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Part 1 of (To Find) The Missing Lifeline
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The many diverging paths of Destiny
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2025-08-12
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One of the Lost Ones

Summary:

On an ordinary post-funeral Thursday, Hob receives company he was not expecting.

Notes:

So I have this wip that's been sitting around for over a year about Dream coping with his depression in retirement and finding himself now that he's no longer who he was and Hob's utterly non-transactional help with all of it. Inevitably, in the wake of S2E11, it has resurfaced and I wound up writing a scene that would be a prelude to this wip instead of the wip itself. C'est la vie. We're in the territory of still angsty but hopeful, and I will optimistically set this as first in a series in hopes I'll get the original wip finished up as well. Title and series name taken from Nemo by Nightwish.
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Started: 7/27/25
Drafted: 8/10/25
Posted: 8/11/25

(See the end of the work for more notes.)

Work Text:

"This. Is not the Sunless Lands."

"No."

"This. Is. Hob Gadling. His residence."

"Yeah."

"My sis—" She is not his sister, not truly, not any longer, but he knows not how else to address her. "My sister. I do not understand."

"You will." A smile, the same I-know-better-than-you-so-PLEASE-just-trust-me smile that he is so accustomed to seeing on her kind face. A gentle nudge of her shoulder. "Come on then. Let's see if he's in."

It's an ordinary post-funeral Thursday mid-morning—Hob trying to come to grips with the irrevocably altered truth of his reality while also tidying the kitchen, because it still needs doing no matter he's in the thick of grieving a raw new devastating loss on top of the not-yet-fading everything of losing Audrey—when the buzzer at his front door rings.

"Coming, coming, hang on—"

He shuts off the tap and wipes his hands, tossing the towel onto the bench as he half-jogs to the door. He still hasn't gotten around to installing that fancy doorbell camera he was gifted for Christmas—he's got security round the outside sure, but anyone who's at his door and not the alleyway entrance at the bottom of the stairs will have come in through the pub. Probably Sam come to chat about the changes they'll want to make to the menu for summer, now that spring is ripening steadily into full bloom.

He deliberately steers around thoughts of rebirth and renewal and new starts and other things representative of the season; it is a painfully fitting irony that his oldest friend's…metamorphosis, he supposes, has occurred in the spring and left him empty and mourning for the person—because he was a person, dammit—who'd died in the process.

He's sure that Daniel—that the new Dream—he's sure the kid's great. He remembers so vividly from the dream of the funeral over the weekend how lost Daniel had seemed, how uncertain and eager for guidance and quietly terrified even with the essence of Endlessness and the echoes of Dream grounding him, and Hob's heart had insisted that the offer of friendship ought still to be made, even if this Dream would be somewhat a stranger all over again. He does actually look forward to getting to know the kid better. Eventually.

When the loss of his Dream is not so fresh and open a wound, and all.

He shakes off the encroaching melancholy as he reaches the door, pastes on a smile for Sam or whoever as he opens it.

It's not Sam.

"Hello, Hob."

The words are right, but the voice—

The voice is wrong. Light, warm. Feminine.

"Death?" He registers the adrenaline spike of surprise at Death on his doorstep, half-sees her kindly smile, but his eyes are helplessly drawn to the figure behind her, and his world grinds abruptly to a halt. Messy black hair, black coat, black shirt, that tired pale face and those same exhausted blue eyes that stare at Hob with a cast of confusion that matches his own perfectly.

It's Dream, his Dream, looking lost and defeated and uncomprehending and somehow alive.

Hob wants to grab him, to fold him gently into a crushing hug, to weep his joy and relief into a bony black shoulder but Death is half in his way and something about Dream doesn't feel quite right, either.

Hob swallows, willing his heart back down where it belongs, wrestling back the tears that want to rise, and slides his gaze with great effort over to Death.

She's still smiling that beatific smile.

"I thought you. You took him." His voice is struck quiet, and wavers only a little.

