Chapter Text
Not again.
Dream still heard his own words echoing through his mind, closely followed by a deafening bang, over and over again, a never ending, never quieting chorus of his own guilt.
There was so much blood.
Not all of it was Hob's, Dream knew that. Some of it was The Corinthians. Some of it was what had saved his life. Some of it was the reason the Corinthian had run, leaving Hob and Dream behind in the near darkness.
But the rest. The rest was of the man who had saved them.
And it was so much.
Dream hadn't been aware a person could bleed so much.
And wasn't that ironic? The Sandman, the most ruthless killer known to mankind. One would think he'd be the person to know, after murdering so many. Be used to it even.
But this – this meaning to bear witness, to watch a person bleed out, a person he cared for – was new.
He had watched Jessamy die. But she died quickly. A shot to the head. There had been blood too, clinging to the polished surface of his cage. It had stayed there, turning first brown and then black, up until he managed his escape. But it hadn't been like this.
There hadn't been a pool of it, growing and growing and growing, with every second ticking by.
There had never been a chance to save her, either. No hope.
Dream had thought it a cruelty at the time. To never be given the opportunity to give his own life to save hers.
God, had he been wrong.
This was worse. Kneeling over Hob's body, hands covered in hot blood that held the only life's essence Dream found he cared about anymore.
Essence he tried desperately to save. He pressed his hands to Hob's side and felt a heartbeat beneath his fingertips, slow and incredibly weak, but there.
Hob was alive.
And Dream had to keep it that way.
He had to.
Only moments later Dream had his jacket wrapped around Hob's torso, keeping a black shirt pressed tightly to the ever-bleeding wound. It was cold in the room, a freezing breeze that pierced his skin even more now that there was no cloth to hide him from the forces of nature.
Memories of glass and ice on his bare skin for months upon months danced at the edge of his vision, only worsened by the damned orb slowly turning in the middle of the hall. It was a giant glass eye, a mindless decoration that was never meant to raise such terrors.
And yet it was used for pain and horror, taken out of its function, its nature, and made to be a pawn in the game of a madman.
A good thing, caught in the tides of evil.
Dream didn't know if he was any better than the Corinthian, as he looked down at his friend.
Hob was a good man. A just man. A man who would have never been caught dead in a place like this, if it weren't for Dream; a madman, in the eyes of many.
It was his fault that Hob was dying. He, like the Corinthian, was a force of nature that inevitably destroyed everything in its path, every good or innocent or ultimately unimportant little thing.
Nothing could survive in his presence.
And yet Hob had to survive, there was no universe Dream could imagine in which he didn't, in which there was no Robert Gadling.
If there was, Dream didn't know if he would want to live in it.
So he had to try.
He heaved Hob's body over his shoulder with a strength he hadn't known he possessed anymore. He still stumbled under the weight, but he forced himself to stay upright and push through aching muscles, eyes fixed on a door as far away from where the Corinthian disappeared to as possible.
The way through the hall was slow and painful, tears building in his eyes with every torturous step, legs trembling beneath him. A dark red trail marked the distance Dream had already covered, and it wasn't half as far as he would have liked. This damned hall was larger than he had believed, the distance harder to cross than imagined.
And the end of the hall wasn't the end of it, after the hall would be a corridor, after the corridor would be rooms filled with endless horrors, and, if Dream was lucky, a staircase somewhere close by that he would have to descend with Hob's body-
"Matthew," he breathed into the empty hall, his free hand holding the button at his neck that opened communication through the microphone still pinned to his blood-soaked shirt. "I need your help."
The Raven came running through the door not five minutes later, out of breath and with wide, haunted eyes. There was no time to ask him if he was alright, and no need to either. Of course he wasn't, his way into this building surely hadn't been any less horrific than the one Hob and Dream had taken, not to mention the fact that he was staring at a very lifeless form of a man, who, in such a short time, had come to be his friend.
Guilt wound itself through Dream's gut like an ugly serpent, deadly teeth ripping at his lungs and heart, making it impossible to breathe, poisoning his very blood.
"Is he…" Matthew broke off and gestured at Hob's body, his brows drawn tight.
