Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Through those same lips which had controlled the rocks and which had overcome ferocious beasts, his life breathed forth, departed in the air.- Ovid

Today, Dream Of The Endless, Lord Morpheus, King Of Nightmares, does not perform his duties. Today, he keeps the blood on his hands out of view of his subjects, of his librarian. Today, he chooses to wash the blood clean from his hands as if it’d remove the stain from his soul. Dream could spare but a thought to remove the blood of his son from the hands that brought about his end, but he chooses to wash it away.

His subjects, of course, do not remark on the storm that night. Lucienne will not comment on the library books that will sometimes fly off their shelves, Mathew will not ask for lighter rainfall on his feathers, even Mervyn will not grumble at the repairs to be done when the storm has passed.

Dream was a father, had been a father, but he was also Endless. This meant that such a thing as bereavement is not something he can allow himself to feel for more than a night. He had lost his son centuries ago, but only recently had he been able to take on the mantle of father once more. One final time.

In the silence of his chambers, the water still murky from blood, Dream lets himself cry. No one hears, and somehow Dream finds this worse. These tears are love for his son, and he is unable to show how much he truly loves anywhere but the isolation of his room. Or, he feels so.

When the sobs subside Dream clenches his hands to his chest, were he to look now they would seem clean, but dirty, always filthy to him. He finds himself, for the first time in millennia, dreaming. Dreaming of someone who may understand the burden he carries, or at least whose hands are as bloody as his. Sailors hands. The hands of a friend.

…

Hob Gadling is awoken from a bloody nightmare by a child’s scream, the stench of copper still upon the air. Pain in his knee protests as he swings his legs from the bed.

“I’m coming, little one, wait a minute!” Hob calls out to the cot at the end of his bed. The bundle of cloth wriggles slightly as he pulls it to his chest and looks down into blue eyes, smatterings of dark hair sticking out from the top of the blanket.

“Hungry?” Hob asks his now silent observer. Rising from where he is perched at the end of the bed, he makes his way to the kitchen. Opening the cupboards, he goes about the now autonomous process of preparing milk, testing the temperature of the teet against his palm before putting it to the once again crying infant.

Sitting on the kitchen chair, cradling his daughter, he looks across the room to the ticking clock. Six months, six months since Audrey was killed in a hit and run, seven months since his stranger- Dream, he reminds himself, appeared in his dream, seven months since he asked him to stay. When Audrey had told him she was expecting, the fear that’d gripped him was tantamount to that he felt over 400 years ago. When his mortal child was born and he realised he’d outlive them, when he watched Eleanor draw her final breath, child silent and still between her legs, when he had held Robyn’s cold body in his arms. He knew, however, that he couldn’t stop her from carrying to term, no matter, he could never regret his daughter in his arms,

The clock continues to click, and he looks down to see if the bottle has been finished, when a large crash sounds from the front hallway. Immediately, Hob is on his feet, putting his daughter quickly on the spare play mat before grabbing the bat he kept by the hallway on his way there.

Ready to take on anyone trying to gain access to his home, Hob lifts the bat above his head to slam it into someone if necessary. However, the item drops as soon as he sees the figure on the floor. His friend, his stranger, is curled into his carpet, clenching his hands and hiding them behind the sleeves of his coat. What’s worse of all is that his friend is visibly crying. He doesn’t think it ever occurred to him that Dream could cry. Of course, he always seems to be one step away from it, but never has he ever seen a tear slip down his cheek.

This is why, when Dream raises his head to speak to Hob, and he sees the stains down his face, he cannot stand still any longer. Hob drops to his stranger’s level and ignores the click of his knee as he does.

“My friend, Dream, why are you here? What has happened?” Hob speaks quickly, but he knows he’s been heard.

“He’s gone”, his friend replies, his voice cracked and sore. Cold hands grasp at his, and when Hob welcomes the touch, immediately he notices they slightly shake. Dream is doing everything to keep this emotion inside- and failing.

“Who’s gone love?” He doesn’t even notice the slip of endearment from his lips; his stranger is now looking right into his eyes.

“My son”, Dream says, clearly trying to keep a level tone despite the wobble in his voice, “Today I finally granted him what I should have long ago, I granted him death”.

Dream pulls his hands out of his sleeves, and Hob notices they are red as if they have been scrubbed raw, but there are also still clumps of dark red behind his nails. Blood. He may not be a smart man, but he can work out what has brought his friend to such a condition. For some reason unknown to any human, his best friend had to kill his child.

Nausea pulls at his gut. He pictures himself with Robyn’s blood on his hands. It had been when he died, but he sees himself if his son hadn’t drawn his last breath before Hob got to him. What if he’d needed to put Robyn out of such great pain, because he knows this must be the case? His friend is many things, but someone capable of filicide for any reason other than great love cannot be who he is. His heart rate begins to speed as the nightmare clutches at Hob, forcing him to picture the violence if he had to hurt his daughter, likely asleep now in the room next door.

There is a slight movement from next to him, and he sees Dream quickly wave something away over his shoulder. Almost instantly, the panic calms.

“Peace, Hob Gadling. I did not mean to bring nightmares to you, I merely did not know where to go. I will take my leave immediately”.

As his friend starts to stand, Hob’s hand shoots out; he’ll be dammed before he lets Dream out of his sight. Dream flinches at the touch but does not pull back and relaxes into the carpet once more.

“Wait, just a minute, I just need a minute.” Hob appeals to his friend. He can’t process what Dream has told him, and a moment later when a scream rips through the air- he doesn’t have a chance to. He’s aware of Dream following him through to the front room, and when he kneels to pick up his daughter, he knows his friend is right behind.

“Hey, hey sweetheart, come on, you’re just over tired, let’s get you back to bed.” Hob turns to Dream. “Will just be a moment, promise.” Dream nods and stays put, hands back underneath his coat sleeves.

…

A few moments later, Hob re-enters the front room. Dream is right where he left him, but he’s staring at the photo of Audrey, the one Hob took a few days after they’d come home from the hospital.

“Her name was Audrey, though I wouldn’t be surprised if you’d already know that. Passed away about five months ago.”

Dream looks towards Hob once more, and he’s once again shocked by how red his blue eyes are, blue eyes like his Audrey's.

“I am sorry for your loss, Hob” Dream tells him so gently, has he ever heard his friend’s voice so soft?

“Yours too. God’s wounds, I can’t even, well, I don’t need to imagine but to have to do so yourself, Dream, you could have asked me to help.” Hob isn’t sure what he would have done, but there was no way he’d have ever refused to help, to try and carry some of the burden.

“With what? Hob Gadling, this was my burden to carry; I should have faced it long ago.” Dream sounds so resigned, like he did not deserve the help of a friend, and it grates Hob’s exhausted nerves.

“Fucking hell, Dream.” He shouts, causing a small but noticeable flinch in his friend. Taking a deep breath, he continues. “No body deserves to have to kill their own fucking child, no one should even outlive their child as far as I’m concerned. When Robyn died, I couldn’t even get out of bed for decades. Did I deserve to be drowned? To grieve alone? No, as far as I’m concerned, there isn’t a thing you could do to convince me you wou;dn’t deserve whatever help I could’ve or can offer.” Another deep breath, and Hob looks at his friend. To his horror, there is a silent tear going down his cheek. Moving slowly, as if Dream may bolt like a frightened animal, Hob lifts his hand to wipe at the tear. Dream’s skin is cold, and shakes under his hand, but as he pulls away, he finds his face pressing back into his hand, as if asking, pleading for him not to let go. Hob just can’t help himself.

“I’m going to hug you now, please try not to smite me”. He brings both arms around Dream and pulls him tight to his chest. Here they are both similar heights but Dream curls himself into Hob’s shoulder, and he is aware, as they stand there, of a wet patch growing where his friend’s face is placed. After a few minutes, he pulls back so he can look into Dream’s face.

“How can I help my friend? Tell me what I can do?”

Dream is silent, looking away from Hob, and for a while, he thinks his question will remain unanswered. However, as he opens his mouth to speak again, to ask once more, Dream begins.

“I came here because I did not wish to be alone.” Dream looks as though the words cost him. “I also came because we are friends, and you were the only being I knew might understand, even the smallest amount of my grief.”

Hob can’t quite believe he has heard those words come from Dream, but he’s certainly not going to take advantage of the trust he’s been given and remark on it right now.

“OK, right, come with me.” Deciding to risk his friend’s anger, Hob reaches for his hand. Immediately, Dream backs himself away, but Hob tries once more and succeeds in getting a hold of a cold hand in his. With a gentle tug, he guides Dream into the bedroom and to the ensuite bathroom. Flipping the tap on with his spare hand, he takes Dream’s in his to place it under the running water. Again, Dream tries to step away.

“You’ve got to get clean love,” Hob says.

“I can’t, I don’t want to, it feels like forgetting.” Dream has gone red, as if shamed by his audacity to express his emotions.

“You’re not forgetting. Look, if I can clean your hands for you, I have all the time in the world to listen to your stories. We can remember him together.” Dream doesn’t reply, but he allows Hob to pull his hands under the water and to soap his nail beds. The water runs clear by the time he is finished, and Dream’s hands no longer have traces of blood on them.

Silently, Hob guides Dream back to the bedroom, and it strikes him how wrong this is. Dream has never been so easily led; it’s like all the fight has gone out of him. He tries not to overthink as he quickly checks the cot at the end of the bed before pulling Dream onto the mattress with him. Without any argument, his friend sits next to him, and when Hob lifts an arm in encouragement, he rests himself on Hob’s shoulder, both arms holding him safely and securely.

“Do you want to tell me about him? I didn’t know you had a son.” Hob prods gently, allowing Dream the space he needs. There is a small movement on his shoulder before he hears.

“His name was Orpheus, and why would you? When I refused to mention him for fear of you seeing how deeply I failed him.”

“Orpheus like the…?” Hob doesn’t get a chance to finish.

“Yes, although I am sure his story has been told with many falsehoods.”

Hob chooses not to think too hard on this; he knew Dream was a creature of myth, not that he would appreciate being thought of as such, best not to dwell harder. He pauses, thinking carefully before he responds.

“I’d love to say you didn’t fail him, but honestly, I think we all fail our children. God knows I failed Robyn. That doesn’t mean you don’t love them, though. I think that’s what parenthood is, just one failure after another until you die, or don’t, in my case.”

He can feel Dream nod against him before inhaling deeply, knowing his friend doesn’t need to breathe, doesn’t mean there isn’t comfort in the act itself.

“He had the most beautiful voice.” Dream begins.

…

Dream tells a tale of the fates, and a song powerful enough to sway the heart of Hades, of a father who would not bargain his son’s life. Hob just listens, hand slowly stroking Dream’s own. When he’s finished, they sit in silence, there is nothing that can be said, nothing that can be done, and the hour is late. The cot remains quiet, and so Hob drifts off, barely aware of the hand in his and the soft touch of fingers.

Chapter Text

Dream was pulled from the quiet he had forged for himself several hours later when a small snuffle came from the cot at the end of the bed. Hob hadn't introduced him, and he hadn’t asked - in fact, he struggled even to acknowledge the child's presence last night. Dream does not doubt for a second that the child is loved; anything that possesses even half of Hob Gadling is impossible not to adore. He keeps this thought to himself, of course.

When it becomes clear that Hob, who is snoring softly, has not been roused, he slowly stands and looks down into the cot. The infant wriggles and babbles, clearly bored with his realm. Dream finds himself desperate to pick up the child despite the nauseating feeling filling his form. When the blue eyes stare up at him, he can’t look away, and he reaches down to pick up the infant with the same nose as Hob Gadling.

“Hello, little one”. Dream cradles her tentatively to him. “I think we should let your father sleep a while longer; he’s currently dreaming of your mother, in fact. Shall go and find a book to read? I shall stay until Hob is awake.” With silent steps, they make their way to the front room. He locates the books easily next to the child’s playmat, but looking down at the bundle he holds, he senses her disapproval for hearing the same story again. She craves new stories. That he can understand. Seating himself on the sofa, he pulls a book from the dream of an independent author about to release their first children’s book. The story follows a raven and their wolf friend, and he nods in approval.

