Chapter Text
"Mind if I join you?"
Hob can’t keep the smile off his face as he gestures at the seat opposite him. “By all means, take a pew, my friend. What’ll you have to drink?” He gestures behind him at Lucy behind the bar. “We have some excellent West Country ales, if I say so myself.”
“Whatever you think I might like,” his friend says in the low voice that Hob hadn’t realised he’d missed so much until he heard it again, leaning back in his chair. “I take it that this is all your doing? This inn?”
Hob nods. “They were going to tear it down. Make way for bougie new flats, like they’ve always done in this city. I- well, I stopped them. Managed to delay them, funded and organised a campaign to keep it standing- Save the White Horse, I called it, not too original, but then we can’t all be Shakespeare.” He huffs a laugh, shuffling his papers still left to grade into somewhat more of an organised pile as Lucy brings over a couple pints. “And bought and built this place.” He glances up at his friend, who has a small smile curling his lips. There’s an answering one on Hob’s own face, he knows. “You know. Just in case.”
“Just in case,” his friend echoes. He studies the pint, and then carefully takes a sip. “That is…not unpleasant, I suppose.”
“High praise,” Hob says. He studies his friend for a long moment. “You know, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you actually eat or drink anything, in all the times we’ve met. Does that even do anything for you? Whatever you are?”
His friend sets the pint glass down, twisting it between his fingers for a moment. When he looks back up at Hob, there is a determined set to his mouth that somehow still doesn’t make Hob nervous. “I understand that it is unfair for me to know your name, when you do not know mine,” he says slowly. “And especially between friends. I have…many names, Hob Gadling, but you may call me Dream.”
Dream . Slowly, pieces begin to fall into place around his friend. William Shakespeare and his gift. The sand, blown into Johanna Constantine’s face. One such as I , as he said the last time Hob saw him before today, nearly one hundred and thirty years ago. As if what he was, was something entirely different from Hob. So far beyond a human who merely cannot die.
He’s a history teacher now, but that doesn’t mean he hasn’t studied mythology and folklore. Just a passing curiosity, of course.
“Dream,” he says slowly, savouring the name on his tongue. “And is that…what you are?”
“I…yes,” Dream replies. “I am the anthropomorphic personification of dreaming, and I rule the realm of dreaming, existing both far beyond and close beside this plane. I hold the collective unconsciousness of humanity within me.”
Hob arches a brow. “Sounds like a busy job.”
To his surprise, Dream laughs at that. “Yes. At the moment, it very much is.” His smile fades abruptly. “There is a lot I have to repair in the dreaming. A lot I must fix.”
And that contains a whole world of implications that Hob is trying to not think too much about, ones that are starting to fit in alongside the pinched look on his friend’s face, the slight hesitation as he picks up the pint glass and takes another sip. He doesn’t know what could happen to result in the dreaming, wherever that is, need repairing, but it couldn’t have been good.
Whether or not it is something to do with Dream not appearing in 1989, he’s not sure yet, but he doesn’t like the picture he’s beginning to build.
Hob gets the sense that asking outright wouldn’t do anything to help his friend, even though his curiosity is still burning away even after six hundred years. “And you’re here,” he says instead. “Talking to little old me.”
That gets Dream to smile, just a fraction. “As I said. It is considered rude to ignore one’s friends.” Once again, Hob watches as his friend’s smile fades. “And…I could use a few moments of peace.”
“Once every hundred years,” Hob replies. He reaches for his own pint. “Shall I fill you in on my comings and goings the past hundred and thirty years, then?”
Dream gestures at him. “Please.”
Hob breathes out. “Well, where shall I start? I’d had enough of war for even my lifetime, so avoided the first world war pretty easily in America. Got caught out with the second one, though, was in France when it kicked off and spent a few utterly horrible years running around with the French Resistance before the British and Americans got their act together and kicked Hitler out.” He knocks back another gulp of ale. “Went back to shipping and moved back here. Got stood up- thanks for that, by the way, but bought the inn and kept it standing, and built all this.” He gestures around them. “I’m a history teacher now, by the way. Been doing that for nearly five years now.”
