#tjs fics

"I am not accustomed to sleeping in a 'bed'," Dream had offered, when Hob showed him to the cozy little guest room he kept in his cottage.

That…did make a certain amount of sense, Hob had realized. "Well, it's there if you feel like trying something new." He'd shrugged. "If you're more comfortable, I don't know, sleeping in your seal form on the floor, go for it. Just…let me know what you need."

"My sibling has explained toilets," Dream had shared, as Hob had shown him the guest bathroom, and thank fuck for that because there was an awkward conversation Hob hadn't even considered. The sibling had unfortunately not been as helpful about bathing but Dream seemed to grasp the concepts well enough—"Like splashing in a tide pool," he'd said of filling the bath, and "Like coming ashore in the rain," when Hob had demonstrated the shower. The way those blue eyes had fixed on the falling water with wonder and delight had made Hob smile, and hope his new friend would enjoy the new experience, but he'd made sure to emphasize the importance of keeping the water in the tub and explained the concept of soap as well.

"I will require clothing," Dream had said yesterday morning, while Hob was cooking breakfast.

"Yeah, guess you will need more than just that one set won't you," Hob had mused, glancing over to where Dream had padded into the kitchen, at which point he'd abruptly squeaked and averted his eyes.

Because Dream had been naked, pitch-black sealskin tied around his waist in a way that barely hid the essentials.

"Humans are very peculiar about nudity," Dream had remarked in a tone that said he was sadly unimpressed with Hob for being among that number. And then Hob had gotten a spotty education on selkie magic, how it was easier when coming ashore to change appearance to blend in, how glamouring one's coat and body required magic that Dream did not care to sustain long-term and if he was to live on land now, he should follow human customs. Hob didn't necessarily disagree, but he also wondered if Dream's unwillingness to sustain the illusion of clothing was entirely a choice and whether or not eating more frequently than he seemed interested in would give him the sustenance to use his magic more often, should he want.

Regardless, Hob had lent Dream a t-shirt and a pair of joggers that barely cinched tight enough to stay up on Dream's narrow hips, and then they had gone clothes shopping, and picked up some toiletries and essentials while they were at it.

Hob is still grappling with the idea that Dream had basically been naked when they met the other day, is trying to put the sight of that bony chest with its wispy black hair out of mind, is doing his best to forget about long pale legs and bare feet and black toenails gleaming in the watery February sunlight of his kitchen.

Yes. He's pretty. But magically married or not, Hob isn't going to be weird or creepy about this whole arrangement.

He's got other things to worry about this morning, anyway. Jo called to wake him half an hour ago, sounding mostly-dead and actually apologetic about it and long story short he's heading to the cafe to cover her shift.

With Dream in tow, because of course he's tagging along, and truthfully Hob doesn't want to leave him home alone anyway. Just…doesn't sit right.

"We don't open for another couple hours," Hob explains as he unlocks and ushers Dream inside. "But I've got to get the bread going so it's ready when we do."

"If I can be of any help, you will tell me?" Dream follows him amiably into the kitchen.

"Of course." Hob is opening the fridge, checking the prep work that Rachel left last night; he's got eight boules of sourdough ready to bake, two of which he pulls out. "We're small, we don't actually do a ton of baking in-house—and I'm not usually the one to do it, heh. But sourdough's the one thing we do bake, along with a couple types of pie." He shuts the fridge, makes sure it latches. "C'mon, I'll show you how we do it."

Dream watches with what might be interest as Hob turns on the oven, preps his dutch ovens, removes the plasic wrap from both banetones and turns the sourdough from the first onto the parchment paper he'd just laid out. "So Jo prepped these yesterday," Hob says as he works, because talking to fill the silence comes easy. "There's a lot of rising time involved so we tend to start it in the morning while the previous day's loaves are baking. Just makes sense. Rachel or I put 'em in the fridge when we close up; letting it rest overnight gives the sourdough flavor plenty of time to ripen. Here we are." The boule he's patting into shape still has a light dusting of rice flour from the banetone; he dusts it with a little more and goes in search of the scoring knife. "So in the morning here all we have to do is make sure they're dusted and shaped, score 'em and bake 'em. Then we'll start tomorrow's."

Dream's curiosity grows more evident the more Hob talks, which of course only encourages him as he retrieves the knife. "Scoring's always fun, the artsy bit of the process," he says as he sets to work. "And we'll do seasonal designs, when it suits. January we did each loaf like a snowflake. February, we're doing hearts."

"Hearts?" Dream sounds perplexed.

"Yeah, for Valentine's Day. How much do you know about human holidays?"

"Very little." Dream blinks, a quick blink with a head tilt that puts Hob helplessly in mind of Dream's other form, briefly as he'd glimpsed it. "My sibling has mentioned one or two. Christmas. The New Year."

"Well, Valentine's is just past. Day for lovers, mostly. And celebrating love, more generally. Hence the heart." He's carefully scoring the curves of a heart into the boule as he speaks, the dough splitting prettily around the point of the knife, revealing the richer color of the dough beneath unmuted by the rice flour.

Dream peers at his design, perplexed. "Is that what a human heart looks like? I have never seen one."

The way he says it implies he's seen plenty of other creatures' hearts, which…Hob supposes that makes a certain amount of sense, after all. "No, not really," he laughs, pushing aside that train of thought. "It's just a symbolic shape, a…a visual shorthand for 'love', I guess. Now." He holds up the knife like a pointer. "Do you know anything about bread?"

Dream shakes his head once, watching Hob with vivid blue eyes.

"Okay, well, the heat of the oven and the moisture in the dough are gonna make steam, which also builds pressure. So the trick is to also score the side of it, like so—" He demonstrates, slicing neatly nearer the bottom of the loaf, deeper than the decorative scoring. "That way, the steam that builds up while it bakes can escape out this way instead of potentially bursting the heart design."

Dream looks as though he's taking copious mental notes, like he'd be scribbling furiously if he had paper and pencil.

Can selkies write? Read? Do they have waterproof selkie books under the sea?

There's so much he doesn't know, so many questions piling up in his brain.

"Human food is so peculiar," Dream says then, a little crease appearing in his brow that Hob finds disproportionately adorable. "In the sea, we hunt. We eat what we catch. There is no fixing or preparing or making foods from other foods."

"Huh. Never thought about that, but, uh, suppose there really wouldn't be!" Hob laughs a little, puts the scored loaf into one of the dutch ovens and turns the other out of its banetone onto more parchment paper.

"My sibling is very fond of human food. Were it up to them, they would have me try everything, when I come ashore."

"Oh?" Hob is dusting the boule, touching up the shape of it. "So what kind of stuff do you like?"

"I am not so adventurous as they are." Dream shifts, arms folding around himself. "Sushi was. Familiar, but strange. I do not know that I enjoyed it, the fish with all the. Extra." He pauses, thinking. "Coffee was a terrible experience, the first time."

Hob smiles. "Better with sugar, then? I remember you were drinking a salted caramel macchiato with extra syrup the other day?"

Dream blinks at him. "Yes. You recall my order?"

Hob feels his face heating as he scores the heart into the second loaf. "Er. Yes. You were easily the most beautiful person I'd seen in ages. Hard to forget." There's little point in waffling about it; they're meant to be evaluating their compatibility with this whole imperfect affair, after all.

Dream makes an odd little sound; Hob glances up to find him staring, lips parted slightly with surprise that softens his face almost imperceptibly. When he catches Hob looking, he tilts his head a little, defensive, chin sticking out the faintest bit. "I am pleased my husband finds me beautiful. Should I not be?"

And oh, there goes Hob's composure again. "I—well, yes, of course. Um. I'm glad? And you really are."

Smooth, Hob, incredibly smooth.

Dream blinks, slower, a pleased-but-mildly-confused sort of blink, like he maybe doesn't quite believe Hob's flattery but would be open to convincing.

