Chapter 1: Prologue
Chapter Text
April 2022
The motel room smells like mouldy cheese. It probably hasn’t been properly cleaned out in years, he guesses. He wouldn’t be surprised if someone left some rotten food hiding in the shitty drawers. Thankfully, he isn’t planning on staying there for too long. Just enough for him to find a cheap apartment somewhere close to the downtown sector of the city. Then, it would probably be smart to find a job. He’s used up most of his savings preparing to come back to this place.
Hob deposits his bag by the door. It was a good thing that the receptionist at the front didn’t ask too many questions about the black duffle bag he carried with him. She probably doesn’t get paid enough to care about what patrons do and don’t do in these rooms.
You’d think a multinational motel chain could afford to pay their employees enough. Then again, the fact that they don’t is probably why these hypothetical CEOs are billionaires.
Hob fights the urge to throw himself onto the bed. He’s beyond drained. The drive up from New York was long, and he didn’t get much sleep last night.
(Too many conflicting thoughts about coming back).
(Coming home ).
Ignoring the siren call of the bed (he’ll have to check it for bed bugs and other surprises), Hob makes his way to the bathroom, desperate for a steaming shower. He slowly pulls off his clothing, careful not to aggravate the cuts and bruises on his body (a parting gift from his “friends” in New York), and climbs into the shower.
The sounds coming out of his mouth once the water hits him border on orgasmic. Christ, he nearly feels as though he’s climaxing. He’s had better showers, no doubt about that. Hell, this shower isn’t even as good as some of the shitty showers he’s had back in New York. The thing is, he’s been needing to shower off since leaving the USA. The stink of that city followed him all the way back home. He moans loudly as the water sluices down his body, burning the cuts and scrapes on his back.
Fitzgerald nearly hadn’t allowed him to leave, having his people posted near every bridge leading out of the city. Hob had been a thorn in his side for the last three years, crashing in on his business dealings, and sabotaging his operations. As much as he hated the slimy bastard, the war Hob was fighting in New York wasn’t his own. He was repaying a debt to a friend who had helped him when he needed it the most. All Ethan wanted in return was Hob’s help to take down one of New York’s biggest crime lords. Hob went about doing what he always did… survive .
Now, back in Montville, Hob is more than ready to wage his own war. One that he’s dedicated the last five years of his life preparing for.
Once the shower water turns cold, Hob knows it’s time to step out and do the best he can to get some sleep tonight. After changing into a pair of soft track pants and a grey Henley shirt, he opens his black duffle bag, shuffling aside some of his more dangerous tools, and pulls out a small ultraviolet light. Turning off the room lights, he does a quick inspection of the place. No, he’s not squeamish at all (in his line of work, he can’t afford to be), but even he’s got standards, and he’s not willing to sleep on someone else’s bodily fluids, old or not.
While a few suspicious stains appear on the floor and on the walls — Christ’s sake — thankfully there aren’t any on the bed. It isn’t the most comfortable bed, and the sheets are threadbare, but it’s clean, and that’s the best Hob can hope for.
Because he’s paranoid about everything, he picks up a small pistol stored in his bag, and hides it under the pillow. Just in case his escape from New York wasn’t as clean as he thought it was.
In the quiet, dark night, Hob’s thoughts and long-hidden memories start to haunt him. He should be dead, and technically, according to the State of New York, he is. Well, Ronan Gallagher is dead anyway. Robert “Hob” Gadling disappeared from Montville five years ago, and he intends to remain that way, until his business here is finished. And in that time, he will either go down in a blaze of righteousness, or —and this is unlikely— succeed in his mission and bring peace to the demons chasing him.
He thinks about soft, golden hair, curling around his fingertips. Of a plump, rosey-red smile, with a touch of lipstick awkwardly stuck on teeth. Of kind, warm, hazel eyes that would flash between green and brown depending on how the light hit them. How she cried tears of joy when the pregnancy test came back positive. How she would laugh at his jokes, or when he would make a complete fool of himself. The way she would always ask him about his studies, or about his courses, or about the latest book he was reading.
