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“Ready?” Hob asks. He holds up a reliable old mechanical kitchen timer he’s had for decades.
“Of course.” Dream looks amused, but then, the timer had been Hob’s idea. Dream hadn’t thought it necessary. He’d acquiesced easily enough when Hob pointed out that unlike the Dreaming, they won’t have a natural ending caused by Hob waking up.
“Good,” Hob says, twisting the timer face to set it, and then placing it on the table next to them.
He doesn’t know what he expected - some kind of CGI effect where Dream flowed like sand and condensed down maybe - but instead, Dream’s form is replaced by a smaller version of himself in the time it takes for Hob to blink.
****
When Dream opens his eyes, the first thing that registers is the perspective change: everything is so much bigger and taller than usual, including Hob. It feels wrong - he should be the one looming over others, not the reverse!
As if Hob knows this, he crouches down until they’re at eye-level. There’s a friendly smile on his face, but he doesn’t crowd or try to touch Dream.
Dream blinks. He’d explained it all to Hob, that he is always himself, but his understanding of the world, his instincts and reactions, are informed by the facet he wears. His situation and emotions should not be novel even if this form is rarely taken.
He can sense the distant voices of the dreamers, purposely protected from his awareness and insulated by the Waking. He can sense the deep well of emptiness that has resided inside him for longer than he can bear, grown malignant in his captivity of the past century. He can sense the exhaustion that weighs down every piece of his being, made worse by so many resources directed to repair and relearn his realm.
Assessing his situation from the perspective of a new facet should not be any different, should evoke nothing more than his usual endurance.
Dream blinks again, eyes stinging, and focuses on Hob’s open face, on his patient offering of one outstretched hand. His smile grows a little wider at Dream’s attention.
Dream takes a deep breath into a chest that feels too tight to hold the air. His expression crumples, and he begins to sob.
****
Hob’s determination to respect Dream’s space and let him be the one to approach goes out the window the second he begins to cry. There’s many things Hob can survive, but ignoring a sobbing Dream is not one of them.
The fact that Dream looks about 6 years old, tiny and delicate and cute as a button, only makes the situation that much worse.
He scoops Dream up and stands, cradling him close. Dream grips the fabric of Hob’s shirt in his fists with desperate strength and hides his face in Hob’s shoulder. The sobbing does not diminish as Hob holds him but increases instead, wails of pure pain and sorrow hardly muffled at all by Dream’s face shoved against his chest.
“Oh my darling,” Hob says. He begins to rock back and forth, walking slowly around the main room of his flat as he rubs Dream’s back. “Things have been very bad for a very long time, haven’t they? I hear you. Sometimes you just have to cry about it.” As if given permission, Dream increases in volume again, gasping for air between his cries. “I’m here, my little love, go ahead and let it out.”
Hob was a father and has been around a long time besides, but he has only sparingly heard this kind of crying from a child. He rubs Dream’s trembling back and wishes it was more difficult to believe that his friend was carrying this kind of all-encompassing pain. Later when this is all over, Hob’s probably going to need a good cry of his own.
“I’ve got you,” Hob says, continuing his stream of nonsense comfort. “I’ll hold you for as long as you need, and then some more. You cry all you want.”
He doesn’t even know if Dream can hear him over his own sobs. He suspects not, but Hob can’t prevent himself from this kind of care and wouldn’t want to, regardless. Dream is more than deserving of it. “I’m here. You’re in my arms, and I want you here, right here. You’re being so brave.”
Hob continues on and on as he rocks and paces around his flat. It seems to go on for a very long time, longer than he’d expect a child could physically sustain such grief, but Dream is no ordinary child. “I hear you, sweetheart. I know it’s been bad. I know you’ve kept going, kept trying, even when it’s difficult.”
Hob can’t see Dream very well but he can feel the heat of Dream’s little body as he rubs his back, fueled by the sheer exertion this kind of crying requires. He rocks them slowly over to the window to take advantage of the cool breeze ruffling the curtains.
“Sweetheart, make sure you breathe,” he says as Dream struggles for air between his sobs. Dream manages to take one deep ragged inhale, a brief moment of silence before wailing again. Hob sways gently, pushing the window a bit more open with his elbow without taking his hand away from Dream. “Good, good job. I’ve got you.”
They don’t have a chance to enjoy the cooler temperature by the window before a black shape shoots toward them from outside. Hob reacts without thinking, halfway across the room to the bookcase where multiple weapons are displayed and kept in meticulous working order, shielding Dream with his own body the whole way before he recognizes Matthew’s voice.
Given how large Matthew is, feathers puffed up to almost twice his usual size, it’s not surprising that Hob didn’t know him at first sight. “What’s going on!? Did you hurt him?” Matthew pauses on the windowsill and looks as alarmed and confused as Hob feels. “Where’s Dream?”