Funny how well Hob can read him after just a couple days.

"Anyway." Hob clears his throat, scores the side of the second loaf and sets it into its dutch oven. "So human food is still pretty unfamiliar to you, then?" He opens the oven, which has by now come up to temp, covers both loaves and puts them in to bake.

"Yes. And without my sibling's expertise, I am. Uncertain, how I should proceed."

"Well then, as your 'husband', I am at your service." Hob sweeps a grand courtly bow, feeling a little ridiculous but also a little flirtatious. "I'm happy to introduce you to things one by one if you like? Or I mean, you could always go hunting, since that's familiar, if it feels better to you? No reason to rush into the human immersion experience, is there?"

"I would be. Allowed, to go hunting in the ocean?"

The note of actual hope in his voice throws Hob for a loop. Allowed? He struggles, for just a moment, to find the words. "Of course. You don't need my permission, Dream, you're not a prisoner."

"I do, in fact, need your permission."

"I'm sorry, what?"

"The magic that binds me to you will not allow any return to the waters, even temporarily, without your explicit permission." Dream is entirely serious and Hob can't keep back his disbelief.

"Absolute shite, what the hell."

"A selkie wed to a human is meant to stay with that human."

"But that—the human world, today—oh there is so much that is wrong with this. I don't want you trapped by me or having to ask my permission for every little thing—" Hob's eyes widen, horror dawning. "Oh my god is that why you haven't been eating?! Because I didn't give you permission?!"

Dream graces him with a look that speaks volumes about his estimation of Hob's intelligence. "You offered me food the first evening; I declined. I do not need permission to eat, regardless. The restriction pertains to actions which might be construed as me leaving you."

Which. Okay, that's better than it could be but. Still.

Hob takes a deep breath, and another. "Okay, okay. I hereby give blanket permission for anything you need. Explicitly. You can absolutely go to the ocean, you can leave whenever you like, you can come and go as you please you can tell me to piss off if you need your space, I'm not some authority over you or your autonomy, christ." He heaves another breath, glances up at Dream. "Are there any other dramatic reveals you're planning to spring on me?"

"I am withholding nothing from you deliberately," Dream sniffs, as if Hob is silly to be reacting so strongly to this revelation. "But. I will inform you immediately, should anything relevant come to mind."

Hob realizes that's the best he can ask for, at this point. "Thank you." He dusts the excess rice flour off his hands and plants them on his hips. "Okay. Question for you, then. You told me you don't need to eat every day. Was that just your uncertainty about human food talking?"

"…Perhaps." The stiffness in Dream's shoulders says that probably means 'yes'.

"How often would you be eating, then, under normal circumstances?"

"…multiple times a day, in most seasons. As you do."

Guilt rises up in Hob's chest, sharp and sour. He should have pressed, he should have asked, he should not have—should not have—

What? Tried to give his new housemate breathing room? Trusted Dream to communicate his needs and speak up for himself?

In hindsight, with what he's learning of Dream in the meantime, maybe not.

He pushes the feelings down, tempers his voice to careful kindness. "Were you planning to ask me about hunting, or to tell me at some point that I'd have to give you permission?"

Dream's guilty silence is answer enough.

"Okay, okay." Hob blows out a breath. "Let's set some expectations going forward, alright? Marriage magic aside, I recognize you're here—on land, with me—largely as a means of escaping an unpleasant situation back home—is that a fair assessment?"

"Yes."

"And since that's the case, I want this to be better than whatever you're leaving behind. Otherwise you just trade one set of bad circumstances for another. You deserve better than that. I get the sense maybe you aren't accustomed to being heard, or listened to?"

"You are. Incredibly perceptive, Hob Gadling."

Maybe it's sarcasm, maybe it's not. Hob's choosing to take it at face value. "So let's change that. I am not going to treat you like you don't exist, or like you're an inconvenience." He's making guesses, based on Dream's minimal confirmations and a lot of gut instinct. "I want to hear what you want, or need, or like or don't like or anything else. You're welcome to talk to me. I want you to talk to me." He reaches carefully for Dream's hand, slim and pale and black-nailed, holds it gently when Dream allows the touch. "If you're stuck with me, I at least want you to be happy. Be yourself. And I get that habits can be hard to break but I promise. Whenever you need something , or if you just have something to say, I'll listen. Important or frivolous or anything in between."

Dream is staring at his hand in Hob's; when he looks up, it's with a solemn and serious expression with just a hint of hope around the eyes. "Then. I will. Endeavour, to communicate important things better. In the future."

Hob smiles encouragingly and drops his hand. "Alright. I've got to get the bread started for tomorrow before we open up here, and then let's talk about whether you want to stick with the familiar or try something human. Assuming of course that you're hungry."

"I. Would like to eat today, yes."

"Okay. Lemme knock this out and we'll get you fed. Unless you'd rather take off and go hunting."

A little of Dream's stiffness returns, almost imperceptibly. "I. Would prefer to stay with you. For now."

"You're welcome to," Hob says easily with a nod, moving to measure out the starter, but he does put a mental pin in that statement. There's something there to unpack later, probably.

He narrates the whole process of prepping the next day's bread for Dream, talking through all the steps and some of the science as he mixes the measured-out starter with flour and water and salt, kneading it into a shaggy dough; by the time it's ready for its first rest, the bread in the oven is filling the kitchen with its warm fragrance. Hob checks it, leaves the lids off the Dutch ovens so the loaves can brown and is unsurprised when Dream follows at his elbow, watching.

For all his reserve, he's terribly curious.

"Does the color of the bread matter so much?" Dream asks, when Hob explains.

"Mmh, not really for the flavor," he decides, after a second's deliberation. "It crisps up the crust a bit, and it's more visually appealing when it's browned. Pasty-looking sourdough loaves make a much less appetizing sandwich."

"'Visually appealing'?" Dream's nose wrinkles slightly, adorably, and Hob can't help a little chuckle.

"Yeah, for humans, how the food looks is very much a factor in whether or not we want to eat it. If it doesn't look like it'll taste good, we're less likely to eat it. If the crust isn't browned, it doesn't look done, fully cooked, and our brains tend to say 'don't eat that'."

Dream's face smooths into something like understanding. "If I can see that a fish is sickly, I will hunt for a healthier specimen."

"Yeah, I imagine a sick fish won't taste as good, will it."

"I might also contract its sickness by eating it."

"Right. Smart. If something looks rotten or sickly I'm not gonna want to eat it either, but also. Sometimes humans take the whole 'visually appealing' thing in an artistic light, too. We like our food to look…pretty, is the best word I guess."

Dream cocks his head, blinking curiously again, and Hob is a little smitten despite himself.

By the time he's explained about plating and presentation and high-end dining, the bread is ready to come out of the oven.

"It all eats the same, of course—ahh!" Hob startles at the buzz of the timer and Dream bolts up from his seat as well, uncertain and alarmed. "Sorry, sorry," Hob laughs, crossing quickly to the oven and grabbing the potholders. "Bread's done, is all. Got so caught up blathering on, didn't realize it was time!"

Dream, clearly reassured by Hob's sheepish explanation, settles back on the stool he'd just vacated. "Humans put great effort into enjoying your food," he says, picking up the interrupted thread of conversation. "It is as if you delight in the act of eating, completely separate of your need for sustenance."

"Oh my god, eating for pleasure is huge in so many cultures," Hob agrees, setting the second Dutch oven on the worktop and closing the oven with a deft elbow. "You're not wrong there. I take it selkie culture is different?"

"Yes. And I am beginning to understand my sibling's fascination with human culture, their insistence that we try as many foods as possible. The concept of variety is. Intriguing."

"But a little daunting all the same? I can understand that. Well!" Hob has transferred both loaves to cooling racks, and gives Dream a brilliant smile. "Let's see what you think of sourdough bread, and we'll go from there."

