Chapter Text
Pubs retained their charm, even after all these years. Hob was drawn to the way they brimmed with life: they were often loud and rowdy and exhibited the worst kinds of human behaviour, sure, but they were also friendly and warm and fun. Most of the time, at least. They were, he’d learned, the kind of place that helped you fend off the gaping sense of loneliness that permeated so much of an indefinite life.
The New Inn had become his haunt in recent years, for reasons that he didn’t care to admit. Most of the time, he kept to himself, apart from some occasional polite smalltalk with the barkeep. After all, there were other friends and other places if he was looking for mortal company.
That night was no different. Minding his own business, he was, at his regular table against the wall. It had been a nice evening, all-told. If nothing else, he'd been sleeping better recently; nightmares had been an almost daily staple of his life since the first war he'd been caught up in and they only intensified as time soldiered on, but they'd been absent for the last week or so. He'd forgotten how much better he felt when he was truly rested. And he was quite pleased with the rate at which he was getting through his stack of marking — three-quarters done already, and in only half the time he’d estimated. So he was beginning to let his mind wander, contemplating whether it was worth wandering up to the bar for another pint, when the pub’s door swung open, admitting both an uncomfortable blast of prematurely-cold autumn air and a woman.
He didn’t recognise her. But the way she moved, the way people unconsciously cleared a path for her, the way she looked at people — as if she knew everything about them — was unusual. Subtle, yet unmistakable, if you knew what to look for. If his last encounter with Dream hadn’t still been at the forefront of his mind (his sly maybe not a hundred years this time), he might not have clocked it at all. Even so, he had no doubt; whatever Dream and this woman were, they were alike.
He was, thus, distinctly unsurprised when she made her way to his table. He gestured that she was welcome to sit before she’d even had the chance to ask, and she obliged.
“Hob Gadling. It’s been a while.”
He didn’t bother asking how she knew his name; if she was anything like Dream, he figured there was little point. Instead, he decided to play dumb, buy some time to assess the situation. “Sorry — have we met?”
“Not really,” she replied, cryptic and yet, somehow, warm. He had to admit, she was far more approachable than Dream had ever been, as affable as he was evasive. “But I did briefly patronise an inn called The White Horse. Not far from here.”
It would sound like some kind of arcane joke if it came from someone else, but Hob was quite certain of her sincerity. It was in her entire demeanour — a slightly less piercing version of Dream’s intensity. “Oh.”
“1389, if I recall correctly.”
“Oh.” Only one thing, one person, came to mind when he thought of that year. He pondered that for a brief moment, before venturing, “So, were you there when… the first time that…”
“The first time you met Morpheus?” she asked. Hob nodded, somewhat thrown by her forthrightness — and her apparent ability to read his mind, through all of his verbal stumbling. “Yes, I was there. He was there because of me, as a matter of fact; sometimes it’s your duty as a sister to drag your siblings out of wherever they’re hiding and into the real world.”
Well. “Sister?”
Her lips curved in what seemed to be amusement. “Even Dream of the Endless is someone’s little brother.”
“I figured… I figured there must be more of you, but I didn’t realise you were family.”
“To be honest, the family side of things is all a bit complicated. We keep to ourselves, to our own duties, most of the time. Although Dream and I have always been closer than the others, in a way.” She toyed with her necklace. “But, in all honesty, I’m not here to talk about me. I’m here to talk about you.”
“Me?”
“Yes, you. You and Dream.”
His stomach palpably sank. Though there was something he liked about the way she said it — you and Dream — he couldn’t see a single good ending to this conversation. Not now he had an inkling who she was, at least in regards to Dream.
“Forgive me, but I have to ask: when Dream last spoke to me, he mentioned Death. Said they’d said hello. Any chance that was you?”
From the way she tilted her head, he felt that she was somehow pleased by that. “Yours truly.”
“So it’s you I have to thank for this,” he said, gesturing vaguely. “My immortality, I mean.”
“Yes and no. You’re Dream’s project, not mine. I just provided the means, really.”
“Project, hm?”
“Well, it started off that way. A bit of a bet, actually.” Death seemed to sense that Hob was somewhat put out by that characterisation of things; after all, no one really liked being described as a project. “He was struggling to comprehend the mortal desire for life and I was looking to change that. Your vigour intrigued him and I took the opportunity.”
“Strange, really. One offhand conversation in 1389 and here I am, in the twenty-first century.”
There was a latent pause before she responded. “What’s stranger is your connection with my brother. It has evolved far past where I foresaw.”
Ah. So now they were getting down to business. “We’ve only seen each other a handful of times across the last seven centuries–”
“That’s not the point. You’re… friends, at the very least. And you have to understand: our kind doesn’t have friends.”
“Don’t worry, he’s made that abundantly clear in the past.”
“The past isn’t the present, Hob, you know that as well as I do.”
“‘The past is a foreign country; they do things differently there,’” he quipped, an attempt to steer clear of Death’s more sober undertone. “Isn’t that what they say?”
Except he wasn’t getting away with it that easily, it seemed.
"See, I doubt it's going to be once-a-century from here onwards. Hopefully, his head's been pulled out of his arse on that front, at least." Hob had to suppress a snort at her indelicacy. "Because I'm fairly sure he loves you, Hob Gadling. At least, I think that's how a mortal would describe it — our kind are prone to more overcomplicated emotions."