As he reads, he is struck by a memory, centuries old. Of an Orpheus, face still pudgy with youth, tugging at his robes for attention.

…

“Father” Orpheus begs. “Story?”

Dream, having only just come out of a meeting with an ambassador for a realm he no longer remembers, attempts to dismiss his child. He craves time with his son, but consistently feels as though there are greater demands that must be addressed.

“Father, please”, Orpheus tries again. He pulls harder this time, and Dream caves, leaning to pick him up and throw him over his shoulder. Of course, it isn’t a dignified way for a prince to travel, but it is practical when travelling with sand and a wriggling toddler.

They find themselves on the shore of creation, it is a peaceful place, and when Dream places Orpheus down, the toddler quickly plops himself down and begins playing with the sands. When he notices his father has not joined him, he pulls at Dream’s arm until he sits.

“Father, story!” Orpheus exclaims, impatient now. Dream finds himself sighing, as if put upon before saying.

“Very well, my son, what story should I tell today?”.

…

Hob wakes up slowly, aware of the lack of presence at his side. He had to adjust to waking without Audrey, which was a hell of its own; at least he had his little girl to get him out of bed. Avery Gadling was the best surprise and the worst punishment at once. To outlive his child once again was something he’d begged to never repeat, but he refused to tell Audrey what to do with her own body, and oh, did he love being a father.

When he became aware of a low voice coming in from the front room, he sat up quickly. Was Dream still here? Did he have Avery? Grabbing his dressing gown as he goes, he follows the voice.

…

“The Raven was confused; he did not understand what The Wolf was asking for.” Dream’s voice reverberated around the room, and Avery was silently observing him with her finger in her mouth.

“Hello there”, Hob doesn’t wish to disturb his stranger, who seems to be reading to his child? However, breakfast needs to start on time if they don’t want the peace being broken with Avery’s hungry screaming. Dream, holding his six-month-old baby, turns to him. His friend seems just as broken as he appeared last night, but there is a smile barely visible on his lips that was not there before.

“I see you’ve met Avery properly, sorry don’t think I introduced you last night. I apologise if she disturbed you”.

As Hob walks toward the pair, Dream goes to stand, keeping Avery within the circle of his arms. He notices a book there that was not a part of Avery’s collection. He looks down at his daughter.

“You don’t know how lucky you are, eh? Lord of Dreams himself reading to you?” Hob tickles Avery’s chin and then looks up at his friend. Then, although scared, the question will cause Dream to bristle, but needing to ask anyway.

“And you? How are you this morning?”

Dream meets his question with a deep breath, but he does seem to consider the question.

“I find myself unable to answer, but my duties persist so I must head back to the Dreaming. I thank you for your comfort.” Dream’s features seem to shutter, and Hob regrets asking the question.

“OK, I won’t ask you to stay” Hob hears himself say, despite his internal monologue being “please stay, stay and don’t leave, stay for you were smiling a few minutes ago and I can’t bear to see you how you were.”

“But can you promise me something?” As he speaks, he gestures towards Dream, who passes Avery to him. “Please, the first time it gets too much, and I know it’ll always be too much, fuck if Avery hadn’t been here I’d haven’t gotten out of bed for these past five months.”

“I will endeavour to try.” Dream nods at him before stepping away to leave. Hob thinks he might just vanish, like he has before, but he walks slowly to the door. Does he want Hob to say something? Is there something he needs?

He follows Dream as he heads to the door, Avery making grabby hands for his finger. It’s then that it clicks for him. There’s a smell on the air, a stench of death. At first Hob thought it was due to Orpheus and the grief Dream is carrying, or perhaps his own, only having recently lost his Audrey, but no. It’s attached to Dream himself, the smell of ozone and rain showers on a humid night mixed with death. The sickening waft of doom that had followed Audrey for days before the incident, despite Hob lacking a reason for why. The scent of palor and sickness that Eleanor carried before she lost both babe and herself in their bed. Dream’s death smells like a coming storm, and Hob, Hob needs to say something.

“Dream” he says “Morpheus”. At his other name Dream immediately turns to him. “Look, I shouldn’t say this, it’s not my place, I’ve been around a bit, not as long as you obviously but if there’s one thing I learned to pick up on is the smell of death. I mean, it’s almost like a real smell. You sniff it on a bloke and two weeks later he gets his throat cut in an alley. And mate, you stink of it. I worry. Take care of yourself.”

“Thank you Hob, I shall.” Dream responds, but this is his friend, and his friend is an eldritch being that defies understanding, one that has avoided a promise, a vow, twice now- and Hob is not having it. He’s already lost Audrey, everyone he’s loved, he’ll lose little Avery in a blink of an eye, he will not lose his stranger. Hob balances Avery in one arm so he can grasp the side of Dream’s face with the other.

“I ask a boon of you, Lord Morpheus” the words make him sick, but the idea of losing Dream is far worse. The face beneath his hand pulls back with a sharp breath, but it does not vanish, so he pushes forward.

“I ask you to fight, fight like hell and all the devils in it, do not give in.” Dream’s gaze is right on his now. “And if you can’t, if you can’t do it then you call on me. You come here, you get me and I’ll fight.”

“You have a child, Hob Gadling, I cannot have you put yourself in harm's way.”

“I know that Dream” Hob tries not to snap, but he does. “I can’t die, but I wouldn’t leave her. I’d work something out, trust me. I beg of you, my friend.” He doesn’t let Dream escape his eyes for a moment. It’s a game of wills, and Hob knows if his friend were well, there is no way he would win, but he’s not lived this long for nothing.

Finally, after what feels like an eternity, with his arm aching from holding Avery, Dream nods.

“Very well. If I must, I will call upon you, Hob Gadling. I give you my word, but I will not do a thing that would put Avery at risk, or yourself.”

Hob goes to speak, but Dream holds out a hand.

“No, I will not promise that which would exceedingly put your wellbeing at risk.”

Despite the panic that rises when Dream doesn’t reassure him that he is not, in fact, in danger. Hob knows when he is beaten.

“Alright.” Hob removes his hand from Dream’s face.

“Goodbye, Hob Gadling.”

Between one moment and the next, Hob’s flat is empty, and Avery is crying once more.

“Didn’t even use the door”.

Chapter Text

Two years later…

Dream kept his vow. He did call upon Hob when he needed him most. He also kept to his other promise, not to endanger the life of his friend or his child.

This means, although Hob has a dream, several, of pigeons on a cliff, or kindly ladies with sharp teeth, of his claymore and fighting alongside companions he is sure he recognises, Hob is never physically involved in the death of his friend.

The night, only a few weeks ago, when he attended the funeral of the only being to truly see him, the only one who he thought of as a best friend, Hob knows it is true.

…

Before they went, Hob knew there was something he needed to ask, the same compulsion that led him to remark on the stench of death that Dream carried. Unlike that occasion, however, this question was asked with the resignation of the bereaved.

“You’re dead, aren’t you? And this is just a dream.” Hob had asked his friend, who stood next to a man with a large build, he recognised him as a pavement artist he’d met ages ago. His friend had nodded, and Hob reacted the only way he could. The way you would always react when told your best friend has died, someone you relied on like furniture, a dear soul wrapped in the shroud of death, you now realise they had always carried. He had laughed, and so had the pavement artist. Hob had woken with laughter that morning, followed by a ravenous grief that had seemed to eat at his very desire for life. Not that it had successfully consumed it.

…

A few weeks later, Hob is doing just as badly. He had forced his friend into a pact, a promise, and yet, apart from a few strange dreams, he doesn’t recall when his friend had come for help. Avery had been walking for several months now, though, so despite the urge to greet his duvet and nothing else for another day, he needed to be a father. Audrey would’ve never forgiven him, and God didn’t he miss her.

He had thought of moving overseas, perhaps attending one of the Renaissance fairs that both aggravated and intrigued him, maybe even falling in love again. He could envision, desired it even, but his loyalty to the vow he had extracted from Dream made him stay where he was.

The New Inn isn’t far from Richmond, 20 minutes at a push, and so it’s one afternoon, whilst he’s pushing Avery’s pram (she refused to walk) into a local Joe and The Juice (he needs a smoothie, maybe that’ll fix the hole in his chest), that he sees a face he’d always recongise.

He’s never seen Death before, avoided her in fact, but as anyone mortal or otherwise, of course, he would know her. She smiles at him, and despite his innate fear, he sits himself and Avery opposite her. When he pulls down the cover over Avery’s pram, though, Death doesn’t comment on it.

“You’re a funny thing”, he hears himself say, with little planning. “Thought you were a quick thing, like snap, and you’re dead, but I know better now”.

“Do you Hob Gadling?” Death doesn’t sound upset or offended.

“Death’s a slow thing, like a thief that comes to your house, day after day, it takes a bit more every time until there’s nothing left to keep you there.” Hob inhales shakily; he does not wish to offend her.

“Was there nothing to keep him here anymore?” It comes out before he can stop it; he’s like a child throwing a tantrum, perhaps, but the hurt is deep. “I don’t think I would’ve been enough by myself”.

Death starts to speak, but he holds up a hand, polite as he can.

“I know, I wouldn’t have been. I’m just one person, a small pebble in a big old pond, think I want to keep living even without him, so it’s not like I can criticise. But fuck do I feel selfish for it. Like when Audrey got in her accident, not once did I think of giving in to you. I loved her, and I loved him, in whatever way he wanted me to. I realise I am being honest, too much in fact.” Hob tugs on his ear. “But I don’t care, not like he can hear me.”

Death smiles, and it is warm and comforting; it reminds him of sleep, like a soft embrace into a blissful quiet, and he understands why people take her hand.

“Hello Hob”, she pushes a shake towards him that definitely wasn’t there before. “Yes, my brother is dead. Or, well, a facet of him is dead. Dream of the Endless is gone, after he killed my nephew, mercifully, I know,” she says as Hob starts to jump to his defence. “After Orpheus passed, the Kindly Ones demanded retribution for spilling family blood, and he gave it to them.”

Hob wants to say ‘fuck the Kindly Ones’, ‘fuck the Fates’, he says neither, he may be impulsive, but he isn’t reckless.

Death continues.

“He knew he couldn’t ask you to help him; they would have simply torn through you, immortal or not, to get to him. But he did not break his vow.”

“Yes, he bloody did”, Hob exclaims. “He did or he’d be here.”

“He is here, Hob. I managed to save the facet of him that was simply Morpheus. He doesn’t carry the burden of Endless anymore. He’s far more like you. He’s my brother Hob, do you not think that I would try to protect him?”

Hob is confused. Dream’s alive?

“Dream’s alive?” he asks.

“No, not the Dream you knew, but Morpheus, the part of him you knew, is. I can’t explain it well, maybe he can do it better with time, but first, I need you to assure me you’ll keep to your vow. He’s resting at the entrance to my realm right now. If you agree, I will bring him to you, but he is in a bad way. He will need your care.”

She looks at the pram that contains Avery.

“Are you able to take care of them both? He’s angry, he’s confused, but agreed to allow me to place him in your care to allow him to keep to his vow.”

He doesn’t hesitate.

“Yes”.

Death smiles again, wider.

“Then we’re better off heading to your home. If you trust me, I can take us there, Avery as well.”

Hob doesn’t want to agree; he doesn’t trust Death with Avery, no matter how nice she is. But Dream sounds as if he needs him.

“Why haven’t you healed him?” He challenges.

“His wounds have manifested humanly, for that is what he is now, more or less. I can try, but he is better off being cared for in the Waking. That and, and another reason I can explain later.”

Hob considers, but eventually nods at Death as the surroundings fade gradually from view.

…

The next thing he is aware of is the familiar setting of his flat, and a screaming Avery, clearly woken from her nap. Without even looking for Death, he pulls Avery from her pram before searching for her. She is in front of him, just outside his bedroom door. She gestures for Avery, but Hob pulls her back to his chest.

“Hob”, she says gently, “you have my word I will not be taking Avery’s hand today. I simply mean to help you, he’s in your room.” She looks towards the door and tentatively hands Avery over to the personification of Death. OK, he’s not going to think too much about that.