Dream's gaze falls to the crusty loaves, to the steam wafting from their perfectly scored hearts. His hands twitch toward the nearer of the two and his eyes dart to Hob. "May I?"

Hob chuckles, charmed. "Really, it cuts better if you leave it a couple hours, but it tastes so good when it's hot and fresh." It's the eagerness in Dream's posture, the bright interest in those blue eyes that decides him. "So let me just—" He folds a clean towel over his hands, takes the hot loaf and tears a chunk off, waves it about a bit to help it cool and then hands it to Dream. "Here—have a care though, it's still very hot."

And maybe the fact that as far as he knows the last time Dream ate anything was that caramel macchiato two days ago, before this whole magically-married thing happened, has some bearing on his impatience to get the man fed, as well.

Dream accepts the bread gingerly, eager but cautious, sniffs at it, and takes a careful bite from the edge. He's very intent about his chewing, like he's concentrating on texture and flavors and cataloging each one to study later and Hob cannot tell if he likes it or not, but 'hates it' at least doesn't appear to be in the running.

"Good?" he asks, as soon as Dream has swallowed that first bite.

Dream takes another bite, this one decidedly bigger than the first. "It's so warm," he says through his mouthful, and that is somehow more charming than it has any right to be. Hob can't help a little smile.

"And warm is good?"

"Fish aren't warm." His mouth is still a little full, but he's not spraying crumbs and his words are easy enough to catch. "It's different." He swallows, pauses to consider. "Yes. It's good." He takes another bite, tearing it free with relish.

"Oh, wait, lemme grab you the butter!" Hob pops over to the fridge, retrieves the butter and a spreader and presents both to Dream on a little saucer. "Here, try this. Nothing like a bit of butter melting into warm crusty bread!" He's scooping and spreading as he talks, straight onto the bread in Dream's hands; Dream sniffs it again once Hob has finished, takes another small bite, tasting carefully.

His eyes widen, just a little. "Oh." It comes out breathy and wondering, like a revelation, and then he's tearing off another bite and reaching for the spreader, buttering what's left of the hunk of bread in his hands while he chews.

"Glad you approve," Hob laughs, pushing the saucer closer along the counter.

"It's wonderfully fatty and smooth, and mildly sweet," Dream offers, between bites. "Very pleasant." His eyes shift to the rest of the loaf still steaming on the cooling rack, then back Hob. "I. Would like. Could I have more?"

"Absolutely." It's still too hot to properly cut so he just tears off another hunk, mentally designating this 'Dream's loaf' and making a note to get a couple more loaves in the oven before opening.

Dream tears into the bread after adding butter, clearly still hungry and clearly enjoying this new food experience. Hob briefly considers fetching the olive oil for him to try but decides against it; Dream had talked of feeling overwhelmed by food choice so just. One thing at a time, variety to be added slowly. Buttered bread is a hit. Other combinations can come later.

"I will have words with my sibling should I see them again," Dream says through the last of one bite, pausing briefly before taking the next. "They ought to have given me this to start, instead of sushi."

"I'm sure they thought sushi would be a natural first step when fish is what you're used to eating," Hob offers. Dream gives him a withering look and Hob laughs, raises his hands. "Or not; they're your sibling and you'd know their intentions better than I. But I'm glad you like the bread." He still can't quite forget the fact he let Dream starve for two days. "Eat your fill, please—eat the the whole loaf if you like."

Dream hesitates at that. "Will you have enough for your shop?"

"Oh yes. I'll just get a couple more baking now, no worries." And he does, prepping another two loaves while Dream devours a bit more bread and butter.

"I'm glad you like the bread," Hob says as he finishes, shutting the oven. "It's definitely a staple of most human cuisines in one form or another, there's so many variations. Lots of things you can eat with it, too, savory and sweet—olive oil—there's different flavors even; avocado, cheese, all sorts of jams and jellies, honey, Nutella—so many possibilities."

"I will admit, I am curious." Dream dimples, a soft, small thing that sparks a pleasant warmth in Hob's chest. "I look forward to trying whatever you suggest next."

"I'll do my best not to steer you wrong," Hob says, and crooks a little smile as something occurs to him. "Heh. Gran always said, the way to a man's heart is through his stomach!"

Dream blinks, warm bread still clutched in both hands, speaks with his mouth half-full. "A selkie's heart is better accessed by cracking the ribcage which protects it. Is human anatomy so different?"

Hob laughs; he can't help it. "Sorry, sorry," he manages shortly, Dream's little pout very nearly setting him off again. "It's a—a saying, a figure of speech. Humans, we tend to view the heart—metaphorically—as the seat of our emotions. My actual heart's right here behind my ribs, same as yours I imagine." He splays his hand over the left side of his chest to indicate the general location. "So the way to the heart being through the stomach means…it means that feeding someone, cooking for them, is a good way to woo their affections."

Dream blinks again, swallows his mouthful, tilts his head slightly. "Is that what you are doing, then? Wooing my affections when we are already wed?"

Hob can feel the heat rising in his face. "Well. I mean. Mostly I want to make sure you're not going hungry for no reason. But, uh." He glances away and back again, fidgeting with his earlobe. "Even if we're doing things a bit backward, well, maybe. Maybe I am, at that."

It's weird. Dream is weird, and somehow already very dear, and Hob knows this whole thing is a little bit bonkers.

It's only the third day.

But he really does like him.

He tries to ignore how terribly pleased Dream looks with his answer.

= Started: 2/17/25 Drafted: 2/12/26 Posted: 2/14/26

Searching for what? Or whom?

He doesn't know. But something is tugging him onward, inexorably.

Calling out feels a bit like sacrilege and the sound of his footsteps like an intrusion; Hob hurries along as quickly and quietly as he can, turning through doorways and down corridors as instinct dictates, searching, searching. He's needed, he's been called, he has to find—

A sound reaches him, beneath the distant rolling thunder, carried on shadows that stretch despairingly toward him.

Someone, somewhere near, is sobbing.

Hob feels his heart seize; the shadows beckon him onward, full of urgency and pleading and immeasurable sorrow and it does not ever occur to Hob to be frightened. Only concerned. Worried. Whoever is crying, he needs to find them.

Now.

He hurries.

He rounds a corner into yet another shadowed hallway and draws up short.

It's his Stranger.

His Stranger, his friend, is hunched over a basin set on a pedestal some distance down the corridor, clad only in a thin tank top and jeans, scrubbing furiously at his hands and sobbing brokenly.

Hob is directly in front of him with less than a thought, catches his hands gently. "My friend—what's wrong?"

His friend looks up, the blue of his gaze dim and shattered, tears streaming down his face. "Hob—" His voice breaks, a sob following; he looks haggard, exhausted, worn to the absolute bone and Hob's heart aches.

"I'm here," he says, softly, so softly. His friend's hands are wet and spotless, the water in the basin tinged that distinct shade of red that Hob has been well-acquainted with in several lifetimes and he swallows, his concern rising.

His friend's hands are shaking, where Hob holds them still. "Hob—I—I—" He gasps, tears spilling over his gaunt cheeks, trembling, face crumpling on another sob.

"Shh, I've got you, love," Hob murmurs, stroking his thumbs over the backs of both pale hands. "No need to talk, if it's too much." He doesn't know what this is about, doesn't need to, curiosity be damned. His friend is hurting, deeply, and if that Chateau Lafite is anything to go by this is probably a bit more real than most of his dreams. He's grateful in the back of his mind that Audrey hadn't stayed over tonight; no need to worry that she'll wake him from this if he's talking in his sleep. He doesn't know how this works, if his friend has walked into his dream like before, if his friend has somehow summoned him to his own dream but he knows, deep down where it matters, that something terrible and tragic has happened.

And his friend is here in this shadowed hall, weeping, alone, visibly crushed by the weight of his own grief.

The hands Hob's holding are now stained with blood.

The water is clear.