Dream inclines his head. “And do you enjoy it?”
“Dream,” Hob says, leaning forwards over the table. “You have no idea how much the books get wrong. It is infuriating . And how could I possibly explain knowing anything different to what I’m meant to teach?”
“Such as?” Dream asks, and before he even knows it, Hob is off.
The lunch rush has died down, and been replaced by the beginnings of the afternoon rush primarily dominated by the cheaper variety of university students, in search of a cheap pint and somewhere that won’t kick them out for nursing one drink for an hour, by the time Hob has finished his rant. “Well, then,” Dream says wryly. “One might say you are in the right profession.”
“For now,” Hob replies. “If I ever step foot in a renaissance fair, I might actually lose my mind.” He sees the briefest glimmer of confusion on Dream’s face. “It's a fair where they all pretend to be in the middle ages, often interspersed with some fantasy elements, and likely hugely anachronistic. There’ll be fake taverns and jousting and archery and people selling things for far more than they’re worth, all of that.”
“It is endless, the inane things humanity will come up with,” Dream remarks. “And they find this fun?”
“Well, they’ll have working toilets there, and everyone will go home to hot showers and a distinct absence of fleas.” Hob shrugs. “Seems bizarre, but then I suppose most of this must seem like that to you.”
Dream is quiet for a long moment. “It does,” he says eventually, his voice low. “Seem bizarre, sometimes. But as I was recently reminded by my sibling, I exist for all of you.” He smiles, ever so slightly. “It is, after all, the humans that are dreaming.”
Hob frowns a little. “I suppose. Hang on- sibling?”
Dream smirks. “You flatter me, Hob Gadling. Did you think I was the only one? That dreams are the only power within this world?”
Hob leans back in his chair. “I guess I’ve never really thought about it,” he muses. “I guess I stopped believing in the God that they preached about from the pulpit about the time I realised I couldn’t die, and realised Hell was just a story used to scare people into compliance.”
To his surprise, he sees Dream glance away from him. “Hell is very real, Hob Gadling,” he says, his voice so low Hob can barely hear him. “I hope that you never find yourself there.”
Hob stares at him. “Have you…been? To Hell?”
Dream doesn’t answer. “Oh,” Hob says. “Right. Is it anything like depicted in the Bible or other religions? Is it the same for all people, or do those who imagine it differently in life experience it differently once they’re there? What do you have to do to get sent there? It must be- and I am seeing by the look on your face that these aren’t questions I should be asking. Sorry.”
Dream flicks his fingers. “No need to apologise. It was nothing I was not able to handle.”
Hob doesn’t doubt that at all. He has probably only seen the barest fraction of his friend’s powers and abilities. The Lord of Dreams must have almost endless power, after all. But still. He may only be a human who cannot die, but he has lived six hundred years and seen plenty of people in his long life, and he is beginning to think that something pretty fucking terrible must have happened to his friend.
Dream has never spent so long with him, for one. Or ever touched the drink Hob has always gotten for him. For over five hundred years that drink across the table has always sat untouched. Now, his pint glass is nearly empty.
“Another?” Hob asks, nodding at his glass. “We have some good Somerset ciders as well.”
Dream doesn’t refuse, so Hob gets Lucy to bring over two more pints, and a bowl of peanuts. “What do you think?” he asks as Dream takes a sip of the new drink.
Dream stares down at the pint for a long moment. “It is…refreshing,” he says eventually. “Surprisingly so. I cannot yet quite surmise why humans drink this to the point of being unable to have any control over their functions, but I can appreciate the taste.”
“If you could answer that question, my friend,” Hob replies, “then you would be the most powerful person in the world.” He raises his glass to Dream. “Cheers.”
The pint glasses clink together, and Hob takes a long gulp. This cider has been a good find of his. Nothing to do with him having perhaps accidentally spilled ten barrels of the stuff, back in the day.
His phone buzzes in his pocket, and he pulls it out to see a reminder about the question papers he should be marking, and an email telling him that once again, he is a lucky winner of a small fortune that he can find by clicking just this one link. Hob flicks his phone to silent, and looks up to see Dream watching it. “Utterly fascinating, aren’t they?” he asks. “I swear we’ve had more advancements in technology in the past hundred years than in most of my years before then combined.” He huffs a laugh. "I did wonder if you were around this past century. Nudging people in the right direction like you did for Will Shakespeare."