Hob flushed. It wasn't the same as hearing it from Dream himself, of course, but even the suggestion that Dream might genuinely reciprocate his own feelings was beguiling. Tempting. A little intimidating, perhaps.
“I–” he tried, fumbling. “I wouldn’t say– y’know. Friends, maybe, yes. Love…”
Death let him verbally stumble for a moment before she granted him reprieve. “While I don’t presume to know the ins and outs of his, I do know that you’re more than a human he’s taken a passing interest in.”
"Look, if you want to know what's going on inside his head, I'm the last person you should be talking to. I don't know anything." Hob took a fortifying gulp of beer. "I don't know what we are, what he wants, or any of that. If you want to know, you'll have to ask him."
"I don't need to talk to him — he'll do what he wants either way," she replied. "I need to be sure that your head isn't in the clouds."
Shit.
He glanced down at the table for a moment, trying to find a suitable response in the layer of scratches and spilled-drink stickiness that coated the wood.
When he finally answered, he hated the tone of his own voice — it was calm, almost resigned. Like he'd given up. Which was quite contrary to both his thoughts and the rapid two-step that his heart was drumming out. “Is this the part where you tell me to stay away from your brother? Or where you tell me that if I hurt him, you’ll make me regret it? Or – I don’t know. My life is quite literally in your hands, I suppose.”
Death smiled, looked away for a moment. When her eyes returned to his face, they were serious; Hob was reminded of the stoniness that he’d seen descend on Dream, at times. It was a gravity that demanded reciprocation.
“No,” she answered, when she finally spoke. “This is the part when I remind you that my brother is not just a man.”
Hob’s lips parted in protest, almost involuntarily, but she continued before he could make a sound.
“I know–” she persisted, holding up a hand to preempt his reply. “That you are not mortal. But you’re human and he is Endless.”
"Endless?"
Her face betrayed a hint of surprise at his ignorance. "Something for him to explain."
“Explaining’s not really his strong point.”
“Trust me, I know.” Death leaned forward, planting her elbows on the table in front of her. “It’s one of the reasons I’m here.”
“Go on,” he said, even though he wasn’t sure he wanted to hear what came next.
“Dream is many things; that's just his nature. He's not prone to rashness, but there have been times–" Death sighed, interrupting herself. Her eyes flitted off to one side, searching for inspiration, before returning to him with renewed surety.
"Times?" he prompted, somewhat bewildered as to the direction of this conversation.
Her next words were chosen with audible care. "Times when he has lashed out, sometimes at people that don't deserve it. And because of who he is, things like that have consequences."
Hob wasn't quite sure he was following.
“There's a woman, trapped somewhere in Hell. Quite literally. My brother put her there, many centuries ago. She’s still there.”
Despite himself, Hob's blood ran cold. “Why?”
A shrug. “She betrayed him, or that’s how he felt.”
"I-" Hob breaks off, finds himself, yet again, without even the semblance of a reply. But then, how is anyone supposed to respond to Death telling them about their maybe-more-than-friend's ex-lover? “Sorry, but why are you telling me this?”
Even as she spoke, there was something gentle about her manner, something kind; she was clearly determined to deliver her message, but it was almost as if she regretted the discomfort it was causing. “Dream’s different now; he was changing before and the last century has only hastened the process. But I’m telling you this so that you know what he’s capable of.”
He should have been afraid, Hob knew, but instead he found himself tamping down the beginnings of offence — less at the reminder of his weakness and more at the implication that the Dream of today could still be so callous. Still, he knew that was not her intention, so he repressed it. “I’m nothing compared to the likes of you, I know that.”
“Oh, Hob. You’re certainly not nothing. No one’s nothing, and you’re more than most people," she exclaimed, entire visage softening. “But you need to know.”
“I guess it’s usually better to know things than not,” he conceded. “So, thank you. This certainly wasn’t a conversation I was expecting to have tonight — or ever, actually — but thank you.”
"Really, I'm sorry to drop this on you. I just want you to have your eyes open — and if we left it to Morpheus to catch you up on things, we'd be waiting at least another century." They shared a quiet laugh at that. "And you know what? I think I quite like you. I can certainly see what he sees in you."
"I'm glad you can, because I'm still lost. Thought I'd blown it for good, too, until he turned up last week."
"Yes, I know it's been a while… Dream was-"
"Captured, he said. Didn't tell me any of the specifics, though."
"That's his story to tell, not mine. But it does remind me — Dream has… been through a lot, recently. He's not delicate, but he's not unbreakable, either. I expect you to remember that."
There was the threat that Hob had been expecting from the beginning, but it was delivered with such matter-of-factness that it struck him more as a mutual agreement than a warning.
"My intentions towards him are entirely honourable," he assured her. He was rewarded by a subtle nod — approval, if he wasn't mistaken. And then, because recent turns of events had made his long-held desire to have Dream six ways to Sunday seem much more practicable and because apparently he was an idiot with no sense of self-preservation when it came to powerful entities, he added, "Well, not entirely honourable, to be honest. But I don't have any intention of breaking his heart."