The sound of a soft groan comes from his room, and his legs move without a thought. As the door opens, his stranger comes into focus. Morpheus, he reminds himself, no longer Dream. He’s so pale, more so than usual, and his face, arms, and what he can see of his chest through a ripped shirt are covered in tiny cuts. He seems to be sweating.

“Shit, are those infected?” He asks Death about the cuts, but she simply nods at him.

“Funnily enough, the reason I can’t heal him as much as I wish, is I can’t risk drawing attention from forces I’d rather not if I use any power on him.”

“The Kindly Ones” Hob knows, if they sense an Endless working, they could look into it, and find out that the entity they thought they’d destroyed is still alive. Somewhat.

Death nods. She makes her way to the fold-up bed, still at the end of Hob’s own. Avery has her room now, but more often than not, she still sleeps near him. She places Avery down gently, and she’s asleep once more, clearly nowhere near as concerned as her father about Death of the Endless.

“I need to leave now, I don’t want to draw any more notice. Please, look after my brother.” She heads to the bed, where she places a soft kiss on her brother’s forehead. He seems only partially conscious.

“I won’t take his or your hand unless he asks. So, this may be the last time I can see him. Remind him of life, Hob, give him some hope, he needs it.” Death takes one last glance at her brother before the room is empty.

Chapter Text

Hob didn’t believe in God. He had, for centuries, thought his stranger was a devil sent to test him. He supposes that wasn’t entirely untrue, but when he first held a young boy's guts, who’d been run through with a sword, in his hands, all doubts of his faith had grown into something he couldn’t ignore.

Of course, he’d lost his entire family to the plague; his little sister is still buried somewhere in Sussex- unmarked, of course. He’d made sure to dig deeply in the hope that her rest would never be disturbed, but his parents were thrown in the pit with the others. Mathilde was just a child, though, and as he dug a place for her corpse, he questioned God for the first time.

Perhaps that is why he was initially suspicious of his immortality; it had occurred to him that God had sought to punish him for his doubt. If it was God who’d sent his stranger as a form of retribution, then Hob supposed God did not know him very well, for neither his immortality or his stranger had felt like a curse- if anything God would have simply increased Hob’s sin when he thought about getting on his knees for such a lord.

It was not God in the end, he now knows, but a power far greater. Hob realised long ago that the universe was more vast than he could encapsulate. He did not need to understand the powers that be, as long as the one that he saw on a centennial basis would call him a friend.

Now that creature is in his bed, and certainly not how Hob wishes he would be. Death had left no trace behind her, and Dream was sweating through his shirt. Cold baths were no good, but a lukewarm bath could bring down his body temperature, Hob supposed. Checking quickly on Avery, who was still in her nap, luckily, he heads to the bathroom to run a bath. He then grabs Dream by his legs and shoulders, supporting him as he is carried to the bathroom.

A small whine escapes Dream’s throat.

“Shh, love, please, I’ve gotta get you cooler. If nothing else, you’ll feel a bit better.” Hob tries to keep his voice quiet; he knows that when he has a fever, loud noises are hellish. The bath looks relatively full by now, his friend is barely conscious, and he doesn’t want him to drown. It’s fucking horrid.

Practically, it’d be a good idea to get Dream’s clothes off, but he feels like waking up properly naked and wet may be a touch too far. He’ll wait til his friend can consent. Slowly, he places Dream in the bath and switches the tap off. He keeps his hand on his stranger’s back so that he doesn’t slip.

He stays there, in the quiet of the dripping tap and the soft moans coming from Dream. Using his spare hand, he soaks a flannel by the bath to place on his friend’s head. He’s never been good at anything medical, the one career that didn’t seem to stick. His knees hurt from the cold, hard floor, but he doesn’t complain. After about fifteen minutes, he notices Dream’s eyes flutter open.

“Dream?” He asks.

“No”, the voice is strained and costs its speaker.

“No?”

“No longer Dream”, the voice says, drained.

“Then who, old stranger?” Hob knows his friend may take a while to come around to his situation, but he isn’t quite sure what he means.

“Morpheus, the facet you called Dream is dead.” Hob knows this, of course, but hearing it from Morpheus is a whole different feeling.

“OK, OK, Morpheus, of course.”

Morpheus tries to open his mouth again, but something catches and he begins gagging. Without a moment to think, Hob grabs the bin behind him and thrusts it into Morpheus’ face.

“In here, if you can duck.” He knows he’d forgive his friend anything, but he’d rather not clean up vomit from the bath, or Morpheus’ skin. Luckily, the bin is noticed, and most of the vomit makes it into it. There is a little bit, however, that lands on Hob’s jumper. No worries, he thinks, even as Morpheus looks mortified at him.

“Don’t worry, duck, it’ll come off in the wash.” He shrugs the jumper off and ties his hair back with a band at his wrist to avoid any more nausea-related accidents. He knows from Avery (and long before her, too) how difficult vomit, or other bodily fluids, are to get out of hair.

“Say, Morpheus, now you’re awake, I need to get you out of here before you start shivering, but I can’t imagine denim feels very nice wet.” Hob notices his friend panicking slightly as he speaks, and so adds. “Of course, I can wrap you in a nice fluffy towel so his majesty's modesty is preserved, but I do need to look at those cuts.”

Morpheus seems to relax a little at that, and so Hob lifts him out of the bath. As he makes his way back to the bedroom, he grabs two towels from the pile to help dry his friend off. Placing the towels down across the bed, he puts Morpheus on top. Avery is still asleep, but he knows she probably shouldn’t be in the room whilst he looks over his friend’s injuries, so he goes to her next.

“Hey, sweetheart”, he says to his daughter softly. “I need your help, love.” Blue eyes stare at him, clearly pissed to be awake but he needs to get back to Morpheus. “Can you go play with your toys if I set you up?” She never likes being told what to do, so Hob doesn’t expect her to nod silently and make grabby hands at him to pick her up. He does so and takes her to just outside the room, she can walk if she needs him, and she’s still in eyesight- she just doesn’t need to see everything. He fetches a few toys from her bedroom and places them near her.

“If you can be good for daddy for a few minutes, we can have a Happy Meal for dinner!” Never let it be said he’s above bribing his daughter. Of course, this gets her attention, and she nods quickly.

“With McFlurry?” She asks.

“You drive a hard bargain, little one. Yeah, go on then.” He laughs as he returns to his friend’s side. He should have a few moments now.

“Sorry, duck”, he tells Morpheus.

“Avery”, Morpheus manages the word.

“Yeah, you remember! She’s grown so big now, once I get you dry and comfy, you can say hi to her.” He smiles as he slowly pulls down the sodden jeans off his friend. Keeping eyes to himself, because, of course, why would Morpheus wear pants? Hob then wraps the first towel around Morpheus to cover his lower half. He repeats the process with the top half, too, though he reckons that shirt is well beyond saving. Putting the wet clothes to the side, he then looks at what has become of Morpheus.

Red, angry cuts line his abdomen, legs, arms and torso, as well as a few on his face. Some seem to be weeping; he supposes these are the infected ones. Thankfully, they seem to be shallow enough at least, although it occurs to him that if Morpheus heals somewhat quickly, like him, they didn’t start this way.

Antibiotic ointment is going to be needed, as well as bandages, to avoid opening the wounds. He knows that he should take Morpheus to the hospital, but if he can’t die, he rationalises it may be more dangerous for him there than just riding out this infection. He reaches for the first aid kit he keeps in his bedside drawer.

“Right love, this may sting, afraid I can’t do much about it.” He warns his friend, who is beginning to fall asleep again. Hoping he’s been heard, he begins to apply the ointment to every cut on Morpheus’ body. Even those who aren’t infected could become so. He’s efficient in his work, so it doesn’t take more than ten minutes before he is able to wrap the deeper cuts in bandages.

Morpheus seems blissfully out of it for the whole time, and Hob isn’t complaining. Seeing someone you love in pain is always a hard experience- even if that someone isn’t aware of how loved they are.

When he’s finished, he breathes a sigh of relief. If he had some spare antibiotics, he’d use those, but getting medication when you’re immortal is exceedingly difficult, so he doesn’t often take the risk of going to the hospital. He wants to see how Morpheus copes now that the wounds are cleaner first. Aside from the cuts, everything looks OK on the surface, but Death had hinted at a tougher recovery, so he isn’t optimistic. However, he has promised a certain someone a Happy Meal, so he places an order for her and a nugget meal for himself. He thinks of ordering some fries for Morpheus, but it’s unlikely he’ll be able to eat them; dry toast it is. Besides, it’s not the best ‘welcome to humanity’ with a soggy salty chip.

He fetches some joggers that’ll be too big for Morpheus, as well as the only black shirt he has, and dresses him as quickly as he can. He cleans up the towels into the wash basket and turns around to Avery. He looks at his daughter as she plays, her dark hair is in between growing stages, and he cannot style it. Despite being used to tidying his hair, he’s never been good at doing his daughter’s. He’d hoped that’d be Audrey’s job, and he takes a breath before he continues down that thought process. He’s needed, no time for dwelling.

…

The food doesn’t take long to be delivered, Hob lets his friend sleep whilst he gets Avery fed. She still uses her high chair, so when she’s messily chewing at processed goodness, he checks in on Morpheus. He’s still asleep, and Hob decides against feeding him fries tonight, dry toast it is, and maybe some tea.

It’s getting late for Avery by the time she finishes eating (squishing) her food. Sticky fingers grab him- that McFlurry was too easy to spill in hindsight. Second time to the bathtub, he supposes. Avery demands bubbles, of course, and by the time she’s settled in her bath seat, he’s bloody knackered.

Whilst he is washing her hair, she tries to speak, but he doesn’t hear her.

“What’s that, Ave?” He asks the toddler.

“Dream!” She says, pointing towards the bedroom door, which has been left slightly open.

Hob drops the plastic jug he’s using for her hair wash.

“What did you say?”

“Dreamy!” She replies.

Hob didn’t even know she’d remember; they’d only met once, there’s no way her six-month-old brain retained his name. How on earth? However, this wouldn’t be the strangest thing to happen today, so he supposes he can think about it later.

“Yeh sweetheart”, he chokes up slightly as he speaks to her, picking her up and wrapping her in the fluffy duck towel. The hood has a little duckling face on, he thinks it’s one of the last things Audrey bought, actually, before the accident. She was so excited to use it at bathtime when Avery got a bit bigger.

He carries the wriggling bundle to her room, it’s only a few steps away from his, and gets her dressed for bed.

“Daddy!” She exclaims.

“Yeh love?” Hob is exhausted by now, and he still needs to try to get Dream to eat. His daughter hobbles over to her book pile, and picks up “The Wolf and The Raven”, the book Dream- Morpheus, had left when he was last here, two years ago. She plops it on his lap and crawls onto her bed. Hob gets the hint, story time.

…

To Hob’s relief, it doesn’t take long for Avery to drift off, Raven teddy in her arms, of course, from her favourite book. With a kiss to her forehead, he leaves the room quietly, but leaves her door ajar, in case she needs him.

The ache in his knee has returned, clearly protesting his busy evening, but he still has tea to make and some plain toast. While waiting for the toaster to pop and the kettle to boil, he leans against the counter. He’ll need to clear out his office if Morpheus wants his room, but that’s a problem for a less tired Hob; they don’t even know how much help Morpheus will need yet- the infection should pass, but he’ll keep an eye on it.

Back in his room, he carries the tea and toast on a tray. He’s also brought a water bottle in case it’s needed. Gently, he jostles Morpheus to wake him and props him up on the pillows behind him.

“Hey, sorry to wake you, but you need to eat something. If you’re like me now, believe me it’ll be shit if you don’t.” His friend glares at him sleepily, and Hob tries not to think that it’s quite adorable.

“I do not feel hungry”, Morpheus protests.

“No, don’t think you do, but doubt you even know what that feels like. Just try for me. I’ll let you sleep after, promise.” Hob gently coaxes his friend to eat a few bites of dry toast, and somehow, despite it taking about ten minutes, the whole cup of purposefully lukewarm tea.

