Chapter Text
He meant to only take a minute to gather the strength to move, to let his body recover the incessant blood letting, but one moment he’s worriedly watching the pale, bloody form of his friend, and the next he’s being shaken awake.
“My friend, leave your dreams for another time,” a familiar voice rumbles, a hand on his shoulder.
Hob leans closer, humming, mind heavy and syrupy with sleep. The hand shifts to his face, a thumb strokes his skin, and Hob finally persuades his eyes to open.
Mouth smeared with blood, teeth sharpened into knives. Red eyes.
Swearing, Hob tries to jerk back, only to knock his head against the coffee table he had been slumped against. But instead of the fight he expects to start anew, his stranger rears back, scrambling to put space between them.
“Hob,” he pleads, “My friend, calm, no hurt will come to you,” he averts his crimson stare in shame. “Not by my own hand.”
Hob stills, surprised by the coherence while the colour of his eyes belays more violence. He has to swallow repeatedly to manage words, fuck, but he’d kill for a glass of water. “Are you alright?” he croaks.
Dream turns back to him in surprise, awe naked in his still too-bare expression. “After what I’d done to you, after the pain I’d wrought you, you would ask me this?” He hangs his head, “I would understand if you would deny me the title of your friend, and name me your enemy instead. I would never seek you out again, if it would bring you peace. I swear this on my realm.”
Hob watches his oldest friend bury himself in guilt, and sighs. He rubs a hand down his face, wincing at the tug of dried blood. “I think this conversation can wait until I have at least some water, my friend,” he stresses the address, “And don’t think about running off before I have the chance to tell you what a fool you are for thinking this little favour can ruin our friendship. Because I have some choice words about that.” He unpeels the blanket from his throat with a wince, pleased no fresh blood appears.
“A favour.” Dream repeats incredulously. Then he starts, hands flying to support Hob as he tries to stand. “Of course, you need to recuperate. What can I do?”
Hob collapses down on a kitchen chair, vision swimming dangerously from the short shuffle between rooms. His friend flits about him uncharacteristically anxious, and Hob gets the impression he doesn't have to deal with sick or injured humans often, if ever.
He takes pity on him, before he can work himself up further, “Water would be nice, for a start.”
Dream jumps up to acquire it. Hob thinks this whole debacle might be worth it just to see the Dreamlord pour a glass of water with such intensity, operating the faucet with utmost concentration. He places the glass in front of Hob like he’s handling a hair-trigger bomb, then watches him sip it.
“Cheers,” he sighs, a swallow heavenly cool to his parched throat. He gulps it down in almost one go, and barely places it down before it’s whisked away to be refilled. Hob smiles in thanks, strangely charmed by such a simple act.
“The depth of my regret cannot be expressed, Hob Gadling,” he starts up again, “My failure not only put innocent beings in danger, but brought you suffering you never should experience under my hand. I cannot ask for your forgiveness and yet I would do all in my power to achieve it.” he tells Hob, eyes wet with feeling and so, so earnest.
Hob reaches for his hand, the other twitching in surprise at the touch, “I told you time and time again to come if you ever needed my help, and to me you just finally took up my offer. Do you truly think so little of me, that you expect me to turn you away now? I have half a mind to be offended. Stop your pity party, Dream of the Endless, and instead tell me what happened. Also, why are your eyes still red, it’s freaky.”
Hob is gratified to see a familiar offended expression briefly replace the wet cat look from before, but then Dream turns grave again, eyes shifting to the side before he opens his mouth to speak.
“And I need not remind you I am owed, at least, your honesty.” Hob interrupts, eyebrows raised.
The Dreamlord clacks his mouth shut. Lips twisting in displeasure, he restarts uncomfortably: “The curse has not yet…fully dissipated.” He frowns, attention drifting inwards, “It has been considerably weakened by the events of last night. The Hunger shrank to a manageable influence, but it will take time to force it out of my system, weakened as I am.”
Seconds pass, Hob waiting for further explanation. Morpheus doesn't raise his attention from Hob’s glass.
God, it’s like pulling teeth with this guy.
“Weakened?” Hob encourages.