Hob pops two melatonin capsules into his mouth, dry-swallowing them, before turning off the light and drifting into another restless night.
Bang-Bang-Bang-Bang!
“You better open this fucking door before I knock it down myself!”
Hob startles awake, quickly grabbing the gun next to him and aiming it at the wall. The persistent loud banging outside his door continues, but he’s still alone in his room. He quietly sneaks out of bed and slowly tip-toes to the door. He tries to look out the window, in order to get an idea of the person bashing on his door, but they are obscured from his view. Taking deep breaths to calm his speeding heart, he reaches out for the door knob, mind already racing with the different possibilities of who it could be.
Immediately, he thinks about Fitzgerald and how he could very well have contacts here, and it would only take a couple of hours for him to get his people right outside—
“Hobs, I am not fucking joking. Open this door—”
Wait. He knows that voice. Placing the gun on the nightstand, he opens the door to meet face-to-face with a petite, fiery-eyed friend he has not seen since he first left.
“Jo?” he gasps out. She doesn’t bother answering him, shoving him aside and entering his motel room. Hob closes the door and turns to face her.
Johanna Constantine looks different from the girl he knew back when he was happy. When meeting with her and Rach for drinks was a holy tradition from their University days. The young woman standing in front of him right now, with her arms crossed, a stony, cold glare on her face, is someone else. She’s a colder, harsher Jo.
“How the fuck did you find me, Jo?”
“It’s so funny, Robert. How easily you forgot about me when you decided to fucking up and leave without so much as a word. How you just left me and Ra— your friends to play vigilante in fucking New York !”
Hob freezes, hand twitching towards the gun still laying on the table. She was not supposed to know about that. He had been so careful to cover any and all of his tracks in order to prevent this very thing from happening. So that someone from his past wouldn’t show up, begging him to go back to the ways things used to be. Especially when it was clear that they never would.
“How do you know about that?”
Jo laughs ruefully. “Like I said,” she says, pacing the room. “You seem to have forgotten who exactly I am.”
Hob inches closer to his gun. He doesn’t want to use it. Not on Jo, never on Jo . But he has come too far to be stopped here, and Johanna could have been involved with anyone since he’s been gone. As far as he knows, she could be an associate of Fitzgerald.
“Oh for God’s sake, Hobs. You can stop twitching.” She nods towards the gun, and to Hob moving ever closer to it. He stops in his tracks, having been caught and called out.
Johanna sighs, taking small steps towards him, like someone approaching a feral dog (he may as well be one). “I’m not going to out you to that bastard. But I am a Constantine. Even though I renounced my family’s shitty and seedy behaviour, I still know things.”
Hob drags his hand over his eyes. Un-fucking-believable. No, he did not forget about Jo’s family, the infamous Constantine’s, one of Montville’s oldest mob families. While many of them have decided to become clean and step away from the Family Business, some of the more powerful members have made sure to keep their eyes on other families, and their hands in other businesses.
Jo’s mother is one of those powerful people.
“Let me guess. You asked your mother to keep tabs on me?”
“Don’t insult me. I haven’t spoken to that hag since before you even left. I don’t talk to any of them, except my uncle John.”
That name catches Hob’s interest. He’d met Johanna’s uncle a few times. He was one of those semi-shady characters. One who wasn’t afraid to get his hands dirty for what he believed in, and for the people he loved.
The type of man Hob had become in New York.
“You sent John after me.” He says.
Johanna nods. “John’s got connections, and people who would not dare cross him. He saw how you were after—”
“Yeah, I get it, Jo. So what, he’s been stalking me for the last five years? He didn’t have other things to do?”
“Only for the first few months. Then I took over.”
Hob slowly sinks into one of the hideously upholstered loveseats. So that’s what had changed in her. She had become what her uncle was. A ruthless tracker, dead set on collecting bounty after bounty, keeping her eyes on the activities of the city’s underground, and her ears on the ground. Always planning five steps ahead.