“Good, well done.” He smiles at Morpheus and, without thinking, swipes the hair from his face. “Don’t think I mentioned how glad I am you kept your vow, thought you hadn’t for a minute”, he admits.

“I, do not, break my vows”, Morpheus seems pissed.

“No, no, I’m sure you don’t, but can’t blame me for worrying. Two years, Morpheus, I was going mad with worry.”

“You would know if my sister was paying you a visit”, Morpheus argues.

“You’re sister?” Hob questions, then realises. “Oh, Delirium, dunno, think she and I had a good time in the 80s for certain!” They certainly did in the 90s when a certain someone was absent and Hob believed his anchor had left him.

Hob is surprised when a cool hand lands on top of his.

“Thank you, Hob Gadling.” Morpheus, despite the obvious tiredness, tries to smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.

“Of course, love. Hey, Morpheus, I’m sorry for asking for anything else, but please, can you promise me you’ll give this life thing a try? If nothing else…” Hob pauses, because fuck does he feel selfish. “I’ve lost a lot, kind of comes with the immortality, but I don’t think I could cope with losing you, not really. I know I barely got through these two years, so just try for me, please?”

Morpheus looks surprised, almost as if he can’t understand why Hob keeps asking such impossible things, and doesn’t that hurt?

“You’re worth the effort, love. Don’t try to argue with me,” He adds.

Morpheus nods, “Very well”. He sounds resigned, like he’s accepted a sentence, which Hob doesn’t like, not at all, but it’s enough for now.

“Right, more sleep for you. You OK if I sleep next to you?” Hob asks.

“Why would I mind?” Morpheus is confused. “Have we not shared a bed before, in my grief. I am given to understand it is not uncommon between friends?”

Hob nods, he’s happy Morpheus isn’t uncomfortable, he’d feel more guilty for secretly enjoying his presence. He begins to ready himself for bed, and when he comes back in, clad in just some pyjama bottoms, he sees his friend is asleep once more. Rearranging his pillows so he sleeps better, he pulls back and whispers.

“Night, love.”

He falls asleep that night, into his friend’s no-longer realm, hoping that things aren’t too complicated for Morpheus and his new form. Hopefully, he’ll be able to keep up with a toddler and an ex-Dream Lord.

Chapter Text

Morpheus comes to awareness in stages. He can still count his times as a visitor to the realm he used to both embody and rule on one hand.

The first thing to edge its way into his human consciousness is the least wanted. Pain. It starts from his toes and travels in sparks up to his shoulders, with each panicked breath, it increases until he forces his muscles to relax. With the release, a wetness spreads onto his lap and the sheets beneath. He tries not to think about what function that was as he takes stock of the other sensations in his body.

He still feels cold despite knowing he cannot burrow under the sheets. Hob had told him that he was still too warm when he tried to steal the duvet last night. He doesn’t feel warm, but he knows he must trust Hob in this; he has far more experience in human bodies. He also notices a weight on one of his arms, an arm that has gone surprisingly numb.

Footsteps sound from outside the room, and he tries to lift his head and open his eyes, but is only successful in the latter. In the early morning light, Hob’s hair has a red note to it that reminds him of his sister; he thinks of her more than he’d care to admit after their quest. Delirium may no longer be Delight, but he is no longer Dream; perhaps it is OK that he changes to survive, if surviving were the right choice, however. His friend smiles at him, and there is a part of him that feels soothed by the presence of Hob smiling-smiling at him.

“Hi, stranger”, Hob tells him. He’s holding a tea tray in front of him with more dry-looking bread, he tries not to let the disgust on his face show at the less than appealing offering, Hob is only being kind, but if all there is for the rest of eternity is dry bread, or ‘toast’, then he may find himself willingly experiencing how hungry a man can truly get. Or, a man-shaped entity inside a cisgender male form.

Hob notices Morpheus’ displeasure.

“Look, you can’t keep anything down, if I add even something simple on top, it may make you vomit again, promise, when you’re feeling better, I’ll get you some proper decent grub, I own a pub after all.” Hob places the tray on the bedside table, and then his hands are at Morpheus’ back, supporting him to sit up on the pillows. A startled noise comes from close to where his arm is now regaining blood flow.

“Dad!” A young voice complains, and Dream looks down to see Avery, who had gotten comfortable on his arm whilst Hob was out of bed.

Hob just laughs, “Well, if you didn’t go give Dream a cuddle without asking if he’d like one first, you wouldn’t have necessarily been disturbed!”

Dream goes to correct Hob’s use of the name, but he’s beaten to it.

“I know, it’s Morpheus, problem is she’s only two and is convinced your name is still ‘Dreamy’ so unless you want to tell her, I can’t get her to understand!” Hob jokes. “To be honest dunno how she even remembers your name, your old name, I mean.”

“I was Dream Of The Endless Hob, it is the same way you had ideas of who I was before I ever told you, you spend, spent, a third of your lives in my realm.” He catches himself on the mistake. “She is a child, they are closer than most to Dream, though I do find it peculiar she does not recognise I am not how I was before.”

“Perhaps she does”, Hob suggests, “maybe she simply doesn’t care about your sparkly powers as long as you read her a bedtime story.” Hob’s tone is light. “I don’t, just glad that you’re here.”

Morpheus nods, he doesn’t have an idea of how he could return such kind words, how can a being always defined by its’ usefulness to others, find purpose in just simply being?

It’s then that Hob notices what Morpheus had tried to ignore.

“Oh, Morpheus, sorry love, that’s my fault, I should have told you about how to recognise when you need the bathroom, don’t doubt you would have gone otherwise!”

…

Hob’s face is kind and not at all judgmental, but Morpheus is filled with anger that he now realises had been boiling ever since Death had persuaded him to try and live as a human. This way, she reasoned, he could keep the vow to Hob, Morpheus hadn’t argued with her, he was simply too tired, too bone-deep exhausted. What he hadn’t told her was that he would not have broken his vow either way. Hob was not able to help without endangering himself and his child, and so Morpheus had not called upon him.

The Kindly Ones would have destroyed the mortal child to get to Hob, and then Hob, to get to Morpheus. He did not wish to watch another father lose their child; however, he had not counted on Hob’s dream self attempting to defend The Dreaming with a claymore and a haircut from the 1400s. Of course, he had sent him to a safer area as soon as he had realised. So he does not have a reason, not one he can think of, for trying. He hopes he finds one, though; he is unsure as to why currently.

“It is not your fault, Hob Gadling”, he says, pushing the covers further down with disgust. He smells the faint smell of his urine and feels his face growing warm without him making it do so. Everything, everything in this body is out of his control- he feels stretched to capacity, unable to contain himself, like a tapestry ripping at the seams of his form.

He supposes this itself is punishment for failing his son; he simply must get to the bathroom and try and clean himself up. Hob seems to have understood his intention and offers a hand to him. He does not mean to upset the hospitality of his host, but he cannot accept anymore- if he is to live like this, he needs to learn to do it alone. So he slaps his friend’s away- as gently as he can manage, but from Hob’s face, he can tell the rejection hurt.

No matter, he cannot be seen like this a moment longer. Using his upper arm, he manoeuvres to the side of the bed, pulling himself up proves to be a challenge, especially with all of the bandages brushing his wounds with each movement. Getting his feet under him, he once again pushes Hob away, who finally gets the message.

“Right, I’ll just get you some new pants, no worries, you’ll also probably want a shower, woken up in my piss before in the 1600s and I would’ve have killed for a hot shower or soak then.” Hob hurries over to his dresser, clearly looking for a replacement pair of trousers for him, and Morpheus tries, he does, to contain his frustration. He used to embody the entire collective unconscious, and now he lacks control of a simple bodily function.

Pushing weight onto his feet proves a greater challenge than he first thought, but he manages. One, two, three steps before a sharp pain travels through his right side, and he collapses against the side of the bed. Hob is immediately at his side, with Avery behind him.

“Dream!” She exclaims, her little pudgy face wide.

Morpheus tries not to correct the two-year-old, who has noticed her father’s friend is in trouble. He does try, but he cannot help when a low shout comes out with his movement, it startles Avery, who jumps back with a small sound.

“It’s Morpheus!”

Hob, immediately protective of his child, moves further in front. He understands this action, but it doesn’t negate the sting from it. He would never hurt Hob’s child, or any child, no matter his form.

“Friend, you’re going to need some help getting up. It looks like you were putting too much pressure on one leg. It may just be that you’re not used to it yet, but we need to be careful!” Hob is patient despite his worry, and that just aggravates Morpheus more.

He is- was, Lord Shaper, Onieros, Dreamweaver, he needn’t worry how he walked, he simply did, simply glided if he even chose to traverse that way. Now he cannot even control this human form, covered in his urine as a result of muscles he doesn’t know how to use, never needed to. Hob took in a friend, not another toddler, without even control of his most basic function. He contained multitudes, and now he just contains one. Until now, until this morifying ordeal, he had not realised how lonely it feels, how silent.

Fueled by rage, he pushes up onto both legs- and yes, Hob is right, he cannot weight bear on the left, it is too painful, and now the right leg is injured. Perhaps if he ceases to think of this as his body, then it may not hurt so much? Determined, he drags his feet slowly to the bathroom. Hob hovers nearby but evidently decides against offering a hand. He takes the offer of spare trousers and closes the bathroom door. He does not slam, he is certain, he thinks.

…

Morpheus slams the bathroom door, and Hob begins to realise the commitment he has taken on. He knew, of course, he did, that Morpheus would not adapt well, but relentless optimism pulled him through. However, as his two-year-old clings to his hands and makes an upward motion toward him, and he scoops her up, he begins to doubt. What if this is too much? He doesn’t think he could lose his stranger after getting him back, and an opportunity to have him around forever, selfish as Hob is.

“Morpheus, do you need help at all?” He asks through the door, he hopes he can work out the shower that sits next to the bathtub in his ensuite, he’s not too bothered by Morpheus using his towel by accident, in fact, he wouldn’t mind using it afterwards. He cuts that thought sharply. Morpheus is in his care, and he cannot take advantage of that. There is no reply from the angry ex-eldritch on the other side of the door, and so, choosing to trust him to work it out himself, he takes Avery to the living room for a little bit of ‘TV Time’. Hopefully, Morpheus will let him check the bandages after his shower.

…

Morpheus makes it to the toilet seat, where he sits with a huff. He notices the small shower in the corner. He is grateful as he doesn’t think he could climb into the tub independently, and he cannot ask Hob for anything else. Whilst seated, he pulls the damp joggers down, before lifting his hands to remove the shirt. What he is left with is scars, scars covered by bandages, but scars nonetheless.

He forgot to ask if he needed to remove the bandages before a shower; if only he could simply access the information. Slowly, he stands and pulls back the glass shower door; he still drags his left leg behind; the pain is too acute to bear otherwise. Unsure how to turn the water, he plays with the dial whilst leaning against the shower wall. Eventually, he is successful in getting water to pour from the head. Unfortunately, it is freezing cold, and he tries not to scream as it touches his still oversensitive skin. Twisting the dial, he finds that the temperature eventually increases.

There seems to be a bottle of what he assumes to be body soap resting on the dials. When he opens the lid, it smells of Hob- Sandalwood, he recalls. It would be nice, he thinks, to smell like Hob. Hob is human, and if he wishes to adapt too, he should endeavour to copy Hob where possible. Additionally, it is comforting to smell like someone dear to him. He pours some into his hands before rubbing it over his skin.

His skin has never felt so porous before, if he has even felt his skin. Perhaps he hasn’t, because it occurs to him how strange it is to feel oneself, there is no switch to turn off the pain in his right hip from the fall, nor the agony whenever he steps on his left foot, there is also no option to simply choose not to be. He must be physically present at all times.

He rinses the soap from his skin and decides he must be clean enough. Stepping from the shower, a trace of soap remains on the floor. So, when he places his right foot over it, already balancing on one leg, he does not stand a chance of staying upright.

That’s the last he remembers before- black.

