how excited that breath can become, how shallow and desperate.

"Hob?" he speaks into the darkness.

"Dream?" the other man gasps.

The tearful hope in the mortal's strained voice is enough to take the Endless to his knees.

He throws himself to the floor in the direction of the voice, cloaked in shadows. His hands scrape painfully across the jagged rocks littering the ground, opening ugly wounds that will not bleed, but will burn with all their might. His pain matters naught, the moment his hands find the sweet embrace of his lover.

"Dream," the man's voice comes again, so forlorn that he wants to weep.

Where his eyes fail him, he uses his hands to map the larger man's body, past his iron-clad wrists, past his stuttering chest, until he can hold the man's face in his palms and press a desperate kiss upon his trembling lips.

They taste of blood.

"What has happened?" he asks frantically, fear tearing inside him as though terror were two hooks sunken into the tissue of his heart, pulled at odds until the unyielding flesh finally gave way.

"I don't..." the man's voice is haggard, he rests his forehead to Dream's with a hopeless sound.

"I don't know," he whimpers.

"I might be able to help with that," a voice, familiar and sickly sweet, echoes off of the cavern walls.

The Morningstar, with all the wonder of an angel and all the spite of the damned, enters the space behind Dream.

The glow from the fallen-angel, casts against Hob Gadling, illuminating his battered form.

Dream cannot contain the pained wail that escapes him at finally seeing the man again.

Where once beautiful, soulful, amber eyes might regard him, now only exists gore. Dreaded, bloody holes where his eyes should be.

He feels rage and grief and confusion lash within him, tears streaming down his cheeks with such ferocity that they seem to choke him. Only a strangled noise sounding from his tightening throat.

"Dream," the man begs, reaching sightlessly for the Endless.

Dream wants to tell the man that he is still here. That he will never forsake him. That he will be his eyes, the air in his lungs, the strength in his legs. Whatever it takes to wrest him from this place. That he will protect them both, or die trying. But no words will come forth, no matter how fervently he wills them.

"Whatever is the matter, Dream?" the Morningstar's voice comes once more, golden curls bouncing with a wicked laugh.

"Cat got your tongue?"

Dream whirls around then, standing as tall as his weary form will allow, to face the dreaded creature properly. He holds a protective hand in front of Hob, as if he may shield him from Lucifer's will. The other man grasps his outstretched palm as though their touch is all that stands between him and oblivion.

Dream tries to speak, words of damnation, defence, anything. His mouth remains shut, as though, in its non-use, the skin may have fused, so that he may never utter another word.

"Let me explain it for you, dear Dream. You always did need a little help, especially with those you damned with your affection," Lucifer croons, faux sweetness dripping from the words.

"Your dearest creation, the handsome one, the foul one, has gifted your darling to me. He may not be able to die, but he certainly can rot here for eternity," the Morningstar explains with a wicked grin.

Dream feels denial thrash at his insides. Feels desperation and anguish cloud any reasonable judgement.

He wants to scream, to shout. To demand Hob's release, but his tongue remains still in his mouth, a corpse locked permanently within its coffin.

"You could save him, of course," Lucifer adds, angelic voice barely a whisper yet somehow all encompassing. The light the ghastly being emanates is enough that Dream feels compelled to shield his eyes.

"Tell me I've won," the fallen angel demands.

"Tell me that the Dreaming is no match for the legions of hell. Tell me you relent. That you exist by my will. That your lover too exists because I've decided to save him. Better yet... thank me," the Morningstar orders.

Dream feels the cruel, terrible irony of the angel's request make a pincushion of his heart, stabbing tiny, crooked needles into hopelessly pulsating flesh.

That all it would take to save the man he loves is his speech, the one thing that is now lost to him, is a cruelty that he is sure only the damned being before him could concoct.

Where his words fail he opts, as he has done with his lover, to act.

He removes his hand from the other man's desperate grip, taking himself once more to his knees in front of the Monarch of hell.

