Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

"Look, Sarah. Look what I'm offering you; your dreams."

It was a statement which, in hindsight, she should have paid more attention to…

xXx

It was raining in the Underground.

Murky water trickled around the cobblestones of the Goblin City in miniature streams, dripped off the squat roofs into endless puddles, and flooded some of the smaller inhabitants out of their homes altogether.

The labyrinth corridors had turned into rivers fit for gondolas.

The oubliettes were so damp that an infestation of eye-moss had completely furred the rocky walls.

The forests had become swamps.

In the grand window of the Goblin Castle's throne room, an enormous heap of goblins stared mournfully out, watching the rain coming down in sheets. The tink-tank-tinkedy-tank of leaks collecting in buckets harmonized with the white-noise staccato, and the collective goblin sigh.

"I'm bored," groaned one from low down in the pile, his mushy face made all the mushier from the gravity of goblins above him.

"You're always bored," grunted a second; a large leathery upside-down face dangling off the parapet, letting the rain run into his eyebrows.

"It's always borin'," said the first. "It's always rainin'."

"Ve could play a game," suggested one from far left in the heap. The heap sighed, disappointedly.

"We could have a battle," suggested another from top right, and was met with a volley of head-rolls, wordlessly expressing maybe but without much enthusiasm.

"What about The Her?" asked a croaky fifth voice from the back.

That caused a ripple, accompanied by a chorus of clanks as helmets clinked against helmets, goblin eyes meeting goblin eyes in sudden intrigue.

"The Her?" repeated Top Right goblin.

"The Her," confirmed The Fifth. "His Her."

Another flurry of clanking interest.  

"That's a thought," snickered Far Left.

xXx

Aboveground was just as wet. Rain had soaked Sarah to the skin underneath her sweater, droplets clinging to the wool, making it feel like a suit of armor over her shoulders. Condensation fogged the inside of the coffee shop as she ordered two lattes, and scored a table by the windows, wiping the glass with her sleeve so she could peer out into the torrential downpour outside. Waiting for her friend to arrive.

Across the street, she spotted the bright blue of Natalie's raincoat, face obscured by an umbrella but her trademark hurried half-march was unmistakable even as she jumped over puddles and ducked into the small Italian cafe that was the closest to Sarah's work.

Sarah waved and Natalie beamed back, shaking out her umbrella and depositing it in a bin next to the door before winding her way through tables.

"Hey, Sar!" she called, and then immediately stifled a yawn with her hand.

"Hey, Sleepy," Sarah greeted, opening her arms to Natalie as she slumped into her for a hug.

"Oh my God, the sleepiest," Natalie murmured, returning the squeeze. "Coffee so required, all the coffee." She dropped down into the chair opposite Sarah's and immediately picked up the designated latte, taking a big gulp.

"Not sleeping too well?" Sarah asked, sliding into her seat.

"Ugh, no. Stress dream, after stress dream, after stress dream," Natalie groaned. "This merger at work is going to kill me."

"So going great, then," Sarah prompted with a wry smile, taking a sip of her coffee.

"The worst. Just two more weeks, though." Natalie sighed and waved her hand. "Don't ask about it, it's so boring. How's the museum?" she asked, changing conversational direction like doing a U-turn down the highway.

"Mega stress," Sarah answered with the same amount of groan. "We're installing a new exhibition, and have a new shipment coming this afternoon. It's chaos."

Natalie raised an eyebrow, visibly impressed.

"Wow, I bet all your stress dreams are such high-brow, artistically rendered nightmares," she chuckled.

Sarah laughed with her. "Super thankful I don't dream."

Natalie stopped stirring her coffee, her eyes narrowing in confusion. "What do you mean you don't dream?"

Sarah glanced up at her, offering her a light smile. "You know, I just… hit the pillow and then it's fade-to-black."

"Weird," Natalie said with an amused huff. "You've never dreamed ever?"

"Oh… no, I definitely dreamed as a kid," Sarah replied, her brow furrowing slightly as memories were recalled. "I know I had a really bad nightmare when I saw the poster for Jaws—"

"Terrifying," Natalie agreed around a sip of her latte.

"I remember it was just a huge hole of water with teeth." Sarah shuddered. "Still freaks me out thinking about it."

Natalie swallows the last of her coffee. "Then when did you stop?"

"When…" Sarah paused and counted back in her head. "When I…"

When I—

Her mind reached for the answer and found it immediately.

She drew in a breath, clearing her throat of its sudden iron-fisted tightness, and tried to shake off the shock, chasing it back with a slug of latte.

"It's been twelve years," she answered.

Natalie cocked her head. "When you were sixteen?"

"Yes," Sarah said, and the confirmation brought with it a distinct feeling of dread. Like water rushing suddenly back from a beach. A harbinger of wrongness.

The cold wave of dawning realization was so at odds with the cozy coffee shop background noise. The clinks of mugs, and muttered conversations. And her in the middle of it, suddenly alone. Adrift.

I've had that feeling before…

"What happened, did you bump your head super bad or something?" Natalie asked.

Sarah held herself still as thoughts swirled, fringed with panic.

Twelve years.