…

Hob and Avery are watching the new Peppa Pig- Mummy Pig has just had a baby, which he just knows was in one of the private hospitals; no one can get service like that on the NHS. He’s about to ask Avery, knowing she won’t understand at all, of course, whether she thinks they must be on a decent income to afford such luxury, when he hears a crash from the bathroom.

Within two seconds, he is on his feet, Avery is safe in her playpen by the TV, and so he runs to the bathroom door. He doesn’t think he’s ever legged it that quickly in this century.

Chapter Text

He thinks of Orpheus. As Dream comes round on a cold, tile floor, he thinks of the son who was not given the same chance as his father. Or perhaps he did not wish it; he simply wanted it to end. He understands, he thinks, the thought process, that led Orpheus to death.

He would likely cry, weep over the sudden wave of grief for his son, ever present, but not always so forceful. He cannot do so, for the pain in his head is too much. His skull feels dislodged; he knows this is not true, but it doesn’t change the feeling.

There is banging on the door. Hob, his brain supplies. He likely heard the fall, and he tries to speak, but the door opens. He hadn’t locked it.

Orpheus didn’t have anyone to catch him- of course, he had Andros, Morpheus reflects, but he didn’t have his father. For such a long existence, he had lived believing he had been abandoned. Maybe that’s why, as well as due to the pounding pain in his head, he does not respond when Hob scoops him into the frame of his arms.

Hands seek the lump forming on top of his skull, he is vaguely aware he is completely naked, and the floor is so abrasively cool to his skin.

“Morpheus!” Hob is shouting now, or at least it sounds that way, but he just is so tired. Exhausted in a way he never was before. Deep in the marrow of his human bones, he discovers the sorrow he had hidden. All it took was a hard knock to the head and a loss of dignity.

“Right love, if you can hear me, can you squeeze my hands?! He feels warm palms find their way to his own, and he squeezes, wishing to ease his friend’s anxiety. Hob exhales above him and draws him to his chest as he stands, so for the second time in twenty-four hours, he is consciously aware of both how humiliating and comforting it is to be carried by Hob. Not that he will ever admit the latter.

Hob places him on the bed before heading back to the bathroom to grab the clothes he left behind. Also, likely to check there is no blood on the tiles, he hopes there isn’t, as he’d hate to cause a more traumatic clean-up.

“Morpheus?” He knows he should reply, but it is as though all the fury that had filled him but a few moments ago, left with the fall, and took his voice with it. Reaching up to Hob, he tries to demonstrate that he is OK, at least externally. Excluding the faulty leg, curling bandages from the damp, the still lingering fever and the large swollen hump on his head. But otherwise- fine.

He manages to prod Hob in the chest, which is about the maximum he finds capacity for.

“OK, right, I’m going to get you some fresh bandages, sort out your antiseptic and get something for your head. You cannot fall asleep, do you understand?” Hob pushes.

Once again, he prods him, he feels this communicates ‘yes, I understood you’, well enough. There is a tap on his shoulder, and then a blanket is placed upon him, which he’s grateful for; being exposed is not a comfortable experience; too much cold feels like glass.

…

Hob feels like a raw nerve as he steps away from Morpheus. He genuinely cannot say if he preferred the angry Morpheus that went into the bathroom; he just wants to repair the damage, clearly covering every stitch of his friend’s skin and lingering far beneath the surface. Back in the living room, he sees Avery is still focused on Peppa Pig, but he knows he needs to act quickly to make sure he doesn’t have a toddler screaming the flat down to add to his pile.

From the kitchen, he grabs some frozen peas and a tea towel to wrap them in. He also grabs the paracetamol and a glass of water. With that, he walks in to find Morpheus exactly as he left him. Staring blankly into space, only showed signs of life through the rise and fall of his chest.

He removes the blanket and begins on the bandages, and gets the antiseptic from his drawer. He touches Morpheus gently, with the reverence a God deserves- he pictures his stranger arguing that he is, in fact, not a God and finds his eyes fog over with tears. No, he has to keep himself together, no point in crying, not whilst he is in eyesight.

He speaks to Morpheus, not expecting a reply.

“Bloody fantastic invention this tube of stuff is”, he gestures to the antiseptic cream. “Not that long ago, I’d have just cleaned it the best I could and hoped you’d live. Of course, I know you would not like you can die- unless you choose.” Please don't choose, he thinks, I’ll give you anything if only you stay. He continues chatting about anything and everything to fill the quiet.

“Avery doesn’t often jump on people like that, you know.” He finds himself confiding in his silent witness as he finishes dressing him, and places the frozen peas/ towel combo on the top of Morpheus’ head. “Just hold that there for me”, Morpheus moves his hand, but stays otherwise still.

He also hands Morpheus two paracetamol and then the water, and a glare that dares him to question him “Take those, believe me, they will help the head”, he says. Too docile, Morpheus accepts and drinks the water, placing it on the bedside table.

“She’s always been so scared of strangers”, he continues. “She sticks to me like glue, to be honest. It’s been better since she’s had to come to class with me- speaking of, I'm probably going to need to call in sick for a few days.” He doesn’t mention that even though he’s pretty well respected in the humanities department, he can’t afford to call in too much. Kingston University are making cutbacks, and any excuse they can give to close the whole department, such as absent lecturers, is fuel to their fire.

“I know it’s probably from losing her mum? I do wonder if I’m enough, you know. Like maybe she’d be better off-no, I know she’d be better off with her mum here too. That’s life, I guess, right old stranger?” He tries to smile at Morpheus, but he’s not sure it’s even received.

“Right, that’s you all sorted”, Hob gently guides Morpheus back on the bed, so his pillows support him. He pulls the duvet over his legs, but no further; he doesn’t want to until the fever has settled.

“I’ve got to go and get Avery, it’s nearly time for her midday nap, though not sure she’ll settle, but I can’t risk leaving you until we’re certain you’re not concussed, and from your lack of speech I’m not certain”, Hob tugs on his ear nervously. “Honestly, we’re just going to need to stay in here with you, just in case. Besides, you don’t look like you should be alone right now.” What he doesn’t add, though, is that I don’t want to be alone either.

…

Hob is gone before he can even try and find the words to tell him he’ll be OK- he suspects this may be on purpose. A few moments later, he returns with Avery in hand and settles her into the other side of the bed.

“Daddy!” Avery is certainly not willing to go to his- The Dreaming, he scolds himself for the mistake. He wishes he could aid Hob, read her a story inspired by whatever daydream her small mind conjures up. He does not mention to Hob that the last time he told her tale, small figures made of sand may have danced in front of his daughter.

“Right, Avery- can I leave you with Morpheus?” Hob bends down to her level. Even sitting on the bed, she is still so small. He reaches out slowly to place his arm on her shoulder, without words, he manages to create a space beside him for her to get comfortable. He notices Hob’s shock as she immediately gravitates to him and leans into his side. Oh, how he wishes he could speak to her, but his voice still feels held prisoner, and his arm aches from holding the peas to his swollen head. He hands them to Hob; surely enough time has passed, they’d otherwise soon cease to be usable for supper.

“Right, I’ll just get us some tea, and little miss here some milk”, he still looks relatively shocked at Avery’s reaction to his friend. Morpheus cannot help but feel a small curl of warmth in his chest from the gesture of trust. As Hob leaves the room, he turns to look down at Avery, who is gazing back at him with wide eyes.

“Dream!” She says- he does not correct her.

…

Hob has to take a moment while he heats the milk formula in the microwave. Something happened when his friend fell in the shower, and he doubts he’ll get it out of him easily. Hopefully, he’s not concussed, but he’d rather wait some time to be certain, which means it’s a day in bed for all three of them. Sighing, he sends a message to his head of department, Andrea will understand.

Hob:

Hey, family emergency popped up, I won’t be in tomorrow! So sorry! Think it’ll take a few days to resolve, will keep you updated!

Andrea:

No worries, most of the students have assignments anyway. Do let us know however.

With that sorted, he focuses on cooling the milk by blowing on it a little. Avery won’t be able to drink it straight away.

He’s thankful, of course he is. He just knows his tendency to try and ‘fix the problem’, and he wonders if it is even possible to try and ‘fix’ someone like Morpheus. The last time they’d seen each other, he had confided in Hob that he had performed a mercy killing on his son. There is no healing something like that. Then two years later, Death shows up, and informs him that the axis to his life had died- and somehow became human. What would Morpheus have done if Hob had refused him? He wouldn’t, he made a vow, and more so, a promise to the being that he’s been following like a loyal hound for over 600 years. His best friend.

Autopilot kicks in as he makes the tea, as well as grabbing some snacks from the cupboard. How did Morpheus end up with slices all over his skin? Each one must have struck with such purpose, a litany of scars, performed by the Kindly Ones themselves. He is sure there is some fundamental understanding of the cosmic powers that be that he is lacking. Yet, he is certain, just as he is of the cruelness of a universe that allows fathers to kill their sons, that gives an immortal a mortal child, and that takes a mother from her daughter, before she can even form memories- that he would defend his stranger if ever his path would cross with theirs.

The thing is, Hob is self-aware enough to know that care is both where he thrives and where he is most vulnerable. He is a caretaker through and through; it’s a formation of the trauma of growing up immortal- that and living through more world disasters than one human mind is meant to experience. Having Avery these last two years has been a blessing, and he hates to admit it, because, of course, his daughter is one, but she’s also meant he wasn’t able to think about how broken her mother’s body had looked in the morgue, or how he’d maybe also lost the only constant in his long life.

He swings by Avery’s room for the raven plush, which he balances under one arm. However, shortly before his bedroom door, he pauses. Just a moment, he tells himself. He needs you, you’ve got to be gentle about things, don’t put your foot in it, Gadling.

…

Avery is bouncing on the bed when Hob gets back. He would tell Hob that no, he didn’t encourage this, if he were able. Yet, he does not regret the sharp jolts into both his left leg and head, not when there is such joy on the child’s face.

“Ave!” Hob scolds.”Careful, you might hurt Morpheus!” His friend glances worriedly at him, but he attempts a smile to reassure him. The medication he’d been given has dulled the intensity of the pain, although it’s done more for his head than his leg.

Hob hands him a warm mug of tea, and he thinks he smells a hint of honey, but when he drinks, he spits it out quickly, too hot! Looking up, he sees Hob trying to muffle a laugh and finds he does not mind so much being made a fool of if he can make his friend laugh, as long as he doesn't embarrass himself too often. Unfortunately, he thinks that may be impossible today. His hands stay wrapped comfortably around what he realises now is a mug with a black cat on it. Hob sees him looking.

“Fun fact about that mug”, as he talks, he grabs a wriggling Avery and sits her on his lap on the bed. “Bought it for you from ASDA when I was doing my food shop, must have been a few months after you came back.” He coaxes Avery to hold the milk cup herself and continues. “Anyway, Audrey thought I was a fool, you’d not come up to the flat for a drink, but I was so hopeful I’d persuade you up here, maybe with some kind of sweet drink. Honestly, you should know that about me by now, I will always try to feed the people I-.” Hob’s throat catches, and he clears it. “I care about”, he declares.

Avery is grasping at a raven plush in Hob’s hand. She’s finished the milk at record speed and seems to now be desperate for the stuffed corvid.

“Raven!” She giggles, and Hob makes it swoop down into her arms. He is a good father, Morpheus thinks. He was always going to be, but seeing them together, he cannot help but pick apart his own experience raising Orpheus. He was present, some of the time, and when he was able, he made sure to engage the young boy in all manner of things. Most predominantly, his music, which Morpheus himself does not consider himself gifted in, if The Endless could be gifted in anything. He supposes he is not Endless anymore, and so perhaps one day he may acquire a mortal gift or talent of his own.

Orpheus, however, had always had such an aptitude for song. He was the son of a muse, yes, but also it was Morpheus who encouraged that gift, who provided that first lyre, crafted on the shores of The Dreaming.

…

Orpheus, he recalls, must have been not much older than four or five. He had a great habit of running through the castle halls, singing at the top of his voice. Very few of his lyrics made sense at this stage, but Dream took great joy in hearing his son throughout his realm. Despite this, he wished to gift his son another way through which to make music.