Dream purses his lips. "I never nudged him. I just made a deal."
Hob looks back at his phone, turning it over in his hand. "All the inventions that have come to life recently, I thought for a while you must have had a hand in them. I mean, look at this!” He holds the phone up to Dream. “The entire world in the palm of my hand! I thought, when the first smartphone became a thing, I thought that could have been you, whispering in Steve Job's ear."
Dream stares at the phone. "It wasn't,” he says, his voice low. “Humans did this all by themselves. As they have done so many things."
Hob is too caught up in trying to remember all the advances that have happened in the past century to notice the expression on Dream’s face. "And the moon landing!” he exclaims. “People walking on the moon!"
"Yes,” Dream says slowly, slowly enough for Hob to stop waving his phone around like an idiot and take notice. Dream is staring down at the table, tracing a line down through the condensation on his pint glass. “I remember the guards talking about that,” he says quietly.
Hob drops his phone on the table. “The guards…Dream.” His friend looks up at him, eyes dark, and Hob leans forward over the table. “Dream. Where have you been? ”
Dream glances away, staring down at the table again. He slowly draws a line through the ring of condensation from his pint glass on the wood of the table, over and over until the water is no longer recognisable as a circle. “I apologise, again, for my absence,” he says. His voice is barely a whisper. “I was…unavoidably detained.”
Hob stares at him. Unbidden, he remembers their encounter with Johanna Constantine all those centuries ago. He hadn’t realised at the time, but Dream had looked almost pleased at Hob trying to defend him, despite him asserting that it was not necessary. What was it he had said, back then?
You can be hurt, or captured.
"Oh.” Hob reaches out without thinking. He clasps Dream’s pale hand, where it rests on the table. “Dream. I’m sorry.”
Dream is staring down at their hands on the table. His skin is cold, his hand stiff beneath Hob’s touch. Hob almost gives up and withdraws, but then all at once Dream slouches in his chair, and he turns his hand over to gently clasp Hob’s. “Thank you, Hob Gadling,” he says quietly. “The sentiment is not…unappreciated.”
Hob squeezes Dream’s hand, and then pulls back. Dream isn’t quite meeting his gaze, his hand still resting on the table. He looks unexpectedly fragile, somehow, and Hob thinks if he were to push it, Dream might just collapse in on himself entirely. If an anthropomorphic personification of humanity’s penchant to dream could ever do such a thing.
Dream doesn’t look like he’s at all ready to talk about whatever it is he went through, whatever captivity he was in, but Hob can’t help his curiosity. “When did you get out?” he asks. “From wherever you were.”
Dream pauses for a moment. “It’s Friday today for you?” he asks. Hob nods. “Tuesday, then. That would be the closest approximation, based on your admittedly primitive linear understanding of time.”
“ Dream .” Hob reaches out again and clasps his hand. “I am so sorry. If I had known…”
Dream looks up at him, lips quirking ever so slightly into a smile. “Hob Gadling. Would you have tried to rescue me?”
“Of course!” Hob grins at him, and ignores the thudding in his chest at the thought of his friend needing rescuing, and him having no idea at all until he apparently freed himself. “That is what friends do, after all.”
Dream is still smiling. "I suppose that it is."
Hob glances out the window. The afternoon student rush is giving way to the dinner rush, which is always encouraged considering this clientele actually spend enough for them to make a profit. Already Hasan behind the bar- Lucy's shift ended an hour ago, he thinks- is eyeing their table with a poorly-disguised hope.
Hob drains his drink. "The dinner rush is about to start, but if you don't have to rush back to your realm, I have some damn good scotch back at mine." He hesitates. This seems to suddenly be stepping beyond a boundary he maybe hadn't even realised was there until it was behind him. "If you like."
Dream studies him for a moment. "Lead the way, Hob Gadling."