Twelve years. It had been so easy to keep at bay the twirling, glitter-filled memories. She was practiced at it, not allowing memories of the Labyrinth and the watchful eyes of its monarch to sweep her away. After all, she'd won, hadn't she?

Hadn't she?

Sarah swallowed.

"Ate a bad peach," she answered under her breath.

xXx

Jareth lounged, cutting a long, narrow-hipped, wild-haired, drape of a figure against the study window, sprawled in his chair with his boots up on the desk while the rain outside filled the air with a beautiful, endless monotone.

He let out a contented sigh.

He liked rainstorms.

They reminded him of her. Of that day. Those first thirteen hours and the way it had all begun.

The way storm clouds had plastered her romantic, green dress to the jeans she'd worn beneath. How she'd tried to race the clouds only to be swept under them in a downpour. The sight had been worth the rain he'd had to shake out of his feathers.

Shame about how it had ended though.

But…

Jareth rolled his hand and brought out a crystal from the recesses of the ether. It sparkled with an oily rainbow sheen as he danced it across his fingers.

…there's something to be said for consolation prizes.

Chapter Text

"Is it Her?"

Bright, beady eyes watched from beneath a storm grate, tracking a pair of jean-clad ankles swinging past; jumping over some of the larger puddles on the sidewalk and hurrying to escape the rain.

"Maybe?" muttered a scratchy voice in reply, a second set of sharp eyes glowing a dim yellow next to the first pair.

"Vhat do you mean maybe?" grouched a third voice. "It 'tis or it 'tisn't. An' I'm gettin' wet!"

"Well it's bloody hard to tell from only legs!" hissed the first.

Two grumbly-mumbles of grudgeful acknowledgement echoed wetly from the drain.

"Ve need a better look," stated Three. One and Two agreed, and three sets of yellow eyes ducked back down into the murky gloom of the drain, followed by the sound of scrabbling claws on brick.

xXx

A gloved hand played across the surface of a crystal, spinning it and twirling it and sending it gliding across a palm, bringing it to a stop with perfect balance on outstretched fingertips. The suddenly still surface reflected back a sharp face with mismatched eyes.

"Let's take a look," Jareth murmured to himself.

The reflection shivered and rippled, blurring and morphing into three goblin scouts hunched in a drain, yellow eyes peering out from the darkness.

What are those rascals up to?

The image pulled back, capturing long legs. It pulled back further until there she was: Sarah, her back hunched as she ran through the rain, water dripping from her soaked hair as she barrelled through a side door to a museum.

Jareth sighed, his head tilting affectionately, a soft smile playing across his angular features. "There's my girl."

His gaze focused, watching as she hung her coat and stowed her bag in a locker before making her way to what seemed to be a loading bay, full of rectangular packages of varying sizes.

Jareth reclined back against the glassless window's arch, the window's overhang protecting him from the worst of the rain. Leaning comfortably, he propped his free arm on his knee, the other leg dangling over a sheer drop to the goblin city below as he brought the crystal closer, the image honing in on her face.

There was a solidified realness to her image this time. To the frown of her mouth, the green of her eyes. The sleek fronds of hair, still partially drenched. No blurry, romantic vapors of a dream here.

He much preferred it, though he didn't visit often. Seeing her was like opium, and he couldn't afford the addiction.

"Sweet Sarah," he sighed, a grin curling one side of his mouth. "Shall I give you something to remember me by?"

The crystal spun again as he started humming softly to himself.

There's such a sad love. Deep in your eyes…

xXx

Sarah huffed out a sigh of relief when she finally made it back to the museum's staff entrance, squeezing a river of water out of her hair after the wind had rendered both the hood of her jacket and her umbrella useless.

The coffee date with Natalie was still playing in her head, her thoughts slippery and hard to hold on to.

Something had changed. Some delicate piece of denial had shattered and she was still picking up the pieces. But stubbornness prevailed over the shock.

I'm not going to think about it, she thought determinedly. I'm not going to think about… him.

I'm not going back.

I won.

It's over…

And yet that conversation with Natalie had filled her with a mounting dread that such a rigid statement wasn't entirely the truth...

"So if you picture like, I dunno… an apple? Is there anything there?" Natalie had asked, stirring sugar into her second coffee.

Sarah had swallowed hard, blaming her thudding heart rate on the double shot of espresso in her hand.

"Yeah, for sure. I can do that, that's… I just don't dream," she'd said, the coffee infiltrating her bloodstream beginning to feel like an overwhelmingly bad idea as her skin seemed to tighten around her.

Can I picture an apple?

As Natalie went to order a muffin from the counter, Sarah had closed her eyes.

And willed an apple to appear.

For an uncomfortably long beat there was nothing. A barren wasteland of nothing devoid of even a black abyss. The abyss would at least be something. But nothing materialized—empty and silent—until worry turned to panic in Sarah's gut.

Why is there nothing?!

Then suddenly—

A round shape.

Good. There it was. Sarah eased out the clench of her jaw as more details filtered through.

Furred skin, a blushed pink color.

…Wait…

A cleft line running from tip to base..

That's not right—

A bite mark revealing the hard pit in the center. And the blackened hole that a worm had taken through the soft yellow flesh—

Stop!

Her eyes had flown open with a jolt, her breath catching in her throat as her heart hammered.