Dream presses his lips together. He is still covered in Hob’s blood. He hasn’t even tried to clean himself up, and he usually takes such care for his appearance.
“The Dreaming is a part of me, as much as I am part of it, but I have managed to- limit my connection to my realm, before the curse could infect it,” he haltingly explains.
“So you’re cut off?”
Dream nods, “In a manner of speaking. I do not think it wise to open the connection while still under the influence.”
Hob takes that in for a minute. Then: “How long will it take you to shake it off fully?”
“Days, maybe a week. But that is considerably shorter than it would take otherwise, owing to your sacrifice.”
‘Sacrifice’, he’s so dramatic. Hob makes up his mind, finishes off his glass and tugs Dream to his feet before he can reach for it. “Alright, let’s get you cleaned up.”
The sight of the King of Nightmares in Hob’s cramped bathroom is not unlike a cat lost in a grocery store. Harsh light causes him to squint discontentedly, and the void-dark of his hair is in stark contrast against the white and yellow of Hob’s tiles. Complete with the brown of dried blood, he looks a proper fright.
Also like a cat, Dream somehow gets in the way of every movement Hob needs to make, so he pushes him down to sit on the edge of the bath.
“Don’t know if your coat can go in the washing machine, but it’s really too dirty to continue wearing,” Hob mentions lightly, wetting a towel in warm water. There’s a rustle of fabric, and the sound of the coat falling to the floor on a heap, star side down.
He looks smaller without his protective layer, tense and unhappy and still really, really bloody. Hob is going to have to lend him some clean clothes later, but first he steps close and attacks him with a wet towel.
Dream ducks away from the first swipes, glaring darkly and looking ready to hiss, but submits to the humiliation soon enough. Hob doesn’t let up, dragging the warm cloth on his skin until he can see pale white peak through the red.
The disgruntled expression slowly dissipates, eyes shut against the glare of the lights, and his friend melts into his ministrations. If Hob’s smile is a little victorious, a little smug, there’s no one to see.
He continues the motion even after he’s finished, until the water runs cold. He leaves Dream blinking blearily on the bath and takes the towel roughly to his own face, but a hand on his own stops him. His friend tugs the cloth out of his grasp and with the other hand cradles his face, angling it out of the way. Hob holds his breath as he clumsily mimics Hob’s previous motions, using far too much water and drenching his shirt.
Whatever, it was a lost cause anyway.
Dream steps away, proudly assessing his work, and strokes a hand down Hob’s neck, down a stretch of healed, new skin, not a mark to remember last night. Hob clears his throat, ducks away to toss the towel in the bath to deal with later, and leads them out.
With dry, clean clothes and a cup of tea in front of each of them, Hob decides to start his campaign.
“It’s not good for you to be cut off from your realm, is it.”
Dream doesn't reply, only sips his tea.
“Not particularly great for the Dreaming either, I bet.”
That gets him a prissy look, but Hob continues.
“Knowing you, you went off on your own without a word to anyone either. They’re probably worried about you by now.”
“Hob Gadling.”
“A week, you said? How long do you think until they think you’ve been captured again, or worse, shirking your duties?”
Dream glares in earnest now, eyes flashing, “You speak beyond your station, human.”
Hob grins, “Lucky that we can make sure you get home before that can happen, isn’t it?”
That pauses the ire, warriness replacing it.
“You cannot mean- That is, surely you wouldn’t-” Dream stutters, at a loss.
Hob smiles, “Donate blood to a good cause? Do that pretty often, actually.”
“Absolutely not.” Dream snaps.
“I do it willingly for strangers all the time, for you I’d do much, much more.” Hob confesses.
Dream refuses the thought, head shaking before Hob can finish. “I have promised you no harm will come to you by my hand again. I will not, I cannot, take this from you. Not to save myself a period of discomfort.”
Hob catches his hand, squeezing reassuringly, “If not for yourself, then for your kingdom. They’ve only just got you back, Morpheus, they don't deserve to have to worry they’re alone again so soon.”
Dream continues to frown, but stays quiet.
“I can’t do much for you, but I can do this. Would you deny me the chance to help you?”
“You have no responsibility to me, Hob Galding.”