"Dream!" Hob calls, panic stricken, lost in the darkness of his mind without the Endless' touch.

Of course Dream cannot reply. He is useless, powerless, completely at the mercy of the being before him.

"I'm afraid that's not quite good enough, Dream."

The sound of the angel's voice is accompanied by the crunch of formidable boots in the dirt.

Dream gasps as said boot comes down on him, forcing his chest lower into the grit, forcing his face to scrape dangerously against the stone-laid floor.

Despite his terror, Dream feels as strange familiarity, a terrible nostalgia, an undeniable déjà vu.

Moments ago, he had been in quite the same circumstance as this, pressed against the floor, trapped by someone else's will...

Memories assault him like striking hands to his cheeks. Ethel's apartment, the Corinthian's skull, Hob's desperate cry of his name.

The Corinthian is dead.

He could not have harmed Hob in his way. He could not have captured the mortal and sacrificed him to the will of hell.

This isn't real.

Dream laughs a little deliriously, the stretch of his lips painful against the gravel beneath his skin.

"Whatever do you find funny, Dream?" the Morningstar barks, clearly not anticipating a reply.

"I'm dreaming," the Endless responds, voice so low he isn't sure he's spoken, until the pressure of Lucifer's boot disappears, the room around him blurring strangely.

He lets out a relieved, weeping sound, pressing his forehead further into the dirt in an attempt to push outward on the edges of the dream, to wake himself expeditiously from the nightmare.

"I'm Dreaming."

***

"Dream!"

The call of his lover's name aches in his throat.

He is unaware of how long he has cried out for the other man, it feels like a lifetime, like centuries may have passed, as his pleas strain in his throat.

"Love, please!" he begs, tears catching at the words, as his weary legs traverse the empty streets.

He has no memory of returning to the roads of London, nor how they came to be so entirely deserted. He has no memory of what happened to his love. Or why his heart aches so desperately with the call of his name.

He walks listlessly, his calls echoing off of empty buildings, the abandoned structures swallowing his voice, with no hope of reply.

The sun hangs just above the horizon, casting an ominous vermillion glow on silent streets, Hob's dragging footsteps and aching voice, the only sound within the desolation.

He imagines himself as Cain, in the bible passage he'd read so long ago. Cursed to wander the Earth, empty and hollow and alone.

He walks until his legs falter beneath him.

Until his body takes control and trumps the man's will.

He's been alive for so long.

So many incredible, beautiful years. So many unmissable, wonderful moments.

Even in the horror, of which there was a substantial amount, he was never as alone as this. Never so terribly, utterly alone.

Hob realises that immortality means nothing without people, without companionship. That an eternal life, without the miracle of love, is a curse.

He is cursed.

He is alone.

Without his love, without the people that make up his home, without even the birds that sit upon the city skyline.

The silence threatens to eat him alive, the loneliness to consume him whole.

He is taken to his knees by exhaustion, the other man's name strangled in his throat.

"Dream," he whispers, heartbreakingly gentle. Without truly knowing why, he is compelled to sink his hands into the dirt beneath him, compelled to dig until something comes free.

A small, ornate box, older than the Sistine Chapel sits, atop his earth-caked palms.

It is an exact replica of the one he keeps beneath his bed at home, tucked protectively between the wall and the post of his bed frame.

The one with a lock of Robin's hair and Eleanor's portrait. The one with pressed flowers and old bound-leather journals. The one with a guitar pick gifted to him by the last man he loved.

Where the box should be filled with mementos of a life fully lived, it is achingly bare, a singular, loaded weapon the only occupant.

***

The feeling of terror, a deep, unshakable knowing that she would die.

The feeling of a man -or something greater than a man- coming apart beneath her finger tips.

The sting of the wounds his skilful knives had carved into her.

The blood.

Hot and thick, running down her chest, sinking into the fine fabric of her dress.

And pain.

So much pain that she thinks she would welcome death.

