Archive of Our Own ^beta

Dream prefers to visit at night. Tommy doesn’t mind this at all - in fact, it’s pretty great, all things considered. He spends his days napping under the warm sun, and when the temperature drops and all that’s left is the cold ocean wind, he can run through the sand under the light of the moon.

It’s a small comfort among the many things that make his life in exile one of the shittiest experiences he’ll ever have. Even when he can’t get attached to so much as an iron pickaxe, the moon’s always there. It makes him feel more rejuvenated, more alert, puts him at ease even when a full day’s rest won’t do the same. Sure, the beach is beautiful and warm to nap on during the day, but moonlight makes him feel alive.

There’s only a sliver of it left in the sky - a sharp little crescent that provides just enough visibility to see the shadows on the ground in front of him. To a human, it’d be no different from total darkness, but for Tommy, it’s all he needs. The darkness helps him blend in where he stands, crouched behind thick bushes that obscure him from his target.

In front of him is a lone lamb. Its wool is pale, and starkly visible against the dark brush. Tommy’s been following it for about fifteen minutes, as quiet as he’s ever been seen. His claws flex against his palms, and he prepares to leap. How long has it been since he’s had a proper meal, really? He’s not a vegetarian; he can’t survive on carrots and bread alone, made from a threadbare farm in loose sand that washes away or drowns what he’s growing half the time. The animal is so close, he can practically smell its meat cooking on his campfire already.

Tommy’s mouth waters.

“Hunting, are we?”

Dream’s voice is deafening in the silence of the forest, despite the fact that he’s not even talking particularly loud - but the lamb startles. Tommy does too, and in a desperate attempt not to lose his catch, he bolts from the bushes.

“You prick!” Tommy shouts as he barely manages to catch the sheep by its haunches. His fingers curl into nothing but wool, and when he yanks on it, the sheep bleats in alarm before Tommy gets it down to the ground. Its limbs flail uselessly.

“You'd have an easier time of it if you used a weapon,” Dream comments, boots crunching in the dirt as he approaches from behind. “Maybe a bow and arrow? Instead of-” and he gestures at Tommy's hands, holding the sheep down by its neck and body, claws digging into its flesh and drawing blood, “that.”

“I didn’t have time!” Tommy exclaims. “You scared it!” 

Dream stops by Tommy’s side. He doesn’t listen to his protests, and instead says, “Come on, Tommy. Put the poor thing out of its misery.”

Tommy’s voice dies in his throat. Arguing over this would be pointless - Tommy knows by now that Dream is never going to budge, and Tommy will only make himself look like a fool. He lifts one hand to hold the sheep down by its neck, claws flexing as he does so, and Dream interrupts, 

“With a real weapon, Tommy, don’t make a mess.” He clicks his tongue. “Did living in a ravine turn you feral, or something?”

“What? No!” Tommy blurts. He might be a werewolf, but he isn’t feral. “And - and lay off, I was getting there!” With his free hand, he pulls a crudely made knife from his inventory and then adjusts his grip around the sheep’s neck. He glances at Dream out of the corner of his eye, and although all he can see is a pristine white mask, he feels the judgmental stare bearing down on him.

He slashes the lamb’s throat, and its bleating dies with it.

Dream crouches down by the head of the lamb. Tommy feels his ears pin back, but that’s the only outward indication of him being extremely displeased to have another person so close to his kill. He swallows his growl and puts away his knife while the lamb’s blood pools on the dirt in front of them. The cut is clean and precise. Of course it is. 

“There, are you happy?” Tommy says, getting to his feet and lifting the dead lamb with him.

Dream shrugs. “It’s decent,” he says, with an air of nonchalance that makes Tommy wonder why he cared so damn much in the first place. “Take that back to the shore, I’ve made a campfire and you can cook it.”

“I - what, you think I would eat it raw?”

Dream’s head cocks to the side. “Would you? You ate a rabbit raw on-”

“-on my third day here, okay, yes, you don’t have to remind me.” Tommy’s voice pitches, and he sounds a little bit too close to whining for his own comfort. He’s pointedly aware of the way Dream pauses, of the sound he makes when he sighs in exasperation, of the way his hands lift and gesture in a shooing motion for Tommy to get a move on. Like Tommy’s some sort of embarrassment.

Tommy turns on his heel and starts to rapidly walk away. The hair on the back of his neck stands on end. He knows Dream is close behind, but he doesn’t stop moving forward, one step after the other. His kill is heavy in his arms and there is a thick lump in his throat - or maybe that’s the hunger. He’s salivating more, now that the thick scent of iron has wafted up to his nostrils.

