#finally managed to corral these bunnies into some semblance of order

[darthstitch]

fic (history class cryptids): how do you justify I'm mystified by the ways of your heart

Hob Gadling likes to cook.

In the beginning, it was, obviously, a survival skill. He still has memories of helping his Mam prepare the rabbit he'd caught for dinner for a tasty stew or a pie. He remembered walking into the woods with his sisters to look for wild vegetables and herbs, even mushrooms, Mam having taught them what was safe to eat.

"Old family recipes these are," she would tell them. "Passed on from me own mum and from me gran." Her brown eyes, the same ones Hob had, would twinkle. "Did ye know that it was the little folk who'd taught our family to cook? Sensible creatures they are, knew the important things were a warm hearth, a good meal and a full belly. They'd eat seven times a day, they would."

Seven times a day was bliss for all of them, when sometimes they could barely scrape up three.

And she'd gather them round, Hob and his sisters, with even the baby listening in rapture from his cradle, as she made dinner, all of them helping.

Hob still knows how to make his mother's best stews and pie. A fine spring day was usually the best time to make them.

Another kitchen-related memory was being with his dear Eleanor, who'd learned to cook at her Gran's knee. The scents of certain spices and herbs were enough to send him back to Eleanor's kitchen, of her stories about how Gran had perhaps charmed her Granddad with a certain dish and how Eleanor would be serving that for dinner, a toast to that redoubtable lady's memory. How Hob had laughed at the naughty twinkle in his wife's eyes, caught her by the waist to her not completely indignant squeals, silenced her with kisses that she had eagerly welcomed.

Their Robyn had been born nine months after that dinner, to the very day.

Eleanor had hoped to pass her Gran's recipes own to her children, to her own daughter but she had been absolutely delighted that her husband had wanted to learn everything as well.

As it turned out, Hob would be the only one to remember the recipes now. And the stories.

Eleanor would not be the last cook that Hob would learn from. There was Yasoda, with her naan and her wonderfully fragrant curries. It had been one of those times he did not regret being a hired sword, protecting their merchant family from thieves and brigands as they traveled on the Silk Road and on the seas.

Hob had also spent some time in New York, with his war buddies Fredo and Michael, who'd shared with him the best Italian dishes they'd learned from their Mama who had originally come from Sicily. There was also Ruyi and her family recipes from Canton and Szechuan, just before she'd been carried off to the Forbidden City to be an Emperor's bride. And he'd been there in Japan, of course, joining Kenshin and his family as they had all discovered sukiyaki for the first time at the Akabeko, as it had just been a recent invention for Japan's Meiji era.

Hob remembered them all, every tale, every memory, each time he decided to cook something he'd learned from them.

And to be honest, that was really how he went about feeding Dream of the Endless.

Unavoidably detained, Dream had said at first, when he'd finally shown up at the New Inn, 33 years and a few odd days late (Hob wasn't counting them to the minute, obviously not). Those beautiful twilight eyes had dimmed and Hob knew all the signs of trauma and distress when he saw them. It had been Dream's turn to tell him his own tale, dragged out at first one word at a time, beginning with his own name.

Dream of the Endless. Morpheus. Lord of Dreams and Nightmares.

(Hob would learn about the Prince of Stories title much later, but that was a tale for another day.)

Over a hundred years spent naked in that glass cage, without air, without water to drink or food to eat, with nothing except for the slow torment that his own mind could devise for him. Unavoidably detained, with the barest hint from Dream himself that somehow Dream had deserved it for his own stubbornness and pride.

Hob didn't know what infuriated him more.

He'd taken one look at his friend, who had looked even more gaunt and thin than he'd been the last time they'd seen each other, and had to visibly restrain himself from dragging Dream into his kitchen, sit him at the dining counter, and make him something to eat.

Feeding Dream was an alternative from trying to find Roderick Burgess' grave, so Hob could dig up the rotten bastard to bring him back to life and kill him all over again. What? Hob had favors he could call in, even if he mostly kept away from any else that smacked of the supernatural and the occult.

"I can survive without sustenance," Dream suddenly said, watching Hob's hands clench on the table. "And those who had me imprisoned have been suitably punished."

"I'm that obvious, eh?" Hob's lips twitched into a wry smile.

"Your daydreams were a little…colorful."

"God's teeth, man, warn a fellow before you do that."

"I do not make it a habit to peer into your dreamscape, Hob Gadling. Only that they're a little … loud … at the moment." Those blue eyes darkened just a little bit, the color of the ocean under a moonlit sky (God's wounds, Hob was turning into ruddy fucking Shaxberd, horrible prose and all). "Also rather bloodthirsty."