When the owner -of the cursed stone that hangs around her neck- finally arrives, she feels the ruby once again take hold, puppeteering her body, a demented marionette, words that don't belong to her pouring like putrid blood from her lips.

She feels her eyes latch onto the stone's rightful owner, feels a rage that is not her own riot inside of her, as if someone had set a fire in her belly.

She feels her hand clamp down on the stone without her will, the terrible, searing pain engulf her palm.

She feels tears burn in her eyes, as the man before her cries and grasps for the other being in the room, unimportant to the stone and thus unimportant to her.

She cannot tear her gaze away from the raven-haired man, from the object of the stone's desire, until she hears the other being cry out.

A desperate, deafening cry. A familiar, once-gentle voice warped by tremendous pain.

"Dream!" the man screams, arms thrashing against her will, straining to reach the slighter man.

She feels something fracture inside of her as the man is lost to sleep.

Without his desperation, without his fervent fighting, she recognises him almost instantly, sending a near-electric thrum of grief down to the marrow of her bones.

"I know you," she says gently, though no words come out through her physical form.

She attempts to crouch, to hold the gentle man by the cheek, perhaps to clear the hair that has fallen into his face, the way she had ached to do just nights prior, but her body, controlled by the stone, resists.

"Robyn," she whispers, her hand clasped so tightly around the ruby that blood begins to run down her wrist.

"Robyn Stranger," the words come out louder this time. The stone seems to hiss in discontent.

He must have escaped from the manor, the same eve that Roderick was killed.

He had been there for the auction...

The auction of the man that lies a few feet away from them, twitching and crying as he traverses the stone's perverted inquest into the darkest parts of his mind.

Robyn must have freed the creature.

And he must have killed Roderick.

The anguished cry that tears itself from her chest causes the chandelier to fall from its place, shattering on the ground just behind Robyn, the shards casting over him like hazardous snow.

The pain folds her in half.

Rage and relief war like blood-thirsty hounds in her mind, tearing chunks away from one another.

'I loved him' the first snarls.

'He hated you' the second bites.

She knows not whether resentment or elation will prevail, she knows not whether the man before her gave her a great gift or tore her heart from her chest. All she knows for certain, all that she can feel past the power of the stone pulsing inside of her, is grief, spectacular, heart-wrenching grief.

Whether by the stone's will or hers, she watches Robyn Stranger wrest a gun from the inner, breast-pocket of his coat, whatever terror that consumes his mind, forcing his hand to press the barrel to his temple.

The stones seems to cackle treacherously within her, anticipation like lightning as it crackles through her insides. Despite the stones wanting, she feels regret, horror and despair clench within her.

"Hob!"

The stone's owner (Dream, Robyn has called him) has seemingly fought his way free of its compulsion in her distraction. He fights desperately against the will of the ruby, his hand twitching minutely toward the man.

There is a desperation in his eyes that Ethel has never seen, a longing and a terror that she has never been beheld with.

She realises no one has ever been truly afraid to lose her.

But this man... this man is terrified to lose Robyn.

He loves Robyn.

It is evident from the way his lips form the man's name to the vehement effort of his body to fight toward his love.

Ethel aches in a long forgotten part of herself, a part she had to bury to survive the cold, indifference of the men in her life. The part of her that had to beg for her father's kindness, and later for Roderick's affection. The part of her that is a doe-eyed girl, who is yet to know the cruelty of the world.

"Hob, please!" Dream cries, bashing against the ground in anguish, fighting against the gravity of her orbit.

She is reminded of the widows she had seen after the war. Of the women she saw throw themselves into graves after the men they loved, gone far too soon.

She turns back to Hob, the man kneels, eyes unseeing, tears streaming down his face in aching waves.

The stone wants him dead.

It wants Dream all to itself.

She can feel it's desperate hunger.

The only thing that stands in the way of the mortal's death is her will. She imagines herself pressed against a failing door, hoards after the man inside, after Robyn. She holds firm, as the door pulses roughly at her back.

She cannot let him die.