“Where’d you put the campfire?” Tommy asks.

“A bit away from your tent,” Dream answers, and his voice is much closer than Tommy anticipates. 

Tommy’s head snaps to look over his shoulder, and there’s Dream’s mask, about three feet away from him. When he turns to look, his foot catches on something on the ground - a fallen branch, a tree root - and he stumbles forward. His first instinct is to hold tightly to the lamb, so he doesn’t quite have enough time to properly brace himself as he falls. His hands dart out to catch himself last minute, and his left palm hits the ground first - then his right, and then his nose smacks against the lamb’s flank as it hits the ground below him with a thud.

Laughter echoes through the woods. Tommy looks up with a scowl at Dream, whose shoulders shake in mirth, and snaps, “Oi, dickhead, you startled me again!”

“Come on, you need to watch where you’re going,” Dream says, smooth and easygoing, like Tommy’s misfortune can only be endearing to him. “You can see, can’t you?”

“Of course I can see,” Tommy says, affronted. He gathers the lamb up in his arms again and stands up. “What kind of question is that?”

“Oh, I don’t know. I just thought you might be having a little trouble. Need a hand to hold?” Dream teases, extending a gloved hand forward.

“Fuck off,” Tommy groans in exasperation. He feels his cheeks get a little warm. He adjusts the lamb in his arms so he has a free hand to swat at Dream’s, but instead of making any contact with Dream’s hand, he feels a sudden, tight grip around his wrist. “I - hey!”

Dream goes quiet and lifts Tommy’s arm, staring intently at his palm. He holds still for far longer than Tommy expects, until finally, he says, “Ah, you’re bleeding.”

“What?” Tommy says, trying to tug his hand away from Dream. It doesn’t work. “It’s probably just sheep’s blood.”

“No, you definitely scraped it up,” Dream says. He gently prods at the heel of Tommy’s palm with his free hand. Softly, he clicks his tongue. “There’s dirt caught in here. Would it kill you to be less clumsy?”

Tommy ignores the question and hisses quietly. “That stings.”

“See?” 

Tommy rolls his eyes. “Look, it’s fine, just - let go of my hand, Dream.”

Dream’s grip doesn’t let up. The forest is quiet around them, and Tommy feels unease creep into his expression, tightening near his brows and at the corners of his mouth. Maybe he’s just staring that hard because he can’t see as well as Tommy can? But then, how would he even see that Tommy had scraped his hand in the first place? And why is he so concerned about a scrape? He didn’t seem to care when Tommy complained about nearly getting mauled by mobs because of his lack of gear - Dream’s fault, at that - so why is he still holding on to Tommy’s wrist?

“Dream?” Tommy says with a soft, nervous laugh. “You, uh - seriously, let go of me. I’m fine.”

Dream holds on for just another second before letting go. “Just bandage it up when we get back,” he says, like nothing happened, and strides past Tommy.

The sound of the ocean gets louder the closer Tommy and Dream get to the beach. Even on the sand, it’s a soft, repetitive noise, not unlike the sounds of rain. In the distance, Tommy can hear the waves crashing against jagged rocks, but this part of the shoreline is smooth and weathered, creating a gradual crescendo as the tide pulls in and then leaves with a gentle shhhhh. 

The campfire is smoldering by the time Tommy’s tent is in sight. Dream takes it upon himself to stoke the flames again, while Tommy sits on a nearby log and pulls out his knife. The wool from the lamb will be useful to him later, so before he skins it, he’s careful to shear as much of it as he can. He amasses a small pile of it next to the log.

“Fire’s ready.”

Tommy looks up. Dream sits on a log across from him, on the other side of the fire. The bottom half of his mask is illuminated in orange, and his hood and cloak cast shadows all across it. The fire’s been tended to, and the flames reach well over a foot high now. Tommy feels the warmth on his face at this distance already. 

“Haven’t even skinned this thing yet,” he says. A beat of silence passes. Tommy lifts his hand and flexes his claws pointedly, and then, “I mean, I could just-”

“No, what - no!” Dream says. “See, this is what I’m talking about, you just - you have no patience.”

“I have plenty of patience,” Tommy scoffs. “You were just talking about the fire, so I assumed you wanted me to cook it already.”

“I literally was just letting you know it’s ready.”