Hob is very sure, in the manner of dreams, that his friend has been scrubbing and re-scrubbing endlessly to no avail.

That will not do. Oh no.

"Let me," he says, so very softly; he lets go one hand, scoops water from the basin and gently pours it over the hand he still holds, wipes the blood from ivory skin and dips his fingers to rinse it away.

His friend hiccups a sob, clearly trying to hold it back.

Hob bathes his friend's stained hands tenderly, silently, until each is clean; they will stay clean this time, because this is his dream, he's decided, and he says so.

"There," he breathes, barely more than a whisper, still holding his friend's wet hand between his own as he looks up to meet his gaze.

His friend's eyes are black now, solid black with stars in their depths, red-rimmed and glimmering with tears and full of unspeakable sorrow. He draws a breath as if to speak, but all that comes out is another sob and Hob feels his heart cracking in two.

"C'mere," he murmurs, drawing the other to him and his friend comes haltingly, uncertainly, sobs still shaking his slender frame. Hob pulls him close, wraps both arms around him and abruptly his friend sags into his hold, grasps his shirt with both wet hands and clings, buries his face against Hob's shoulder and cries.

It's the sort of crying Hob has known intimately more times than he cares to remember, great wracking sobs of aching grief that hurt and hollow one to the core and seem that they will never stop, and Hob does not know what has brought his friend to this but it does not matter.

"I'm here, love, I'm here," he murmurs, rubbing soft soothing circles across bare shaking shoulders and his friend cries all the harder, clings to him desperately.

Hob wraps him as close as he can, here in the shadows of this cold lonely hall, rocks his friend gently in place and holds him together while grief tears him apart. "I'm here," he repeats, again and again, certain deep in his core that he can offer no greater comfort than this. His friend must know, whatever his sorrow, whatever his grief, that he doesn't have to carry the weight of it alone, not when Hob is merely a dream away and glad to share the burden.

He is only one man, one insignificant human compared to whatever his friend might be, but even so he can do this, can be there when his friend needs someone to cry on.

He tucks his friend beneath his chin, holds him close in the warmth of his arms amidst the stark and unforgiving emptiness of this place; his friend cries, and clings, and all is certainly not right with the world but at least Hob can give him one moment of solace, here in this dream, for as long as he needs.

"Hob." There's a little smile when he says the name. "Your timing is excellent; dinner is nearly ready." He sets aside his wooden spoon, grabs a potholder and opens the oven, pulls out a fragrant apple tart and sets it aside, steaming prettily. He closes the oven and turns it off, turns back to Hob.

"What's all this, then?" Hob can't help asking, face and tone both bright with curiosity.

"It has been several months since we became attached," Dream answers, with the careful gravity of a much-rehearsed speech. "You have been nothing but welcoming to me; I am a stranger become your husband through laws that are not your own and you have responded most graciously. You have taken me in, given me shelter and succour and friendship, taught me many new things and I am both pleased and grateful. I wanted to prepare you a meal as a small show of that gratitude."

Familiar warmth swells up in Hob's chest and he lets it shape his smile, lets happy surprise shine in his face. "I'm touched, Dream," he says, sincerity and pleasure in his voice. "This is such a kind and thoughtful gesture, thank you. What've you made?"

"It's a fish stew." Dream turns back to his gently bubbling pot, gives it a final stir, then turns off the burner. "I chose the primary food staple from my culture, prepared according to one of your customs using skills you have taught me."

Something about that simple statement strikes Hob to the core—the thought and consideration that went into it, the way Dream wanted what he prepared to represent both of them. "I'm touched," he says again, that warmth curling gently around his heart. "Not sure I'm worthy of all this effort—"

"You are," Dream says firmly, cutting him off and whisking past him to set the stew on the table, where two places are already set and a warm sourdough loaf sits in a basket next to a pat of butter and a bread knife. "I caught the fish myself this morning so it's very fresh; I baked bread as well, and the apple tart will cool for dessert while we eat."

Hob is at a loss for words, floored by the effort Dream has put into this dinner and a little bit in love despite himself; he corrals all the fluttering emotions back behind his ribs and gives Dream a beaming smile. "Brilliant. Stew's ready, then?"

"Yes."

"Then let's eat!"

The stew is a beautiful creation, a creamy broth cradling tri-color potatoes and chunks of cod and green sprigs of tarragon, and it's every bit as good as it looks and smells. The potatoes are perfectly tender, the fish flakes apart easily, the base is rich with the notes of white wine and fennel that flavor it, a little spark of cayenne; it's warm and savory on his tongue and sliding down his throat and Hob moans his appreciation, trying to remember the last time he had anything that tasted this good.

"My god, Dream this is amazing!" he says, two bites in. "Absolutely delicious. Where did you find the recipe?"

Dream looks so quietly pleased across the table, almost glowing with it as he daintily butters a slice of bread. "I searched on the internet, as you showed me," he says, sliding the butter toward Hob when he's finished. "I found a great many, and it was intimidating trying to choose one; Johanna and Rachel and Nuala helped me decide."

"Oh?"

"Yes. I told them I wished to cook you a meal as a gesture of thanks. They were very interested in helping me prepare."

"Oh I'll bet they were," Hob laughs, pushing down the little curl of alarm that notion raises. He's very sure his staff have got the wrong idea about him and Dream. Or, well. Not entirely wrong but definitely not exactly right either. Under different circumstances he would be very interested in dating Dream, yes, but as it stands he's not pursuing that possibility. He'll have to make sure they don't try to play wingman or matchmaker or anything else.

Right now, though, he can let his focus stay here, on this delicious meal and the fascinating friend who's cooked it for him.

"They were kind," Dream is saying, between bites of bread and stew. "They made sure I could find all the ingredients, that I understood all the directions. This might perhaps have been a less successful endeavor without their input."

"Well I'm glad they helped you out, then," Hob says, sincerely. They've been a sort of family at the cafe for ages, him and Nuala and Jo-and-Rachel, and Dream really has integrated into their dynamic seamlessly. It's been wonderful watching it happen.

They eat in silence for a moment, then Dream says, tentatively, "It is a successful endeavor, then?"

"Oh absolutely," Hob enthuses, dipping a bit of bread in the creamy soup and popping it into his mouth, speaking around it. "It's so good. You did amazing."

Dream smiles, soft and quick. "It is perhaps not made with the same love as your Gran taught you, but I did my best to infuse it with our friendship, with the fondness and affection that you inspire."

He is still taking that 'made with love' saying a little too literally, perhaps, but oh if that doesn't make Hob's heart trip warm in his chest.

"That's so sweet," he says, and means it. "I can taste it, I'm sure. Wouldn't be quite so good if you hadn't." He winks.

Comfortable silence settles over the table, Dream looking pleased as he eats in neatly-spooned-up bites, Hob trying not to stare at the little streak of flour along his jaw or the pretty pinkish color almost visible over his cheekbones. Happiness looks so good on Dream, and Hob is always looking for ways to put that glow in his face, to make him smile with that certain softness. Or smile at all, really. And if he can get him to laugh? That's a high he can ride for days.

You're in too deep, Hobsie, he tells himself, for all the good it'll do. His heart is ready to run away with him and he would absolutely let it, if Dream weren't magically bound here under his care.

"The recipe is called Sexy Fish Stew," Dream says then, at which Hob fumbles his bread into his bowl with a little start. "Johanna was adamant that I should tell you the name, that I should prepare this specific recipe because of the name."

"That sounds like Jo," Hob laughs, fishing his bread out of the shallow bit of creamy broth still left in the bowl. "For the record, it is in fact a very sexy fish stew."

"The name is because it is popular to prepare for a Valentine's date, or other occasions on which one wishes to woo a partner," Dream says, as Hob pushes the last chunk of fish onto his spoon using the bread. "It felt appropriate, as we met when the holiday had just passed." He offers another tiny smile.