Not when he is so kind, so gentle, not when he treated her with such compassion, having owed her nothing but believing that she deserved it.

Not when he is so loved.

Not when he freed her of a love that would have surely seen her death.

She sees the man's finger inch toward the trigger.

"No!" his love wails at the sight. The sound of his lament striking through Ethel's very core.

She tears the ruby from its home before the man can move any further, before he can enact the stones will. It shatters on the floor, ruby shards spraying like blood.

She watches as Hob falls too, to the ground, unconscious, but safe.

She hears the sound of the other man's relief, strident and fervid, as the world goes black.

***

He wakes back on the floor of Ethel's apartment, willed into a bow by the stone's desire. Though he cannot move his limbs, his eyes find Hob in an instant.

The mortal is on his knees, gawping blankly past the woman before him, it is clear that he too has been drawn into a nightmare.

Above him, Ethel Cripps stares, head tilted dementedly, regarding Hob the way one might curiously regard the crossword, her brow furrowed as though the man were a puzzle that needed to be solved.

"Robyn," she whispers, her voice an echoing hiss. It is so hard to tell where she begins and the stone ends. Dream watches in horror as she clenches her fist around the jewel, blood running down her arm, coating her already stained dress.

The Endless tries as he had in the morning prior to flex his power, to free Hob from his dreaded nightmare.

It is no use.

Ethel is the one in control.

"Robyn Stranger," she says again.

There is a moment of trembling, aching silence, followed by a terrifying, lamenting scream.

Ethel keels over with some unseen grief, barely remaining upright in her tragedy.

Dream feels doom settle in his lungs like fog on the ocean. He feels panic take a knife to his chest, hollowing him out so that it might make home amongst his ribs.

He sees Hob's hand move to the gun he knows to be hidden in his jacket pocket, panic sinks the knife impossibly deeper inside of him.

"Hob!" he wails, in a desperate, fervent attempt to wake the man, to free him from the torment of his own mind.

"Hob please!" he begs.

He does not know the full extent of Ethel's power. He does not know what she wills. He can only guess at the will of the stone. The most terrible part of himself- hungry, insatiable, selfish.

He knows that it wants him. Wants him enough to take a woman apart piece by piece, to make a home beneath her skin. Wants it enough to bring him to his knees, steal his will and force the hand of the man he loves.

The stone wants Hob dead.

And terrifyingly, Dream is unsure as to whether or not it has to power to do so.

He watches Hob's finger rest upon the trigger. The mortal is sobbing now, tears running down his face.

Dream's heart aches in a way he didn't know it could. He is sure any second he will crack open, split perfectly down the middle.

He remembers Hob telling him about being drawn and quartered, about being torn to pieces.

Dream feels that way now, as he watches Hob press the gun to his skull.

"No!" he wails.

The scream burns in his chest, the tears on his face so hot he imagines them biting into his skin.

Not that it matters.

If Hob Gadling dies to the will of his Dreamstone, there will be nothing left of Dream, a hollow, withering husk which the stone might finally inhabit.

Perhaps that is the stone's true goal. Hollow Dream out so that it might finally rule.

He watches hopelessly as Ethel moves with an inhuman speed, pulling the stone from its home around her throat and smashing it against the ground. He watches Hob slump, the gun falling from his hand. Dream makes a sound of relief he has never heard from himself, a guttural, desperate sound.

For a moment, as the jewel shatters, twitching like a snake with its head cut off, time moves as ink spilled into water, falling gracefully downward, impossibly slow. Slipping and grasping until finally settling.

Dream feels his power return back to him, with such urgency, that his is on his feet before he is truly aware. He can feel the electric blue hum of his irises as he rushes forward, catching Ethel in his arms before she has a chance to meet the ground.

He lowers her gently to the floor, chest heaving. Despite his Endlessness, he has to resist the urge to empty his stomach. The grief finally catching up with him, roiling around sickeningly in his gut.

