#hob: why does nobody truly believe that i don't want to die? come on now

[cuubism]

Enchantment

"Hob," Death greets, and Hob has never heard her voice go tentative like that - though it is, as always, still friendly and kind. "You called for me?"

"Hey, hon," Hob says, or croaks, throat dry and overused. "Yeah, I did, but I meant it in more of a do you think you could help me get out of this situation sort of way, not like, you know." He makes a slicing motion across his throat with his free hand. "Off me."

Death chuckles, crouching before him. "Yes, I see that now. I admit I was concerned, for a moment."

"To be fair, this is not exactly not concerning," Hob says, gesturing to his bound wrist, the frankly alarming amount of blood all over his body, and the situation more generally. "But what's one more dungeon rescue among friends?"

Death touches the binding on his wrist with light fingers, considering. Try as he might, despite having one hand and both legs free and considerable experience in picking locks, Hob has not been able to get it off. It must be magical in some way. "You did not call for Dream?"

Hob sighs. "Listen--" he starts, and Death snorts.

"Didn't want to be responsible for the leveling of the entire street?"

"Dream has not exactly--" Hob shifts and winces, that cuff is starting to burn under Death's touch-- "proven himself capable of moderation."

"And he won't, if the past billions of years are anything to go by," Death agrees, with the fond exasperation of an older sister.

She leans in close, studying the metal chaining his arm to the wall. "You couldn't have known, but I think you've prevented more than that in calling me instead."

"What's that thing say?" Hob asks. "I couldn't make out the language. Looked old."

Death runs her finger along the runes encircling the cuff. Hob winces again as the burning sensation flares. "It's a spell. A trap for Dream. Drawing on your connection to him."

"What?"

"I don't think it would've been powerful enough to work as intended." Death's lips purse in displeasure. "But that doesn't mean it would have no effect."

"What effect?" Hob asks, sick at the thought of Dream snared in another trap.

"As soon as he touched the binding with the intent to free you, it would have hooked into his power; the more power he used to pull away, the tighter it would have wound, like a finger trap. It is an enchantment that..." Death hesitates, "draws on emotion."

"Oh." Hob scrubs a hand through his ruined, greasy hair. "Fuck."

"It is fortunate that you called me," Death says grimly.

"It's not going to hurt you, is it?"

"No. But I doubt this will be comfortable."

Hob braces himself. "How will you break it?"

"All things have an end," Death tells him, pressing her fingertips to the runes. Hob feels each touch through the metal like a brand. "Even non-living things die. I've found the loose thread of that end, and now I will unravel it."

She twists the cuff around his wrist counterclockwise, and Hob yelps, cringing back against the wall, not entirely sure she hasn't burned his hand right off. The enchantment flares brighter than the sun, then disappears, leaving smoke behind.

She undoes the cuff easily after that.

Hob's wrist is intact, though terribly burned. That'll take a while to feel any better, unfortunately. He holds it against his chest. "Thanks, hon. I owe you a pint."

Death laughs. "No, you don't, but I won't turn it down. Do you want a ride home? I'm heading that way anyway."

"That's disturbing to think about," Hob tells her. "But sure."

He's going to have to do some cleanup here later. But for now, he'd just like to get out of this blasted place.

~~~~

"Hob Gadling."

Dream appears in his living room a few hours later, when Hob is ensconced on the couch with his laptop, trying to figure out how he's going to clean up this whole mess without alerting the authorities. Dream looks stricken, and Hob feels abruptly bad about not calling for him, even though that had been a fortunate bit of foresight, in the end.

"Hey, love." Hob sets the computer aside, and Dream comes over to him, sitting lightly on the couch at his side. He takes Hob's bandaged wrist in his hands. "Sorry about all that."

"Sorry?" Dream echoes, voice tipping up a note in what Hob can only read as the infliction of a wound. "I would have come for you."

"I know you would." Hob lays his hand over Dream's. It adds uncomfortable pressure to the burns but he doesn't let go. "I just didn't want--"

But it wasn't really about maintaining the peace at all, was it? It wasn't about Dream's overreaction, not deep down. It was only about Dream.

"Didn't want you hurt," Hob says quietly. "Not again."

Dream's jaw tightens. "Do not decide what risks I should take."

"They wanted you, did Death tell you that part, too?"

"She did. Do you think so low of me as to expect that would change my decision?"

I don't think low of you at all, Hob thinks. "That's not what I meant. Death just seemed the more... practical... choice at the time," he says, which is a weak argument, but Hob stands by his decision. Dream is safe, not trapped, and that's what matters. Outcome over intent, he's learned.

"Practical," Dream repeats. "Yes. I see my presence is unneeded. I will--"

Hob catches him by the wrist before he can stand. "Don't. Please."

"Considering you are no longer in peril, and do not wish for my help besides, I fail to see what purpose I am serving here," Dream says, still tensed like he means to jump up.

"No purpose needed," Hob says. "I just don't want to leave it like that. I know you're upset. And I know, I know, I would have been upset too if you were in trouble and didn't ask for my help, so don't even bother saying that--"

"You would?" says Dream.

Hob looks at him, both eyebrows raised. Yeah, obviously.

Dream raises a single eyebrow in return as if this is not, indeed, obvious.

Funny, Hob thinks, that silent communication. Hob is a talkative person by nature -- too talkative, more often than not -- but Dream is not and so Hob has learned to read him like this. The confusion in the way his brow pinches tighter, the way his body settles just so back into the couch, listening again, no longer on the verge of flight.

Surely he knows. Surely there's no way he doesn't know.

"I'd want you to call for me," Hob says. "I wouldn't want to leave you trapped."

"This was a trap," Dream says.

Exactly. "Did Death describe the enchantment?"

"Try to escape and tangle yourself further," Dream says. "Yes. I understand."

Do you? Hob thinks. Do you know why it would have worked on you?

They haven't actually gotten there yet. Hob can feel it approaching, though, with the inevitability of the moon reaching its perigee above the earth. He hasn't felt the need to rush it. Each careful step Dream takes towards him is a gift.

"There are many such traps in this world," Dream says, studying Hob.

Each careful step is a gift, and Hob hates the thought of that progress being used against Dream, those painstakingly untied feelings employed to trap him all over again. He can picture Dream tangled and bound and trying to pull away from him, and he hates it so much that he makes probably the exact opposite decision he should make, takes Dream's face lightly between his hands, tosses their careful timeline out the window and kisses him, right there and then.

Dream makes a surprised sound against his mouth, which means he really must be telling the truth about not looking in on Hob’s dreams because Hob has not been subtle in his dreaming. Dream wraps careful hands around Hob’s wrists, once again bracketing where the cuff had burned him. Holding Hob to him. His kiss is sweet with just a nip of fire, which is what all moments with Dream have felt like since his return, really.

Dream leans against his cheek when they part, hair brushing Hob’s temple. “When my sister told me you had called for her, it— I believe you would phrase it as ‘gave me a heart attack.’”

“I’m sorry, love.” Hob runs a hand through his hair, and Dream leans into the touch. “I would never do that to you, okay? Even if I did choose Death – which I won’t, but – I wouldn’t just disappear on you without saying anything. Alright?”

“Very well,” Dream agrees, though Hob doesn’t think he really believes it. Truly believing in Hob’s relentless commitment to life is a tall ask for Dream at the moment, but it’s okay, Hob has plenty of time to convince him.

“Believe it,” he says, and kisses Dream again.