"No," Dream answered immediately, his voice cutting.
"Right." Matthew nodded to himself and forced a deep breath. "Right. We should hurry then."
Dream was thankful for the lack of words exchanged as Matthew draped one of Hob's arms over his shoulders, a thing he mirrored with shaky hands. Words might have been too much, might have tipped him over an edge too steep to ever climb back up.
They walked in union, taking one careful step at a time with Hob in their middle. The way through the corridors was agonising, every second stretching into hours, hours that brought Hob closer to an inevitable end.
But Dream didn't think of that.
He did not.
Instead, he thought of Hob's eyes. They had looked into so many eyes tonight, men's, women's, children's, all of them void of life. But even if they had still held the same spark as when they had been alive, he was sure that none of them could have ever compared to Hob's. Those eyes simply couldn't be robbed of their light. To do so would be like robbing the universe of the sun.
Dream tried not to think too hard on the coldness clawing at his limbs and the darkness edging closer to the center of his vision.
"He'll be alright, boss," Matthew stated after a while, his voice echoing through the corridors. "You know what they call him on the news."
News. Dream hadn't watched the news in eons.
"Immortal. Always getting back on his feet, never kicking the bucket. No matter if Death called for him personally. Stubborn fucking bastard."
Immortal. A lie, a euphemism if Dream had ever heard one.
And yet, it was a glimpse of hope. Hob was a fighter, a stubborn fucking bastard. He might survive.
Dream clung to that ember of hope with all of his being, allowing its meager light to shine his way forward.
The way, it seemed, led them down a staircase next. The steps were small and plenty, and taking them one by one stretched Dream's patience incredibly thin. But there was no skipping steps with the precious cargo between them, so Dream locked his jaw to refrain from complaining.
Any possible complaint would have died on his tongue anyways, as soon as he saw the sweet escape that the door at the end of the corridor presented. Light shone through the matted glass and illuminated their path, marking freedom like the most heavenly of beacons. Unfortunately, it was also enough to make a row of five more mannequins visible in the near-darkness, and Dream felt a shiver overtaking him as he looked at them.
Matthew looked over at him with concern clear in his eyes, and apparently unable to keep the careful quiet between them intact.
"It's not your fault, boss."
Dream would have laughed at that if it weren't for the terrorised looks thrown his way.
"It is."
"No, it's not," his Raven responded firmly, and it was enough for Dream to level him with a stare. "You can't hold yourself responsible for the Corinthian being a psychopath. As much as you can't make yourself responsible for not being able to rid the world of every fucking evil thing in existence."
"I fail to see how the Corinthian, my apprentice, killing dozens of people and displaying them like so, hurting my friend, is not my responsibility."
A deep breath from Matthew allowed silence to give weight to his words.
"You can't change the nature of people, Boss. Down at their very core, some people are just bad. No matter what you have done, the Corinthian would have always ended up killing people. And no matter what you do, there will always be evil. There's no way to rid the universe of this. But it will find balance, even without you, even without anyone to make sure of it. That's what balance is, after all. The simple nature of people, keeping each other in line."
Dream felt his vision cloud with tears born from a truth he didn't want to acknowledge. They were suffocating, as if a thick rope had been bound around his neck, a silent promise that his time was soon to come.
"We should concentrate on Hob." His voice trembled as he spoke, quiet and without authority. The one thing Dream relied on was gone. Missing. There was nothing but pin pricks of fear crawling through his veins and the distant numbness of acceptance fogging his brain. If Matthew wished to hurt him, to catch him at his weakest, there would never be a better time than now.
But Matthew wished for none of these things, as Dream came to notice, and that alone was enough to send a single tear dropping to the cold stone floors.
"Yeah, we probably should." Matthew sighed. "The car is parked right outside the door."
And, true enough, as they stepped past the last pair of eyes and through the heavy door at the end of the corridor, a car was parked not two meters before them.
The smell of fresh air was absolutely overwhelming after the odour of death that had clouded the whole building finally dissipated, and Dream blinked rapidly at the sheer assault on his senses.