"I did. Sort of." She sighs, tilts her head, eyes sympathetic. "I've got a bit of leeway, when it comes to family. Sometimes I can bend the rules, just a little. I know my brother, and I don't think he wanted to die so much as he simply wanted respite. Just, his hand was forced by circumstance." She brightens. "Sooo. I took him, but only partway. Enough to count, to trigger the succession. What was Endless in him has passed on to the new Dream; he's just him, now, and a bit in-between." She rolls a shoulder in her leather jacket, shrugs it indicatively. "Stashed him at my place, let him crash on my couch while we sorted the funeral and all the family business. Now I've got time to address it properly, I have a proposal." She turns to Dream.

"Come back to the mortal world. Spend time with your friend, here; let him help you start over. Take the opportunity to live a life unburdened by your duty. See how you like it. Find new purpose, new experiences, new everything." She flicks a glance at Hob. "I'm sure Hob would be happy to help you get sorted and settled?"

"Of course." Hob's hardly aware of what he's agreeing with, agreeing to, but it doesn't matter. Never has when it comes to Dream, his Dream; anything he needs, Hob's all in no questions asked.

"See? You'll have help." She's smiling at Dream again, and there's a touch more palpable sincerity behind it this time. "I know you're tired, but I also know you didn't really want to die. I know starting anew, the unknown, a second chance, will be hard. Perhaps even a bit scary. But if you want that chance—" She holds out her hand to Dream. "It's yours."

He still hasn't spoken, is only staring at his sister with wide, weary eyes. His mouth opens; he blinks, glances at Hob, shuts it again.

Hob, for all that he's glad to see Dream not dead, can't help feeling that maybe his sister should have explained her plan to him before showing up on Hob's doorstep. The poor guy looks absolutely flummoxed. And on the subject, it would've been nice of her to tell Hob that his friend wasn't quite dead yet when they'd chatted at the funeral, but Endless will be Endless, he supposes, and Endless move in mysterious ways.

Dream still hasn't spoken; his eyes close, and his head bows wearily.

Death makes a soft noise, half encouragement, half cajoling, like coaxing a feral kitten out of the rain. "Come on; you can do this. I have faith in you, little brother!" She says it with that same enormous cheerful smile like everything in the world is just so easy if you let it be but clearly, clearly nothing will ever be that easy for Dream and Hob doesn't know if she gets that, doesn't know if he loves her or hates her in that second but his emotions are a sodding mess just now and she's trying, obviously, so. He'll let it go. Her emotional literacy is not really his priority here, anyhow.

He turns to his friend, heart trying to crawl up his throat again. That dark head stays bowed, posture exhausted, defeated; those blue eyes do not rise to meet Hob's.

Hob swallows, takes a tiny step forward, tries to still the quaver in his voice. "Dream?"

"No. No longer."

His voice is…smaller, somehow, and yet still that same slow, sonorous, pondering thing that resonates in Hob's bones; he shivers involuntarily to hear it again.

Keep it together, Hobsie.

"Right then, what shall I call you?"

"I. Do not know."

"Alright, no worries, we'll figure that out as we go then. Assuming you'd like to take your sister's offer?" He fidgets, hand flitting to his earlobe and back, willing Dream to look up at him. "I mean. I'm here for you, all in if you do. I would really, really like for you to. I would love to have you back." He manages, if just barely, to keep his voice from cracking. "But it's entirely your choice. And I understand if you just. Might not want to."

It's a lie; he doesn't understand how anyone could not want to keep going. Life is so full of magnificent and wonderful things, and the bad times will always turn around if you push through them long enough, and there's always something new to discover, to look forward to—

But he does understand that Dream—that his friend who was formerly Dream—has struggled to see it that way, has existed eons longer than Hob and in much greater capacity, and he will respect it if his friend wishes to simply stop. He won't like it. That's an understatement, actually; it'll absolutely crush him, but it's not up to him. The possibility of having Dream back buoys something desperate and tender and hopeful in Hob's heart and it's so hard not to grab onto it and cling with both hands. He'll try to talk Dre—his friend out of turning away, absolutely. But if in the end, his friend truly does not want to stay—

"Sister." Dream's voice cracks gravely. "Former my sister. I have no right to your mercy. But—" He lifts his head, at last, and meets her eyes, glances sideways to Hob for an instant then back.

He looks so exhausted.