Oh God…

Deep breaths in. Deep breaths out. The sounds of a coffee shop in motion slowly washed away the horror. But the taste of peaches lingered.

Don't think about it, she'd coached herself as she'd struggled back into her wet coat and hugged Natalie goodbye, heading back out into the torrential rain, wind whipping at her hair and making her eyes sting. Put it out of your mind…

It didn't mean anything. It was just… wires getting crossed. It didn't mean anything…

She was tired, that was all.

Now partially dry, she stood in the unloading bay, packaged paintings surrounding her on all sides like big, bubble-wrapped walls as she chewed her pen, staring at the consignment checklist in her hand in a hypnotized daze. The adrenaline that had carried her back from the coffee house had already left her system with a thud.

In the oppressive quiet of the warehouse, the apprehension returned. It was worse in the clinical silence and bright lights, a feeling of being on a stage and forgetting her words washing over her. She felt under scrutiny inside and out.

I feel like someone's watching me…

She took the pen out of her mouth and shook herself out of that thought. You're being paranoid.

It was years ago, after all. Let it go…

Forcing herself to focus on the task at hand, Sarah ran the pen down the checklist, circling which paintings were to be unwrapped and hung first, making notes of which gallery they were assigned to.

A cackle broke her concentration—gritty and guttural—cut off by a harsh shh!

Her neck prickled with heat, her eyes darting around the loading bay as she spun.

"Hello?"

She waited.

Something moved in the corner of her eye—a shadow mingling with more shadows—but as she moved to catch it, there were only the stark shapes thrown from the heaps of unloaded paintings, highlighted by the loading bay's lights.

"Hello?" she called again. "Emma?"

Silence greeted her, and she waited. Waited, but nothing else came, and eventually she let the air out of her lungs in a slow breath.

Hearing things—

"Sarah?" the gallery supervisor called down from the slope leading to the main hall, startling Sarah into dropping her pen. "Have you got paintings eleven-A to eleven-D? We're nearly ready to hang."

"On it!" Sarah called up, crouching to retrieve the pen from beneath a workbench.

Eleven-A had been one of the first ones off the transport truck, leaning against the far wall with three others.

Sarah looked down at the list and ticked them off with four hurried flicks of her pen.

Here, here, here, and here.

She checked the adjoining list for titles and artists. First to be hung was Bal Masqué by Charles Hermans; oil on canvas.

That'll be the big one at the back…

Sarah frowned as she glanced up. Rather than tightly wrapped like the other three, this painting's wrapping was loose, undone in one corner and hanging open.

Maybe it snagged on something getting out of the truck? Sarah thought, worrying her lip with her teeth. Shit, please don't be damaged.

She moved the other smaller paintings carefully to one side and picked away a piece of packing tape to let the rest of the bubblewrap fall open. She froze with the tail of the wrapping in her hand, the plastic bubbles exploding as her fist tightened.

"Oh…" She breathed out as she took in the scene with wide eyes.

A glamorous balconied room, a raucous crowd, bodies pressed in tight to the point of claustrophobia, laughing and dancing and shouting in wild gaiety—

Sarah took an unsteady step back, the memory hitting her like a tidal wave; powerful and unstoppable. The way music had spun through her head, pulling at the fringes of her mind. She could hear it clearly as if it were playing now, deafening yet dreamlike.

The feeling of bodies crowding her from every side, laughing and cackling and screaming, hands clutching at her, nails digging into her arms as she tried to run.

Riotous laughter echoed in her mind…interrupted by the sound of glass breaking…

"The ballroom—"

It's just a coincidence.

It's just a coincidence!

But the longer she looked, the more it seemed the colors of the painting were… wrong. Instead of the dark red velvet trim of an opera house balcony, it was a shimmering rainbow-hued gray. The figures were extravagant in their attire, but the gentlemen looked like pirates, the ladies like fairy queens. The masks were no longer simple black satin, but wild and grotesque faces; sharp noses, empty eyes, all uncomfortably reminiscent of… of…

Goblins.

"No—"

Sarah took another step back.

There's such a sad love. Deep in your eyes…

…a kind of pale jewel…

…open and closed… within your eyes…

Sarah stumbled away from the painting, the back of her thighs catching on the workbench as she bumped against it.

And the light hitting the painting shifted.

The reds and golds returned as though they'd always been there. The strange, ethereal figures became merely a trick of the light. The goblin faces melted back into dappled light across oil paint.

Sarah took a breath. Rubbing her eyes hard. You're just tired, Sarah. Get a grip.

"Hey, we're ready!" Emma called out, bounding down the slope with long bouncy strides. "Whoa, you okay?" she asked, taking in the gaunt paleness of Sarah's cheeks as she blinked out of her daze and hauled in a deep breath.

"Fine," Sarah muttered, shaking her head and pinching the bridge of her nose, massaging across her eyes to rid herself of the cloying memory that shouldn't be a memory at all. She dropped the clipboard on the workbench and straightened her back. "Just… too much coffee. I'll take that end." She lifted one side of the painting, walking it up the slope as Emma took the lead into Gallery Room Number Seven…

…missing another rustle in amongst the shadows.

"It's defin'ly Her."

And two other voices snickered in agreement.