This is how Lucienne found him, deep in focus, sitting in the sands.

“My Lord”, she had asked.

Dream had simply turned to her and held up the lyre.

“Do you think he’ll like it?” He was unsure if it was too grand a gift for a child so young, but he wanted the finest things for his son. The wood was mahogany, from the dreams of a tree long passed. Lucienne had smiled at him.

“Yes, my lord, I assume it is for master Orpheus?” She had always held great affection for the boy.

He had nodded, and later that evening, he had presented his son with his gift. It was received in the manner that all young children receive presents, with great excitement followed swiftly by a loss of memory that the object even existed. Dream had been disappointed, but only a day after he had come across Orpheus playing to Jessamy in the throne room. He had been aided by books she had brought him from the library, and Dream had stood there and basked in the glory that was the discovery of his child’s greatest talent.

…

Morpheus is brought back to the present with a plush corvid to the face. Mortification fills him at the discovery that his eyes are slightly damp to the touch. Hob’s hand slots over his own.

“Morpheus, you with us love?” Hob is so careful with him, and he despises it, but he is not certain that it’s not what he needs. He meets his friends’ concern with a nod before placing the raven in Avery’s arms. She grins up at him before curling back into his side, his arm goes around her, and although her presence causes him some pain, he feels soothed by the little hand that places itself on top of Hob’s over his own.

…

Avery falls asleep quickly, and Hob has an idea. He unlocks the ancient iPad by his bedside table, opening the notes app before sliding it over to Morpheus.

“No pressure if you can’t, and you don’t have to, but if you want to use this to talk to me, you can. If it locks, the password is 0000”, he says with a chuckle. “Not sure exactly why you’re struggling to speak, but it’s not the first time I’ve come across temporary mutism, lots of people struggle with it after big shocks or changes, only reason I think I’ve never experienced it is simply ‘cos I can’t seem to shut the fuck up”. He grins at Morpheus and tugs on his ear again, hoping it’s well received.

Morpheus simply stares at him for a few moments before beginning to type on the tablet. He holds it like a grandad, Hob thinks, typing with one hand. When he’s done, Morpheus turns the screen to him.

I apologise, Hob. I do not wish to burden you so.

“No, absolutely none of that”, Hob insists. “I promised I’d help, remember?”.

Morpheus seems to think on this, face growing reflective. He starts to type again. This time it takes a long while for him to show the screen again.

You do not understand. I did not NEED to come to you. I kept to my vow; there was not a safe moment to involve you, and besides, I did not wish to continue my function; I would not have you risk your life, or Avery’s, for something that I did not wish to preserve.

This disturbs Hob, and he sits up straighter, trying not to jog Avery. He pins Morpheus with his gaze.

“Wait, you did not want me to preserve what? Your life? Fuck Dream- Sorry, Morpheus, what was I meant to do, lie down and let you die? Absolutely not!” He pants slightly as the anger rolls through him,

“You think so little of me that you even consider leaving me with no answer? No explanation? Just nothing.” He pushes his hand through his hair, tugging a little to calm himself. Morpheus is wide-eyed and quickly takes the tablet back and begins to type anew. Eventually, he is shown a new message.

No, it is because I think so much of you, I did not wish to cause harm. I apologise, I did not even know, until my sister came to collect me, that there was another choice. I did not need to come to you to keep our vow, for technically, I had not broken it. However, I wanted to come here. My sister explained the consequences, how my injuries may present in a human form, but there must have been a part of me not ready to let go. For a reason I do not understand, I wanted to try to live, instead of existing. I know I do not deserve it, but if you’re still willing, I would like your assistance in this endeavour. I swear to you, I will not leave without explanation.

Hob’s heart is in his throat, and he swallows it back down. Oh, sweetheart, he thinks. You wanted a chance to exist as more than a function, and you came to me for this.

“Oh, OK- I think I understand”, he tells Morpheus. He would say much more, pour his very soul out if he thought it’d help, but he sticks with this single sentence and squeezes the hand that he still holds. This jostles Avery, who makes a displeased noise, but settles again very quickly.

“I can’t promise it’ll be pleasant, you’ve got some healing to do, and then you’ve gotta learn to live with me and Avery while we sort out what you want, but you’re welcome to whatever you need. I also don’t-” He hesitates, he doesn’t wish to put Morpheus off. “I don’t know what’s happening with your leg, could be some kind of physical representation of what you experienced, honestly, I’m too human to understand. I just mean, sometimes things don’t get better. Take my knee, for example. Been centuries since I was shot in it, and immortal or not, I just haven’t gotten better; it still hurts like hell sometimes. Good news is, I doubt you’re concussed if you can type to me, so there’s that”.

Morpheus has been listening avidly, but halfway through his speech, he’d also begun typing again. He presents the words with a nervous expression.

To live as a human is to live a closer experience to my son, I think perhaps, I did not want to die, not without knowing how those I love both experience and have experienced the world.

…

Loved, his friend used loved. To talk about his son, obviously, but Hob is the only other human here right now- apart from Avery, but she’s not been meeting Morpheus for 600 years. Hope buries itself into his chest, alongside the nagging worry that Morpheus has only said he’d try and that he’d not leave without explanation. That does not translate to stay. But it is a start.

Chapter Text

Hob was correct; his leg had not healed, although the fever had dissipated alongside the cuts across his body. Only silver white scars remained where the deepest ones were, and a couple of weeks into his stay with Hob and Avery, Morpheus was beginning to understand what Hob had told him. Sometimes it just doesn’t get better.

He has been able to see it in Hob himself, the soft groans as he lowers himself to the sofa at the end of the day and the times when Hob has to prop up his knee in the bed they still share, to relieve just a bit of the pain. There is a level of solidarity, he thinks, in sharing pain with another. It is an experience that were he not human, he would simply not get, in its entirety.

He is fortunate, he supposes, that the pain is only prominent when he puts weight into his left leg- it simply cannot seem to hold him up, or it can, he supposes, but not without great pain. It seems to be some sort of neuropathy, Hob had suggested, but neither of them is willing to approach a medical professional to ask. Morpheus had taken this moment, in one of their initial discussions, to suggest that perhaps it is simply what happens when The Kindly Ones tear into your form in such a way that nothing remains. Hob had seemed horrified and muttered something about “honestly if I ever see those fucking fates”.

Given the changes he has had to endure in such a short period, he reflects that he has not coped poorly with the experiences the last couple of weeks have presented him with. Hob had been so patient when it became clear that his voice wasn’t going to return easily. Not because he did not wish to communicate, but because every time he tried to formulate words in his mind, they could not make their way out without the feeling of a weight on his chest.

…

The first few days after their initial discussion, albeit via iPad, had been nothing short of hellish for Hob. Not that he would ever complain of that to his friend, predominantly, he found his focus spread too thin; he was needed so desperately that he lacked any capacity for himself. It was only when, whilst tucking Avery into bed a few days after the shower accident, that she poked her tongue out at him and said.

“Daddy smells!” Her little face twisted as she wrinkled her nose at him. “Daddy needs a bath!”

He’d falsely scoffed at her, pretending to be offended, but she wasn’t wrong- he’d realised. With that, he’d kissed her goodnight and headed back to the bedroom, where Morpheus was fast asleep. He’d moved into the living room that day, for a few hours, but it’d taken Hob supporting him on his bad knee; he’d kept silent about that, of course. They’d spent the afternoon watching nature documentaries on the sofa, both Morpheus and Avery dozing to David Attenborough’s dulcet tones.

Taking advantage of his moment of peace, he decided to indulge in a deep bath with one of the bath bombs he’d had for an age in his cupboard. Stripping off the pyjamas he’d been in for two days was nothing short of heavenly, and the warm water was a religious experience. He’d let out a large sigh and allowed himself to drift slightly in the quiet of the bathroom, save for the muted dripping of water from the bath tap.

The silence had been shattered by an incoherent shout from next door. Immediately, Hob had been up and out of the bath. He’d dried himself quickly, but only took the time to pull on his sleep shorts before heading out of the ensuite.

Morpheus was upright in the bed, panting heavily and staring straight ahead. As Hob had entered the room, he let a small whimper from the base of his throat. Hob had stood there for a moment, unsure if his touch would be welcome, but then Morpheus extended an arm towards him, and he moved without thinking.

Climbing onto the bed, he did not worry about being too close. Morpheus was more than capable of telling him to fuck off, with or without words. He found himself with an armful of ex-Dream Lord less than a second later. Arms wrapped around him tightly, and he shifted them so his back was against the headboard. Morpheus clung to him, legs on either side of his hips, and despite the context, Hob still had to convince his cock that now was not the appropriate time to get interested.

“Hey, duck”, Hob brushed the hair back from Morpheus’ face, which revealed the red-rimmed and tearful eyes looking back at him. “What’s this about?”

Morpheus had just shaken his head and buried his face in Hob’s neck, which quickly became wet from tears. He didn’t mind, of course, but the startling difference between the man (shaped) being that had met him in a tavern every hundred years, and the terrified creature that clung to him now was disconcerting.

Hob tentatively lifted one hand to run through Morpheus’s bird nest; he ought to introduce him to a comb.

“Oh, sweetheart”, the endearment slipped out before he could stop it, but Morpheus did not seem to notice. Hob doubted he ever would, for someone to know how loved they truly are, they would first need to know how to recognise that love, and Morpheus didn’t seem to have experienced that kind of devotion from anyone. Dream Of The Endless may have done, but the facet that had been Morpheus never seemed to see that he was a being worth knowing outside of his function.

He had found himself wondering, as he had many times since Morpheus had arrived in his home, how a former Nightmare would experience one himself. He supposed this gave him an answer, with the terror of a child dealing with one for the first time.

Morpheus had started to sniffle instead of sob, which Hob took as progress. He reached out to the side of the bed, where Morpheus had left the iPad, and gently placed it in his hands. His friend had gotten the hint and pulled away to unlock the tablet. Hands shaking, he typed just one word.

Orpheus.

Fuck, he should have guessed, he’d suspected, but there had been a part of him hoping that whoever had taken Dream’s office would not be so cruel. Maybe his friend needed to process the trauma, it is certainly what he’d have argued when he was Endless- nightmares are necessary in order to allow your sleeping mind to process that which you most need to.

Yet, his son, the killing of his child, Hob did not wish the man that sat, still on his lap, to ever contend with those memories, unless it was in a space he felt safe to do so- and even then, Hob would insist on being there if he was needed.

If he were not so concerned about the shaking bundle in his lap, who had now dropped the iPad to the side, he would have heard Avery’s door open. A small shadow appeared in their doorway before shuffling, thumb in her mouth and Raven in the other. He shifted Morpheus off his lap in order to help his daughter onto the bed, expecting her to go to him, as she had many times a week when she decided her own bed wasn’t adequate- he was surprised to see her go to Morpheus.

“Dream”, she had said, with so much care in her little voice. “Dream sad”, she repeated until those tearful eyes looked at her. She offered her Raven to Morpheus, who took it with great care.

“Raven help Dream”, she insisted, poking it back towards him when he tried to hand the plush back. “No bad dreams”, much like her father, Hob had thought, she seemed devoted to Morpheus’ happiness. It occurred to him, perhaps this was painful, a small child, much like his son had once been, so close to him, but his friend seemed to smile slightly at his daughter and Hob could not help the soft noise of joy he let out.

Hob had felt like he was interrupting something, a delicate moment, as his daughter, who would normally hide behind him when they had visitors, opened her arms to Morpheus- and he accepted. His stranger lay back down, with Avery upon his chest, and the Raven tucked into his shoulder.

Without disturbing the two of them, Hob pulled out his phone and took a photo of them. Maybe- he had thought, he wasn’t the only person that could support Morpheus. Avery had done so much without really knowing.

…

“Morpheus!” He hears his name being called out from the bedroom. Hob walks out with Avery on his hip- clearly she did not wish to walk this morning, he can relate. His friend had dug out a pair of crutches that he had lying about from when his knee was giving him too much trouble, but they were an ugly ‘NHS grey’ as Hob had said. Sadly, they were needed, even though they tired his shoulders by the end of the day and he had to demand- simply ask, Hob give him a massage.