Getting Hob into the back of the car happened quickly. Sitting next to his limp body and holding his head in his lap happened easily. Matthew didn't ask questions, and for that, Dream was once again grateful. Perhaps he had really been unfair to the Raven on their arrival.
Hob's skin was disconcertingly cold where Dream allowed his fingertips to brush over it, but as he tested for pulse and breathing, both were still there. Slow and shallow, but there. Hob was still alive.
And, he remained so as the car started for the hotel, a steady pulse right beneath Dream's fingertips, keeping that smallest ember of hope alight.
“Boss?”
“Matthew.”
“Shouldn't we bring him to the hospital?” The Raven winced slightly when Dream looked up to stare at him through the rearview mirror. “I mean, I understand why we can't go in there without risking the entire company. But he- He's one of the good guys, right? He's a special agent.” His voice wavered there, concern clear as day. “Wouldn't they be able to treat him much better than whoever we can organize him?”
Dream sighed silently.
“You forget that he went and committed treason, Matthew,” he answered softly. “The moment Hob decided to help us, he became a deserter. He has probably been blacklisted ever since he used his position as MI6 agent to get through the security at London airport without any mission to warrant it.”
“So what would happen if they found him?”
“Interrogation.” An image of a fist connecting with Hob's jaw flashed before his eyes, that same hand forcing his head underwater until there was no air left in his lungs. “Trial.” Judges standing before a bloodied Hob Gadling, the sound of a gavel slamming down ringing in his ears. “Prison.”
Hob Gadling, old and gray, staring out of a prison cell, hands and feet bound at all times, his eyes void of life.
Imprisoned for life, for the simple crime of being good.
Dream blinked the images away, bringing the frowning face of his Raven back into focus, who seemed both displeased at the idea of denying Hob the medical care he needed and at the image of him locked away for all of eternity.
“He would want to live, Boss,” Matthew whispered, not entirely convinced.
“But not as a prisoner. That is no life, Matthew.” Dream took a deep breath, trying his hardest to keep Burgess and the orb of glass buried somewhere deep within the furthest parts of his brain. “Hob deserves real life, a life of light and colour and freedom, of laughter and joy. He deserves someone to love him,” – another deep breath – “and he would want that, more than anything else.”
Understanding flickered in Matthew's eyes then, a thing way too close to pity for Dream's liking. “Boss…”
“Drive, Matthew,” he ordered, voice tight and heavy in his throat.
It was the end of their discussion, a strong final note that proved to be more of an admission than anything else he could have said.
None of it mattered though, not if Hob didn't survive this. So when the hotel finally came into view, Dream couldn't help but let a breath of relief escape his lips.
They were one step closer to getting Hob the help he needed. If there was one thing Dream admired about posh hotels, it was that they were all foul and corrupt. Meaning a certain amount of money could get him anything he wanted, always, without fail.
Which was why when he shouted that he would pay whoever found him a surgeon that would keep their mouth shut a million dollars upon their entry, the entire staff scrambled to fulfill his request. None of them even looked twice at the drops of blood they trailed behind them on their way to the elevator, marring the sparkling marble slabs of the foyer. Someone would come around and clean it eventually, expecting another obscene tip for their additional work.
It was an ugly system, based on nothing but greed. Care and goodwill were words far outside the vocabulary of these people, but that was nothing Dream had any right to complain about when it made working his job so much easier.
Finding good people was simply a thing of impossibility. Most of the time, at least.
Hob, he had been the exception. The one truly good person Dream had ever come across without really looking for it. And, of course, he had to go and ruin that, too. Good simply didn't fit into this system. There was a reason why Dream was a criminal, a bad guy when it came down to classifications. Good people did not deal in shady business, did not murder someone from the back when they least expected it, did not hide in the shadows like pesky rats. But Dream had done all that and more, even if it was under the disguise of a good cause. And he had pulled Hob into it, when it was not his place to be at, simply because he couldn't stand the idea of facing all of this on his own.
Because, in the very furthest confines of his heart, he had hoped for something good to finally be a part of his life, if only for a single bittersweet moment.