Hob huffed. "Well, that I'm not sorry for, duck." Christ, he'd barely swallowed back the urge to actually call him love, a word that was just aching to trip itself out of his careless tongue. "It's either the sword or the kitchen knife and since I can't avenge you anymore, I'll just feed you instead."

"I have eaten something since I've gotten out," Dream protested. But Hob almost had him, he could tell.

"This would be…?"

Dream looked properly abashed. "A bucket of fried chicken from a dream. It said… KFC, I think? I was not inclined to be discerning at that point."

Hob facepalmed. "No. NOPE. Not fucking dreamspace KFC. Instead, I'm going to cook you something. Maybe some congee to start, the way I'd learned it from Ruyi or she'd haunt me and say I bring shame to all her ancestors if I don't do it justice."

"And who is Ruyi?"

And that was how Hob Gadling, entirely by accident, discovered how to get Dream of the Endless to actually eat something. A story, along with whatever he was cooking, and watching Dream adorably wrinkle his nose before trying whatever it was that Hob set before him.

He liked the congee, redolent with ginger and green onion.

Soon enough, it became their own thing. Dream would visit, Hob would make him something and there would be a story to go with it. It soon became shared tasks in the kitchen, handing His Darkness a kitchen knife and something to chop. Or maybe it was dishes to wash and dry.

Hob was very pleased when his darling friend soon lost the gaunt look, color dusting across those fine cheekbones.

Somewhere along the way, duck and friend became love, dove and darling. In between curries and fragrant rice, pies and sorbets, stews and soups, there were kisses exchanged, gently chiding his owne hertis rote to stop that nuzzling at his neck or dinner would be ruined, but oh, gods, fine, yes, love, let me turn off the stove before we burn the house down and let me kiss you proper, hm?

Here were more kitchen memories to make, a tiny precious smile to coax out of his beloved, delighted laughter when Dream presented him with his own culinary creations, ridiculously proud to have mastered this skill as well, love in every bite.

There were new stories for them now, in Hob's own kitchen. And they'd be creating more, endlessly, if both of them had their way.

They would.

-end-

Footnote the First: Obviously, Hob's family had absolutely no relationship to the Little Folk who hid in comfortable holes in the ground, ate seven delicious meals a day, and had small magics that would help them hide from the Big Folk in a pinch. Whatever are you talking about?

Footnote the Second: It must be stated that Dream of the Endless took to domesticity like a duck to water, despite popular opinion. It drove his sibling to utter frustration, all that delicious want and need that had been bottled up with its matching plunge to despair and grief once thwarted, was now simply answered with equal fervor, causing a certain contentment and joy that had not been seen in millennia. It was nauseating. To say nothing of this whole fandom that had sprung around their ridiculous broody older brother, who was supposedly not the beauty of the family! And to top it all off, this fandom of desire-crazed humanity had been caused by their own grandchild, who shared her uncle's affinity for stories! This was an offense that could not be borne!

Footnote the Third:

Obviously, Hob Gadling has heard of Twilight. Who hasn't?

(Fine. He read the first book. It was not high literature but who didn't enjoy silly romantic stupid fluff every now and then?)

So he gets all the Edward Cullen jokes his students make when they first clap eyes on Dream. It's hilarious. Of course he thinks ol' Eddie-boy doesn't hold a candle to his darling.

And then, for once, jolly old England decides that there is SUCH A THING as sunlight and he gets to see Dream in the glorious sunshine.

Oh.

Oh.

OH.

Goddamn Eddie Cullen can keep his sparkles; Dream of the Endless glowed in the sunshine. And obviously, that was excuse enough for Professor Hob Gadling to steal some kisses.

Professor "Thomas Murphy" would like to point out that there was no need for kiss-stealing, as he was perfectly happy to bestow them upon his ridiculous husband whenever he wanted.

Footnote the Fourth:

Even Dream of the Endless needs to rest.

Once, he used to retreat to his own private chambers in the Castle. A bed, sheets softer and silkier than a whisper, coolness and calm and peace within. Alone and with no one to make demands upon him, no duty or burden to carry.

He contented himself with that, for a very long time.

Now, he find himself stumbling into the Waking, instinctively setting foot into a place that had been built for him by loving hands, where offerings of flowers and food and wine had been provided, where songs and stories were shared.

Dream seeks out a certain warm presence, smiles when he is coaxed to sit down. There are arms to hold him, kisses pressed to his hair, to his nose and lips. He nuzzles into a familiar scent, presses a kiss over a lovemark he had made just that morning.

"Hullo, love."

"Hello, husband mine."

Dream is home.