Chapter Text
Sometimes, Hob wondered why he ever chose to be a history teacher.
It wasn't like he needed the money, or didn't have any other choice. Smart investments and the inn he owned (gloriously named The New Inn) kept him more than comfortable. In fact, if you told him a decade ago that he'd be back at school again, he'd call you mad.
Maybe it was his love for history. Or the inquisitive little shits he had to teach. Or his ongoing joke on the English Department, swapping the piles of Shakespearean literature with Kit Marlowe's instead. (That's a story for another day.)
He was, and has always been, a pretty ordinary guy, he thought. He preferred it that way. It was easier to open up to the world and its unknown intricacies. History was currently being written, whether people liked it or not, and Hob was hell bent on staying for the ride, as long as he could.
He loved history. Yes, that was it, and medieval history was a favorite. Life, though? He loved it even more. It felt weird to admit, with all the cynicism and human failures across the years.
Plus, while Hob had always been a chipper guy, it wasn't like he never experienced tragedy. A little too much, in fact. He was barely in his mid-thirties - and perhaps it was the years of reading, learning, and now teaching history - but he felt older. Centuries older, sometimes.
Most of his family was gone by the time he entered university. Illnesses, accidents, or just the nature of time. Death was normal, he supposed, and perhaps more normal through some bloodlines than others, so maybe his sheer, continued existence was a sign, although he didn't really believe in anything much.
His twenties - those were truly something - was a whirlwind. A college kid left with a bit of money was never a good recipe. With the countless nights of drinking with friends, blabbering about nonsensical, philosophical nothings and swiving women (and not just women), it was miraculous that he'd graduated. Top of the class, too.
Then came Eleanor. And Robyn.
God.
It was unfair, really. Just as he left school for good (and for its painfully inaccurate representations of history, he must add), settled down with someone he truly connected with, became a father to the brightest little boy - he was a broken man at twenty-five.
Death had to be intentionally missing him, right?
Nevermind Death, though. He knew moping would do no good. Eleanor wouldn't have wanted to see that. No one would've, especially himself.
The next 10-ish years stabilized a bit. Growing older did that. And Hob opened himself up to more love and more people, although they never blossomed as they did before. The past few years were relatively uneventful, but he didn't feel lonely per se. Things come, things go.
Hob stared at the worksheets of his Year Eleven class he was grading. Well, that wasn't going anywhere. Glanced at the empty glasses on his table. Then the sheets again.
Ah, fuck it. It was Friday night. A third drink wouldn't hurt.
He looked up, ready to approach the bar for another beer. Sean was manning it today, and they'd just hired a new waitress. Perhaps he could properly show her around after the shop closed up.
But someone entirely different caught his eye.
A man in an irritatingly long black coat strolled in the inn. It was jarring, with the earthier browns everyone else was donning in the crowded pub - it was autumn, after all. The pale skin and glaringly blue eyes didn't help.
Surprisingly, he chose to plop on the stool right next to Hob’s. Maybe plop wasn’t the right word - more a graceful, but nervous perch. And perhaps not that surprising either. The inn was pretty full right now.
He finally spoke. ‘This seat isn’t taken, is it?’
‘Huh? Oh, uh, no.’ Hob wasn’t really expecting that deep, baritone voice. ‘Just me today!’ He added, a little too enthusiastically.
The man gave a half nod.
‘I’m Robert Gadling,’ he said. ‘Usually just Hob. I kinda, uh, own this place, actually.’
He decided against reaching out for a handshake. It didn’t suit the stranger’s style.
Oddly (or not), the man didn’t offer his name.
‘I’m waiting for my sister,’ he said, instead. ‘Her name’s Death.’
Hob paused a bit. Was he hearing things? Was it Deb? Or Beth?
‘She goes by Death,’ the stranger repeated, as if he could read his mind.
Hm. Hob would’ve remembered a name like that.
‘Well,’ he said. ‘How about I get you a drink while you wait. On the house.’