(If there was a nook a little further hidden in his heart, where Dream imagined good to stay, for his life to hold sunshine and smiles and love instead of the ugliness and the dark, then nobody would ever have to know. It was a fruitless wish, a thing so far out of his nature that it felt laughable to even consider. And even if it weren't, the only good that might ever present itself to him was currently dying in his arms. Because of him.)
Perhaps good simply wasn't meant for him.
But even if it wasn't, it didn't deserve to die. Not like this. Not at the hands of evil.
The relief Dream felt when the elevator to the penthouse opened once again only minutes after Matthew and he had stepped out of it was enough to have his whole body give out beneath him. They had lowered Hob onto the sofa upon their arrival, his still form painting an almost painfully peaceful picture, were it not for the drops of red beginning to stain the pristine white upholstery. Dream's eyes were fixed on the slow rise and fall of his chest, the only proof of Hob being alive.
There was a flourish of people around him, the doctor setting up their equipment to get started on Hob's treatment, Matthew bringing them whatever they needed from around the suite. Distantly he registered an unfamiliar voice calling for him, asking about the promised compensation for their troubles of finding him a doctor. But all Dream wanted to do was to press his ear against Hob Gadling's chest and let the sound of his life fill him up, to feel the rise and fall of his chest beneath his fingertips until he felt convinced it wouldn't slip from his grasp like a handful of sand.
The urge was so strong he felt tears running freely down his cheeks as he reminded himself that he couldn't, that he would interrupt the doctor's work by doing so, and that the only thing he could do was watch. Perhaps, if Hob survived, he would allow Dream a moment of this.
He still remembered those arms holding him close as he poured his heart out over Jessamy, over her death. How he had been allowed to sink into that warmth and care for a night and simply be, listening to the beat of life as he rested.
Surely Hob wouldn't deny him a repeat of that, if he were to ask. Another night of warmth, before stepping back into the cold.
If he survived, of course. Only ever if Hob survived.
A hand touched Dream's shoulder then, which he immediately shoved away in a sudden urge of panic so strong it had him scramble away from the source. The staff-member that had dared to place a hand on him looked at him with barely concealed annoyance, and Dream wanted nothing more than to drench that perfectly crisp white shirt in blood and see how well it went with the awful green of his tie. Not just for touching him unasked, but also for forcing him to look away from Hob.
“You promised a reward, Sir,” the man said, probably not for the first time.
“Leave your name with my assistant, I shall see to your payment before my departure,” Dream replied, his voice cold as ice and just as burning.
Gladly, the man left shortly after following his orders, making it possible for Dream to relax the slightest bit and turn his attention back to Hob. His view was partly obscured by the doctor leaning over his friend though, making it hard to watch the rise and fall Dream felt such a desperate need to observe.
“Doctor?” He called out quietly, to which the woman before him responded with a hum. “Will he… Will he survive?”
She turned to him then, eyes kind behind her glasses, a soft smile on her lips. All of it seemed out of place in the wake of so much bad, the way a dandelion looked out of place when it sprouted from a crack in the sidewalk. There was no space for such a thing, no reason for its existence in that exact spot, and yet it bloomed there anyways, caged in by the cold and evil, unperturbed.
For a moment Dream simply wanted to fall into her arms and cry, allowing all the weight to be taken from his shoulders.
“The fact that he has survived so far is a miracle,” she answered, voice even kinder than her eyes. “He seems to be a fighter. But even fighters sometimes lose their battle against death. All I can say right now is that we can't be sure. Closing that wound up will take its toll on him.” There was a small pause, in which she seemed to notice something in Dream's eyes, for she softened further and reached out to squeeze his hand before continuing. Dream found he did not mind her touch at all. “But it seems like your friend is not finished here. There is something worth fighting for. Or someone.”
The implication that Hob would fight to stay alive for him was entirely ridiculous, but Dream appreciated the sentiment nonetheless. It made a part of him breathe easier, the idea of Hob fighting for something more tangible, more specific than simply staying alive. Clear goals helped at reminding him what would await him when he woke up. If he woke up, the part of Dream that was still holding its breath corrected, and it was enough to push him into motion.
He had to do something, anything, and walking on shaky legs over to where Hob lay felt like doing more than simply sitting on the ground and crying.
“Is there anything I can do while you treat his wound?”