Dream doesn’t react to the sudden entrance of his raven or the sound of his name, still utterly focused on crying to the exclusion of all else.
“Dream’s right here,” Hob says, his voice calm as he glares at Matthew. He turns a bit so that Dream is more visible but still protected by Hob’s larger frame.
“What did you do to him?” Matthew practically shouts, both panicking and trying to be heard over Dream’s wails.
“Nothing,” Hob replies firmly. “He’s expressing some very big emotions in a safe place.” Hob resumes rubbing Dream’s back. Dream finally seems to be slowing down, from sheer exhaustion most likely, but the sobs are no less heartwrenching.
Hob keeps an eye on Matthew, who slowly deflates, feathers flattening and smoothing down, as he watches Dream cry and Hob attempt to give some comfort. Finally Matthew says, “I knew something weird was going down when he put Loosh in charge and told me to watch the place, but I was expecting something, uh, a lot less wholesome.”
Hob rolls his eyes but doesn’t respond or turn his attention from Dream.
“Sorry about the yelling,” Matthew adds. “Can’t hear a kid crying like that and not come in swinging.”
Hob would probably have done the same, so he can’t exactly hold it against Matthew, even if he currently wants to. “Crying can be scary if you’re not expecting it, even when it’s helpful,” Hob says, mostly for Dream’s benefit.
“Yeah, jeez.” Matthew shuffles his feet. “He probably does need a cry after everything. Better than bottling it in, even if he sounds like he’s dying.”
“He’s doing great,” Hob says, then directs his words again to Dream and not Matthew. “You’re doing great. I’m proud of you, sweetheart.”
Matthew watches a bit longer but evidently judges that Hob’s doing a sufficient job. “I don’t think Boss wanted me to see this, so I’m gonna go. But I’m keeping watch right outside if you need anything.”
“Thank you,” Hob says, and he’s even calmed down enough from his own fight or flight moment to mean it.
Matthew flies off, but not before Hob hears him mumble “even weirder than kinky sex shit” in a brief lull of Dream’s sobs.
By now, Hob is starting to feel tired, and he’s not even the one crying his heart out. Dream feels heavier, almost limp in his arms with the exception of the convulsive grip he has on Hob’s shirt. Hob carries him over to the couch and carefully lies down so that Dream is on top of him with Dream’s back secured against the couch cushions.
His sobs are almost more like hiccups now, smaller and quieter but each one wracks his tiny body. Hob is completely out of comforting words at this point and begins to sing a lullaby from his own childhood with a slightly gravelly voice. Dream’s sobs stretch out and slow until soon the only indication that Dream is crying are the tears still flowing down his face. Hob cradles him close and sings.
Eventually Dream lets out the most pathetic little sniffle Hob has ever heard and rubs his face on Hob’s shirt. Hob’s heart hurts for him, but it’s also very cute.
“Feeling better?” Hob asks gently. “Ready to get up?”
Dream shakes his head, his sniffly nose rubbing back and forth some more on Hob’s shirt.
“That’s okay,” Hob says. “It takes a while to feel better sometimes. And I always feel all emptied out after a cry.” Hob thinks for a second. “You can stay right there then. Do you mind if I get up and move around? I’m a silly human with needs.”
Dream little fists in Hob’s shirt tighten again but otherwise he doesn’t protest. Hob eases them into a sitting position, makes sure Dream is supported, and stands up.
He goes into the bathroom first and gets a tissue. Dream turns his head so that he can see what Hob is doing. Hob winks at him and makes a show of blowing his nose, producing a loud honk into the tissue.
Dream muffles a weak giggle into Hob’s shirt, and Hob beams at him, pleased that he was able to get anything close to a laugh so soon.
Then he gets a soft cloth and wets it with cool water. “Will you let me see your face for a second, Dream?” He holds up the cloth. “Washing your face after crying usually helps a lot. I bet your skin and eyes feel all hot and yucky.”
Dream considers this for a moment, and Hob waits patiently. Eventually Dream sniffles again and lifts his face away from Hob’s shirt enough for Hob to wipe the cool cloth over his face gently.
Hob finishes by resting the cloth over Dream’s eyes for a few seconds, but he pulls away, and Hob doesn’t insist. “Thanks for letting me get up, I feel much better now. I also got a little sweaty,” Hob continues, completely skipping over the large tear stain on his shoulder, “so I’m going to change my shirt. Will you help me pick it out?”
Hob doesn’t wait for a response this time, not wanting to pressure Dream to speak, and instead watching for signs that Dream is uncomfortable. He doesn’t notice any as they make their way to Hob’s closet, and in fact Dream looks curious about the clothes hanging up. Hob has a moment of surprise as he realizes that Dream might have never seen his closet before and lets him look.