Today, two weeks after he had arrived in Hob’s flat, Hob must to go back to work, which means he needs to take Avery to the library whilst Hob teaches. It is only a few minutes from the main campus, and will give his friend who has been so generous with him, a bit of respite from caring for the both of them. He was honoured to be so trusted with something Hob held so precious, and Avery was happy she did not have to sit in her father’s ‘boring’ class.

He’d looked in the mirror once, this morning. While he looks far better than he had done, the scars have not faded, and are not possible to hide completely, with long sleeves and trousers. He wonders if they will ever leave, a painful reminder of cosmic wrath he could not escape, a reminder of the deed that had led The Kindly Ones to his door. Morpheus promises himself to not often look in the mirror.

There is a clear shadow on Hob’s face from where he has been unable to shave, too busy running around after Avery and, him, Morpheus thinks guiltily. He knew how exhausted Hob is, he’d seen the messages to those at his workplace when he thought Morpheus wasn’t looking and the stress that needing time off work had caused. Hob adores his job and has complained enough times about the state of the ‘bloody British higher education system’, that he knew time off could cause him to lose the position he’d worked so hard for. It’s why Morpheus had suggested taking care of Avery while Hob worked- yes his mobility was not fantastic, but he is able to keep up with the clingy toddler.

They decide to get a taxi to the library, so they can avoid taking the pram, and for Morpheus’ leg, though he knew Hob would not admit to that in order to protect his pride. The man himself refuses to leave them until they are settled into the children’s section of the library, with snacks a plenty. Only when Morpheus manifests a glare in Hob’s direction and a blatant point at the door, does he get the hint. Hob kneels down to kiss Avery’s forehead, before pausing in front of Morpheus and then leaning in for a hug.

His voice has yet to come back, and so regretfully Avery had been informed they wouldn’t be able to read together, luckily story time was due to take place in a few moments, held by the library daily. He is aware that Hob had discussed his situation with the librarians present before leaving, which he hugely dislikes, but appreciates that it is for Avery’s safety, and so he does not argue.

He looks at the librarian running story time this morning, they are a young person- though everyone appears youthful to someone like him- he supposes. They have a gentle smile, bright orange hair and a yellow wheelchair, which some of the children are touching and sticking flower stickers on to. He assumes this is something they’ve encouraged. Avery does not seem interested in the librarian, much like Hob had told him, she keeps herself distant from the other children, choosing to stay by his side, with Raven in her grasp.

Carefully the librarian wheels themselves back from the children so they can choose the book. Even without access to his- Dream’s, library, he recognises the book as a rather famous one.

“Hello everyone, and welcome to storytime this morning”, the librarian speaks slowly and clearly for the children and parents present- or supervisors, in his case, he supposes. “Today we are going to read Guess How Much I Love You, this used to be a favourite of mine when I was young.”

As they begin, he is conscious of his fruitless efforts to reach out and touch their dreams. Weeks later and he has yet to adapt to the silence in his own mind, he used to simply know people. He would be able to learn their stories from his library, and treasure their minds on his island, but now he has left, he is shut out. This is good, he encourages himself to think, it is right that Dream Of The Endless has now taken his mantle, it had become a prison to him.

But a prison is sometimes familiar, and a prisoner comfortable with what they know, he reflects. Whilst the story is read, Avery presses herself into his side, but her eyes are now rapt on their storyteller. He envies her, in a way, she has known no different, and so existing in her own mind is not something he assumes is uncomfortable. Perhaps Orpheus, like Hob and even Avery, they simply just cannot understand what it was like to contain a legion of selfs behind one singular entity. How full he was, a being resistant to change in a consistently changing landscape like The Dreaming. He could not change, and yet it was also a part of his nature as a Dream.

The story, although read well and entertaining enough for the children, was not something he could pay attention to. The triviality of the situation strikes him, a former Endless, sat on a library floor with children ranging from 2 to 5 years old. He supposes it is something one of his siblings would laugh at, but somehow he doesn’t feel embarrassed. He enjoys Avery’s presence, he is glad to be of use to his friend.

…

They pick up takeaway that night for dinner, Hob cannot be fucked to cook and honestly Morpheus looks about ready to collapse. He’d come into the library after his lecture and seen him wrestling Avery onto his lap to stop her from running, someone had clearly given her some sugar and she’d been zooming around with poor Morpheus just trying to catch her. Hob had to admit he’d chuckled at the former King Of Nightmares crawling around the floor after his daughter- he may have sneaked a photo.

At least Avery was easy to put to bed, for once, but she had insisted on Morpheus or ‘Dream’ to her, tucking her in. Despite the clear fatigue, his friend had hobbled to her bedroom and sat by Hob’s daughters bedside as she fell asleep.

This had given Hob some time to get ready for bed himself and have a well needed shave, a tinge of guilt eats at him as he looks in the mirror. Audrey should be the one parenting their child with him, as much as he is glad Morpheus is here, and yet that is the problem. He cannot help but feel grateful that he is not alone as a parent anymore, of course he does not expect Morpheus, especially considering what happened, to actively support him with Avery, but he is glad all the same, and that makes him feel awful. How dare he be happy to be sharing a bed with his stranger, when his daughter is growing up without her mum.

Yet when the bedroom door opens, and he peeks his out of the bathroom to see Morpheus changing into his pyjamas (he glances away despite himself), it is so domestic, and so right to him, that he finds although he is saddened by how they got here, he is not sad they are.

Hob is a self aware man, he knows he’s been carrying a torch for his stranger since at least the 1600s, but likely long before. It is just, until recently, it seemed like that torch would keep burning, and life would go on as usual. That Audrey had looked like Dream had not exactly harmed his attraction to her, although he truly had and still does, love her deeply. Maybe she knew, she always was so perceptive, that although she was never in doubt of his love for her, she would always share his affections with a unattainable star he seemed to orbit.

As he exits the bathroom, he sees Morpheus’ eyes are slightly damp.

“Hey, love, you OK?” He is careful with his tone, trying to not sound too pitying, and Morpheus turns around, walking towards his side of the bed. His side of the bed, Hob thinks, they hadn’t even discussed getting a spare bed. His friend sits down, defeated and Hob joins him, sitting next to him.

He reckons he knows what this is about. Hob decides to simply brave the consequences.

“Is this about Avery? About having her around, because you know, when I first saw her, all I could see where the similarities to Robyn, and then I couldn’t stop thinking about how I’d fail her like I did him, or what if I did right by her? Then that’d prove I was always capable of being a good dad, just not for him?” He’s poured his heart out, but it’s worth it if it helps Morpeheus feel less alone.

Long fingers press into the centre of his chest, he’s suddenly, painfully aware he is not wearing a shirt to sleep, Morpheus nods once, before removing his hand and reaching to type on the iPad resting on his pillow.

I keep remembering Orpheus, I failed him, I do not wish to somehow wrong her and hurt you.

Hob’s heart just breaks. Morpheus truly believes he failed his son, by doing an act so selfless that it would bring about his own death. He isn’t sure he will ever convince him anything different.

“You did not fail him, but I know I can’t convince you of that, so I’ll say this. You hurt Avery, I mean you upset her on purpose, and I’ll never speak to you again.” Morpheus drops the tablet on his pillow and begins to shift back, Hob quickly grabs his hand to stop him.

“But you won’t, I know you, never would you ever even try to upset her, that’s not who you are, not now, not when you were Endless. You’re so convinced that you’ll bring us destruction that you haven’t seen all the good you’ve done. Avery finally trusts an adult outside of me, you helped her go to the library while I was working despite knowing you’re not feeling well still. You chose to try and my stranger, that means more than I can ever say.”

Morpheus breathes sharply at his declaration, and reaches again for the tablet. Then he seems to change his mind and puts it back down. He takes another deep breath and clears his throat.

“Your stranger?” Morpheus’ voice is cracked from disuse, but still it is wonderful to hear, but Hob can’t focus on that right now as blood rushes to his ears. Fuck, he heard that. He heard Hob call him his. Shit. Panicking, Hob stands.

“I’m sorry I didn’t mean, obviously you’re not mine, I don’t own you, never would want to, I just mean…” His ramble is cut off by Morpheus pulling himself up on his crutches and taking himself to stand by Hob. He wets his lips, and Hob follows the motion. He’s only human, but Morpheus, surprisingly perceptive, more so now he has begun to recover, smirks at him.

“Hob, you misunderstand”, his friend tells him. “I am not displeased by this, I find it comforting”- his mouth struggles around the words, “to be wanted, to be cared for, you have been nothing but kind to me since my arrival, who else would I be glad to belong to, other than my dearest friend, my Hob?”

Hob is pretty sure he’s taken Death’s hand and is in some kind of afterlife, or maybe in Delirium's realm, because this cannot be happening. His stranger, his Morpheus, takes his hand and leads him to the bed, pulling him under the covers. Once they are both lying still, only touching where their hands meet, he feels Morpheus shift, so that he is held up on one shoulder above Hob.

“I do not understand why I feel as such, I apologise”, Hob listens raptly as Morpheus speaks. “But I hope, in time, that I will gain a greater comprehension of emotions such as these, so, for now, know this. I am glad to belong to you in whatever way you see me as yours, it has been long time since I have been thought of as such.” Then, biting his tongue in seeming apprehension, Morpheus hesitates, before leaning down and placing a soft kiss upon Hob’s cheek.

Hob is left, in shock as his oldest friend pulls back and lies down, facing away from Hob, completely unaware of the effect of such a gesture. Or- he believes so, until Morpheus turns, looks at Hob still lying in still surprise, and sighs, wrapping his arms around him, forcing him to lie on his side.

It is there, in the crepuscular dark, Hob thanks Death for the first time in his life. Without her interference, he would not be curled up with his stranger, as a little spoon. He has always been right, so much to live for.

Chapter Text

It’s been over a week since Morpheus had kissed his cheek, and Hob is pretty sure that he can still feel the imprint on his face. He has decided to, however, let Morpheus lead their next steps, whatever they may be. He has had too many choices taken from him, Hob thinks, and he refuses to take another from him.

Their life, for the most part, has been rather boring by human standards, but Hob has found that when you have forever, there is less of a rush about things. Besides, he’s more than happy to see small changes in Morpheus that come with just having a safe space to exist in. He supposes, perhaps, Morpheus may want to move into his place eventually, after all, this is only a two-bedroom flat. Not that he is going to mention this option to his friend, not just yet, he’s both too selfish and too aware of how Morpheus still cannot manage a full day on his feet. He’s already put a cheap, plastic stool in the shower, which was received with quiet, embarrassed thanks. He thinks he may benefit from a rollator, or even a wheelchair, and although the flat is up a flight of stairs, he has enough money to install a stairlift. If Morpheus would agree to use either of those aids, even half of the time, he may find himself able to do longer days, but the shame of being ‘broken’ has gotten to his friend more than he even suspected.

Hob empathises, it’s taken a long time even to accept that some days he cannot lift his daughter, so he doesn’t even want to imagine how it must feel for Morpheus. He’s not going anywhere, though, so he’ll be here when the inevitable shock of dealing with a ‘faulty’ body wears off, and Morpheus realises it is permanent. Life can be good regardless, but will his friend see that?

He has an idea, one that may get Morpheus to try and use a mobility aid. Every year, he takes a trip to the South Downs; he’s taken Avery both times, but he doubts she understands the significance to her father. Essete village, a set of ruins found in the South Downs, was abandoned by the mid-1400s. His birthplace. Unfortunately, the South Downs path is notoriously inaccessible, but it is possible to get to the village before needing to turn around if you have mobility issues, he knows, because no way a buggy would get further than that. He’d have to carry Avery on his back this year if she got tired, because, if he can be persuaded, he’d like to use the cheap fold-up chair he’d ordered online to try and get Morpheus there.

He knows he needs to approach the conversation carefully, otherwise the prideful once-king may recoil, and he’d hate to lose the progress he’s made. Perhaps he should frame it as a favour for him? Going back is difficult, and he does selfishly want someone to hold his hand who gets the magnitude of what they are seeing. Audrey tried, she did, but how could she envision people six centuries gone? How could she possibly understand how, for him, a part of his existence, of every life he lived and will live, begins here? Morpheus, who has lived longer than Hob can even imagine, would.