Hob wasn’t even sure if he drank. But the man clasped his hands together, his voice low but softer. ‘Thank you.’
Then, peering at the papers still in front of Hob, he raised an eyebrow. ‘You’re a professor?’
‘History teacher. Secondary school, not too far from here.’ He stacked up the sheets and slid it into his bag. ‘And you?’
‘Psychology. I research.’ And that was it. ‘I do enjoy a bit of history as well, though.’
Hob grinned. ‘Oh, really?’
-
The conversation was unexpectedly fruitful.
Hob didn’t really speak about history outside of school. There was the history department, of course, mostly composed of older teachers who weren’t nearly as passionate about medieval Europe as him. The students, too - Mr Gadling was the fun teacher, so they were more than happy debating history with him, but this? This was unprecedented.
The stranger listened. And Hob could tell - whenever he grew worried that he was boring the man, he responded like he was equally invested in his long winded ramblings about the Hundred Years’ War or the invention of chimneys.
He was another couple sentences in about the Black Death, when a familiar face in a dark tank top approached the pair. She swung by every now and then - she was a friend of Hob’s, she was-
‘Hob Gadling and my little brother,’ she beamed. ‘Didn’t know you were friends.’
Hold on.
'Dee was short for Death?' Hob exclaimed.
'Family nickname,' the Stranger replied, like it was like Bill or Liz or Millie or something, and not Death. ‘Hello, sister.’
Dee- Death shrugged. 'I mean, Hob's short for Robert.'
Hob felt like she was intentionally missing his point.
Then she pointed at her brother.
'And Dream right there. I suppose he just used his real name, though, if he bothered to introduce himself at all,' Death smiled knowingly. Hob glanced back at him expectantly.
'I'm... Morpheus,' Dream revealed, although it was a little strained. Hob sort of got it. What type of name was that? Until it clicked.
'Like the Greek god? The god of, well,' Hob was explaining something the two siblings clearly knew. 'Alright. If you have any more brothers or sisters, I'm interested in what their names are. I'd be bloody disappointed if there's a John or Emily in there.'
Dream gave the slightest hint of a smile (Hob hoped, at least), and looked at him.
'Right then, boys, I've got an early day tomorrow.' Death finally broke the silence. 'Although you, Dream, better not stay up late again. Lucienne will let me know.'
Her brother gave a disgruntled hm. ‘Then why did you invite me out here?’
Death gave an exasperated, albeit loving sigh. ‘Just wanted you to get out more, I suppose. Hob’s nice to talk to.’
Hob felt like he was intruding a bit with their exchange. ‘Well, I mean…’
'You lot enjoy.' Her grin was almost mischievous. Reminded Hob of his late sister.
She went on her way with a 'thanks, Hob!' as she reached the door, as usual.
'Anytime!' Hob yelled back, and he sat back down, once again alone with his new acquaintance.
Dream was a little flushed. Turns out, he did drink - his second glass was empty. And Hob still couldn't get his head around the large, dark overcoat at this time of year. The older sister thing probably added to that.
'You good?' He leaned in a bit. The inn hadn't quieted down, and wouldn't be for a bit.
'Just kind of... loud, and a lot, in here,' Dream mumbled. 'But I do enjoy your company, don't get me wrong. Sorry about Death.'
Hob responded with a small oh, and the suggestion that came out of his mouth wasn't something even he expected.
'My flat's just upstairs. Wanna visit?'
Sonnet 29
When, in disgrace with fortune and men’s eyes,
I all alone beweep my outcast state,
And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries,
And look upon myself and curse my fate,
Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,
Featured like him, like him with friends possessed,
Desiring this man’s art and that man’s scope,
With what I most enjoy contented least;
Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising,
Haply I think on thee, and then my state,
(Like to the lark at break of day arising
From sullen earth) sings hymns at heaven’s gate;
For thy sweet love remembered such wealth brings
That then I scorn to change my state with kings.