(no subject)
Another Sandman fic, but not part of the AU.
Heavily implied Morpheus/Hob Gadling. Dialogue at the end borrowed from the graphic novels.
It had been a strange century. All the centuries were strange, really, but he’d never heard of this so-called ‘sleeping sickness’ until this one. He tried not to think about it much, and when he did was just glad that he hadn’t succumbed. He wouldn’t want to be trapped in his dreams, especially now. He didn’t like to dream anymore. Even though his dreams hadn’t perceptibly changed, something seemed missing. Someone important. No, something. Why would someone be missing from his dreams? He was the only actual person in his dreams, they were only dreams after all... Still, that odd, misplaced word haunted him for several more weeks. He was relieved when he was finally able to put it out of his mind, he had enough to worry about. Like his impending meeting with an old fri- Possible meeting. Who knew if he’d actually show up. He was sure he was right, about the tall, pale, skinny being needing a friend. He’d been around the block a time or ten, and he knew loneliness when he saw it. Hell, Robert Gadling was lonely a lot of the time, too, that’s why he looked forward to their infrequent meetings so much. And the thought that he’d lost that because of his big mouth... Funny, he hadn’t dreamed about him in a long time, either. Maybe that’s why he’d replaced ‘something’ with ‘someone.’ He’d dreamed about him from time to time throughout the centuries, nothing particular happening, just quiet chats. Most of the time, anyway. The other times he tried not to think about too much, especially around their meetings in the old pub. He didn’t trust himself not to blush. He relived those memories for a few moments, memories of dreams, then shook himself and climbed into bed, sending up a half formed almost-prayer that he’d dream of the tall man with eyes like stars.
When he woke up he did not remember his dreams, but the unsettling feeling of something missing was gone and he whistled as he went about getting ready for the day. Something felt right in a way it hadn’t in almost seventy years. It was September 14th, 1988.
It was a couple months after that before the other dreams returned, the dreams of small pubs, stumbling and hopeful apologies inspired by their last real meeting before they settled back in to the old pattern good beer and better conversation. It wasn’t for a few months after that, that the other dreams returned. His hands on silken skin and fine dark hair clenched in his fists and lips on his and heat and desperation and - he woke up with a start, painfully aroused and gasping for breath. Once he realized that it wouldn’t go away by wishing he stumbled into the bathroom to take care of business. He called in sick to work that day.
He spent that afternoon in the pub, working through more pints than he should and thinking. Why would he have a dream like that now, after so many years without one? Why had they started in the beginning? What would happen if, at their next meeting, he didn’t show up but the dreams remained? He didn’t know if he could bear that. Dreams aside, the man was one of the few constants in his life anymore, he had existed long before Hob had been born, and he would continue long after Robert grew tired of the game of immortality. He tossed back one last pint and made his way home with only a slight stagger. He went to bed early that night.
The dreams weren’t frequent but they didn’t go away, and after a while Hob stopped wanting them to. He knew it was a bad idea, dreaming about that man like this, but in his more honest moments he admitted to himself that he wanted it, and it wasn’t as if one could control Dreams.
Finally the time came and he almost decided not to go. But what if he did come, and found Hob missing?
Robert Gadling picked up his jacket and locked the door behind him.
He ordered a glass of water and a bottle of beer, and waited. He didn’t expect anything, but as he sat there staring at the empty chair across the table he tried to put the angry words from last century out of his mind and hoped so hard it hurt. He hadn’t been there long, just long enough to get started on convincing himself that he shouldn’t have bothered to come, when the door swung open and he looked up as he had every time the door opened since he sat down. He looked different, though he always did, they always did, this time a black trench coat wrapped close around the lean body showed how thin he really was. Thinner perhaps than the last time they’d met. Pale and angular as ever, fine black hair sticking out like the puff of a dandelion. Relief spread through him and a smile started on his face. “I...I didn’t think you’d come.”
There was a look on his face very much like but not quite a smile. It was close enough. “I’ve been told that it’s impolite to keep ones friends waiting.”
