Archive of Our Own

As afternoon winds on into evening, the conversation begins with the story of the White Horse and the New Inn, and Hob's involvement in bringing the current establishment to life when he couldn't save the old one (the Patron seems impressed at the depth of Hob's attachment, though he says nothing). Then the subject matter drifts more widely over happenings of the last hundred-odd years, following the usual pattern of their meetings. Some of which goes in strange directions as the Patron asks more questions than usual, about unexpected topics (like the sleeping sickness of the early 20th century) but Hob rolls with it.

In the process of keeping his voice lubricated, Hob works through several pints, and - another shock - at Hob's invitation the Patron even deigns to partake, for once. He orders a single shot of absinthe and sips it straight, refusing any water or sugar to tame the bite.

Even this newer, softer Patron is still a bit on the inscrutable side, but alcohol gives him a very becoming flush across his prominent cheekbones which makes him seem . . . almost human. Certainly more approachable.

Hob tries very hard to shut down that line of thought, but the Patron's eyes have a sparkle in them that's damned near inviting. If Hob didn't know any better, he'd think there was more than just platonic friendship on offer at the moment.

If that was the case, would he? Wouldn't he? That would be venturing into the unknown on a grand and possibly perilous new scale.

It's not really a question at all, though.

I am a complete fool, Hob thinks.

The conversation has come around, somewhat predictably, to Shakespeare's works and contemporary views thereof. Once upon a time, the subject put Hob on edge, but over the years his pique at being so unceremoniously abandoned for a playwright has faded. After all, he's the one here now having a conversation (and a drink!) with the Patron, not Will.

The Patron becomes unusually voluble, possibly aided by the absinthe. He takes control of the conversation and holds forth on the nature of Story, and the power of narratives to shape the world; in his intensity, he leans forward on his elbows (!), and there are bright sparks glimmering in his eyes that don't entirely seem to be reflections from the Inn's lamps.

Hob (a bit tipsy himself) leans in across the table to listen closely, and his elbow accidentally bumps the Patron's. It's the first physical contact between them, after centuries of meeting. Hob freezes, terrified he's broken the moment and there will be another dramatic exit he'll regret forever, but after a pause and a blink the Patron merely downs the last of his absinthe.

"Well," the Patron says awkwardly, after finishing his drink, the unique texture of his voice even more pronounced than usual, "clearly I can go on. I don't often have an audience."

"Pity," Hob tells him, swirling the last of his beer before draining the glass. "In my new career as an academic" - he taps the pile of papers he'd been grading when the Patron first arrived - "I've heard many a lecture on the same topic that's far less entertaining and informative. I've enjoyed listening."

The Patron is back to being more guarded, but there's a flicker of emotion beneath the cool surface, even if it's gone too quickly for Hob to identify. He hopes it's pleasure.

A glance toward the barman, who raises his eyebrows at Hob meaningfully. It's late now - very late. While they were talking the other customers have left, leaving only the staff behind, and they're clearly ready to end the day. Hob might be part owner of the place, and get a bit of special consideration as a result, but he tries not to abuse the privilege.

"It's closing time, but I'd be glad to continue somewhere else," Hob says, and then, before he can think it through and lose his nerve, he adds, "I've most of a bottle of absinthe at my place, and there's no closing time there."

The Patron considers, then slowly inclines his head in agreement.

Hob gathers his papers and settles up in record time, absolutely refusing to acknowledge any knowing smirks cast in his direction by the staff. He turns to find the Patron gone from their former table and his heart seizes, but the bartender, now counting out his till, nods in the direction of the door. "Looks like he's waiting outside."

The Patron's long, black coat blends into the shadows as Hob exits the Inn, making the paleness of his face even more startling when he looks in Hob's direction. There's a sudden burst of feathered wingbeats as a bird - a raven? - takes flight from a spot near the Patron's feet, spiraling up into the night sky. Hob is forcibly reminded that the Patron is not human at all, but Something Else entirely.