“Maybe this one?” Hob asks, holding up the sleeve of an itchy wool sweater, far too warm for a day like this.
Dream reaches out to touch it and immediately recoils.
Hob laughs, charmed, and says, “no, no, you’re completely right. Let me see…” He finds a new maroon shirt that he hasn’t worn much because it’s a little tight on him for the office, but given how clingy Dream is, that might be a plus. It’s also possibly the softest shirt he owns at the moment. “What about this one?”
Dream is much more cautious this time, but after a careful touch, tugs on it a few times to indicate that Hob should get it off the hanger. “Good choice,” Hob approves.
He grabs his dirty shirt by the material at the back of his neck and pulls it over his head. He gets his free arm out, but the shirt is still caught on the arm supporting Dream’s weight against him. He grabs the new shirt and goes to sit down on the bed, placing Dream down carefully next to him for the three seconds it takes him to discard the old shirt and redress.
Dream allows it, watching him wide eyes, but immediately grabs onto him again when Hob picks him back up. His hands are a little more relaxed, though, tiny fists not turning even whiter under the strain.
Hob carries him into the kitchen next. Dream likely won’t eat, but Hob feels the need to offer him something, and his throat is likely sore after all that crying.
He finds one of the new plastic cups he’d purchased, small enough for kid hands. “I have apple and grape juice. Any preference?”
Dream gives a small shake of his head. Hob doubts that’s true but doesn’t argue, just pours them both a small cup of grape juice.
Hob hands Dream his cup, which he deigns to hold. Hob picks up his own and touches them together with a hollow plastic click. “Cheers,” Hob says with a grin and takes a dramatic sip.
Dream smiles faintly, and Hob beams at him. He drinks his own down while Dream takes a small sip, considers the matter very seriously as if he’s a grape juice sommelier, and then takes another, larger sip.
“Do you have a good grip on it?” Hob asks before moving them around. Dream shoots him the cutest indignant look. Hob huffs. “My apologies, little prince.”
Hob had bought a few toys and craft supplies, and he considers them as he carries Dream, light and comfortable in his arms, over to the cabinet where he stored them. He’s tempted by the crayons, but it’s a selfish impulse because he can’t wait to see what Dream creates with them. They’re both likely too exhausted to enjoy it.
Instead he pulls out a fat, squishy parrot plush he’d bought. He’d considered a black bird, but Dream already has Matthew, and he knows that Dream enjoys color as long as he’s not wearing it. He offers it to Dream, trying to keep his face neutral.
Dream just looks at him, one hand gripping Hob’s shirt, and the other holding a cup of grape juice. “Oh, what am I thinking?” Hob strides over to his coffee table so that Dream can set his juice down. “Sorry about that,” he says and then patiently holds out the parrot toy.
Dream touches it and, upon encountering the softest fabric that Hob has ever felt, pulls it in against his chest. He pets it gently for a second and then lays his cheek against it.
“I’m glad you like it,” Hob says instead of cooing at him for being one of the cutest things Hob’s seen in his long life. “Now, my students recommended a show for me. Would you mind sitting with me while I watch it?”
Dream shrugs, but given his usual lack of interest in anything on a screen, Hob’s pleased with that response.
He settles them carefully on the couch with Dream snuggled in his lap, leaning back against his chest and hugging the parrot toy. For once, he’d remembered to get the remote before sitting down, so he’s able to pull up one of the cartoons his students had in fact recommended when he’d asked for kid shows with cute animations and compelling story lines.
Dream watches it attentively, petting the soft beak of his parrot and slowly relaxing back into Hob, his tiny body settling in a way that would lead to sleep for a more typical child.
Toward the end of the second episode, Hob’s timer goes off with a cheerful little ding that echoes throughout the flat, interrupting a poignant reunion between two talking giants.
“Hey, sweetheart,” Hob says, running his hand through Dream’s hair when he tips his face up to look at Hob. He gives Dream a kiss on his forehead. “It’s time.”
Dream gives a tiny sigh. In the blink of an eye, the little prince in his lap is replaced with a full sized, adult Dream Lord.
“Welcome back,” Hob says, unable to keep himself from feeling apprehensive as Dream sets aside the parrot. He wouldn’t be surprised if Dream left immediately. That was a lot of vulnerability he’d displayed.
Instead Dream takes Hob’s free hand and entwines their fingers.
“Want me to stop it?” Hob asks with a vague nod at the television.
“Not yet,” Dream says and continues to relax, held safe in Hob’s arms.
“Whatever you want,” Hob says and kisses his temple, settling in to begin the next episode, which is pleasingly bird themed.