Hob catches his eye, smiling fondly, “Maybe not, but I choose to help anyway. I would spare you any pain, if you would have me.”
Dram fights himself, pride and honor warring with duty and Hunger. Hob waits patiently, occasionally stroking the hand in his clasp. If the Dreamlord truly can’t be convinced, then he will at least offer him a home, a bed, company. But he would give his blood gladly, be it a sacrifice or offering. Over an altar or to a desperate mouth, it makes little difference.
Finally, he inclines his head, just slightly. “I will be in your debt, Hob Gadling. You can be assured your- sacrifice will not be taken lightly,” he swears gravely, as serious as ever.
Hob beams victoriously, brighter than is probably appropriate in the situation. “Great! How do you want to do this, then? I already ruined one blanket and I could really do without a repeat.”
Lost, Dream looks around the flat, eyes catching on the resulting mess of their fight and the blood on the floor, the ruined blanket. The corners of his eyes pinch tighter.
“On second thought, just follow my lead.”
Hob gestures him to the floor by the sofa and goes off to gather his supplies. He gives himself a brief pep-talk in the mirror, taking a deep breath to prepare himself to take the incoming like a man and not show anything that could make Morpheus even more distressed. He handled worse pain for less. This is nothing. Grit your teeth and smile, Gadling.
“Alright, let’s do this.” Hob says, kneeling in Dream’s personal space and tossing a ratty towel on his shoulder to catch any stray drops.
Dream tenses even further, so visibly uncomfortable Hob wouldn’t be surprised if he disappeared in the next blink.
“It’s not- I don’t need-” he trips over his words, so unlike him. “Your arm would be sufficient,” he mumbles.
Hob fights against the urge to laugh, and switches positions. He leans against the back of the sofa, draws Dream to sit in the v of his legs and offers him his arm, towel spread under it.
“Dinner is served, your majesty,” he teases, “Bone apple teeth.” The joke serves its purpose, not quite drawing a smile from the Dreamlord, but lessening the tension in his shoulders.
“You are not subservient to me, my friend,” he murmurs, voice hypnotic, and then pressed close and opens his mouth wide. Hob takes a deep breath, not making a sound when teeth pierce his skin, burying deep.
Air hisses out through his teeth, and a hand automatically comes up to Morpheus’ head, but it only rests there, making no attempt to rip him away.
All the desperation and violence of yesterday is nowhere to be found, but the sound of the first gulp of Hob’s blood makes him grimace anyway.
He can’t say he never wondered if all the rumours about vampyrs were real, but he didn’t worry about getting his blood stolen by a creature of the night in many a century. If only the townsfolk of the past knew he offered his veins freely, Hob chuckles.
Dream shifts ever closer, a noise of content slipping past his lips, and bites down anew. Hob can’t help but run his hand through the night-black hair, sifting the strands through his fingers. Another noise escapes the being in his lap, cut off by a greedy swallow.
Hob makes himself comfortable, resting against the sofa. He wonders if it could’ve been like this yesterday too, if only his friend knew how to use his words.
He gets lost in thought, only occasionally interrupted by a sting of a new bite, or an involuntary noise from his companion, quickly silenced.
Just as he’s wondering what he’ll order for lunch, the mouth on his skin gentles, teeth drawing out of muscle with a wet noise. Morpheus mouths at the wound once, twice, then freezes. Hob continues petting his hair, until the being relaxes slightly. He draws back, once again black eyes avoiding his own. A blush spreads all the way down to his neck. Hob is charmed.
“Back to normal now?”
Dream wipes his mouth. “Yes. Thank you.” he mumbles.
He mumbles all the way through his goodbyes, through his declarations of continued supreme gratefulness, all the while refusing to meet Hob’s dancing eyes. Then he’s gone in a blink, but a sandstorm winds through the flat after his hasty exit. Once Hob blinks the sand out of his eyes, his flat is back to its normal levels of mess, no blood to be found.
Only thing missing, though not missed, is a ruined blanket. In its place lies a perfectly folded piece of midnight black fabric, splattered with a backdrop of stars.
This apology, at least, is one Hob will accept.