She had wanted to be a social worker at one point. She and Rachel had had all these plans and ideas on how to make things better for kids who were stuck in terrible family situations.
They were going to be happy.
“What did Rachel say about that—”
“Rachel left as soon as I stopped caring about happy endings and fairytales,” Jo says, looking away from him. There’s a longer story there, but Hob won’t ask her about it. If they ever get back to the friendship they had, maybe she’ll share it with him.
“Okay. I know how you found me and how you know about New York. Now, tell me, why are you here?”
“Aside from wanting to kick your ass, you mean?” Jo pulls out a chair and sits, facing Hob.
“I could do without the threats, if you don’t mind.”
“You deserve worse than a couple of half-assed threats.”
“Yeah, and I feel that every fucking day of my life. Are we done?”
“Not in the slightest, I’m afraid.” Johanne reaches for her large, black bag. She pulls out a large folder. There is a label on the front, with the name Connolly written on it.
Liam Connolly .
Hob closes his eyes, squeezing his fists so tight, he risks drawing blood in his palms. The memories come crashing down all around him.
Bright, hazel eyes turning dull and vacant.
Pale skin covered in crimson.
Warm hands turned cold.
A demon grinning as he turns away, confident in a job well done .
He should have made sure they’d both died that day.
Johanna reaches over and places her hand over Hob’s, momentarily calming him down. He looks up at her eyes, and for a second they look almost warm again. Of course she would have gathered as much information on Connolly as she could. Out of their friends, she was the only person who understood what Hob went through that day, back in 2017. El was her best friend, after all.
“Hobs, I’ve been tracking him. It’s why I asked my uncle to teach me everything he knows and why he agreed to do so.” She gives his hand a hard squeeze.
Hob stares at the manila folder. He wants to grab it and run away, wants to go after Connolly and end this once and for all.
“You can’t do this yourself, Hobs. You’ve been so fucking lucky in New York, but you had people looking out for you. You don’t have that here.”
“I don’t want you getting yourself caught up in this shit.”
“Fuck that. I chose to throw myself into this shit the day we buried El.”
Hob looks away, as tears spill over. Unbelievable. Not even a whole day back and he’s already overwhelmed with memories and emotions.
“What I’m thinking. We use my skills in tracking and my contacts to slowly take down the empire Connolly’s been building up. We do what you did in New York with Fitzgerald’s operation.”
Hob quickly wipes away his tears and nods. He hates that Jo is involving herself in his war, but at the same time, he can’t deny that she’s got a point. He will not be able to survive this on his own. And if he has to do this with someone, the best person to have by his side is Johanna Constantine.
“Alright. Where do we start?”
Johanna stands up and throws her handbag over her shoulder, and gestures to Hob’s duffle bag.
“We start by getting you settled in my place. I need a roommate and it’ll be easier for us to handle our operations if we live together.”
Hob picks up his duffle bag in one hand, and rubs his brow bone with the other. This is so fucking typical of Johanna. She’d always been like that, charging at the forefront to take care of everything. She’d always been a woman of action, not stopping to take a breath, especially if there was something important to be done. When Hob and Eleanor were planning their wedding, Jo was the one who helped them get organised. Even though she hated all the frilly, romantic nonsense, she’d been the one lighting fires under both their asses to book the vendors they’d wanted.
When El died, and Hob was in the hospital fighting for his own life, Jo had made sure to plan the funeral and kept tabs on the investigation. She’d been the one leading the charge to save The White Horse , keeping it alive until Hob could decide what to do with the land.
She’d been the one to convince the hospital staff to let Hob go to his wife’s funeral.
He’d be stupid not to follow her wherever she’d go. For God’s sake, she cared enough to keep up with his activities in New York and drag him out of his shitty motel room not even a day after coming back home.
Johanna waits outside while Hob checks out of the hotel and pays the remainder of his fee in cash. He thanks the tired young girl at the front desk, leaving her a small tip.