"Absolutely," Hob agrees, choosing to accept that at face value. He pops the bite into his mouth and savors the way the fish practically melts on his tongue, then spoons up the last of the potatoes. Dream watches him avidly, casually alert, as if he can see the food he prepared warming Hob through with happiness if he looks closely enough.

He's so quietly, charmingly weird.

Hob likes it so, so much.

"Dessert should be ready to serve," Dream announces, as Hob is sopping the last of the stew from his bowl with the last of his bread. "There is no whimsy in the title of the recipe—it is just a simple French apple tart—but I hope you will enjoy it all the same."

"I have no doubt I will," Hob says, swallowing that final savory bite. "It smells amazing."

Dream smiles, pleased; he rises from the table gracefully, collects their empty bowls and sets them in the sink. Hob grabs the dessert plates Dream had set out while Dream brings over the still-warm tart and goes back to retrieve a bowl from the refrigerator.

"This is beautiful," Hob says, taking in the design of the pie as Dream picks up the knife. The apples are unpeeled and thinly sliced but still in large quarters, fanned out and packed artfully into the pan in such a way they somewhat resemble the scalloped ridges of seashells, as if Dream has found yet another way to connect their two cultures in one food. It does something to his heart, makes his smile helplessly fond as he watches Dream cut into his creation.

"Nuala gave me this recipe," Dream admits, deftly serving out the first slice of tart to Hob. "It is simpler than the pies she bakes at work, in keeping with my skill level, though slicing the apples so precisely did prove somewhat vexing. She let me practice making the crust at the cafe, also."

"Smart of her. Sneaky, too. Had no idea you were planning anything like this." Hob is once again having feelings about the level of effort Dream has gone to.

"I did want it to be a surprise." Dream sets a slice on his own plate and takes up the bowl he'd set aside, which, as it turns out, is full of homemade crème fraiche.

Amazing. Hob is definitely not worthy.

Dream tops both servings generously and Hob digs in, mouth watering. It's sweet, and tart, the simple flavors of baked apples and carmelized sugar and butter in pleasing balance and the cream ties it all together perfectly.

"Don't tell Nuala," he says, taking another big bite and speaking through it, "but her pies have new competition for my favorite. This is amazing."

Dream dimples, neatly cutting another bite from his slice with his fork. "You flatter me, Hob Gadling. But I am pleased that you like it."

"Oh I do, I really really do," Hob agrees, and puts his mouth back to eating instead of talking.

Dream makes a quiet little sound, satisfied, and something tickles at the back of Hob's mind even as he devours his dessert. Something he'd said—

Dream watches him intently while eating his own tart, fond and focused, and the soft weight of his gaze has Hob suddenly remembering what he'd told Dream over that first loaf of bread back in February.

The way to a man's heart is through his stomach.

And Dream had said the stew was often prepared to woo a partner.

Is that what this is? Is Dream making efforts to woo him?

Damned if it isn't working; this whole thing has felt very much like the best sort of date. The cozy domesticity is incredibly appealing and Dream is so incredibly appealing, so very very dear, and Hob would love to be more to him—boyfriend, lover, romantic partner, maybe even husband in truth.

Which would require the magical bullshit keeping Dream trapped here with him to be undone, and he's been told that's impossible.

So. He'll put a pin in the question of Dream and wooing, for now; if it becomes more apparent than just this one meal, they'll have to have a conversation.

But not tonight, while they have been enjoying good food and easy company and topping it off with a very tasty dessert.

Once they've finished eating, Dream insists that he will handle cleanup and Hob vetoes that immediately. "Let me help," he insists. "Least I can do when you went to all this trouble to cook me such a delicious meal."

"As you wish," Dream concedes, with a princely little tilt of his head, and Hob has to bite his lip to keep from laughing aloud.

He's adorable. Ridiculous, and adorable, and dear. So, so wonderfully dear.

The kitchen's disarray is easily remedied between the two of them, leftovers stored, dishes washed, worktop and table wiped down, and in fairly short order it is once again a tidy and serviceable space.

"Thank you for dinner," Hob says as they finish up, turning to face Dream. "It was really really good. So good—"

He hadn't realized quite how close they had ended up.

"It was my pleasure." Dream shifts marginally closer, tentative but deliberate. "I enjoyed cooking for you as much as cooking beside you, and I should like the opportunity to do it again. If you would be amenable."

The kitchen is cozy and Dream is nearly right up in his space, head slightly tilted, the blue of his eyes sharp and searching; Hob can smell him, the scent of his own shampoo in Dream's hair and the hint of seawater that always seems to cling underneath, the warm sweet apple tart on his breath, and Hob is so terribly tempted. Kissing him would be easy, barely more than a thought, and he's very sure Dream would let him—would welcome it, even, but—

He can't. No matter how much he'd like to, how badly he actually wants to, it feels—sleazy. Dream is stuck with him, and Hob doesn't know if he can get over that fact no matter how much Dream seems unbothered by it.

He draws back just a little, just enough, and lifts one finger to tap Dream lightly on the nose, affectionate and safe.

"I might just take you up on that, Dream."

He's very sure he's not imagining the disappointment in Dream's eyes, even as Dream smiles softly. "As you wish," he repeats, with an air of concession, and Hob can hear the fondness lacing his voice despite the shuttered hope in his gaze.

Dammit all.

Later, before bed, Hob is still thinking wistfully about the way Dream had watched him over dinner, the warmth in his eyes, the open softness in his face. He's still thinking about the level of effort Dream put into the evening, the delicious meal he'd been served; he's still thinking, despite himself, how a kiss might have been the perfect finishing touch.

He can't stop thinking about how close he'd been to doing it, there at the end.

And alone in his room, where sensible thought so often gives way to What If, it is all too easy to regret making the ethical choice.

= Started: 2/10/26 Drafted: 2/20/26 Posted: 2/23/26

"Er. Well. Suppose that must be true, logically speaking!" Hob manages, flashing a brightly awkward grin. He doesn't think he'll ever quite get used to the whole consort thing, pleased as he is to accept it, and he's still easily flustered despite himself to hear Dream say it.

"It is undeniably true." Dream speaks with the grave sincerity that he can bring to bear like no other. "Consort to the King of Dreams is not a title lightly bestowed, and I would have you know. How singular you are, in my esteem."

"You do know how to bolster a bloke's ego," Hob laughs, glowing with self-consciousness and pride in equal measure, chasing his skittering glee with a hearty swig from his cup. He's so, so happy to have all this with Dream, even when he doubts he's entirely worthy of the regard Dream expresses, and will savor it for all he's worth. "Unfathomable age has given you a charmingly silver tongue, that's certain."

"An observation perhaps better made of you, I think." Dream shifts minutely in his seat, leans a hair closer. "After all. You yourself are inordinately more charming than I, Hob Gadling, and relatively ancient by human standards as well."

There is a teasing thread to his tone, now, and Hob seizes it gratefully, finds his footing again on comfortable ground. "Nah. I'm not even a thousand yet. Gotta have at least a hundred centuries under your belt before you can think of qualifying as ancient."

Dream runs one delicate fingertip around the rim of his wineglass, drawing forth the faintest of musical tones with his touch. "How fortunate, then, that you intend to continue living forever; in time, you will have the opportunity to experience being ancient for yourself."

He says it with teasing confidence, and yet there is the hint of a question in it, the faintest plea for affirmation, as if even after all this time he still fears Hob might one day grow weary of life, of living, of him.

Imagine thinking the medieval peasant he'd befriended, the absolute nobody he'd named his royal consort, could ever tire of him. Insanity.

Hob reaches across the table, takes Dream's hand firmly in his own, gives a heartfelt squeeze even as he answers with cheeky sincerity. "Oh absolutely. Can't wait to see my first millennium come and go, see what humanity achieves, bore you to tears carrying on about all of it." He squeezes again, smiling like the sun, all the love he feels for this impossibly magnificent creature shining forth in his face so that Dream will see it.