Hob stuffs his papers into his bag and they head out the back, their table almost immediately cleared by a grateful Hasan and claimed by two friends. "My car is just over here," Hob says over his shoulder. "Climate change and all, I know, but the Tube is a bloody nightmare."
Dream smirks at that. "One I did not invent, I assure you."
"What about the M25?" Hob asks with an answering grin. "That must have been one of yours."
"Unfortunately not, I'm afraid," Dream replies. "I can claim no credit. Besides. My own work tends to be a little more…cerebral."
Hobs stutters to a stop, keys dangling from his fingers. "Wait, are you telling me that the M25 actually is a nightmare?"
"Not a nightmare," Dream corrects as he circles the car and opens the passenger door. Hob isn't entirely sure he actually used his hand. "I don't let my nightmares roam the waking world, as a rule." He pauses, brow furrowing for a moment. "Something else I must fix now."
Hob pauses, leaning on the open door and studying Dream across the top of the car. "If you do have to go back to your work…"
Dream hesitates, and then shakes his head. "I have time for one more drink."
"Hop in, then."
Hob has to concentrate for a few minutes to fit them in the flow of London traffic. Dream watches the city go past out of the window. "That block of flats used to be the old fire station," he remarks as they drive past. "Bombed to the ground in the Blitz, as was a lot of this place." He nods at a small square. "The guildhall was there, remember? Almost got burnt down in that fire in…what was it, 1783? It got gutted again back in the sixties, so the council tore it down."
Dream is silent, still staring out the window at something. Hob glances over at him as they stop at yet another set of traffic lights.
Dream is still, watching London out of the car window. Hob doesn't think he can even see his chest moving.
"Nearly there," he says as the lights turn green. "Maybe it would have been nicer to walk, but honestly who can put up with the crowds these days? Plus the occasional tourist that wanders down here, no matter how hard we try to keep them out. Could you perhaps make fewer Americans dream of jolly old England?"
Dream doesn't reply.
Hob puts his foot down. He has enough money to pay off any speeding fines, and knows where all the speed cameras are besides. He's got a nice little flat nearby in a building that he owns, handed down from himself to himself to avoid shelling out for the extortionate London prices every couple decades. If something is wrong, which he is beginning to expect there might be, then the flat is somewhere quiet that they can sort it out.
A few more agonising waits at traffic lights, and then they're finally there. Hob turns into the underground parking garage, the car lights automatically switching on as they suddenly descend into darkness. "Still haven't fixed the bloody lights in here," he mutters. "The amount of money spent on taxes, you'd think-"
On the other side of the car, Dream shudders. He raises one hand, fingers almost touching the glass of the window before dropping back down into his lap, like a puppet whose strings have just been cut.
In the dark, Hob can see the reflection of his face in the car window. He could be set in stone his face is so still, a statue carved of the finest white marble.
He looks scared.
Dream, the immortal being, the one who holds the collective unconscious of humanity, looks terrified.
"Fuck. Right, hang on."
He's never parked more quickly in his life. Hob throws the handbrake on and is leaning over the middle of the car before he can think about how bad an idea this is. "Dream. Hey, Dream. "
Hob grasps Dream’s arm. It’s like grabbing hold of a mannequin. The car is suddenly freezing cold, Hob's breath misting in the air as his fingers slip from Dream's coat. "Dream?"
He doesn't think he even hears him. Hob scrambles out of the car and around the front of it, whacking his knee on the front grill in an effort to get to the other side as quickly as he can. He wrenches open Dream's door. "Dream?"
Dream's gaze follows the car door window. He frowns, his head tilting to one side for a moment. “Dream,” Hob tries again. He crouches down at the side of the car and carefully rests one hand on Dream’s knee. “Can you hear me? Are you okay?”
Dream is shuddering, shaking apart in the passenger seat of his car. It’s so fine that Hob can barely see it, but he can feel the shivers beneath his hand. “ Dream ,” he tries again. “What’s wrong? What can I do?”
Dream’s lips part, as if he is going to say something, but there are only a few ragged breaths before he swallows and presses his lips back together. A muscle jumps in his jaw. He is still staring at the car window.
Hob follows his gaze. He can see Dream’s reflection staring back at him.