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

As you wish…

Sarah sighed as she rubbed her eyes. Those words were still echoing in her head, along with an almost sleepless night and a draining workday sitting heavily across her shoulders. After a fitful amount of tossing and turning, she'd finally managed to claw her way towards sleep, exhaustion winning out sometime around early morning, her dreams just an inky black well she'd sunk into as she'd crossed the threshold to unconsciousness.

But that didn't mean there was nothing there.

A lilting voice.

The taste of a peach.

The slightest touch of leather-clad fingers.

Fuck.

Her head slumped in her hands, staring down at the catalog on her desk, recuperating before the final stint of the day (or more accurately, early evening), the page open—once again—to Bal Masqué by Charles Hermans. A little thumbnail version of the piece hanging in Gallery Room Number Seven. She couldn't bring herself to go and look at the original. To satisfy her curiosity that way…

Because if she tilted her head in a certain way… and looked into it…

Things changed ever so slightly.

It was hard to be sure, the picture was so small, but… but…

Tell me I'm dreaming, Sarah pleaded silently with herself. Tell me I'm just dreaming.

…Would I even know if I was? It's been so long since I last—

"You look tired."

Sarah startled up from the catalog, meeting Emma's eyes through a bleary gaze.

"Flattery will get you nowhere," she muttered once her heart stopped trying to gallop out of her throat, brushing the hair back from her face.

"Not sleeping well?" Emma prodded, perching on the edge of Sarah's desk, taking a swig from her water bottle. Gallery plaster dust scuffed her clothing, a couple of flecks dotting her hair, twirled into an effortless updo that looked stylishly disheveled enough that Sarah fought back a spiteful glint of envy.

"Definitely not enough," Sarah answered, combing her own tangled locks out with her fingers and finding her own plaster flecks.

"Go home," Emma said, reaching over to shut off Sarah's computer and closing the catalog with a thwap.

"We still have Gallery Thirteen to hang," Sarah argued mid-stretch, though not passionately; the overtime had already dragged into over-overtime and her muscles ached, loudly pleading for a hot shower and a soft bed.

"We've done enough for today," Emma insisted, ushering Sarah up out of her chair. "Go home. Order a pizza or something. Sleep. We'll do the rest in the morning."

"You're the meanest boss in the world," Sarah muttered as she slipped into her coat, still damp around the collar from the storm that didn't seem to have any intentions of letting up.

"I know. I can be so cruel," Emma replied, and the hairs on Sarah's neck stiffened.

Just a coincidence…

She shook it off and tucked her hood up around her head as she stepped out into the torrential downpour. She hailed a cab home, watching the rain lash the windows, its white noise soporific and the steady whump-whump of the windscreen wipers like a giant's heartbeat, tension slowly unwinding.

Back in her apartment she shrugged out of the wet wool of her coat, and kicked off her boots, peeling off wet socks and dumping them in the laundry hamper.

She tumbled down onto the couch with a groan, stretching out just for a minute, just to rest all the aches synchronizing in every muscle, then she'd raid the bare bones of the fridge before a shower and bed.

She didn't mean to close her eyes.

It was pitch black when she woke up. No light, nothing but a dark void where sight should be.

Sarah raised herself slowly off the sofa, careful to avoid the coffee table as she felt her way towards the light switch. She reached out to where the living room wall should be. But instead of sturdy plaster there was the feeling of cold stone under her fingertips…

Stone?

"Where am I?"

The scent of rain filled the air. She breathed it in, blinking frantically to try and lift the dark veil from her eyes but the sightless abyss persisted.

Her hand grazed along a wall as she took a hesitant step forward, the stone wet from a storm just recently passed, fingers brushing across the soft ripple of moss that wriggled beneath her touch, causing her hand to lurch away.

"Ugh!"

One step at a time, she lifted her leg when her feet met branches obscuring her path, debris, and sodden leaves squelching beneath her bare feet.

I'm dreaming… It's just another dream…

Sarah swallowed.

…Isn't it?

But she could feel it all. Could feel the slime of soaked stone walls beneath her fingers. Could smell the cold stone and taste the rain saturating the air. Wasn't it supposed to be the other way around in a dream?

Somewhere in the distance, thunder rolled a low bass note through the air. The stone wall under her hand suddenly gave way into an opening she hadn't anticipated and almost tripped through.

She froze, her hand no longer moored, the vulnerability of her blindness making her heart jump into her throat. She might have imagined it but she could've sworn something cackled nearby, a dirty little laugh that could've been an echo of the lightning cracking overhead.

"Hello?" Sarah called out, her voice strained with panic.

No one called back.

She turned her head left. Right. Trying to feel out a direction to take with all her other senses that were stoically refusing to be heightened by her lack of sight.

Which way? Which way?

Left or right?

Up or down?

…Which way did I go last time?

She drew her lip in between her teeth, pinched hard to draw down her concentration, trying not to spin in place. Which way, which way, which way?

She closed her eyes. Opened them again uselessly back into blackness.

"Give me a sign!"

A crack of thunder broke over the Labyrinth, shaking the air. A gale of wind rushed down the damp stone corridor, billowing through Sarah's hair. It buffeted her and pushed her back until she was facing left. Her hand found a branch and reconnected with the stone wall like a miracle.

She took a breath.

