Working on a Dreamling fic
(Havenât done this in a while. 5 years? Jeez, I feel rusty. just an excerpt, then)
Hob pushed his papers aside, as if to show Dream the man had all of his attention. âAnd in the spirit of friendship, I promise . . . no more questions,â he said. He spread his hands in the air. âNo pushing, no prying. I will take you just as you are, as friends do.â His voice softened. âI wonât . . . push you away like that again.â
Dream sighed inwardly. He supposed he deserved that. âNo, Hob,â he said, gently but firmly. âI was the one in the wrong. You offered me the favor of your friendship,â the terrifying prospect of emotional intimacy, he re-scripted wryly in his head, âand I ran. Like a coward. It was selfish, and foolish, and . . . you deserved better.â
Hobâs eyes smiled at this, though his mouth followed only weakly. He ran a finger around the rim of his wine glass, and Dream could practically see him trying out several sentences in his head before settling on one. And why wouldnât he? He doesnât know what will set me off. A bitter thought; could one truly be friends if one of you felt he had to censor everything he said?Â
âItâs just that . . . I never want to chase you awaâuh. I justâdonâtâwant that. To happen again.â Hob was stumbling all over his words, choking them out and looking miserable. He even winced a little as he met Dreamâs eyes.Â
This was intolerable. Dream leaned forward, furiousâwith himself. âThen I grant you a promise, Robert Gadling. Whatever you do, I will never run from you again.âÂ
Hob sat up, astonished. âYou donât have to promise me that sort of thing,â he protested, as if Dream had tried to stuff a large wad of cash in his hand, rather than merely pledging to be slightly less horrible.Â
âI do. I owe you that much.â Their drinks came, then, and Dream could cover his worry in a sip of wine, even though he never usually did. Did that make his worry more apparent, or less? Hob was staring as if heâd eaten a live tarantula. Dream tried to ignore this. At least he could go through the motions. He cast about in his mind for something to put the man at ease, to put them back on track. On impulse, he leaned forward and grabbedâoh, not the hand, thatâs much too familiarâthe manâs forearm, just above the wrist, and squeezed it briefly before letting go. To Dreamâs surprise, this seemed to do the trick, and much better than heâd expected, as well, for Hob looked truly, deeply pleased. Perhaps too pleased. Dream would have to distract him. âSo. Do tell me; what have these last years been like for you, Robert Gadling? And how is it The White Horse Inn stands shuttered, yet somehow there is still an Inn at which to meet?â
Hob laughed. âWell. Developers bought the old inn. Itâs just the inevitable march of progress, I suppose,â he added with a little ironic twist of smile. âWe really should have expected it to happen at some point, and made some sort of contingency plan.â
Dream nodded. He should have foreseen it himself. Heâd lived much, much longer than Hob Gadling; he knew how all-too-brief human institutions were. He had been careless.
âSo I . . . uh . . . you know, investment property and all, figured the real estate market was pretty good, for the time, and . . .â
âYou bought an inn?â Dream looked at him in surprise. The New Inn. Yes, of course.Â
Hob took a sip of wine and refused to make eye contact. âYeah, well. You know. I figured you were still angry, but youâd get over it at some point and come back, and I wanted there to be a place for you to return to,â he pointed out.Â
âYou bought me an inn, then,â Dream replied in a lightly teasing volce that failed to disguise how gratified he was. People had built him temples, once. But temples were often cold and dark.Â
Hob sputtered, coughing on his wine. âWellânoâI mean, not exactly . . .â He grabbed up a napkin and sopped at the mess heâd made on the front of his shirt before daring to glance at Dream, who was not quite smiling . . . but not quite not smiling, either. Hobâs shoulders relaxed. âI suppose I did, at that.âÂ
Dream tried very hard not to look flatteredânot to be flattered. He looked around the room, soft with the evening light slanting through the windows, so much warmer and more welcoming than the early days at the White Horse. âI suppose itâs lucky I caught you here,â he said absently. âThirty years late . . . how often do you come?â The cessation of movement caught his attention and he turned to pin Hob with a stare. The man gave him a hunted, slightly guilty look. Dreamâs eyes widened. âYou live here, donât you?â he said, again completely failing to mask the delight in his voice.Â
Hob had bought an inn and had moved into it and set watch, day after day, awaiting his inevitable return. And Hob was the one person he had thought to doubt, only because his own brash arrogance might have run him off. Dream found this, in a word, fascinating. He had fashioned an entire world for others; a realm for them to be and important functions for them to perform, and all manner of things, and he had given Hob nothingâreally, truly nothing, as it had been his Sisterâs giftâother than his occasional companyânot even his nameâand Hob had been the one who stayed. Hob had stayed, and rebuilt what he could, and waited, and made a place just for Dream, some unnerving, haughty stranger with the temerity to turn up every hundred years and demand his lifeâs story. Dream would not have credited it. Well, the Dream before the Burgesses, at any rate. Perhaps this Dream had grown, just a little, in his suffering.
Hob cleared his throat. âYes. Iâ-I have a room upstairs.âÂ
annaxmalina
kianamaiart
snowghoul
vaporwave
izzy806
2087
discoholicmusic
janainaart
baratheonpilled
andulkaphoto
pixelskylines