“Please.”
Hob snaps back to look at Dream so fast that his neck hurts. “Please,” Dream murmurs again. “Don’t-” He swallows sharply, cutting himself off, and then falls silent.
“Hey,” Hob says, gently shaking Dream’s knee. “Hey. Wherever you think you are, you’re not there, right? You’re in the car, with me. Hob. Your friend. You’re not wherever you think you are.”
A crow caws nearby. Hob jumps at the noise, and then jumps again when a magpie sweeps overhead and lands on the concrete nearby. Someone has dropped a few chips from an ill-advised night out last night, and the magpie hops over to investigate.
Dream flinches. His gaze, for the first time in a long few minutes, seems to draw past his own reflection in the glass. “Jessamy,” he whispers. “Don’t.”
Hob twists to look at the magpie. “It’s just a bird,” he says as it hops closer, chasing a few stray chips.
Dream is shaking beneath his hand. “Jessamy,” he says again. “Leave.”
The magpie, as birds tend to do with people, ignores him. It hops closer again, aiming for the final chip that is little more than a smear on the concrete.
Dream is trembling beneath his hand. “Shoo,” Hob hisses at the bird. He has no idea why his friend has fixated on this bird, but he can start fixing things by at least getting it out of here. “Go on, get. Shoo!”
The bird ignores him, its beady eye fixed on the final chip on the floor. It hops closer.
“ Don’t! ”
Dream’s hand is suddenly outstretched. The glass of the car window cracks, splinters and then shatters all at once. Hob ducks down as glass sprays out across his back, and there’s a loud caw as the magpie, affronted, takes out and shoots out of the garage.
Hob slowly straightens up. Glass falls in plinks from his back and hair to the concrete, crunching beneath his feet as he shifts in his crouch next to Dream.
Dream, who’s hand is still outstretched, his fingers inches away from where the window once was. They are trembling.
“Hey,” Hob says softly, over the sound of Dream’s ragged breathing. “Hey, you’re okay. It’s okay.” He rubs at Dream’s knee. “Dream?”
Dream sags back in the seat. Slowly, and then all at once, his hand drops back down to his lap. He blinks, once and then again, and then ever so slowly his gaze turns to Hob.
“Hob?” he breathes.
Hob manages a smile. “Yeah, it’s me. You back with me?”
Dream breathes in. There is a frown on his face, one that deepens as he studies Hob. His gaze cuts abruptly to the broken window, and Hob can already see the conclusions being wrongly drawn in his head. “I’m fine,” he says quickly. “I’m fine, I’m not hurt at all. I know you wouldn’t.”
“I-” Dream is staring at the broken window. “I was…I was so far away.”
His gaze is going far again, stretching out to somewhere that Hob can’t see. "Well wherever that was, you're not there anymore," Hob says firmly. "Come on. You need a stiff drink."
To his surprise, Dream lets Hob pull him out of the car. Hob turns to shut the car door, and then spins back round again when he hears a quiet thump and groan.
"Dream!"
Dream is slumped against the side of the car. As Hob watches, he tries to push himself back up to standing, only for his legs to give out from underneath him and send him stumbling back against the car.
"Shit," Hob mutters to himself as he rushes back to Dream's side. "Come on, let's get you up. There we go."
He slips an arm around Dream's waist and pulls him up onto his feet. "Don't worry about the window," he says as he pulls Dream up to lean against him. "Literally worth peanuts in terms of the money I have now. Got your feet, yeah? Right, let's go."
Despite the heavy coat he's wearing, next to him Dream is shivering. Hob tightens his grip around his waist and hopes to hell he doesn't have to carry him up three flights of stairs. The anthropomorphic personification of dreaming is surprisingly heavy. He takes a step, and breathes a sigh of relief when Dream steps with him. Shivering still, and leaning against him with every step, but at least they are moving.
Across the thankfully empty car park, through a door and then another, with a brief pause so that Hob can fish out his key fob, and then they're in. Dream is silent beside him, staring at something Hob can't see.
Hob is staring instead at the steep stairs up ahead. "Right," he says. "Here we go."