The doctor nodded quickly at that, her focus back on the patient at hand, and Dream couldn't help but admire her professionalism for a moment. Her switch from consultant to surgeon spoke of experience that only few ever acquired, her underlying calmness a gift for both her and her patients.
Hob was in good hands, better hands than he would have ever expected to be granted in a situation like this.
After a moment of moving her things around and freeing a spot beside Hob's side, she motioned for Dream to move closer and kneel next to her. He did as instructed, his hands shaking ever so slightly as he lowered himself to his knees, eyes now fixed on Hob's face.
God, he looked so peaceful like this. As if he were in a painting, a quiet morning, his lover catching the curve of his brow and the artful bow of his lips as they waited for him to wake from a deep slumber. If it weren't for his utter lack of movement, Dream would have perhaps felt compelled to capture him like so himself.
As of now, he simply wanted to beg for those eyes to open for him, to get lost in their warmth and be blinded by an easy smile again.
“Take his hand, love,” the doctor said.
Dream had to blink for a moment, reminded that there had been only one other person to ever call him love, and that person had been Hob. The sound of his voice, softly, calling out for him – We are old men, love. You're doing great. – echoed through his mind, a cacophony of memories, none of them older than a day. They were enough for Dream's hand to shoot forward, desperate to be close to the other man, to be there, to hold, to care. And if all he could do was to press cold fingers against his lips and place a soft kiss on the top of each, before holding them between his own hands to warm them, then he would do it for as long as he was allowed to.
The doctor made a pleased sound at his ready compliance as she began to cut open Hob's shirt to move it away from the wound, as well as the one Dream had bound around his middle to stop the blood flow. It was only then that he felt the coldness of the air on his chest again, suddenly reminded that he was bare before all these people, covered in blood and dirt, just the way Burgess had preferred to keep him. But before his thoughts even began to spiral down that path there was a heavy blanket draped over his shoulders by Matthew, unasked for but even more appreciated because of that.
“I… Thank you, Matthew,” he whispered, which earned him a friendly pat on the shoulder.
“No problem, Boss. You looked a bit cold there.”
Dream nodded slowly, unused to this kind of perception, but finding himself grateful for it nonetheless.
When the doctor started on the treatment, Dream felt himself transfixed in a state of mind between the abyss of his own memories and complete nothingness, a place where all of his thoughts found space to grow into fully fleshed ideas. Perhaps it was his mind trying to distract him from the scene playing out before him, from the sound of a scalpel cutting into flesh and gloved hands dripping with the blood of his friend. All Dream knew was that it helped. At least until it didn't, not anymore.
At first the thoughts were kind, almost innocent in their nature. Quick glimpses of sun-kissed skin lounging on the beach and feet buried deep within cool sand turned into ideas of morning coffee in a small beach house, the sun rising over the far horizon of the sea. A kiss or two, hot and tangy from the coffee, the Sandman a nickname only used for inside jokes over dinner, a single fading scar the only reminder of this horrible day.
If he looked closely he could even make out grey where there had once been brown, wrinkles of laughter etched into the corners of eyes that would never fail to lighten his life.
Old men.
Together.
It was beautiful. And impossible.
There was no future like that, not for him. After all, this was a future for people who haven't done the things he had. A future for good and kind people. He hoped Hob would find someone to share a future like that with, someone equally caring and compassionate.
But that someone couldn't be Dream.
His responsibilities lay elsewhere, with the balance of the universe and the decimation of true evil. There was no space for love and warmth. Not in his world, not in his future. Billions of people relied on him, every day, without knowing the first thing about it. He was a ghost, a silent knight clad in black.
He was a son of Night.
At least if Matthew's words from earlier were nothing but a lie. Because if it were true that the universe would keep in balance without him, then he would be no ghost, nor knight, and certainly no son of Night.
It would make him one thing, and one thing only.
Superfluous.
And he couldn't be that, right? He couldn't simply be superfluous, like those hoards of politicians pretending to change something in this world. He took matters into his own hands, he had fought and killed and suffered, not for himself but for the rest of the world, for something to actually change. Was it all for naught? Had he been in such dire need of a purpose that he had simply imagined himself one? One that led to the death of thousands and ruined the lives of even more than that, for a cause that didn't exist outside of his own imagination?