He lets out a further pained noise of relief as he watches Hob's hand twitch, as he watches his love return to the Waking.

***

When he opens his eyes, Dream sits before him, covered in gore but miraculously unharmed, Ethel Cripps lay in the pool of his lap, terrifyingly still.

Hob feels the lingering effects of his hallucination in his chest, feels the hopelessness and panic still chipping away at his insides.

He sees the gun discarded to his side, the true horror, the true stakes of their encounter filling him.

He lets out a heaving sob, moving over to Dream as quickly as his trembling form with allow, pulling the man's head to his shoulder in a desperate embrace.

"Oh, my love," he cries relievedly, pressing his lips into the other man's hair. He breathes in deeply, the familiar scent of his man mixing with the metallic smell of blood.

"Oh Dream, oh my Dream," he whispers, a little delirious in his relief. He nearly falls to pieces as he feels the man's arm tighten around him.

"Hob," he breathes, pressing his lips to the mortal's neck, and jaw, and cheek, anywhere he may be able to touch the man with his mouth.

After a moment of clinging to one another as though someone were trying to tear them apart, Hob pulls away to regard Ethel.

He lifts the woman's torso from Dream's lap carefully, cradling her lolled head as though she were something precious.

He feels the most terrible grief engulf him.

Why should he get to live?

He who has had tens of lives when she has barely had one?

"It wasn't her fault," he cries, wiping the blood from her cheek with a gentle hand.

"It wasn't her fault," he weeps.

Dream moves to his knees, so that he might hold Hob's head to his chest without interrupting the mortal's embrace of the woman in his arms.

"I know, dear heart. I know," he soothes.

"She didn't deserve this," he whimpers into the damp cloth of the man's shirt. He feels Dream gasp in his own mournful breath.

"She did not," he agrees.

"When my sister arrives to collect her, I'll ensure she meets the most spectacular afterlife. Death is so sweet, my dear, so gentle. You don't have to worry for her any longer," Dream comforts.

"I don't want her to die," Hob mourns, a visceral sob pulling itself from his chest.

"I want her to have a life, be a mother, or a scientist, or a poet, I want her to experience love. Real love, like what you and I have. Not the horror that Burgess inflicted on her," he continues, tears running down his face and wetting Ethel's blood soaked gown.

"It should have been me. It should have been me. Why wasn't it me?" he laments.

Dream takes the mortal gently by the face, he too is soaked in the blood from Ethel's wounds, his eyes bloodshot with tears. When he speaks, his voice cracks as though he's been screaming.

"Ethel saved you, dear heart. I watched her tear my stone from her throat to save you from yourself. She knew the risk," he explains, quietly.

"I don't deserve it," Hob responds, voice breaking.

Dream shakes his head fervently.

"There is no one who deserves it more," he disagrees.

Whatever rebuttable Hob has is swallowed by a sound from beneath him, a desperate gasp from the woman in his lap.

He watches as Ethel's eyes snap open, wondrous, vulnerable blue where violent red had been.

***

They do not enter the hospital again for fear of drawing suspicion.

When Dream had used his sand to bring them there the evening prior, in a surely feeble attempt to save Ethel, it had been on the condition that once they had ensured the woman was safely inside, that they would stay away, for the Endless' concern of Hob's capture.

He couldn't help but agree. It wouldn't do him well, after all they'd endured, to end up in jail. What with life without parole meaning an eternity behind bars.

So instead, they settle on standing across the street, cloaked in the shadows of an alleyway, close enough that Dream might use his power to search the dreams of the hospital's occupants and far enough that they might not draw unwanted attention.

Hob waits on bated breath, as Dream shuts his eyes, using his newly regained power to ascertain Ethel's fate.

As he searches, Hob allows himself to marvel at the Endless. He cannot believe how well he looks, how a mere 24 hours reunited with his power has changed him from the trembling man he'd found in the cage, to the beautiful, regal creature he had quietly adored for centuries.