“Ready if I want to char the whole thing, yeah - what, am I just tossing the cuts straight into the flames?”

“No! You could, like-”

Tommy leans forward and grabs a small stick off of the ground. “Oh, brilliant, I could stick a chunk on one of these and roast it.”

“What.”

Tommy’s grin is, of course, wolfish. “I could roast it.”

“You just grabbed that off of the ground, Tommy. It’s dirty.”

Tommy, all of a sudden, smacks a hand on his thigh. “You know what, Dream? That reminds me, it’s an absolute shame, I’ve been out here for weeks and I haven’t made a single damn s’more! I’ve got a whole fuckin’ tent, campfire every night, and there’s not a single roasted marshmallow in sight.”

Dream starts to sputter, a pffft sound that morphs into something that’s half laughing, half coughing. “ What?!?”

“S’mores! You know what a s’more is, don’t you, Dream? I swear to god, if you have no idea what that is, I’m fucking suing. I’m going back to L’Manberg, I’m getting graham crackers and chocolate and a fucking massive bag of marshmallows, and-”  

“You’re not - you can’t leave, Tommy, what?” Dream says, but the threat - is it even a  threat? - is downplayed by the way Dream’s hands twitch forward to clutch at his stomach and the teakettle wheezing that echoes from behind his mask. 

“And I’m bringing them back!” Tommy says like it’s a matter of fact. His smile grows wider. He knows he’s full of shit, of course, but he wants to hear Dream laugh again, his stupid wheezing and the way he almost-but-not-quite doubles over. “And we’re going to prove that even - even a green bitch like you has taste buds.”

“Okay first of all - first of all, you’re not, but second of all, where the fuck did you get the idea that I’ve never had a s’more, of all things?”

Tommy shrugs. “Just sounds like something you’d do.”

“Like something I’d do?”

“Yeah. Deprive yourself of joy. ” On the word ‘joy,’ he thwaps the stick into the open palm of his other hand. Of course, he immediately regrets this. “Ow, fuck, what-”

“I told you to bandage that,” Dream says. 

“Yeah, well, it wasn’t an issue before,” Tommy grumbles. “Anyways, since I don’t have marshmallows, I’m settling for the next best thing. I’m betting you’ve never had a mutton s’more before, but that’s okay, because I haven’t either. And we don’t have graham crackers or chocolate but that’s, that’s okay too, because I don’t think meat would go great with those anyways.”

“Right,” Dream says, crossing his arms. “Because a s’more without graham crackers or chocolate or marshmallows is somehow still a s’more.”

“Exactly.”

“No, that’s not - you’ve just removed everything that makes a s’more a s’more!”

“Not the stick!” Tommy waves the stick in the air.

“That’s a kebab. You’ve described a kebab.”

“No, you take the meat off of the stick at the end,” Tommy says, miming. “If it’s a kebab, you leave it on the stick, but since it’s a s’more you take it off.”

“I think I’m more worried about the fact that you’re using a stick you just picked up off of the ground, actually,” Dream says. “Is there sand on it? You’ll get sand on your meat.”

“Well - fine, here, catch,” Tommy says, and tosses the stick to Dream. He almost fumbles it, but manages to hold on even though it was tossed at him without warning.

“What am I doing with this?” Dream says. 

“Wash it off and sharpen it? You carry knives, right? You’ve got all sorts of weapons and shit.” Tommy picks his own knife back up and poises it to cut away at the lamb’s skin. “I have to skin this thing still, so you’ve got to make the stick.”

“I - it’s your stick, you do it.”

“I’m a little occupied here.” Tommy gestures with the knife at the lamb. Despite the mask covering Dream’s face, Tommy can feel the eyeroll. 

“Right, of course, I’m TommyInnit and I can’t bother to sharpen my own stick, I have to get Dream to do it for me.” He lifts the stick up to eye level, looking closer. “Did you get blood on it?”

Tommy holds the knife still where it’s embedded into the sheep’s flank, then looks back up at Dream. “What? I mean, yeah, probably.”

Dream huffs. “I told you to bandage that hand, Tommy.”

Tommy takes his knife and makes another strong, deliberate cut, starting to strip off the pieces of the animal he won’t need. “I said it’s fine, man. I mean, I can find another stick if you don’t want me to cook with that one now, but-”

“Your hand, Tommy.”

Tommy can hear the irateness in Dream’s tone, which… it’s usually a bad sign. It’s the warning that Tommy should start shutting up, or he might regret it. He usually doesn’t, because it’s hilarious to watch Dream get so pissed, but lately these things have come with more dire consequences. Dream could take his things again and blow them up. Then he’d have to skin the sheep without the knife.