"Fine, since I'm pointing that way…"

With brittle, cautious steps she walked, the stone paving ever so slightly beginning to steepen into an incline enough that her calf muscles began to gently burn, wet leaves and grit sticking to the soles of her feet.

Should I feel that? If this is just a dream…?

After what felt like forever the wall curled around. Became an alcove, rough stone turning to soft, smooth brick.

The storm dropped away to the stillness of inside air.

I'm in the castle…

Sarah's foot plummeted as she missed a step, over-correcting and slipping, falling, her backside meeting the stone paving.

"Shit!"

She groaned, and when the shock of the fall passed, she used her elbows to push herself back up, fingers outstretched.

Her hand met warm leather, the ruffle of lace.

And then the warm skin of a wrist as fingers closed around her hand, pulling her up.

"Well," murmured a voice, low and soft, purring directly into her ear as she yanked her hand back with a shocked gasp. "Look who wandered in."

Sarah jolted awake, a cry halfway out of her mouth.

"God… Oh, God…"

Several deep breaths pushed the dream away and put it back under a shroud of denial.

Just a dream. She drew her hands down her face. "Fucking hell."

When the shivery, shaking feeling eventually passed she rose to her feet, shutting the living room light off as she strode off to her bathroom to shower off the lingering aura of the labyrinth.

Missing the yellow eyes glowing underneath the couch.

"D'ya fink she's dreamin' of Him?" said One as the sound of running water joined the sound of rain hitting the windows.

A dirty chuckle croaks from under the sofa. "Defin'ly sounds like."

A third gave a grunt. "If she is, they ain't her dreams though, is they?"

A long pause. "...Ya fink she's finkin' of Him too?"

Two snickered. "I dun't reckon she ever stopped."

Chapter Text

"Darling, how you consume me…"

Jareth hummed to himself as lightning flashed and briefly overlayed the warm candlelight dappling the castle's walls.

"Starve and near exhaust me…"

The night had drawn in, and he'd shucked off his courtly extravagance in favor of a silk robe of tawny brocade and shimmering gold embroidery that reached the floor and pooled on the flagstones. He let it drop from his shoulders, catching it with one hand and flinging it across the bed as he continued the melody.

"Oh, tightest grip on my affection…"

He wore nothing underneath but his medallion.

Not that modesty mattered in the confines of his bedroom; a quiet haven away from goblin ruckus, filled with tapestries and hangings, a burning fire, and a bed that echoed the throne's sweeping curl, creating an intimate half-shell silhouette filled with furs, blankets, and pillows.

"I move the stars for you…" he sang aloud, walking to his bed before sinking into it, moving the covers back to slip in underneath them.

He left the other side of the bed free.

Just in case.

"...And though your eyes can be so cruel…"

He grinned to himself, and let his head recline into the pillows.

"I'd do anything to catch your attention."

A lazy hand ran down from the hollow of his throat to his heart, straightening the amulet over his sternum, his fingers playing over the lunula's curve.

He was going to dream of her.

He could feel it; the press of it heavy and waiting behind his eyes, bearing down on him like a hand on his chest, holding him still. The feel of her hand momentarily encased in his the night before still had his heart fluttering. The brief glimpse of her was still intoxicating, the way she'd strayed into his castle—wide-eyed and blind, windswept and beautiful—still dazzled.

Brave thing, to get so far on touch alone.

His mouth stretched into a private leer. He could get quite far on touch alone, too. Maybe she'd come to appreciate that...

The second time she'd made an entrance had been after he'd drifted into a doze on his throne, his hand stretched behind his head as a pillow, the other draped across the throne's curve. His eyelids had flickered open when he'd felt the touch of her hand stroking down his arm, exploring the texture of his leather coat with a crease between her eyebrows.

He'd watched her fingers trail his forearm almost absentmindedly as she tried to get her bearings, unwilling yet to give the game away with any movement.

He'd turned his hand over as her fingertips traveled from sleeve to glove, and as he'd finally reciprocated with a gentle touch of his own, his fingers trailing across her palm, she'd gasped and snuffed out like a candle. He'd grinned and resurfaced from the dream with a flicker of his eyelids opening and a pleased hum.

Getting closer.

And now…

The thought of her touch had his blood fizzing, heart pounding hard enough to see the twitch of it beating at his pulse points.

Yes, he was going to dream of Sarah.

But more importantly, she was going to dream of him. They'd meet in that strange shared space that wasn't really shared. The dreams no longer belonged to her—she couldn't see them with her own eyes—but that didn't change the fact that the real estate existed inside her head.

It had taken her a while to realize that particular door in her mind was closed. And now she was breaking in on private property without an invitation.

Jareth smirked to himself.

Delinquent.

He didn't mind, of course.

He was nothing if not generous.

He took a long, deep breath and willed himself to calm. The bed cradled him comfortably, drawing the tension out of his shoulders. He'd never wished a day to move faster, practically pleading night to fall, knowing she'd be in his mind's eye as soon as he retired for the evening. She was so close…

The soporific staccato of the rain flooding the Goblin City drew him slowly down into sleep, his eyes closing without a fight. And when he finally reached the low depths of unconsciousness, the air changed; the rain no longer so loud in the curved archway, the fire no longer burning so bright.