"I am. Torn. I had no wish to die, this is true. But it became inevitable, and now that I have accepted it I am. Uncertain, that I wish to carry on."

Hob's heart plummets, painfully.

"I am. Still tired."

Death sighs, and there is almost more resignation than sadness in the sound. Like she hadn't expected this to work but had to try anyway, and now she's tossing it in. "Are you sure, little brother?"

"No he's not sodding sure, he just said that!" Hob exclaims, entirely without thinking, and winces as Death turns that smile on him, one eyebrow raised. "I mean. Ah." He takes a deep breath. "It's a big, big decision to make. Life or death, literally! It's not fair to spring it on him and ask for a decision that instant." He can't quite believe he's chiding Death herself here but fucksake, Dream's just standing there looking lost and desolate and retrieved from the dead but contemplating going anyway and she's as unruffled as if he's dithering over traditional or American for breakfast. It sets Hob's teeth on edge, just a bit.

"Alright then. What do you suggest, Hob?" Like she's asking which restaurant he favors.

Hob swallows, heart pounding in his throat, fear jangling his nerves. Fear of having Dream snatched away again, fear of Death losing patience with his arrogance, his pushing his nose into what's arguably none of his business except that it is, it so very much is. Especially when she quite literally brought it to his doorstep.

He turns back to Dream, and his voice shakes just a little when he speaks.

"My friend…please. If you're not sure, if you don't know for certain which way you want to go? Stick around a bit. Don't rush to a decision you can't undo. Let me help you try, like your sis—like Death said. And if you decide it's not for you, that you really are ready to move on, then—"

He swallows, painfully; the thought hurts so much.

But it has to be a choice.

He looks to Death, standing by watching them both with that terrible compassionate solemnity warm in her eyes.

"Same deal as me, how about? If he decides he wants to go, you'll come get him?"

"Alright." She looks from Hob back to Dream. "What do you say, then? Try a new start, with a friend to help you, and if it doesn't work out then you give me The Call?"

"…I. I do not—" Dream—what else is Hob meant to call him, honestly—he hesitates, eyes finding Hob's; he looks tired, and lost, and desperately in need of someone to take the weight of everything from his brittle battered shoulders.

And Hob. He tries to be a good man, these days, but he's always been opportunistic and a bit self-centered and as much as he knows that Dream has to make this decision for himself, that Dream might choose to stay simply because he thinks it's what Hob wants and end up silently compounding his own misery—still, Hob cannot hold his tongue.

"Please, my friend. Please. Let me show you what life can be. Let me show you why I would crave an eternity of mortal existence. I'll help you, I'll show you so many things, we can find what makes you happy, quit my job travel the world if you want just to see it all, no duty to worry about, no diplomatic disasters to avert…" He trails off. "Please. Just. Don't give up, please. I'm so glad to see you again, to know you're not gone, and if you go now I'll—" He chokes back a sound that wants to be a sob. "I'll carry on, course I will, but I will miss you terribly for the rest of my days. Please, Dre—my friend. Please. Stay. Rest here, long as you need. And then. See what you can make of a new start."

Stay with ME. Don't leave me, he does not say, with great restraint.

Dream blinks, on the verge of tears. "I am tired, Hob."

"I know." Hob steps closer, past Death; he so desperately wants to pull Dream into a hug but only dares to touch his shoulder. "I know. And if you really are…done, I'll let you go." As if it's up to him. "But before you make that decision, please. Please. Come rest with me awhile. See if it makes a difference."

I'll take such good care of you, I'll protect you, I'll keep you safe and let you heal, please please stay with me, stay, STAY—

"As you wish, then," Dream says at last, and it breaks Hob's heart how it sounds so much more like defeat than agreement.

But he can work with that. As long as Dream is here, alive, Hob can work with anything he has to.

"That's settled, then," Death says, and there is relief in her eyes even if she still sounds like they're picking restaurants. "You'll stay here, with Hob, human but not quite mortal just like him, and see what 'retirement' has to offer." She says it with a touch of humor, a touch of sadness. "And if you decide in the end that it's not for you, then give me a call."

"Very well."

"I'll drop by time to time, see how you're doing." She glances at Hob. "If that's alright?"