In fact, Hob has been doing his research (it was what eventually led him to the world of academia, in fact) and now has a better-than-fair idea of who his Patron really is, confirmed in no small part by things like the meeting with Will Shakespeare, the bespelling of Lady Johanna, and a raven out and about in the dead of night. There isn't a chance in hell Hob would ever say so, though, without the Patron giving his name first. While Hob might not consider himself wise (the older he gets, the more true wisdom seems like an ever-receding goal, always out of reach somewhere down the road) Hob's been around long enough to learn a few things.

"I'm close enough to walk," Hob says. "This way."

There's a stiff breeze swirling around, and the Patron's long coat flares and flutters like the raven's wings, but he's otherwise so silent Hob might be walking alone through the dark. A shiver runs down his spine, and a dizzying sense of unreality. The pavement under his feet is solid enough, though, leaves rustle convincingly on trees that line the way, and every time Hob shoots a glance to the side, his companion is still there walking beside him.

Hob unlocks his front door, reaching inside to get the light switch, and waves the Patron in. The Patron drifts across the threshold as if he owns the place, and by the time Hob has the rest of the lights on, the Patron is already settled on one of the chairs by the fireplace, taking up residence as unapologetically as a cat.

Hob has the jitters now, though he does his best to cover them - what are you thinking you madman! - and makes good on his offer of absinthe.

"Thank you," the Patron intones gravely. though he does not immediately drink, and sets the glass on a side table. Hob briefly considers starting a fire as he prepares his own absinthe (sugar and water for him, the traditional way), but then scratches the idea. Having a distraction to fiddle with is appealing on the one hand, but it's not really the right season and it might be *too* distracting (from what, exactly, Hob doesn't dare think yet).

He settles into the chair opposite the Patron's, and sees the other's stiff, ramrod-straight posture, the unnaturally-pale hands tightly clasped on sharp knees, and the dark-bright eyes with their pinpoint highlights watching him intently from beneath a defensive array of dark lashes and unruly black hair. Hob realizes to his surprise that he might not be the only one with jitters. The thought is comforting, relaxing, and he finds it easy to smile, settle back, and sip his drink before opening with, "So, as you were saying . . ."

Before too long, the conversation is flowing again and the Patron has sampled the second glass of anything Hob's ever seen him drink. There's laughter from Hob and a small, crooked smile from the Patron as the discussion evolves into a friendly argument, more concerned with the back and forth than a serious debate. Books are procured from shelves and scattered around, as Hob uses them for backup.

At one point, Hob even takes a book, walks it over to the Patron's chair, and plops it, open, in the other's lap, pointing to a line of text as proof. He's genuinely lost in the argument, and there's no ulterior motive -- but then the Patron looks up at him. His blue eyes very dark indeed because the pupils are dilated in a way that gives Hob a jolt, and Hob realizes he's got one hand on the back of the Patron's chair, just inches from that narrow, black-clad shoulder, and a fingertip resting on a page that's just a book's depth away from the Patron's . . . thighs.

Hob swallows. There's electricity in the air, and he knows he's not the only one feeling it.

Dark lashes lower a millimeter, and the Patron says, "Your argument is most persuasive." There's a new tone in his richly textured voice, and it's unmistakably flirtation.

All of Hob's flirtation skills, carefully cultivated over the centuries and wildly successful at most times, have dried up completely and the best he can manage is a husky, "Is that so?"

"Yes," the Patron says, and he's not just answering Hob's question, or, rather, he's answering all the questions, even the unspoken ones. They're kissing before Hob can even make out which of them moved first, and he has just enough time to shift the book out of the way and toss it onto the seat of his now-empty chair.

Hob could be disconcerted by the way the Patron unerringly knows where the bedroom is, but he's beyond that now, and besides, he knows the Patron is inherently uncanny so no surprises there.

Clothes come off, and Hob can't help but be struck by the way the Patron is so ruthlessly lean, just enough muscle and tendon laid on his frame to keep the bones knit together, the most minimal concession possible to the requirements of human form. He's plenty solid in Hob's arms, though, and that lean muscle has plenty of strength.