Jareth's eyes opened. Trained around the dark room.

And stopped on Sarah standing in the window.

She was dressed in a white t-shirt, shapeless joggers slung low on her hips and bare feet. Her hand braced against the stonework and a crack of lightning illuminated her gaze, blind though it was honed directly on him.

She wasn't startled by the roll of thunder that followed it, but the hand on the alcove stroked inward, leading her deeper into the room, and Jareth watched her hungrily, sitting up in bed and letting the blankets pool in his lap.

Her hand met the edge of the window's alcove, fingers slipping over the grooves in the stone, and she sighed as though bored, irritated to find herself sightlessly searching another room in his castle.

Such an inconvenience.

"Where am I this time?" she asked, presumably a rhetorical question meant only for herself, but he answered it anyway.

"You know where you are, precious," he said softly and her head snapped back to him.

She didn't vanish on him this time, her nerves having steeled from annoyance. Perhaps she was acclimatizing to his presence.

"Is this a dream?"

Jareth smiled (to himself, since she couldn't see it) and reached for his robe.

"Well, it's certainly not a nightmare," he answered affectionately, closing the brocade around himself as he rose from his bed. He took a moment to summon the fire into a brighter flame so he could take her in.

Still, the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen. Long, dark hair, and eyes so sparkling green that he yearned for them to see him fully. Yearned to see those pupils widen into inky pools the way they had whenever he'd been close to her.

The sight of her standing in his bedroom made his gut clench pleasantly.

Of course, he'd keep his manners, but every fantasy of her here, within his reach, standing before him, flashed before his eyes on an in-breath (all with considerably and consistently less space between them).

His eyes slipped down her form and he felt his throat tighten. Here with His Sarah.

What an exquisite dream we could share…

"How do I know it's not a nightmare?" she asked, one of her hands remained anchored to the window sill, the other stretched out to find something else to connect to, fingers straining.

Jareth tilted his head.

"Are you scared, Sarah?"

She rolled her eyes in his general direction, affording him the full impact of her unimpressed scorn.

"No," she answered, her hands still searching.

He stepped closer to her, into the circumference of her arms reach, and her hand connected with the collar of his robe. She caught hold of it. Swallowed.

"I just keep dreaming of you," she said, a bitter inflection indicating he wasn't intended to take it as flattery, but he chuckled regardless.

"How romantic, to be so much on your mind." He watched her fingers flex, her hand flat over his chest, her fingertips brushing his collarbone. She didn't pull away. "And you're in mine," he added quietly, confident she wouldn't pick up on the double meaning.

Her fingers traveled inwards. Brushing over his medallion she let out a shivery breath. A small line furrowed her brow, eyes narrowing.

"It feels so real," she said pensively. "For a dream."

Jareth held his tongue, fully aware that this gentle exploration would grind to a halt if she caught on that this was no figment of her imagination.

Yet, how promising it was; that this was how she behaved with her figments of him.

He leaned into her touch as her fingers brushed upwards to his throat, up his neck, cupping his face in an exploratory caress. He kept his hands down at his sides, not reciprocating as she stroked the hollow of his cheek.

"Is it really just a dream?" she asked again.

Jareth nodded, ignoring the 'just'.

"It's a dream." He turned into her hand so the corner of his mouth met her palm. "One we share."

She was still for several breaths as that thoughtful crease between her brows reappeared.

Another flash of lightning.

Another roll of thunder.

Her thumb traced inwards, testing the plushness of his lower lip, and he couldn't help himself, unable to hold himself in place—his restraint slipping free of its moorings ever so slightly—his tongue licked the pad of her thumb, and he all but tasted her heartbeat jump under her skin. His teeth nipped gently, and she drew her hand back.

He caught it, fingers encircling her wrist completely, and she gasped.

"Don't wake up yet," he whispered, keeping his voice low lest she hear the plea wrapped around it like barbed wire. "Not yet."

Ever so slowly he slipped his hand against hers as though he'd caught her in a dance. One they hadn't managed to finish last time…

"It's so good to see you again," he whispered, stepping another inch into her.

"I wish I could say the same," she quipped, and he chuckled, resisting every instinct that was clamoring to press closer, gain more ground, feel her against him.

Instead, he brought her hand back to his shoulder, his fingers trailing down her forearm. She didn't resist, her breathing starting to deepen, her blind eyes dilating brazenly.

The way they had done for him before.

"Shall we practice?" he offered, placing his hands on the window sill. Caging her in but not touching, her free arm came up to brace against his chest. "We can forego the fruit." He leaned in closer until their foreheads were almost touching, the warmth of her breath fanning his cheek.

"Can you picture… a Goblin King?" he asked, and Sarah's brow furrowed. She blinked. Eyes suddenly focusing on him. "Sarah…" he purred, meeting her gaze and holding it. "Can you see me?"

She winked out and Jareth opened his eyes, blinking in his bed with the taste of her skin on his lips.

He let out a pleased groan and rolled back into sleep.

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

"Is zis a good idea?"

Three pairs of hands paused on the frame they were halfway through adjusting on Gallery Number Seven's wall. Its rainbow surface sparkled under the overhead lights.

Yellow eyes narrowed.

"Vhat do you mean?"