A silver Mazda CX-5 is parked next to the shitty car he’d stolen after escaping New York. Johanna is leaning against it, playing with her keys. She waits patiently as Hob unloads whatever bags he’d left in the trunk of the car (not much; a few more weapons and tools he’d kept with him, as well as some books he’d acquired). Once he gets settled, she starts the car up and peels out of the motel parking lot.
“So, where’s your apartment? I was going to look for a spot near Notre-Dame--”
“That place is stupidly overpriced. No, do you remember that abandoned building near the docks?”
“Yeah, I do. It wasn’t that far from—”
Jo grabs his hand and squeezes it. “I was able to buy it. Set up a small pub and hired someone to run and manage it while I work on my own shit upstairs.”
Hob’s breath catches in his throat. “You bought a pub?”
They stop at a red light, and Jo turns to him, and for the first time since she forced her way back into his life, there are tears in her eyes.
“I couldn’t let The White Horse die like it did. That was our place. Mine and yours and El’s.”
Hob sighs and leans back against his seat, his eyes misting as he stares out the window at the passing lights.
Like a phoenix born from the ashes of its previous life, he too is returning to his former life, stronger and more ruthless than before. And from the bones and blood of everything he lost, he will have his revenge, once and for all.
Or die trying.
Chapter 2: you learned how to fight, how to starve, how to survive
Chapter Text
September 2023
“Is it worth it, can you even hear me?
Standing with your spotlight on me
Not enough to feed the hungry
I'm tired, and I've felt it for a while now.”
Hob’s alarm blares through his phone’s speakers. He groans, clumsily fumbling over his nightstand to turn it off. If Johanna wakes up because of it, he’ll never hear the end of it. They’d both had a long night and at least one of them should get a good night’s rest. Since Hob is the one most likely to be restless, he ends up sacrificing his mornings in favour of work.
Even if the work is opening and running the pub for the early morning breakfast rush.
Hob carefully climbs out of bed, checking the time on his phone. 5:00, perfect. He has to be downstairs in about a half-hour. He changes into a fresh beige t-shirt, careful to not disturb the bruises on his side. He’d busted up an underground meeting to traffic some new form of acid. Johanna had been collecting news reports of kids overdosing on the stuff, as well as triangulating where the supply was coming from. The pushers weren’t very important to Hob. But they did have information on some of Connolly’s associates, and any extra information would help them.
It hadn’t been easy, and he’d received a few blows to the gut for his troubles. In the year since moving in with Johanna, he’d been able to collect a good amount of gear to keep him protected. He was especially grateful for the kevlar vests that Johanna ‘acquired’ from one of her contacts. He didn’t want to ask for specifics, but according to Jo, Matthew was “one of the good guys. A former cop who’d seen one too many examples of injustice, so he left.” In any case, Hob had been able to get out of a few close calls. So much so, that the media had taken notice and started referring to him as the Knight of Good Fortune .
Fucking ridiculous, if you asked him. It made him sound like one of those stupid costumed crusaders. Besides, the notoriety (however small it was) was doing nothing to help him. If anything, it made him more paranoid and vigilant to his surroundings. All he needed was to have one person put together enough pieces to figure out his identity. He would be damned if Johanna, or any one who knew him ended up hurt because of the media’s desperation for clicks in a 24-hour news cycle.
Slipping on a light-grey flannel shirt, and finishing his morning routine (brushing his teeth, washing his face, grabbing a muffin from the kitchen), Hob then makes his way down to the pub.
The New Inn , the pub Johanna bought and subsequently refused to manage, was a cute little spot. Open from 6AM to 2PM, and then again from 5PM to 3AM, it catered to all sorts of different folks, from exhausted individuals coming in for a quick bite and some coffee in the morning, to business people during the lunch rush, and finally college kids wanting a place to drink and have a good time during the night. Hob typically worked the morning shifts, but he’d pick up a double once in a while. He did enjoy the crowds during the weekends. They reminded him of The White Horse days.