There's a bit of first-time awkwardness, and the Patron seems to be working out exactly how to get his body to do what he wants (which Hob secretly finds adorable), but once he has his footing, as it were, it's clear the Patron has some experience. A lot of experience. In fact, Hob briefly wonders if he's misidentified which of the Seven he's dealing with and it's actually Desire in his bed . . . but then a few things (words, touches, movements) that Hob has dreamed about but told to no one suddenly happen in real life, and his first guess is reconfirmed.

Hob isn't exactly short on experience, either, and overall it ends up being, if not the best fuck of his life, certainly in the top five. Or three.

Afterwards, Hob sprawls on the bed basking in the warm glow of a job well done, and the Patron does the same, long limbs loose and relaxed, even if their arrangement seems a bit odd. Hob intends to stay awake -- after all, he has a guest -- but his body has other ideas and his thoughts start to drift and unravel until . . .

One moment, Hob is in his bed with a pale arm draped companionably across his chest, and the next thing he knows, he's in a . . . cathedral? Palace? A huge, open, airy room, anyway, with marble floors and a wide sweep of stairs topped by a throne set in front of tall, stained-glass windows. It's beautiful and ethereal, and he knows without being told that no human hand ever sculpted this place.

Standing at the base of the stairs is a tall figure clothed in flowing back, facing mostly away from Hob. A raven stands at the figure's feet, in much the same arrangement as when Hob had followed the Patron out of the New Inn. The raven glances in Hob's direction.

"Don't look now, Boss," the raven announces, in a voice almost diametrically opposed to what Hob would have expected a raven to sound like, "But I think your boyfriend just followed you home."

The tall figure turns, and yes, it is the Patron - no, Dream, it's Dream for certain now - but he's different here. Skin as white as paper, nothing like human flesh at all, offset by a shock of longer, wilder hair black as India ink. His build is different, too: beyond lean, impossibly thin for a living human body, and his eyes . . . God, his eyes are liquid black from lid to lid, the pinpoint stars inside no longer hinted at but clearly visible.

He is Lord of Dreams and Nightmares and looks it, every inch of him.

Hob should be terrified, or at least awestruck, but if anything he's even more smitten than before.

"Ah," says Dream, and Hob can feel the texture of that voice in his bones; it resonates through the very fabric of this world. "I should have expected as much, given our recent proximity." He sounds rueful, but not upset, and a smile tugs at the corners of his mouth.

"Ugh," the raven says, and manages to convey an eyeroll despite being unable to physically make the gesture.

"Leave us, Matthew," Dream says in response, though the good-natured tone softens the command.

The raven leaps into the air and his wingbeats give the impression of someone stomping off and slamming the door behind him.

Dream turns to Hob, and Hob raises his eyebrows. "Pretty judgemental, for a bird."

Dream smiles for real, then, and Hob wants to grab him, wrestle him to the ground, and run a repeat of their recent activities, godlike universal Power or not.

"You must forgive Matthew," Dream says, his voice like a physical caress. "He is somewhat scandalized by my decision to consort with a human being. He feels it is beneath me. I believe this is the first time he has ever cared more about the dignity of my office than I."

"DIgnity," Hob says confidently, "is overrated." He begins walking towards Dream, not quickly, but with what he hopes is just a bit of swagger.

"Mmm, it has its uses," Dream counters, and matches Hob's casual pace.

Dream is taller here, enough so that Hob has to look up at him when they meet.

"Not between friends," Hob says, and wins another genuine smile. It sends a pang of something sharper, sweeter, and far more dangerous than mere lust shooting through Hob's heart, and he knows he is so, so lost. But he's known that for a long time, really.

He reaches up, caresses the side of Dream's face, the chalk-pale skin soft and cool-warm to the touch. Dream leans into his hand, with a sound almost like a purr. Black lashes lower over night-sky eyes. "You are bold, here in my realm."

"How," Hob's voice has gone husky, and he clears his throat before beginning again, "How have I never seen you, all this time, here in my dreams?"