Dream gazes back at him, quietly fond, and squeezes Hob's hand in return. His foot touches Hob's beneath the table, moves to hook gently behind Hob's ankle, and his smile is soft and warm as Hob's favorite eiderdown quilt.

"I look forward to being ancient together, with you, Hob Gadling."

And isn't that just the most wonderful idea in the world.

= Started: 1/18/26 Drafted: 1/27/26 Posted: 2/1/26

📚 SERIES 📚

🛳️ Cruise Ship Boys 🛳️ (Human AU) 1. Caribbean Sunset 🌶️ Rated E, ~5500 words Hob hooks up with a beautiful stranger on a Caribbean cruise 2. London Fog 🌦️ Rated T, ~3500 words Dream does his best to ignore Possibilities while he copes with returning from holiday

⚔️ Appropriate Applications for Aesthetic Armors⚔️ 1. Anticipation Rated T, ~700 words Dream chooses Hob’s Halloween costume (spoiler alert: it's the Wavemother's robe from BG3) 2. Appreciation 🌶️ Rated E, ~4300 words Hob wears the costume; Dream has his fun. 3. Adoration 🌶️ Rated E, ~9500 words Dream's fantasy of publicly claiming Hob in the middle of the New Inn is played out with a very enthusiastic Hob in his dream, as offered.

☂️ The Umbrella Boys ☂️ (Human AU) 1. A Sweet Romance Beginning in a Queue Rated T, ~4500 words 🎶Bus stop, wet day, he’s there, I say, ‘Please share my umbrella’🎶 2. Love Rain Down On Me Rated M, ~2300 words 5 times those Three Little Words go unspoken, and one time they do not. 3. Weekend Arts and Crafts Rated G, ~1600 words Hob and Dream go on a date; Dream gets to meet one of Hob's friends

🔧 Turbo Lover 🔧 (Human AU) 1. Customer Service 🌶️ Rated E, ~4500 words Mechanic Hob's just trying to fix the rich guy's Porsche but the rich guy is looking at Hob like he's a five-course meal 2. With Every Nerve Alive 🌶️ Rated E, ~4600 words Dream Atelíotes is merely seeking car repairs from a reputable shop; he was not expecting to get punched in the libido by the most beautiful mechanic he could have imagined. 3. Loyalty Rewards Program 🌶️ Rated E, ~9200 words Dream comes back to Matthew's Motor Repairs the next day and Hob gives him everything he asks for 4. Shift to Overdrive 🌶️ Rated E, ~2000 words His beautiful mechanic in a bespoke suit is a tempting vision indeed and Dream is impatient on the limo ride home 5. Love Machines in Harmony 🌶️ Rated E, ~5200 words Passions are running high after the limo ride home, and the drawing room is closer than the bedroom 6. Without Warning Something's Dawning (Listen) Rated G, ~650 words Dream wanders through his thoughts about Hob 7. You'll Know You're Defenseless Rated G, ~1050 words Mechanic Hob might. Possibly. Be pining. Just a little bit.

🌊 Sea Stranger 🌊 (Mer-Hob AU) 1. Telling Tails Rated G, ~3700 words On a university-sponsored research trip in Australia, marine biologist Dream discovers a new form of sea life that he was not expecting 2. Good Luck Charm Rated G, ~3000 words When Dream's merman friend is late to their usual meeting, Dream is worried. And with good reason, as it turns out.

🦭Selkies Don't Have Spousal Visas🦭(Selkie Dream AU) 1. Marriage of Inconvenience Rated G, ~2400 words Hob is delighted to see the pretty stranger coming back to his cafe, but he has no idea how his life is about to change 2. Leavening Agent Rated G, ~4400 words Hob learns more about his new selkie housemate during an opening shift at the cafe 3. First Step Rated G, ~550 words Selkie Dream has a request to make of his new husband 4. A Growing Addiction That I Can't Deny Rated G, ~900 words In which there is a wee kitchen mishap and a small human gesture of comfort 5. The Way to a Man's Heart Rated G, ~2500 words Several months down the road Hob arrives home to a meal prepared by his selkie husband housemate. Housemate.

📖 ONE-SHOTS 📖

Use Your Words Rated T, ~2500 words Hob finds mistletoe hung in the bar. Dream is. Insistent. That they adhere to tradition.

Old Acquaintance Rated G, ~800 words It’s New Year’s Eve at the New Inn, and Dream and Hob are on the same page

Fluffbruary 2023 Prompt: velvet Rated G, 165 words One of Hob's favorite things about Dream

Fluffbruary 2023 Prompt: memory Rated G, ~230 words Dream is distracted by a memory

Fluffbruary 2023 Prompt: thread Rated G, ~200 words Hob loves his grey hair

Fluffbruary 2023 Prompt: daydream Rated T, ~800 words Hob's daydreams are not the only distracting ones

Fluffbruary 2023 Prompt: enthusiasm Rated G, ~200 words Enthusiasm is one of Hob's defining traits

Fluffbruary 2023 Prompt: trust Rated T, ~1500 words Dream finds Hob cooking for him (aka The Spicy Omelettes one)

Fluffbruary 2023 Prompt: grass Rated G, ~330 words A date in Fiddler's Green

Fluffbruary 2023 Prompt: fireplace Rated G, ~170 words Generic hearth metaphor

Fluffbruary 2023 Prompt: strong Rated T, ~3400 words Dream helps a drunken Hob get home (aka The Drunken Confessions one)

Fluffbruary 2023 Prompt: teach Rated T, ~520 words Dream teaches Hob how to summon him; self-immolation discouraged

Fluffbruary 2023 Prompt: vague 🌶️ Rated M, 465 words Sometimes Dream speaks vaguely. Sometimes he is Very Direct

Fluffbruary 2023 Prompt: glasses Rated T, ~330 words Sometimes, Hob wears glasses

Fluffbruary 2023 Prompt: yesterday Rated G, ~470 words Time works different in the Dreaming

Fluffbruary 2023 Prompt: recovery 🌦️ Rated T, ~2900 words Dream is dating; Hob works hard to just be a good friend while watching it fall apart (aka The Thessaly Breakup fic)

Fluffbruary 2023 Prompt: snack 🌶️ Rated E, ~1800 words Hob comes home to find Dream waiting from him in the traditional murder-widow robe

Fluffbruary 2023 Prompt: friend Rated T, ~1800 words Dream contemplates friendship, Hob, and the blurring of boundaries

In the Morning Light Rated T, ~1960 words Dream visits Hob on a rainy morning

Built For You 🌶️ Rated E, ~800 words Hob questions Dream on some particulars of his waking world anatomy

Insatiable 🌶️ Rated E, ~3100 words Dream gets rimmed and railed within an inch of his life

Of Cutoff Shorts and Classic Cars 🌶️ Rated E, ~4300 words Hob has made some very distinct wardrobe choices on a hot day. Dream approves.

Little Indulgences 🌶️ Rated E, ~1000 words A spot of fun with lingerie and sex toys

My Song Can But Borrow Your Grace 🌶️ Rated E, ~6800 words Fanfic for Flatter the Mountain Tops by Teejaystumbles (linked in the post). Dragon AU. Hob wants Dream in dragon form to fuck him while he stays in human form; Dream is beginning to see there’s more to it than just a size kink.

On the Edge of a Waking Dream 🌦️ Rated M, ~3900 words Monsterfucktober Bingo Square 'Ghost'. Human AU. Dream never believed in ghosts until his boyfriend became one

The Beauty of the Beast 🌶️ Rated E, ~3100 words Monsterfucktober Bingo Square 'Were-creature'. Recently-turned werewolf Hob wants to protect Dream from this new side of him. Dream is. Not interested in being protected.