Hob very nearly says no, irrationally afraid that if she comes back Dream will want to take her hand all over again. He cannot be selfish, though; whatever passing-of-the-Endless-torch has gone on, she's still kin and if Dream wants to see her, then Hob will just have to trust.

"Course. Any time." He even manages a proper smile as he says it.

"Well then. I'll be off; appointments to keep, and such." She smiles at Dream, compassionate, cheerfully sincere. "Chin up, little brother. You're going to love living." She gives Hob a look that says, more clearly than any words, Thank you. And then she is gone.

Hob takes a deep fortifying breath, tells himself firmly to keep the tears at bay, and turns to the depressed ex-dreamlord on his doorstep. "Come on, then. Let's get you inside."

Once the door is closed behind them, once Dream is standing in the middle of Hob's cozy little flat, it all starts to hit again. Hob had lost him. He'd attended his funeral, been properly blindsided by it, was still struggling through the whole mourning process on top of working through Audrey's loss but suddenly he's got one of them back and it's all a little overwhelming. And Dream—yes, he'd said that wasn't him anymore but Hob's spent the last several months since learning that name using it over and over in his head and it will take a bit of effort to dislodge it again—he's just standing there, looking so desolate, so lost.

"Dream—"

"I am no longer Dream, Hob."

"Right. Sorry. Still not sure what you want me to call you? I can switch to Morpheus, if you like—"

Those lovely blue eyes close and a tear slips free; he shakes his head, once. "I have no wish to claim any of the names associated with my former existence."

That's understandable, Hob supposes. "Alright then. We'll figure it out, in time. Meanwhile, I went centuries without a name to call you by; knew you as 'my friend' far longer than as 'Dream' so—well. We'll figure it out."

"You are repeating yourself."

"So I am. Yep. Sorry, this is all very sudden—I'm so very, very glad you're here, don't you dare think otherwise but ten minutes ago I was tidying the kitchen and trying not to think about how you're gone and how much you being gone hurts and now you're here and you look absolutely miserable and I feel like a selfish prick for begging you to stay but all the same I'm not sorry because I missed you and you're here and all I want to do is give you a hug—"

It's entirely too honest and he is entirely too close to tears himself, but he can't hold it back. He'd lost him and now he's got a chance to have him back, to show him how much there's still worth sticking around for and he can't fuck this up, can't afford to be a mess because Dream needs him—

"That would be. Acceptable." It's said so low Hob almost misses it, and he's not sure he's making sense of it even so.

"Acceptable?" What had he offered? He's got to stop spiraling in his own thoughts if he wants to be any use to his friend, here.

"If you wish. To. Hug me." He says it like feeling his way gingerly out onto the ice during spring thaw, like he's not accustomed to saying such words and worried they'll be used against him.

Hob won't stand for that, not any longer.

Much as he wants to throw his arms around his friend and crush him close, he does not think that would be well received. He moves carefully, raising his arms and stepping close, gently folding Dr—his friend into an embrace.

It's surreal, after six centuries and change of never touching and a clasped shoulder or brushed arm once or twice in the last several months; now here he is with his previously-dead friend in his arms, who is leaning into him cautiously like he's not quite sure how, and Hob is holding it all together with the thinnest of threads.

Tentatively, his friend's arms settle at Hob's waist, partially wrapped around him.

And the thread snaps.

"Fuck," Hob manages, eloquent as ever, and then he is sobbing.

He can't help it, he's only human; the emotions have been piling up behind his teeth relentlessly since he opened his front door and that tentative return of his careful hug has shattered the dam. He clings tight to Dream, to his now-nameless friend, wraps him close and buries his face in that black-clad shoulder and lets it all out, just for a minute, just until he can get it back under control.

His friend wraps him closer, pats hesitantly at his spine, and Hob shudders, breath heaving.

"I'm so fucking glad you're here," he manages, choking back another sob. "God, I missed you, so much—"

"It has been three days, Hob."

That doesn't quite add up, but maybe time works different wherever Death had been keeping him. Hob's not going to quibble.