Waiting for him to open is the pub’s chef, Geoff. As usual, he’s surly and ready to give lip to Hob for showing up late (even though he’s about ten minutes early) and how he wouldn’t be able to get away with this shit if he wasn’t living with the boss. At this point, Hob simply ignores him and lets him get his frustrations out. Geoff’s a good cook, he could find work in any other place if he wished. But he chooses to stay, so he must like them well enough.
“You look half dead,” he says, beginning his morning prep.
“Thank you, Geoff. You’re a literal ray of sunshine yourself.”
“I’ve got an excuse. Chantal kept me up all night—”
Hob groans and rubs his eyes. “It’s far too early for me to hear about your night time activities with your wife.”
“You jackass. She’s been sick with some sort of stomach flu.”
Hob squints at him. “Hope you’re not sick as well. If I get sick because of you, I won’t be happy.”
“It’ll serve you right for leaving me outside. Would it kill you to show up on time for once?”
That’s the cue for Hob to leave Geoff to his kitchen and for him to prep the dining area and bar. The morning wait staff will be slowly trickling in for the next half hour, and Hob’s job was to make sure the tables were set and ready to go, as well as prepping the morning pots of coffee and tea. He had started to include prepping a couple of juices so that Geoff had less to worry about for the morning prep.
By 7AM, the pub is happily up and running. The morning crowd consisted of young adults shuffling in for a quick coffee before work, or young professionals wanting to grab a quick bite to eat on their way into the office.
There is also the occasional person who will stop in and order coffee while they work from the pub. Ever since the pandemic, many more people have chosen to work from home, and will often take an hour or two to get out of the house and change up their atmosphere. Hob liked these people the most. They were quiet and kind, and respectful to the staff. He’d gotten to know a few of the regulars and they helped remind of the person he used to be before he lost El.
One such person always chooses to work in a quiet corner at the bar. Close enough for Hob to notice the way his feathery raven hair falls over his eyes, and how his brows will scrunch up in exasperation as he works through whatever problem he’s got going on in his notebook. He’s not blind, the man is gorgeous, and maybe in a different life, he would have flirted with him, maybe even asked him out.
But that’s not his life.
Hob has just finished washing a few cups and glasses when he hears someone clearing their throat behind him.
“Excuse me?”
The man from the corner of the bar has taken a seat right in front of him. And it’s unfair because now, Hob can see that his eyes are a bright shade of cerulean blue. And his lips are a pale shade of petal pink.
“Hello there,” Hob says, an experienced, cheerful smile on his face. He leans his arms over the counter. “Nice to see you up here in the front.”
The man blushes and looks down at his notepad. “I. Have been informed. That if I want to talk to someone. I should not hide in corners.”
“Not the worst advice to receive. And you’re in luck. Most of the regulars here are very gracious and patient with introverted individuals.”
“You certainly have. An easy way with them.”
Hob laughs, nervously tugging at his ear (a habit Johanna will never shut up about). “Comes with the job, I suppose. Keep people happy, and you’d be surprised how well a smile and genuine conversation can go.”
The man opens his book and scribbles a few notes. Hob is tempted to look over, but knows better. Whatever the man is writing down is his own business. And nothing is less attractive than a nosey person. Hob goes back to cleaning his work space, and serving the couple of regulars who ask him for tea. He has a friendly chat with both of them, before turning back and noticing the man staring intently at him.
“Can I get you anything, while you’re working?”
“A coffee would be kind, thank you. Two—”
“Two teaspoons of sugar, and a splash of oat milk. I remember.” Hob smiles at the man and goes to prepare his order. He doesn’t typically order more than the same cup of coffee every couple of hours. Hob had considered sneaking a small snack for him. But that would be far too presumptuous.
In another life, maybe.
“I am. Glad to see you back in town.”
Hob whips his head around back to the man, still staring at him. Except, he’s got a small blush on his face and looks somewhere in between nervous and constipated. Hob frowns at him. The only person he’s allowed close to him in the year since he’s been back has been Johanna, and that was only because she barged in on him and all but dragged him back to her place.