Ambrosia 🌶️ Rated E, ~4000 words An exercise in celebrating the human messiness (and messy humanness) that Dream finds so attractive in Hob

Untitled Knight Hob/King Dream Scene Rated M, ~1300 words A synopsis-plus-scene-draft of a potential Knight Hob and King Dream AU that in all likelihood I will never actually go back to, but I like what's here so it goes on the masterlist

The Keeper and the Traveler Rated G, ~1700 words Not-Exactly-Human AU. A campfire folktale about finding what you didn’t know you were searching for, or something like that. Inspired by Nightwish's 'The Islander'

I've Got My Love to Keep Me Warm Rated M, ~6900 words It’s winter in London and Hob is interested in sharing various cold-weather human experiences with his distinctly-not-human boyfriend

Shampoo Rated G, ~550 words Fluffbruary 2024 prompt 'Scent'. Big changes also mean small changes, and sometimes a loss can bring gain as well

Before I Go Rated G, ~850 words Fluffbruary 2024 prompt 'Evening'. A Season-of-Mists-style leave-taking visit, some time later in their relationship

Vogue Rated M, ~750 words Fluffbruary 2024 prompt 'Photography'. Human AU. Dream comes home and Hob greets him with a camera.

Chaos and Calm Rated G, ~1550 words Human AU. Searching for rain boots and meeting friends in the park. No real plot, just meandering domestic parenting vibes.

Until We Meet Again 🌦️ Rated G, ~2700 words Dream frets over whether or not he could (or should) permit himself to visit Hob more often

Past the Wit of Man (or, Bottom's Dream) 😆 Rated M, ~3600 words Hob is nicely settled in a new career and a new identity and does not expect to see his Stranger until 2089. The universe, apparently, has other ideas.

Til Death Do Us Part Rated T, ~1450 words AU. Dream laments his vampiric nature. Hob offers reassurance, patiently, for the thousandth time

Promises In the Wake Rated G, ~1300 words Hob and Dream go apple picking

Mementos Rated G, ~1200 words Hob waxes nostalgic about an old hobby that's also his newest career.

Baby Got Back 😆 Rated T, ~3900 words Human AU. Dream's sister drags him to the gym. Will the instructor and his assets be enough to convince Dream it's worth his time?

Learning From Old Mistakes Rated T, ~1250 words Hob and Dream are accosted by a thief on their way home one evening

Andante Affettuoso Rated G, ~1600 words Five years after their initial reunion, Dream has come to the New Inn on Valentine's Day with specific words in mind.

Tradition Rated G, ~2400 words Dream shares his time and Hob shares his stories, and together they are maybe sharing something else.

Undo My Grave Mistake🌶️ Rated E, ~6400 words Dream steps into Hob's nightmare and discovers that Hob's fears are not what he had imagined they would be

One Man's Dream🌦️ Rated T, 1050 words Hob is, once again, having an oddly lucid dream

One of the Lost Ones🌦️ Rated T, ~4200 words On an ordinary post-funeral Thursday, Hob receives company he was not expecting

Assurances Rated G, ~600 words A bit of conversation over drinks, about age. Ostensibly.

"Could definitely be worse," Hob says, holding Dream's hand in one of his and dabbing gently at the cut again. "Doesn't look too deep; let's rinse it and apply some pressure and I'll get you a plaster, should be fine."

"'Plaster'?" Dream is looking at him, rather than the wound, and his eyes are large and luminous, catching Hob's fast when he glances up.

"Uh. Yeah. Sticky little bandage to hold the wound closed, protect it while it heals." Hob smiles, reassuring, warmed by the way Dream holds the eye contact, by the trust in that gaze. "Don't suppose selkies have such a thing?"

"No," Dream agrees, blinking at last. "I always forget how easily human skin can be damaged."

"Well." Hob turns, drawing Dream with him by the gentle grip on his hand. "C'mon, we'll use the bathroom sink so's not to get blood on the pasta." He chuckles, and feels his heart trip a little when Dream's lips curve up the slightest bit in reply.

A cold rinse shows the cut is indeed shallow and has all but stopped bleeding; Hob has Dream put pressure on it anyway while he finds his antiseptic ointment and his plasters.

"Alright," he says, armed with the necessities. "Let's get you fixed up." He takes Dream's hand again, unwrapping the paper towel and gently blotting his thumb dry. Blood wells faintly, a broken line of tiny red dots; Hob dabs it and carefully applies the ointment, then tears open the Peppa Pig themed plaster—life's too short not to buy the fun kiddie designs, honestly—and wraps it gently around Dream's thumb, centers the pad over the cut and overlaps the sticky ends across the glossy black nail.

"There we are," he says, smiling, and brings Dream's hand up to press his lips to the plaster, right over Peppa's stylized happy little face.

Dream blinks, an inquisitive tilt to his eyebrows.

Hob can feel himself flushing, just a little; he hadn't consciously meant to do that. "Heh. Human superstition," he says, smiling past it, letting go Dream's hand. "Kissing it better makes it hurt less."

"It is barely uncomfortable," Dream says, flexing his thumb. "This belief does not seem to be unwarranted."

Hob thinks it's more likely the pain relief agent in the antiseptic ointment but isn't going to argue. "Well, good." He smiles, returning the box of plasters and the ointment to their places. "Still up for helping me cook dinner?"

Dream brightens visibly. "Of course."

~

Several days later, Hob has showered and shaved and is pouring a second cup of coffee when Dream returns from hunting, entering the kitchen with a small net of fish slung over one shoulder and his pelt over the other. He's magicked himself a pair of trousers for Hob's benefit but he is barefoot and shirtless and Hob can't help the appreciation that surges through him at the sight.

"Morning," he greets, ignoring it. Mostly. The black toenails never fail to draw his eye and he blinks, forcefully directs his gaze back up to meet Dream's.

Which is…filling with concern?

"Your face," Dream says, focusing low on Hob's cheek, and oh. Right.

"Cut myself shaving," Hob offers; he'd forgotten about it already. "No big deal. Plaster keeps it from making a mess while it dries." He grins.

"Ah." Dream's expression smooths out; two steps bring him and his fresh fish right into Hob's space and then he's pressing his lips to Hob's cheek, very near the corner of his mouth, right over the little round plaster. "I'm glad it is minor. Does it hurt?"

He's kissing it better. A frisson of something warm and tender runs through Hob and he can't help the pleasant little shiver that follows. "Not anymore," he says, smiling, and his heart gives a giddy thump at the way Dream smiles in return before moving past him.

Doomed. Hob is doomed, and he knows it. He's trying to be responsible about it, never mind that they're already married in Dream's eyes; in Hob's eyes Dream is bound to him, trapped, and as amicable as Dream is about it Hob is still bothered. He'd agreed to keep the door open to romance while they got to know each other, yes, but the fact that Dream couldn't leave if he wanted to is an effective chain lock keeping that door from opening more than a crack.

But every day, Hob realizes, softly touching the plaster and the lingering sensation of Dream's little kiss, remembering the light in his tiny smile, that chain is getting weaker and weaker.

And Hob doesn't know, anymore, if he can keep it from snapping altogether.

= Started: 9/6/25 Drafted: 9/14/25 Posted: 9/15/25

He climbs a rocky outcropping along the shore, his favorite vantage for looking out over the sea, and sits, trying to dispel the dark mood that had settled over him. His sisters had wheedled and begged him to come out with them—'let's just get coffee, hang out for a little while, it'll be fun!' Didi had said; 'you're always so busy, I miss my big brother!' Del had said, and Dream had capitulated. He hadn't even minded, truly; he does enjoy his sisters' company and he doesn't spend enough time with either of them. But the cafe had been crowded, and the noise of other people had become an unbearable distraction faster than expected, and with his social stamina deserting him he'd unfortunately run out of patience when Del's busy chatter about her thesis on folklore and how much truth could be found in the old stories struck a nerve.