"He means," said a third voice, sounding strained under the weight of the frame, "is we gonna get bogged? What if Him dun't get what He wants?"

There was a pause, and then the slick sound of a lip being chewed pensively, accompanied by a thoughtful smack of teeth echoing wetly.

"Nah. Not likely," said One, and secured the frame onto the hook that had been less-than-expertly nailed into the wall, scurrying back down the ladder to survey his handiwork. "Besides," he added, as Three took hold of the bottom end of the ladder, toppling it into One's hands. "All's fair in love and war, right?"

"Vhich is this, then?" asked Two, tilting his head to take in the large painting nailed to the wall, before scampering to catch up with the two goblins disappearing through the alcove.

"It's both, stupid," One answered.

xXx

They aren't dreams.

Sarah tried to get a handle on that. Tried to put the lid back on that particular Pandora's box, but now that the veil had lifted it was impossible to ignore.

Jareth was inside her head.

And not just in the daydreamy, romantic way. Somehow he was in there, strutting (or in this instance lounging) about it in her subconscious. Through her commute to the museum, through the work day over-viewing a proposal for an upcoming installation, signing off on repair estimates, and studiously avoiding Gallery Number Seven through every single second; he was there.

Some switch had been flipped, her inner eye now drifting across the vivid image of him sprawled over his bed, the bedsheet only just preserving his modesty where her knee had split his thighs, his wild hair further tousled from sleep, the fiery depths of his eyes sparkling with intoxication at her proximity.

She could see it all now. Couldn't stop seeing it.

Sarah pressed her fingertips into her eyes, her leg bouncing under her desk, as she tried to dissolve that image back into the familiar blackness that had been her imagination for so long.

Stop it, stop it, stop it…

His tall, lithe frame wouldn't disappear from her mind's eye. Tauntingly perfect skin, toned muscle and tight hips achingly in focus.

It rankled. Every moment with him, there had always been a costume. Meant to dazzle and intimidate. Meant to steal the air from her lungs and the words from her mouth. Splayed across his bed as she'd straddled his lap, his nakedness had been another costume, and she knew it. Another unfair tactic to turn her around, and it had worked perfectly. Her head was still spinning.

She could still feel the brush of his fingertips over her collarbone as he'd stalled her by the neck of her t-shirt, the brush of his lips against her ear.

Meet me in Gallery Seven…

Sarah shivered and glanced to the big glass door that would lead her down to the galleries.

No.

Not a chance.

She let out a deep sigh, rubbed her hands down her face.

I just won't sleep. Ever again.

She picked up the pen from her desk and started working through the paperwork heaped on it, two fingers at her temple like she could force her attention not to waver. She scribbled the last signature onto the insurance forms. And stopped.

Squinted.

If you turned the page this way…

It almost looked like the bunch of scribbles pulled together into a little goblin face.

It cackled, and Sarah gasped, pushing herself up onto her feet, her chair clattering behind her.

"Sarah…? Sarah!"

Her eyes flashed open. She hadn't realized she'd closed them, head jolting up from her desk with the insurance form plastered to her cheek, and the gallery supervisor's hand on her shoulder, shaking her out of unconsciousness.

"Sarah, did you pass out?" Emma asked gently, her eyebrows knitted with worry.

"Uh," replied Sarah succinctly. "No, I… I…"

"I think you need a doctor, hun," Emma said, her hand squeezing Sarah's shoulder.

"I'm—no, I'm fine—"

"You should go home," Emma insisted. "The gallery just closed, hmmm?"

Sarah frowned.

Something was wrong, but she couldn't put her finger on it. Head thickened with lack of sleep, eyes blinking blearily at Emma's mushy, wrinkled face, there was something wrong but it kept wriggling out of Sarah's comprehension.

"What did you say?"

"I said the gallery just closed, dear, didn't I, hmmm?"

"It did?" Sarah's brows furrowed as she took in the darkened windows. How long was I asleep?

"Better to go home, deary, there's nothing for you here," Emma encouraged, the copper pans and brick-a-brack on her back clinking all against each other as she hustled Sarah out of her chair. "Now, there's your coat, dear, you'll want that you will, yes go on, put it on, yes, yes, yes…"

"Th…thank you," Sarah managed, picking up her shoulder bag from the back of her chair and turning towards the gallery exit.

"Not that way, dear," snapped Emma, turning her around by her shoulders, the spinning wheel that was strapped to her back knocking Sarah's pot of pens down to the floor. "You won't want to be going that way. Through Gallery Number Seven, dear, yes, yes, there we go, off you go now…"

"Oh," Sarah muttered, and on wobbly legs, opened the polished glass door. In the corridor leading to the stairs the sound of tinkling glass and laughter made her pause for a moment, before her feet started walking without her again.

Her shoes clicked on the steps, and as though joining their percussion a deep low bass note began droning in accompaniment.

Where am I going?

The staircase twisted, descending in a spiral, and on the last step Sarah touched down onto a blood red carpet. A gold curtain swept across two marble plinths and she pushed her way through the soft velvet. She found herself standing on the second balcony of an opulent opera house.