Late that night, after Hob fell asleep, the Dream came again. He couldn’t have said which of them reached out first
Heavily implied Morpheus/Hob Gadling. Dialogue at the end borrowed from the graphic novels.
It had been a strange century. All the centuries were strange, really, but he’d never heard of this so-called ‘sleeping sickness’ until this one. He tried not to think about it much, and when he did was just glad that he hadn’t succumbed. He wouldn’t want to be trapped in his dreams, especially now. He didn’t like to dream anymore. Even though his dreams hadn’t perceptibly changed, something seemed missing. Someone important. No, something. Why would someone be missing from his dreams? He was the only actual person in his dreams, they were only dreams after all... Still, that odd, misplaced word haunted him for several more weeks. He was relieved when he was finally able to put it out of his mind, he had enough to worry about. Like his impending meeting with an old fri- Possible meeting. Who knew if he’d actually show up. He was sure he was right, about the tall, pale, skinny being needing a friend. He’d been around the block a time or ten, and he knew loneliness when he saw it. Hell, Robert Gadling was lonely a lot of the time, too, that’s why he looked forward to their infrequent meetings so much. And the thought that he’d lost that because of his big mouth... Funny, he hadn’t dreamed about him in a long time, either. Maybe that’s why he’d replaced ‘something’ with ‘someone.’ He’d dreamed about him from time to time throughout the centuries, nothing particular happening, just quiet chats. Most of the time, anyway. The other times he tried not to think about too much, especially around their meetings in the old pub. He didn’t trust himself not to blush. He relived those memories for a few moments, memories of dreams, then shook himself and climbed into bed, sending up a half formed almost-prayer that he’d dream of the tall man with eyes like stars.
When he woke up he did not remember his dreams, but the unsettling feeling of something missing was gone and he whistled as he went about getting ready for the day. Something felt right in a way it hadn’t in almost seventy years. It was September 14th, 1988.
It was a couple months after that before the other dreams returned, the dreams of small pubs, stumbling and hopeful apologies inspired by their last real meeting before they settled back in to the old pattern good beer and better conversation. It wasn’t for a few months after that, that the other dreams returned. His hands on silken skin and fine dark hair clenched in his fists and lips on his and heat and desperation and - he woke up with a start, painfully aroused and gasping for breath. Once he realized that it wouldn’t go away by wishing he stumbled into the bathroom to take care of business. He called in sick to work that day.
He spent that afternoon in the pub, working through more pints than he should and thinking. Why would he have a dream like that now, after so many years without one? Why had they started in the beginning? What would happen if, at their next meeting, he didn’t show up but the dreams remained? He didn’t know if he could bear that. Dreams aside, the man was one of the few constants in his life anymore, he had existed long before Hob had been born, and he would continue long after Robert grew tired of the game of immortality. He tossed back one last pint and made his way home with only a slight stagger. He went to bed early that night.
The dreams weren’t frequent but they didn’t go away, and after a while Hob stopped wanting them to. He knew it was a bad idea, dreaming about that man like this, but in his more honest moments he admitted to himself that he wanted it, and it wasn’t as if one could control Dreams.
Finally the time came and he almost decided not to go. But what if he did come, and found Hob missing?
Robert Gadling picked up his jacket and locked the door behind him.
He ordered a glass of water and a bottle of beer, and waited. He didn’t expect anything, but as he sat there staring at the empty chair across the table he tried to put the angry words from last century out of his mind and hoped so hard it hurt. He hadn’t been there long, just long enough to get started on convincing himself that he shouldn’t have bothered to come, when the door swung open and he looked up as he had every time the door opened since he sat down. He looked different, though he always did, they always did, this time a black trench coat wrapped close around the lean body showed how thin he really was. Thinner perhaps than the last time they’d met. Pale and angular as ever, fine black hair sticking out like the puff of a dandelion. Relief spread through him and a smile started on his face. “I...I didn’t think you’d come.”
There was a look on his face very much like but not quite a smile. It was close enough. “I’ve been told that it’s impolite to keep ones friends waiting.”
Late that night, after Hob fell asleep, the Dream came again. He couldn’t have said which of them reached out first