Congrats on your sleep in!
Please to ignore if you're not feeling Sandman currently but man I'm craving the specific way you write Dream being a cosmically powerful dumbass. Maybe he's performing a possibly unnecessary rescue rampage for Hob, or setting Hob up to heroically rescue him but isn't quite conscious of his reasons.
Enjoy your break!
Quite obviously, Neil Gaiman can die in a fire at his earliest convenience and I still haven't decided what my level of engagement with Sandman will be going forward -- if I'll watch the new season or write any more major Dreamling fic, etc. Fuck you, Neil Gaiman. However, I did have this idea and could not resist. For what may be obvious reasons. It is set somewhere in my "Dreamling & the Delights of Academia" mini-verse for also obvious reasons.
There is some kind of disturbance in the intangible ether of the Dreaming: dark and violent, threatening and perilous, that catches Morpheus's attention from where he reposes in brooding gloom and makes him look up with a jerk. He cannot be sure from where or whence or why it originates, but it twists the particular soul-resonance that is only associated with one being in all of the universe -- indeed, one human, specifically. He does not know what Hob can be doing, out in the mortal world of London and Goldsmiths and the everyday minor (or indeed, not so minor) irritations of British academia to merit it, but Dream has learned to never underestimate his dearly beloved's talent for attracting trouble. If it isn't just the woes of grading papers and attending endless faculty meetings to be informed blue-in-the-face about the need to Prioritize Student Retention Due To Budget Concerns, then it might be -- monsters or angels or demons, any or all are likely when it comes to Dream of the Endless and his human consort -- no, no. He cannot take the chance.
With barely a barked word to Lucienne to inform her of his departure, Dream stands up in a whirl of wild dark hair and coat, takes a few steps, and leaves the Dreaming, thus to reappear on the lawn in front of the Goldsmiths history department and frighten several students, who utter squawks and throw dirty looks as they power-walk away. He does not care about them; all his attention is on Hob. Mouth dry, he vaults through the doors and races up the squeaky linoleum stairs, shouldering aside several more unsuspecting denizens. Their looks are somewhat more familiar, but equally dirty; they know who he is, having been exposed to his "social skills" at many, many faculty mixers and department events. Hob uses the quotation marks liberally. Dream doesn't see what the problem is.
He reaches the next floor and hurtles along it to Hob's office, drawing up his most fearsome manifestation of nightmare and horror, the great penumbrous shadow of starshine and abyss-dark, a snarling serpent's head and spreading black wings. Whatever is in that office and attempting to meddle with Hob Gadling will face the full force and terror of the Endless, the devastation and cessation of their dreamscape and all their hopes, their very selfhood and soul, and be reduced to a pile of trembling goo. If they dare -- his own beloved, the second half of his old and eternal soul -- if they dare --
Dream bursts through the door in said form of nightmare doom-death-serpent, ready for anything. It is only very belatedly, in the ensuing silence, punctuated only by a tiny whimper of terror from the doltish young student in the chair across from Hob's desk, that he realizes he might have miscalculated. Only a little.
"Pro.... Professor Gadling?" the student squeaks, trembling like a leaf. "What exactly is -- is that?"
Realizing his error, Dream has hastily returned himself to his more-or-less human form, though there still might be a stray proboscis sticking out somewhere. He smooths his hair and attempts to sound deep, regal, dignified. "I beg your pardon."
"Oh for the love of -- " Hob, for his part, has seen too many of these awesome spectral manifestations to evince the slightest terror or indeed to be any more impressed than he is with anything else about Dream, and the expression on his face is one of abject exasperation. "Bloody hell. Crucified Christ. Jordan, this is my husband, Morpheus. Morpheus, this is my student Jordan Binnings, first-year history seminar, and we've just been having a small chat about why he cannot, in fact, use ChatGPT to answer all his essay questions. Now why don't you scoot your overprotective ectomorphic backside out of here and let me do my job, eh, love?"
Morpheus opens his mouth. Morpheus shuts his mouth. Finally he manages, "There was such a disturbance -- you were in pain, you were thinking that this was the worst thing to ever happen -- "
"Because dealing with dozens of AI-generated papers of slop is in fact -- " Hob aims a wrathful glare at the unfortunate Jordan Binnings, who shrinks in his chair even further -- "the worst thing to ever happen in all of time and space, and I'm saying that, as you well know, with plenty of experience to judge by. I've got five more Students of Concern Academic Integrity Reports to fill out after this, because these hapless infants are fucking allergic to thinking for themselves, apparently. If I can get to the end of this module without having them all marched up for plagiarism, I swear -- "
At that, suddenly, he catches himself. Looks back and forth between Jordan and Morpheus with a speculative gleam in his eye. It's the look of Hob the medieval bandit, Hob the enterprising thief, Hob the merry-devil-may-care flouter of all ordinary rules -- even most terrifyingly, the University of London Code of Professional Conduct. "Y'know," he says slowly. "Now that you're here and all, you great gobbling oik, maybe you can be useful. You think?"
Morpheus is briefly lost as to what, exactly, he is supposed to do, until it dawns on him. Eager to atone for his marital faux pas, he once more assumes the dread eldritch form of the King of Nightmares and leans forward, blasting the quaking Binnings with the almighty horror of his eternal Endless presence. "YOU WILL NOT," he booms, sepulchral and stentorian, "USE ARTIFICIAL INTELLIGENCE IN YOUR ESSAYS EVER AGAIN, JORDAN GRAHAM BINNINGS. IT IS AN INSULT TO HUMAN CREATIVITY AND POTENTIAL, TO DREAMS AND WORDS, TO BOOKS WRITTEN AND UNWRITTEN. THIS YOU WILL DO, OR SUFFER NIGHT TERRORS UNCEASING UNTIL YOU COMPLY. THIS IS MY WORD. DO NOT TEST ME."
After Morpheus shrinks back into his normal self and he and Hob stand there, glaring at him in unison, Jordan nods furiously, gibbers his intention to never so much as sneeze in the direction of ChatGPT again so long as he lives, seizes his backpack, leaps to his feet, and races out. Well, if he files a report against Hob and/or Hob gets marched up before the Faculty Disciplinary Commission for failing to contribute to Student Retention: earned it.
"Thanks, you massive git," Hob says fondly, leaning over to kiss Morpheus on the cheek; Morpheus squirms and harrumphs, but not-so-secretly hugely enjoys it. "At least you're good for something."
Morpheus gives him a jaded look. "We have been married for over a century, Robert."
"Indeed," Hob says, cheerfully and remorselessly. "So about time you coughed up for one useful thing. Now, then. Scoot. All those Student Integrity Concern Reports or whatever the fucking things are called won't write themselves. But if any of the others get too shirty, I will call you back. You have my word on that."
Morpheus raises an eyebrow at him. Hob raises one right back. That, indeed, is as much as the almighty King of Dreams can ever win an argument with his ferociously stubborn mortal husband. So Morpheus takes the hint, nods again with as much icy dignity as he can possibly muster, and departs.
(He does not tell Lucienne a word about it when he returns. Not one.)