He'd cut her off, condescended about fairies and the like being irrefutably fictional despite her willingness to consider otherwise, to devote her studies to the concept of 'maybe'. And then he'd seen the way her face had fallen, the frown Didi had given him, and the shame had risen in him right on schedule. He'd excused himself before he could do further harm.

Dream sighs out, breathes in again, letting the ocean air clear his head, smooth down the jagged edges of his nerves. He owes Del an apology, certainly. He will call her later, arrange to meet again somewhere quieter if she is willing. He would like to hear more of her research; it is not her fault that his patience was overtaxed nor that their mother spent the bulk of his youth methodically culling the whimsy from him, grooming him in her image. Del does not deserve his jaded bitterness; he should try, instead, to rekindle his own joy in the idea of the unknown.

It is an effort worth making, he admits, watching the waves dance their tango with the shore, remembering the delight he used to find in spinning stories as a child. He is an adult, now, and mother has been gone for years; he isn't entirely certain he knows how to reshape the person she crafted him into but more and more, he realizes, he is willing to try.

His thoughts are settling and he is finding his equilibrium again, is grounding himself in the gentle breeze and the mild sunshine and the roll of the waves lazing over the sand, when the sound of whistling reaches his ears.

Someone is approaching.

With an irritated sigh, Dream rearranges himself on his rocky perch, scooting down to lie on his stomach peering over the edge, watching as the person approaches. He won't be seen unless the stranger looks up; with any luck, the stranger—a man, it appears as he draws closer—will continue on down the beach and leave Dream to continue his recharging undisturbed.

But Dream's luck is, predictably, utter shit. The stranger stops directly below where Dream has hidden himself; the man looks around, as if to ensure he's alone, then drops the duffel slung over his shoulder and begins to strip.

Unfortunate.

Dream curses to himself, holds very still as not to betray his presence, and tries not to watch. He did not mean to end up in this situation, he is no peeping tom, how was he to know some stranger would come along and disrobe—

His eyes return to the man despite himself, and the heat that crawls up his neck and into his face is not enough to shame him into looking away again.

Because the man is beautiful.

Longish hair hangs around his face in artful disarray, warm brown and wavy, inviting; Dream is struck by the thought of running his fingers through it, tucking it behind his ear. The man's face that Dream can see from this angle is striking, pretty and open and friendly, lips shaped around the tune he's whistling while he undresses, the line of his jaw strong and clean-shaven. Dream wishes he could tell the color of the man's eyes, see his full face properly, but he is not about to make his presence known. Especially not as the man is stripping off his swim trunks, standing naked to the breeze while Dream can't stop watching like some sort of pervert.

The man crouches by his duffel, affording Dream a very nice view of his bare back and the curve of his buttocks, all of it healthily padded and beautifully defined. He pulls something that looks like a fur blanket from the duffel and sets it aside, stuffs his discarded clothes into the bag and zips it closed, wedges it into a crevice of the rock directly below where Dream is hiding. He stands, picks up the blanket and shakes it open, and Dream frowns as the shape of it becomes apparent.

It looks like a seal pelt.

The man takes off, running barefoot and naked across the sand toward the waves, slinging the pelt across his shoulders like a cape; there is an odd shimmer like a heat mirage that makes Dream squint and suddenly instead of a man flying an animal skin behind him there is a big brown seal gallumphing down the beach, splashing into the lacy surf with a joyful little bark.

Dream's sense of reality tips sideways; he is grateful to already be prone as his worldview cascades into an entirely new shape, one word ringing clearly in his head above the static.

Selkie.

He has just witnessed—

That man. Is a selkie.

It does not matter that selkies are fictional creatures, in Dream's lifelong understanding. He cannot refute what he has seen with his own eyes.

He stays on his stomach atop the rock, stunned, the cloud-filtered sun beating warmly down upon him, and tries to come to terms with that man is a selkie.

Selkies are merely folklore.

That man quite literally just donned a sealskin and transformed.

What else could he be but a selkie?

Selkies aren't real. That is his mother's voice, disdainful and aloof and dismissively practical from the depths of his memory.

But Dream knows what he saw.

The seal frolics out in the waves, surfacing frequently, a little brownish blob that Dream finds unerringly again and again.

Selkie.

By the time it occurs to Dream that he ought perhaps to leave, could reasonably use this opportunity to slip away unseen and avoid any sort of discovery or further awkward voyeurism it is already too late; the seal is splashing back through the shallows, through the froth of waves reaching up the sand, waddling up the beach toward the rock where Dream is shrinking back to keep himself hidden again.

The seal stops, turns a shuffling circle with his whiskers twitching in every direction, then settles and rears up and that peculiar little shimmer happens again. Dream blinks, and the seal is once again a man, streaming wet and shrugging out of his sealskin coat. Rivulets of sea water run from his hair, down his back, into the dimples of his spine and hips. He shakes out his hair and it settles in wet tendrils across his forehead, against his neck. There are freckles, Dream notes, on his shoulders—in much the same scattered patterns as the spots on his golden-brown fur.

He is so remarkably beautiful.

The man—the selkie—is facing out toward the sea as he slides the coat off, alert against anyone happening upon him from the beach, but he glances back over his shoulder once or twice despite the rock shielding him from behind.

As if he can feel that there are eyes upon him.

Dream remains perfectly still, barely breathing, but for all his vigilance the man does not look up and Dream remains undiscovered.

The man lifts the coat after removing it, passes a hand down its length and Dream can see the weight of the water in it dissipating, sees the way the sleek wet fur fluffs instantly dry.

Astounding.

"There we are," the man says, folding the now-dry seal skin over on itself in practiced motions. His voice is light, warm, pleasant, and Dream is not at all surprised by the mild thrill that curls in his stomach to hear it. He recognizes that he is dangerously close to being smitten with this stranger on the basis of how he looks and sounds alone.

Well. Not entirely that alone; the selkie aspect, the irrefutable proof that something beyond Dream's ordinary life exists, is also a very appealing variable.

Oh, how he wants to learn more.

Dream wants to talk to him. Wants to introduce himself, find out more about this fantastic creature, this delightful impossibility of a man.

He wants to know what color his eyes are.

He wants to know what his smile looks like.

The man is whistling again, a different tune than before as he stuffs his magically-dry seal skin back into his duffel and dons his trunks again. Then, to Dream's utter surprise and mounting horror, he wedges the duffel back into the crevice that mostly hides it and takes off running back to the sea, on human legs this time, leaping over the languid breakers and diving into the waves with a laugh that carries back to Dream.

Dream, dumbfounded, can only blink.

Did he truly just—he left it??

He's left his skin, left it unattended, like a complete—a complete moron.

He's an imbecile.

Foolish. Careless. Reckless. Trusting blindly that the universe would not take this opportunity to make him suffer, to cast him as the story-typical selkie victim?

Utterly stupid.

If this were the standard story, Dream realizes, he would be poised to be the villain. This is where he would sneak down, snatch the skin for himself, bind the naive selkie into his service.

Luckily this is not a story, and Dream has no interest in stealing anything or subjugating this careless man.

But he absolutely must learn more about him.

And point out the inadvisable idiocy of leaving his skin unattended, perhaps.

In a surge of boldness that he thinks would make his sister proud, Dream climbs down from his rocky vantage point and comes round the base of the rock to where the crevice is; he considers for a second, staring at the mostly-hidden duffel, then moves several steps away before seating himself primly in the sand to wait.

He doesn't want to give the impression that he is threatening the selkie's skin, after all. He just wants to caution him not to be so foolish, to have more care, to not tempt fate so recklessly.

To hear the sound of his voice again, to learn the color of his eyes.

To see his face full on, to know the shape of his smile.

To affirm for himself, irrefutably, that there is magic in the world after all, as he once believed long ago; and that perhaps, if he can open himself to the possibilities, he might find space for a small measure of such magic to inhabit his own life in turn.

~

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.

= Started: 7/27/25 Drafted: 8/10/25 Posted: 8/11/25