Was he really that much of a hypocrite?
It couldn't be. It couldn't, and yet the words didn't stop running through his mind, a hurricane of useless and hypocrite, of redundant and pointless and unnecessary. Dream's whole mind was screaming at him, a noise so bright it was blinding all his senses, and he wished for nothing more than to leave this place of sunshine and hurricanes as quickly as possible, to slam the door behind himself and lock it, preferably right before destroying the key and forgetting all about the existence of this place.
His mind did not agree though. His mind decided that it would be a good idea to bind him to a front row seat of this disaster, to let blow after blow rain down on him, until all he could think about was that this world did not need him. That it had never needed him, and that perhaps it was time for him to stop.
Perhaps it was time to give up this life and allow real balance to take over.
It didn't sound like too bad of a prospect, if Dream were to be honest. If the world didn't need any help to keep in balance, there was nothing that warranted all of this. Not the company, not the lies. Not even him. So wasn't it the only sensible solution to put an end to it? Perhaps it would be freeing, to witness it all be undone.
All his Dreams, free to live as they pleased. He could see Gilbert sipping tea in his own garden, open to all the minds in need of friendly company.
He saw his Nightmares reintegrated into society, finding joy and fulfilment outside of a mission. Gault, she would do beautifully with children, perhaps she could become a nurse or a caretaker.
Lucienne would simply keep the library, open it up to the public and make it the one thing it was always supposed to be: a place of learning and history.
His Ravens would easily find a place in the tech industry, one that wouldn't subject them to the constant horrors of this world, one that didn't risk their lives so unnecessarily.
Which only left him. Dream. The Sandman.
He didn't really believe that there was another place for him out there. But there didn't have to be, right? There was still a wrong he had to undo, and if that didn't kill him, then perhaps something else would. Ridding the universe of his unnecessary presence.
And then there would be true balance. Unhindered.
"There," the doctor said, interrupting Dream's line of thought, a harsh pull that plunged him back into the startling reality in which he was holding onto Hob Gadling's hand for dear life and felt tears dripping down his chin. He hadn't realised he was crying so unhindered. "All patched up. His vitals look alright for now.”
As Dream looked down to Hob, he could see a neat row of stitches where the knife had been buried in his side, only a smear of blood remaining where before it had been covered in it. Multiple pieces of cloth were scattered around them, some already turning an ugly brown from the drying blood they were drenched in. It must have been multiple hours since they had brought Hob back to the hotel. Hours which Dream had spent entirely in his own mind, the sun outside once again standing high on the horizon. Hours that he hadn't spent praying and begging for Hob's life to whichever deity might grant him an open ear.
The guilt felt like a furnace in his gut, hot and burning, a barely contained fire that might consume him whole if he wasn't careful. He should have been spending his every thought on Hob, on his survival and recovery, and yet here he was, making everything about himself once more.
Hob deserved better than him.
But not even that knowledge allowed Dream to let go of Hob's hand. Not even his self-disgust allowed him to move away, to part from the man he had come to adore like so.
“Sir?” The doctor's voice called for him, her kind brown eyes slowly moving into his line of sight. “Your partner is stable for now. Perhaps you should get something to eat. A shower maybe?”
Dream let go of Hob's hand as if it had burnt him, his eyes a fraction too wide, his breath a bit too quick.
Your partner.
His mind reeled with possibility, with every implication those simple words could hold, and wanted to scream at every single one of them. He wanted to scream because they were impossible, a thing born from fantasy, a thing born from selfish fantasies. He couldn't be Hob's partner.
He wouldn't be selfish about this.
“Yes,” he whispered, holding his hand close to his chest, his fist feeling empty without the weight of Hob's hand in it. “A shower.”
He ran. He ran from the sitting area, the stares of both the doctor and Matthew burning into his back as if he were being marked as one of the damned. He ran from Hob's still form on the sofa, from the blood and the injury and the hope that he would wake again.
But, most of all, Dream ran from himself.
He ran so he could do the right thing for once.
For Hob.
He would do anything for this man.