"Felt like three years. But even so. You were gone, truly gone, replaced by some poor lost kid and I was never going to see you again you can't tell me three hours is too short a time to start missing you, not when you're so fucking important to me." He lifts his head, sniffles back some of the wetness in his throat, loosens the embrace just enough to look his friend in the eye. "I missed you, and I have been mourning your loss and trying to wrap my head around the reality of facing the future without our meetings to look forward to, and crying over how much more I've seen of you this last year only to lose you now—" He bites off the flow of words before he breaks down crying again. "And now you're here, and you've allowed a hug and you're going to let me show you every day what makes life worth living and I am so, so happy to have that chance." He smiles, a bit watery but entirely heartfelt, and loosens his embrace. He doesn't want to push too hard, be too offputting in his attachment, but he can't help settling a hand on Dream's shoulder and squeezing warmly as he withdraws. "Thank you. For trusting me to help. For trying."

His friend blinks at him, solemn, reserved, eyes red-rimmed and glossy with unshed tears. "There is no one else I would trust, with such an attempt."

He still looks exhausted and lost, as lost as Daniel had looked, and Hob's heart swells, cracking and mending all at the same time.

His hand is still on that bony black-clad shoulder. He's not sure he can make himself let go.

He takes a deep breath, makes a monumental effort at composure and equilibrium. "I'm glad you're here," he reiterates. Doesn't think it's possible to ever say it enough, actually. "I know you're—" Scared, he wants to say, because it feels like the truth, but there is a brittle fragility about his friend right now that's a little bit concerning and he doesn't want to push any buttons that don't need pushing. "—Tired," he finishes, gently. "I imagine this whole prospect is a bit overwhelming. And I promise I'll respect that. We'll take it one day at a time, find your way in the world and figure out what you want to do with your new life."

"I would remind you, I am still not certain I wish to remain."

Hob knows that, of course. He understands what's before him. This is the most important thing he'll ever undertake, convincing his dour depressed friend that life is worth living and teaching him how to enjoy it, helping him to find himself now he's untethered from his grand cosmic duty. But half an hour ago he'd been grappling with the reality that his friend was gone, truly gone this time, that he'd have to live the rest of his life without that constant and compared to that? This is child's play.

"I have every faith I'll convince you though." He manages a semblance of a roguish smile, never mind that his eyes are still damp, never mind the way he sniffles. "I can be very persuasive, you know."

His friend's rosy lips twitch, the faintest hint of tired mirth, but it sends Hob's heart soaring. "We shall see."

"Then I guess we should figure out where to start." There is a wellspring of joy trying to bubble up deep inside because he's back, he came back but it's running smack into the river of aborted grief still coursing through him and the resulting eddies and whirlpools are trying to slide into panic—how does one take care of a newly-human-ish dreamlord? Should he feed him first? Send him to shower? Take him out about town? He wants to laugh and cry and scream in equal measure. Convincing his friend that life is worth living is an enormous undertaking and he's sure he can do it, he's not about to give up before trying. Just. It's daunting, trying to see it all at once.

So. Not all at once. He pushes down the panic-hysteria-relief and narrows his scope to one tiny first step. Forcing himself to let go of his friend's shoulder, he rubs his hands together and offers a smile. "Are you hungry? Or would you like tea, perhaps?"

When in doubt, start with tea.

Dream—his friend, who isn't Dream any longer, he shakes his head. "I do not think—no." He looks at Hob, unblinking, and there is uncertainty in the blue of his eyes but also a spark of something that looks a little bit like hope. "I. Should like. That is. If you are not opposed." He steps forward, hesitantly holds his arms ready to settle around Hob's waist like a question and he's doing a terrible job of actually using his words but Hob does not care.

"Course, dove, any time you need," he manages, the endearment slipping out unasked for but he doesn't much care about that either. He folds his friend back into his arms, holds him safe and secure and tucked close, stands in the middle of his flat mid-morning of a Thursday and gives what is easily the longest, most satisfying heartfelt soul-wrenching hug of his entire immortal life.

Because his friend, who was dead this morning and is now returned to him, wants it.

Everything else can wait, just a few moments longer.

Notes:

This is me, for forever
One of the lost ones
One without a name
Without an honest heart as compass
This is me, for forever
One without a name
These lines the last endeavor
To find the missing lifeline
- Nightwish, 'Nemo'

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