The knife’s alright, all things considered. Tommy thinks he might have a better time of it with his claws, honestly, but he’d rather use the knife than deal with Dream mumbling complaints about the mess, about how just because we’re out in the wild doesn’t mean you have to act so uncivilized, even though it’s Dream’s entire fucking fault and-

“Are you even listening to me?”

Tommy makes another sharp cut. “I said it’s fine! Look, let me just finish skinning this.” 

Dream’s not actually concerned. Tommy knows this, almost for certain - though, it’s not like Tommy makes a habit of injuring himself or anything. He’s actually been quite careful so far, out here in Logstedshire, because one wrong move and he’s definitely toast to some random mob or something. Unless - Dream actually is? That’s a weird thought. Dream being concerned. 

Dream gets to his feet. “You know what, fine, if you want to be so stubborn about it,” he grumbles. Tommy looks up out of the corner of his eye to see Dream rounding the campfire, stomping closer.

Tommy’s hackles raise. He puts down the knife, lifts his head, raises his hands placatingly, “Wait, Dream, wait, I didn’t mean it, you don’t have to-”

Dream snatches Tommy’s injured wrist, and he yelps in surprise. Tommy stares up with wide eyes, watching Dream’s other hand move to the pouch on his waist, deftly unlatching the flap to shove his hand inside and pull out-

A bandage roll.

Tommy falls quiet.

“Since you won’t do it yourself,” Dream mumbles. “And this is why you’re here. Because you won’t listen, and I have to do it for you.”

Tommy opens his mouth and then closes it again. His cheeks burn hot with embarrassment, and it feels like the pause before Dream starts unraveling the bandage lasts forever. Is Dream being pointed about his hand, or is Tommy just imagining things? He feels like he’s imagining things. He always is, lately.

Dream wraps the bandage tight around his hand, careful to avoid his claws. Tommy feels like an unruly child at the doctor’s office, scolded and held in place until the proper treatment can be given - which is ludicrous, given that he’s a grown man, but is also the primary reason his ears feel like they’re on fire. The bandage is secured, tugged to make sure, and then Tommy’s wrist is unceremoniously dropped.

“And you better let that heal,” Dream mumbles.

Tommy cradles his hand a little closer to his chest. He feels a little silly with the mess of a dead animal half-prepared for cooking on his lap and a cleanly bandaged hand to go with it, but he swallows his embarrassment and mumbles, “Yeah, yeah, I will.” 

He picks up the knife. It feels heavy in his freshly-bandaged hand, and the next few cuts he makes are awkward and stilted - helped none by the fact that Dream stays there next to him, standing. He’s between Tommy and the fire, which doesn’t help the lighting situation in the slightest - despite Tommy having keen vision at night, the details - like trying to skin a sheep - elude him, and his hands being cast in shadow are absolutely still a hindrance.

“...I’m fine now. You can sit back down,” Tommy mumbles. In theory he should be thanking Dream, but he doesn’t think his mouth would form the words if he tried. Still, he owes him - the stinging is less now, and the likelihood of infection is very small. It’s… a sweet gesture, if Tommy thinks about it for more than two seconds. Something he really should be thankful for - something that shows Dream cares.

He feels stupid, again, for ignoring that.

Tommy’s hands are clumsier as he cuts away at the sheep skin with the knife, and he can feel Dream's gaze boring right through him - because, of course, he’d stayed put. He stops for a moment to squint through the darkness to figure out where he’s cutting, and Dream interrupts him.

“Having trouble?”

“You’re standing in the way of the light,” Tommy says.

“You can’t see?”

“I mean - sort of, it’d just be easier with the light,” Tommy mumbles. He pushes the knife against a particularly tough piece of flesh, pressing his unbandaged palm against the other side of the sheepskin, into the blade - but it doesn’t cut through. “I can’t - I don’t know why this is getting stuck-”

Dream reaches out a hand. “ Careful, Tommy, you’re going to cut-”

It’s too late, and the knife blade finally cuts through the sheep skin and into Tommy’s own palm. He shouts, dropping both the knife and the pieces of lamb he was working with. Blood flows freely from his palm, dripping onto the ground, and he clutches his hand close - though a moment later, it’s once again stolen away by Dream.

“Ow ow ow fuck, don’t hold it like that!” Tommy exclaims.