Dream's hand covers his, and Dream turns to press a kiss to the palm of Hob's hand. "As the old saying goes, one should not cross the streams."

"'The old saying' . . . did you just quote Ghostbusters at me?" Hob says, laughing at the ridiculousness of it.

"All stories live here, in the Dreaming. I will quote any of them I please."

"And I thought you only cared about Shakespeare."

"Still jealous?" Dream's lips curve in a wicked smirk.

Hob huffs, annoyed he's been so transparent, but, "How can I be jealous when I can do this?'' he asks and kisses the King of Nightmares full on the lips.

Dream responds, perfectly, meltingly, deliciously, and Hob could lose himself forever in that moment: it is the ultimate dream-distillation of a kiss. When it ends he's dumbfounded, staring into eyes that hold not just the Universe, but all the Universes that ever could or might or would be.

"Wow," he says, when he can speak again.

Dream cocks his head, and his star-filled eyes focus more intently, his expression considering.

"It could be like that all the time," Dream says, "If you chose to stay here forever."

It's obliquely stated, but Hob recognizes the question. It's the same question as always: Do you still wish to keep living in the mortal world?

For once, Hob has to take a moment. But it's a short moment -- almost immediately, his mind is flooded with the things still waiting in his life. The papers he needs to finish grading. The book he's halfway through writing, about the reign of Edward IV (with some "insights" sure to set the history world astir -- Hob is looking forward to it). The holiday plans he's booked, visiting some corners of the world he hasn't been to in a while, to see what's changed. The vastness in Dream's eyes reminds him of the James Webb telescope with its amazing new photos, and the latest space probes being sent out to see what they might find (Hob has witnessed the boundaries of the physical world expand exponentially since the age of his birth, and he's always excited by news from those advancing frontiers). There are people he's never met, people who haven't been born yet, so much potential, so much to look forward to . . .

"Don't think I'm not tempted, but . . . I still want to keep living. The waking world's not done with me yet, nor I with it." He hopes that's the right phrasing, because the last thing he wants to do is lose this new closeness, or hurt Dream's feelings.

Dream blinks, then smiles. "I am glad to hear it, Hob Gadling, if you won't take that amiss." (Oh, good, Dream's not only unoffended, but concerned about offending Hob instead. Win.) "I treasure my windows into human life, and you are the finest of them all."

"Thank you," Hob says, and recognizes that this meeting (audience? date?) is nearing its end, with the obligatory question asked and answered. "So I'll see you in a hundred years?"

"Perhaps a bit sooner than that, this time." Dream kisses him again, and if anything it's even better than before. Hob makes a low, rough noise in the back of his throat . . .

. . . And jerks awake in his own bed, alone, disoriented, surrounded by darkness, with a raging hard-on.

As always, his scattered thoughts regroup after a moment of confusion, and he remembers who and where he is, the day of the week, and so forth -- but for once his dreams remain firmly in memory, brilliantly clear, along with the whole, magnificent evening before. He's a bit surprised at the force of his current arousal, in fact, given what happened just a few hours earlier. It doesn't feel like frustration, though, more like a gift; he decides to enjoy it to the fullest -- which he does -- before falling into a deep and (as far as he can tell) dreamless sleep until morning.

***

After breakfast, Hob takes a cup of tea and his grading out to the table in his small back garden. It's peaceful in the morning sunlight, with a few bees buzzing among the flowers and faint city noises filtering through. Hob is feeling alert, happy, and extremely relaxed -- for good and obvious reasons -- and the grading goes quickly.

He flips over the last paper and rewards himself with a mouthful of tea, then hears a rushing flutter of wings. Looking up, he sees a raven perched on the garden wall, staring at him with what could only be interpreted as a sour expression.

On a whim, Hob raises his cup in salute, and says, "Good morning, Matthew!" in his chirpiest voice. After all, at the worst he's just talking to a regular bird.

"Ugh," the raven says, very distinctly, and takes off in a flurry of gleaming black feathers.

Hob is still laughing when he goes back inside to rinse his teacup in the sink.