He finds Morpheus sitting on the sofa with Avery. She’s taking huge advantage of his voice returning and has held him hostage every afternoon or evening for a story. Not once has he refused her. When he enters the room, Avery lets out a cry,

“Daddy!” Running over to him, he gathers her in his arms and kisses all over he sweet face.

“Hello, Ave, you making Morpheus read to you- again?” He tickles her chin, and she giggles. Carrying her over to the sofa, he places her on his lap and turns to look at his stranger. He’s still living in Hob’s oversized clothes, neither of them has wanted to brave the outside world to get him a new wardrobe. It makes him look younger than he is, and also, so fucking soft. Hob’s convinced he’s never been more in love with Morpheus than when he’s sitting on his sofa, reading to his daughter, and wearing his clothes.

“Hey”, he starts as gently as he can, “I need to ask you something.” This catches Morpheus’ attention, and those blue eyes stare right into his soul.

“Yes, Hob, you may ask me anything, you know this.” His friend is so open with him, it’d kill him if he were able to die.

“So, this time every year, I normally take a trip to the South Downs, get a cottage for a night or so after, and then get the train back. I’d love you to come with.”

Morpheus nods, but he looks confused, so Hob continues.

“There’s a village there, one called…”

“Essete, yes, Hob, I do remember where you were born, some information has stayed with me.” Hob is floored that out of all the things Morpheus’ mind could retain as a human, one is his birthplace- a small, often muddy piece of land of little consequence.

“Well,” he stumbles, “I’d be honoured if you’d come with me and Avery, but there may be one small problem”. Morpheus’ face scrunches up in a way that, were Hob not terrified of pissing him off currently, he’d want to place a kiss on his nose. “The path is relatively flat, but it’s difficult to walk and quite long, I struggle with my knee, but honestly, I just put a support on and plough on, hence why I book the cottage too to rest after. So I, and I don’t mean to offend, but you may need some extra help to get there. I- I have ordered a cheap wheelchair, nothing fancy, in the hopes that you can use it to support yourself on, and when you get tired, I’ll push you to the top, though you’ll need to put Avery in your lap.” There, he’s ripped off the plaster; hopefully, Morpheus won’t get too angry.

His friend’s face had stayed relatively still the whole time he spoke, but he noticed a small curve down in Morpheus’ lips that happens when he is unhappy. He is silent for so long that Hob thinks he may not reply, but he eventually opens his mouth.

“I would be honoured to accompany you, but I find myself uncomfortable with the idea of using such a device. Is it not possible for me to manage the walk without it? I am capable of using the crutches more efficiently now.” Morpheus looks at him pleadingly.

It’s then that Avery decides to pipe in; she climbs off of Hob’s lap and onto Morpheus’, being careful with his left leg, which has constant pain throughout it. How she understands this, he doesn’t know, but she taps the leg softly.

“Dream’s leg”, she looks at Morpheus before leaning down to kiss his knee. Hob’s heart just about bursts.

“Dream’s leg needs love”, she states again, and this time, Hob can’t help it; he sniffles back a few tears.

“You see, love,” he says to his beloved friend. “We don’t want you in pain, not when we can help. Tell you what, if you use the chair when you need it, I’ll let you help me by giving my knee a massage at the end of the day? Sound fair?”

Morpheus is still staring at Avery, and Hob swears there are tears in his eyes, not that he’ll point that out, of course. When he looks at Hob, he nods subtly.

“Very well. I will use the wheelchair if I need it to assist you in the journey to your birth village. However, if you take a photo of me in it…”

Hob goes to object, but Morpheus places his hand firmly over Hob’s mouth.

“I have seen the photos on your phone, of me, and of Avery and me both, you are obsessed with taking them, Hob Gadling.”

“Only ‘cos I have to remember everything, duck. The only thing I have left of Audrey is her photos, and other physical bits and bobs” He tugs on his ear, feeling a little bit called out and too well observed. Morpheus’s face softens.

“I apologise, I should’ve realised,” his friend tells him.

“No problem, you weren’t to know, besides, I do like taking them because sometimes I can use them to tease you, like the one of you covered in Avery’s breakfast yesterday.” He chuckles at the memory of Morpheus covered in pureed food when he hadn’t sat down with Avery at her mealtime, and she had seen fit to protest this. He’d scolded her, of course, but Morpheus had forgiven her instantly- to Hob’s surprise.

“It’s not as though you have anyone to show them to,” Morpheus adds with a hint of melancholy.

“Only for now, maybe you’ll make some new friends at story time with her majesty”, he gestures down at Avery, who’s currently trying to pull on Hob’s hair. “Or maybe, when you’re ready, we can go on some proper days out, join some groups, or you could help me in the inn downstairs?” Not that Hob can see Morpheus pulling pints. “Besides, you’ll always have me, and yeah, it can be a lonely life, but less so if we’ve got each other.”

“I suppose”, Morpheus relents. Hob doesn’t add how he’s seen the illustrations gathering by the kitchen table, using Hob’s cheap biros and the backs of old tests. He thinks his friend just needs to create again, but for joy, not duty, this time.

…

The following weekend, Hob, Avery and Morpheus depart for Seaford station, where they then catch the bus to Seven Sisters Country Park. He folds the chair, wheeling it alongside them. Avery toddles ahead, holding Morpheus’ elbow (his hands are needed for the crutches). The day is brisk, and they each have a small rucksack so they can head to the cottage, which is only a short bus ride away from the park, straight after their walk.

As expected, making their way up the steep path is slow going for Hob as well as his companions. Pretty quickly, Avery waves at Hob and demands to sit in the wheelchair, which he allows, because she only has little legs. Morpheus has opted to use his crutches instead of leaning on the chair, but Hob can see the slight tremble in the top of his arms, where he struggles to hold up his whole body weight.

They take a break, about halfway into their walk. Morpheus perches in the chair, much like it were a throne, and Hob does consider taking a photo because he looks like a King no matter what seat he uses, but he’s aware of how on edge Morpheus seems about needing it. Avery munches on her sandwich before trying to nab Morpheus’ half-eaten one. Hob has never seen someone willingly give up their food so quickly. It concerns him, of course, Morpheus' appetite is definitely not ‘normal’, but he always finds it hard to eat when he’s in pain himself, hence his own neglected sandwich.

After lunch, they continue, and the path has evened out now. Hob is grateful as, not long after lunch, Morpheus had stopped walking, and without a word, sat in the chair, pulling Avery onto his lap from where he’d had to dislodge her. Hob had kept quiet about it and taken it as the victory it was.

Panting and sweating profusely, from pushing both of them up the hill, he didn’t notice they’d arrived straight away. Not until he heard the telltale sounds of chatter from several hikers who’d also been looking for the spot, albeit for very different reasons.

“Right-” Hob paused. This was where he’d need to go alone; he couldn’t get the wheelchair along the grass to Mathilde’s grave, not that anyone would know she was buried there, the marker had long been lost. “I need to go see Mathilde quickly, if that’s OK?” He struggles to get the words out, as he always does, in a place that is both so familiar and contrasting with everything he remembers. The landscape has changed, sharpened, but the feeling of the breeze has not. Perhaps a part of his mother, his father still lives here, for he is always slightly warm, as though someone is holding his hand whilst he’s here.

Looking down, he realises he’s not feeling a phantom sensation this time. Morpheus has stood, Avery next to him, and has grabbed his hand.

“No, my Hob”, his friend smiles at him, but he’s still stuck on the my. My Hob. “We shall accompany you, although,” he looks embarrassed, “I cannot carry Avery, so you may need to do so. We shall leave the chair here, I am sure it will be OK”.

Hob is left speechless, a rare occurrence for certain. He clears his throat, tries to speak without crying, fails, and gives up. He places Avery on his shoulders with one smooth sweep and gestures for Morpheus to go ahead on the crutches.

It is only a few minutes walk to the place where he knows he buried Mathilde. However, the wind is vicious on their faces today, and they have to walk against it. Still, he reaches the spot he would know with his eyes closed, far away from tourists taking photos of a life he once lived. He kneels and is vaguely aware of Morpheus doing the same, though it takes him a moment.

“Hey, Tilda.” He greets his little sister, placing Avery in front of him so he can pull out a white rose from his backpack to dig into the ground. “I’ve brought Avery with me again, you’d have loved her, maybe you could have run around after each other, and I’d be able to catch a break, and just watch you both.” He brushes the hair from his face, where it has blown into his mouth.

“I’ve also brought my friend Morpheus. You’ve never met him before, but he’s my very best friend.” Hob is careful not to look at Morpheus’ face whilst he speaks, too afraid of the possible reactions he may find there. “I met him a fair while after you passed, and you might recognise him from some of the stories I’ve told you. Life’s been strange, ‘Tilda, I lost Audrey and it hurt, so much, still does, and then I thought I lost him too, and I just couldn’t cope, but Avery needed me, so I kept pushing.” He feels a hand fall on the back of his neck, rubbing a palm against it in a soothing motion.

“I hoped, though, and my friend kept his promise; he asked me for help, and I was so glad. You know me, I love to be needed. Always have been, was why I adored looking after you so much, so mum could get her jobs done. Anyway,” he dusts his pants and goes to stand, “I miss you, all of you”, this he speaks to all his dead loves, “but I’ll always be here, so you can’t die, not really. You’re right here.” He taps his head as he straightens up and looks over the horizon, to the sea expanding into everything visible to him. Morpheus still has his hand on his neck, but he is using it to also balance himself. Good, Hob thinks, about time he leaned on someone.

…

It’s 10 pm, and Avery is upstairs in her bed, thoroughly exhausted. The cottage has a third bedroom, but without words, they seem to have agreed to ignore its existence. Morpheus tries to convince himself that it’s purely that it is what he has become used to, that he sleeps better when someone is near, in case of nightmares. He knows better. Perhaps what he feels, for Hob, could not be named whilst he was Endless, but it is easier to name when he is made of human instincts and emotions. Even so, he is hesitant to act; he is reliant on Hob, and whilst he trusts his friend, there is the risk that what Hob feels for him is purely strong friendship. He had named Morpheus his, but not his love. Love, not my love.

Hob lets out a groan as he extends his leg out on the sofa, and Morpheus’s long fingers dig into his knee and the muscle beneath. The groan settles deep in his core, and he ignores the bodily response; this is to help his friend; he must focus on the task at hand. Hob starts to speak as he massages.

“Thank you- don’t think I said that today.” He lets out another, lower moan when Morpheus’s fingers hit a particularly sore part, and he has to adjust himself so he does not feel the anatomical reaction to Hob’s noises. “I’m so bloody grateful you’re here, definitely have said that a lot, but I don’t care. It is the privilege of my long life to see you like this.”

“Like what?” Morpheus asks. “Broken? Still so demanding of your attentions? Reliant on your guidance? With little to offer, save assisting with sweet Avery? I still cannot hold her hand without thinking of my son, and how I refused to help him. They are not the same, so why does my mind confuse them both?”

Hob pulls himself up at this and places a hand tentatively on Morpheus’ thigh.

“No, not broken, you’re alive, for the first time in billions of years, you’re able to experience the costs and rewards of life. One bad leg does not equate to the end of the world. Your life is finally beginning, and of course, you are reminded of Orpheus when you see Avery. I see Robyn in her some days, it’s grief, my love”. Hob’s breath stutters at the last endearment, clearly unintentional.

“Yours?” He asks, so unsure of himself, never before has he reached out to another and not seen the dreams fluttering around their mind, what they desire. He says as much to Hob.

“I wish I could see your daydreams still, I would have never looked unless invited, but now, I wish I could know what you are thinking of.” He mutters, despite himself, what if he has ruined this? He could be so wrong.

Yet Hob places his spare hand upon his cheek, and he does not think he is.

“Can I show you?” Hob’s voice is barely a whisper. He gives his assent with a nod, gaze falling to those lips.

It is so tender when Hob shows him.