“You’re doing this on purpose,” Dream mutters.

“What?” Tommy says in disbelief. On purpose? Does Dream think that Tommy’s hurting himself just to spite him, or something? “What the fuck? Why would I do that?”

Dream’s grip gets tighter. “Stop acting dumb, Tommy, I know you know. How else would you injure yourself twice in a single night like this? Why else would you refuse to bandage your hand?”

“I - what the fuck are you talking about, Dream?” Tommy says, throat tightening. His claws flex. Every muscle in his body twitches, screaming for him to shove Dream away, to growl at him until he backs off, but there’s a mixture of stubborn pride and disbelief and confusion (and, in the pit of his stomach, some fear) that has him frozen in place.

Dream scoffs. “So you’re just that clumsy. I know you’re an idiot, Tommy, but you’re not that much of an idiot. You know what you’re doing.”

Tommy stammers wordlessly. What’s he supposed to do? Admit that yes, he’s actually that clumsy, and no, he doesn’t know what he’s doing? His pride says fuck no. At the same time, he really, truly has no idea what Dream is accusing him of. His ears pin flat to his head. 

“I - I don’t…” he says, but trails off.

Dream reaches up with his free hand to the top of his hood. “Fine. Don’t admit it,” he says, “but I’m not waiting for you to clean up your mess this time.”

Tommy feels like there’s a piece he’s missing - even more so when Dream pulls back his hood. His eyes go wide, seeing tufts of hair poke out above Dream’s mask for the first time, caramel-colored in the firelight. His hand stays behind his head, unbuckling the fastening on his mask, and Tommy’s so shocked he forgets how to breathe for a moment.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Tommy blurts, followed by a sharp inhale once he remembers how his lungs work.

Dream lowers his mask. Tommy feels like he definitely shouldn’t be seeing this - he squirms a little, uncomfortable in his spot on the log, pinned down by Dream’s gaze - Dream is looking at him. Dream is looking at him and Tommy can see that he’s looking at him, round eyes and startlingly thick lashes, and his eyes are green. Of course his eyes are fucking green, they’re straight up candy-apple green, what the fuck, and his pupils are dilated and he is staring directly down at Tommy.

His lips part slightly. Tommy’s not sure what he’s seeing, at first, because something presses down on either side of Dream’s bottom lip, small dips in pale, chapped pink skin, and it doesn’t look like anything human at all. Tommy realizes with a start that he’d always thought Dream was human. Was there any evidence for that? Did Dream ever say he was human? Last time Tommy checked, humans didn’t have fangs.

Dream drops his mask on the ground. Tommy doesn’t have any more time to register what Dream’s doing before he sits on the log next to Tommy, yanks his palm open, and brings it to his mouth.

Tommy yelps. He feels… not pain, not quite, but it’s sharp and warm. His eyes go wide as he sees Dream take skin between his teeth and seal his lips around it, and his palm stings. He feels lightheaded. It’s obvious now - Dream is drinking his blood. Dream’s mouth is on his hand and he’s drinking his blood.

“D-Dream,” Tommy gasps, barely audible. “Dream, what the fuck.”

Dream doesn’t acknowledge Tommy at all. Or, if he does, it’s by the grip on Tommy’s wrist getting tighter and his lips pressing firmer into Tommy’s hand. Hungrily, he scrapes his fangs against Tommy’s skin, a sharp sensation followed by something warm and soft - is that his tongue-?  

Tommy feels butterflies in his stomach. It’s not the strangest feeling, but for Dream?

The moment that spots begin to dance at the edge of his vision, Dream pulls away. The blood flow has been stemmed, and looks much less concerning, if a little smeared. His lips are covered in shiny red, and his irises are near wholly eclipsed by the size of his pupils. If Tommy weren’t so shell-shocked, he might think Dream looks a little stupid.

Words. Right. How does he form sentences again? Can he even form sentences right now? What does he even say?

“Did you fucking bite me?”

Dream laughs. “You did a pretty good job of tearing up your hand already,” he says. “I didn’t need to.”

Tommy blinks a couple of times. He really takes in Dream’s expression now - the way that the corners of his mouth tilt into a smile, the way that his eyes crinkle in mirth, the angle of his eyebrows, upturned. Tommy’s not used to reading Dream’s expression. Or seeing his face at all. His lips are downturned and a little wide, paired with the subtle shape of an aquiline nose and a sharp, square jaw, covered in stubble. He’s got stubble. Tommy felt it, gently scratching his palm, making the butterflies in his stomach twist themselves in knots. He kind of wants to feel that again. No, what is he thinking? That’s crazy. He’s delusional from blood loss is what he is.

