Dreamling Goncharov AU?????
Me not actually doing any research on the Goncharov Deep Lore and using this only an excuse to write hitman!Hob and crime lord!Dream.
It's something to do with his territory, Hob thinks. How he's got holdings from London to Naples, and a little bit of everything in-between. How he has his fingers in every sort of pie you can think of, an iron in every fire, and how he balances it all with the ease of a practiced acrobat on a tightrope. It has to do with his information networks, unparalleled in this day and age, and how no cop, clean or otherwise, has ever been able to find a single shred of evidence against him. The man's a ghost. A nightmare that wisps through the banks and streets of London, greasing palms and making deals as it goes.
But here, in the relative privacy of his safehouse, the man himself pours Hob a snifter of brandy and says, "You may call me Dream."
Dream, he thinks, is even more an appropriate name. He's tall, whipcord thin and dressed to the nines in his vintage black Armani, black on black, but with a tie snug about his neck that's such a deep bitten-heart red it looks like spilled blood. There's a tie pin tucked there, too, gold and glittering garnets twisted into an opera mask the likes of which Hob has never seen, and which his fingers itch to touch. Old instincts that he tamps down. New instincts that he doesn't: Dream is the most beautiful man he has ever seen, and his hands are slender and pale when they offer the brandy. His nails are perfectly manicured; Hob's hand, in comparison, is deeply tanned, scarred, worn. He thinks of taking Dream's hand in his own and kissing the signet ring there, with its massive fuck-off ruby. Paying obeisance that way, like they did for the oldest Families.
"Pleasure to meet you, Dream," is what he says, and swirls the brandy in its glass. He's not a stupid man. He's watched the drink be poured, but he'll wait a while longer, to see if Dream himself partakes. His reticence nets him a calculating smirk. He wonders how else he might make those pink lips grin.
"Mm. They say you are the luckiest man in London."
Hob nods, because this is true. They do say that, as he knows it.
"They say you cannot be killed."
"Well, there's a first time for everything," he says. "But it hasn't been in my cards so far."
Dream's little grin widens. "No one has spoken of your modesty."
"Aye, modest as the day is long."
Dream's tapered fingers run along the edge of the bottle of brandy, tracing the rim of the glass in restless circles. Hob follows the tight wind of them. Pictures taking one into his mouth and sucking. Christ, but he's in a mood tonight, and it's no one's fault but his own. He knows that danger gets him going. Knows he spends almost every job half-hard and wanting more. Yet he'd accepted the invitation from the most dangerous man in London without a second thought.
"I have need of a bodyguard, for a time," Dream says. His voice is a velvet purr, his eyes so blue they're nearly white, like kindled stars. Hob can hear his own blood rushing in his ears. "And I have heard of your talents. I would hire you, Hob Gadling. Price is no consequence."
"I'm not cheap," he warns, and Dream's finger ceases its hypnotic circling.
"Name it," Dream says, and Hob swallows. He gets the sense he could name any number of zeroes, and it would be accepted as easily as a comment on the weather.
He sets down his snifter and holds out his hand. Dream eyes it like it's a live snake, like he expects Hob to bite at any moment. After a long and breathless moment, the hand he had been resting on the bottle of brandy lifts as pale and shapely as a swan, and settles on Hob's palm.
"Pozvol' mne potselovat' tebya," he says softly, and bends his head to press a kiss to the ruby ring, feeling the facets with his lips, how his breath warms the lifeless stone the longer his mouth lingers. He's not looking at Dream, and so he does not see, but the hand flexes in his palm, and he hears a soft and fluttering sigh.
"Your terms are acceptable," Dream murmurs, and Hob smiles against the gem.