She braced herself on the balustrade, taking in the sight below her. Every terrace was full to bursting with laughing patrons, all clinking glasses, singing and dancing. Two women in bright red dresses, their hair braided with roses, swung in hoops above the crowd, the heights terrifying. Some party goers leaned against the railings in top hat and tails, staring up in awe. Others twirled in shimmering ballgowns of satin and silk, and Sarah pulled her coat tighter around herself, an embarrassed flush at being underdressed overtaking her cheeks.

Musicians from the orchestra pit tuned their instruments and the surrounding crowd cheered as the intro of a melody crescendoed. Bright synth notes soared over guitar and drums, tinny and electric, and Sarah swallowed as the first verse of the song, sung en masse.

"There's such a sad love, deep in your eyes," crooned the full crowd of the opera house, sounding mostly drunk, every patron leaning against another. "A kind of pale jewel, open and closed within your eyes! I'll place the sky within your eyes—"

The acrobats above the sprawling mass swayed in time with the beat, every rise of their hoops reaching sickening heights, and Sarah couldn't bear to watch. It was too much like standing on a precipice looking down. Everything turned on its head and vertigo setting in.

I have to get out…

She pushed her way through a throng of jesters wearing dunce caps, their bright white pajama-costumes decorated in frills and red baubles. They cackled as she forced her way through.

"In search of new dreams—!" A ballerina bellowed, holding a champagne flute in the air, and the crowd roared with applause as though that line was some sort of cue. "A love that will last, within your heart!"

A glowing green sign marked Exit came into view at the end of the terrace, and Sarah fought her way towards it. It felt like it took hours to cross that small expanse of balcony, bodies crushing her, arms wrapping around her shoulders to force her into a companionable sway to the music until she could wriggle free.

"I'll paint you mornings of gold, I'll spin you Valentine evenings though we're strangers 'til now! We're choosing the path between the stars! I'll leave my love! Between the stars!"

And then suddenly she was through, feet leaving carpet and landing with a hard clack against the stone floor of Gallery Number Seven, the party continuing without her, on the other side of a velvet curtain.

The air was cool after the burning press of bodies and Sarah drew in a thankful breath, taking several shaky steps away from the opera house terrace.

It's just a dream, she thought, but that thought brought her no comfort at all.

From Gallery Number Seven it was only a short flight of steps up to the main hall and the exit onto the street.

Sarah adjusted her bag across her shoulders and started hurrying through the gallery at a brisk pace.

She froze mid-stride at a painting hung wonkily right at the end.

The breath caught in her throat. Blood drained from her face.

It was a perfect recreation of her last stand in the Labyrinth. It shimmered unnaturally; the pigments sparkling like crushed diamonds on the canvas.

The words came into her head unbidden, falling like an echo into her ears.

Through dangers untold and hardships unnumbered. I have fought my way here to the castle beyond the Goblin City—

"Stop!" A harsh cry reverberated from the painting, and the glittering surface moved: wind blowing through the fronds Jareth's hair and billowing out his cape, and the depiction of Sarah opposite him straightened her spine, hardened her jaw."Look, Sarah. Look what I'm offering you," Jareth pleaded, the tawny feathers of his cape fluttering behind him on an Underground breeze. "...Your dreams."

The image changed, and Sarah was suddenly staring at her own face as her eyes focused on the outstretched crystal in Jareth's hand.

I'm going to say, "and my kingdom as great," Sarah thought to herself, remembering that moment so vividly she could feel the wind on her face, the ache in her back and feet from hours in the Labyrinth's twists and turns, and the stab of shame still in her heart from wishing away her baby brother.

And my kingdom's as great…

But the Sarah in the painting didn't say her line. Instead, she tilted her head at the crystal, a slow smile spreading across her face, smug like she'd solved another riddle.

"You can't offer what's already mine, Goblin King," she said, and the air in Sarah's lungs lurched to a painful stop, a gasp caught in her throat.

Wait!... Wait, what?!

The Sarah in the painting looked triumphant as the words echoed around her.

"You can't offer

what's

already

mine…!"

The words cracked the crystal in Jareth's hand, and he let it drop. It shattered on the stones.

And then the painting splintered like glass, a spiderweb of a fracture breaking over its surface, splitting the wall behind it, and down to the floor as Sarah reared back, her shoes dancing over the fissures in the concrete.

It's a trick! It's just a trick! It's not real!

But the truth had already seeped out of the painting like juice from a bitten peach and she could taste the rotten knowledge of what he'd done.

He'd taken her dreams.

They were hers, and he…

HE TOOK THEM!

Her temper flared in a way she'd sworn it wouldn't again, words already barrelling out of her mouth and ricocheting off the sterile gallery walls before she could bite them back down.

"I wish the Goblin King would show himself!"

Thunder boomed inside the gallery, and she flinched. The stairwell lit with a crack of lightning. Another roll of thunder, another beckoning crack of lightning out in the gallery, and Sarah braced herself against the wind rolling over her, spinning her around with it.

And there he was, leaning extravagantly against the entrance to Bal Masque like a work of art himself.

He sparkled as though he'd just stepped out of the painting, everything gold except for the dark red stitching down his trousers and around the cuffs of his shirt. The lining of his cape was jet black, and it billowed impressively even in the airless room.

Mismatched eyes met hers, a wry smile twisting his lips and Sarah's blood boiled.

"Wish granted, darling."