Dream’s tongue darts out to lick his lips. Tommy’s stomach flips upside down.

“I didn’t expect you to want me to drink from you that badly,” Dream mutters. “Do you seriously have no sense of, like - sanitation? That was a dirty knife. You’re lucky I couldn’t taste the sheep’s blood that much.”

I had no idea you were a vampire at all, is what Tommy wants to say. Let alone wanted you to drink my blood. He has no idea where Dream got that idea from in the slightest. Instead, what comes out of his mouth is, “Does my blood - does that taste good?”

Dream hums for a moment. He lowers Tommy’s wrist. “Do you want to find out for yourself?”

Tommy has no clue what Dream means by that. He meets his eyes - still lax, still with a smile in them, staring directly at Tommy’s face. Dream’s lips still have blood on them.

With the help of Dream leaning in, though, Tommy figures out pretty quick.

Tommy doesn’t remember the last time he kissed someone. It’s been a long time, at least - with politics and war and exile, he just hasn’t had the time. It’s never felt like this, though. He’d always thought that ‘electrifying’ kisses were a myth, but the moment Dream’s lips brush against his own, he feels a jolt down his spine and adrenaline pumping through his veins. He can feel Dream’s stubble against his own chin. The acrid taste of iron fills his senses, and he finds a place to put his free hand in front of him. His claws flex without thinking about it.

Dream makes a startled noise against his lips, and Tommy realizes he just dug his claws into the meat of Dream’s thigh.

Tommy pulls back instantaneously. His face is flushed, and if he didn’t feel like he was going to pass out before, he certainly does now. “S-sorry,” he says, more of a pant than anything.

Dream chuckles and shakes his head. “You’re an idiot,” he mumbles. “Though - I suppose that’s why you have me, right?”

“Wh- what?”

“I’m idiot-proofing you. See?” Dream points to Tommy’s bandaged hand. “You did a stupid thing, I fixed it, all good.”

Tommy sputters, indignant. “First of all, tripping me was your fault-”

“Literally how?”

“-and second of all, you’ve been fuckin’ - distracting me!”

Dream lets out a bark of laughter. “Distracting you? Please, tell me more.”

Tommy growls - a proper, wolfish thing this time, before he can think to stop himself, frustrated and quite embarrassed. But Dream doesn’t say anything. “You were nagging me! Ooh, bandage your hand, Tommy, you’re going to get a fucking infection, or something, but guess what, now I’ve gotta bandage both. And it’s your fault!”

“You literally cut yourself!” Dream says, still laughing. “Maybe you should practice knife safety instead of blaming me.”

Tommy huffs. “Whatever. Do you -” he pauses, face getting redder, “do you have another bandage?”

Dream blinks at him, then sighs. He roots through his pouch for another bandage, brows furrowing as he does so. 

This is unreal, Tommy thinks, watching Dream’s expression change in real time. He watches the way his lips press together into a thin line, flecks of blood shifting on the corner of his mouth - and it’s absolutely just because Tommy’s never seen his face before. Just because of that. Not because he’s wondering what it would feel like to kiss him again. Why did Dream show his face to him now? Was drinking Tommy’s blood that worth it?

Tommy wonders if kissing him was part of that plan, too. What the fuck was that? Surely, it was just to mess with him because he was flustered. Surely.

Dream hands Tommy a second bandage and then stands up from the log. He goes to pick up the discarded stick on the other side of the campfire, then says, “How much of that do you have skinned?”

Right, the lamb. Tommy hurriedly starts to wrap his hand. “It’s, like - halfway done?”

Dream sits back down on his log and pulls out a knife. Carefully, he starts to carve at the stick. “Finish that up, then. We can roast it when you’re done.” He gestures with the stick.

Tommy opens his mouth. He closes it again. “Yeah. Okay.”

The night afterwards, the last of the moon has waned, and the coast is pitch dark. The stars, though twinkling above, don’t even cut through it a little - the only thing visible on the shoreline is the smoldering fire outside of Tommy’s tent.

Tommy sits on a log, waiting for his visitor. With two bandaged hands, he carefully handles a cut of mutton, cooked slow over glowing coals. When finished, its flavor is better than most things Tommy’s managed to dredge up in the wilderness.

It still doesn’t erase the taste of iron on his tongue.