He cannot allow himself too much joy though, until he is sure of the woman's fate. Until he is sure that she has made it through. That she has the life that Hob so desperately wants for her.

He watches a small, endeared smile pull on Dream's face. He huffs out a sound that indicates relief. Hob feels the Endless' hand tighten around his.

"She's alive," he assures the other man breathlessly.

Hob cannot contain his joy.

In the cover afforded to them by darkness, he sweeps the man into his arms, holding him tightly enough to wound a mortal man.

Dream seemingly cannot help the laugh that escapes him, as Hob places him back on the ground. He takes the mortal's face softly between his hands.

"She's alive," he says again.

Hob can see the relief in his sparkling cerulean eyes.

He knows they both would had been destroyed had Ethel perished. Justified or not, they both felt responsible for the woman, for the suffering she incurred.

Knowing she will life a full life, frees their love from the burden of her death.

"She's alive?" Hob gasps, joyous tears streaming down his face.

Dream nods, clearing Hob's cheeks with his thumbs.

"It's over?" Hob continues.

Dream smiles, tears skirting his own eyes. He presses his forehead to Hob's.

"Yes, my love," he agrees breathily, pressing his lips to the other man's, as though every second their mouths were parted caused the Endless torment.

Hob kisses back with equal fervour, the unification of their lips as intoxicating as it had been that first night.

The mortal is elated by the fact that they may now love one another, unencumbered, into perpetuity.

He pulls back just a fraction, so that he might speak, without having to end their embrace.

"I do love you," he begins, voice gentle, aching. A prayer whispered into the plushness of Dream's lips.

"I know we've both been working under the assumption that this love is mutual, and assured. But I needed to say it. I needed you to hear it. After all we have been through. And all we may go through in the future. I wanted you to know. You hold my heart, Dream, and there is no one I trust more with the precious muscle. I love you," he whispers, winning an incredible, radiant smile from his companion in return.

Dream is so undeniably beautiful, so gentle and tender. The idea that he may love Hob back, is enough to sustain the mortal into eternity.

"I love you too, Hob Gadling. Of course, I love you too," he whispers, laughing gently.

"I think perhaps I might not have known true, unselfish love until you loved me. You have my heart as well," he oaths, pulling Hob into another tantalising kiss.

"I am heartened by your love the way kindling nourishes fire, the way sunlight nourishes flora, the way air nourishes lungs. I am yours, Hob. I've always been yours. And I am so sorry it took so long for me to see that," he admits.

Hob silences him once more with his mouth, overwhelmed by the once-stoic man's unabashed confession. He pulls the man impossibly closer, so that their torsos may be pressed together, so that the Endless might feel Hob's heart beating in his chest, beating just for him.

"You have nothing to be sorry for," he soothes, running a reassuring hand up the man's back. The Endless shivers.

They stay wrapped around one another for a moment, each not quite believing that their joy is real. Both men have known such torment, that such free, unconditional love will take some getting used to.

Hob is bolstered by knowing that they have all the time in the world.

He pulls away to regard Dream, as one might regard the stars, or the sunrise, or the opening of the heavens, with awe and unfettered yearning.

"What do we do now?" he asks, laughing a little at the ridiculousness of the sentiment.

It's too incredible to consider forever together, too big. He settles for what is next, for carving a life for him and the man before him. Together.

"That's the wonderful part," Dream offers gently, running a hand across Hob's cheek. He too regards Hob as something marvellous, as a painting or a shooting star or a summer rain.

"We may do whatever we want," he whispers.

Hob cannot help the giddy smile that pulls across his cheeks.

"What do you want?" he asks, knowing full well by the tightening of Dream's arms around him, exactly what the man desires.

More.

Closer.

A memory from their first night together assaults him with stunning clarity. To have Dream pressed against him again, like he had been that night, is perhaps his greatest wish.

"You," Dream confesses, confirming the other man's suspicions.

Hob feels the joy of their reciprocal desire engulf his chest in light.

"I only want you. You and this little life we carved from sorrow."

***