He calmly places the glass he’d been drying on the counter and leans casually against one of the beams. “How do you know me?”
“You owned The White Horse . I used to go there often. With my sisters.”
Hob rubs the back of his neck. Yeah, of course he would remember him from The White Horse . Before it all went to shit, it was a popular spot for people.
“I—um—Yeah, I did.”
The stranger remains quiet, simply staring at him, like Hob’s a puzzle in need of figuring out. Truth be told, it’s a little unnerving. He’s not used to people trying to find something deep down. Well, not anyone since El, that is.
“I had. Liked it there. My sister. My elder sister used to drag me out. It was. Her favourite place.”
Hob wraps his arms around his torso. It’s never easy, hearing about how his old pub had impacted people. For these people, the place had been at its height one evening, and the site of a grisly murder the next, and then closed down and abandoned. Last he’d heard, the land was cleared out and bought out to make yet another ugly condo building. A condo building that would be far too expensive for the average person to ever dream of living in.
“I’m happy it meant something to someone other than myself.” Hob sighs, rolling his shoulders back before looking at the stranger once more. “I miss it sometimes.”
“Many people do. Which is why. I am glad to see you. Here. Once again.”
“I don’t actually own the place. I just stand back here and annoy the customers.” Hob jokes, in an attempt to lighten the mood a little (before his emotions become too much for him to handle).
The stranger is about to answer him when his phone starts ringing. He gives Hob an apologetic look before answering. Hob nods and steps back in order to give him some privacy. It’s a little mean to think, but a part of him is happy for that conversation to be over.
While Hob does his best to ignore the conversation going on, he can’t help but overhear the man speak in an exasperated voice, before sighing loudly and changing his tone to a more patient and gentle tone. Hob wonders who he could be speaking to. A friend? Perhaps the sister he had mentioned? Maybe a lover? Maybe someone he was lucky enough to have found, who loves every facet of him. Maybe he was so lucky to be allowed to keep them.
The man hangs up his phone and sits there quietly, staring out at the wall of gins and whiskey, as if contemplating the amount of bottles on the wall (56, Hob’s counted them all during a particularly slow day). Hob notices that his coffee has remained by his side, completely untouched. He makes his way back to the man.
“Want me to make you a fresh one?” He asks, pointing at the coffee, which has most likely gone cold by this point.
His stranger snaps back to attention, big blue eyes wide and laser focused. “Oh. No! No, I’m afraid I must take my leave. My sister. My younger sister is in need of assistance.”
“Is she alright?”
“Yes. She is fine. But I must return home. I thank you. For the coffee.” He reaches into his messenger bag to pull out some money, but Hob stops him.
“It’s on the house for today. You didn’t get a chance to enjoy it. And besides, consider it paid via good conversations.”
It’s small, and Hob almost misses it, but the corner of the man’s lips lift ever so slightly, as though he never learned how to smile properly. Or, maybe he was taught never to show others his capacity for joy.
A tragedy either way, he thinks.
“Thank you. I hope to see you again soon.”
Hob smiles. “Maybe in a hundred years time.”
The man nods at him, his tiny smile growing into an amused grin, before he gathers his belongings and makes his way out the door.
Hob sighs, leaning back against the bar’s hard wood counter. He touches his cheeks, realising that they are rather hot to the touch. Jesus Christ, one conversation and he’s blushing like a virgin on her wedding night. Hob takes a few moments to sneak off to the employee washroom and throw some cold water on his face. He reminds himself of what his goals were meant to be. He’d been here for a year now, and every day he and Jo are getting closer to taking down Connolly’s small empire.
The stranger today, a man who had known Hob in the before time. A man who saw him as something more than the cheerful mask he wore everyday. To welcome a man like that into his life would be nothing but a disaster. Granted, Hob didn’t even know his name, but from the little conversation they’d had, and the way he spoke of his sisters, Hob could tell that he was a good person. Not someone to be messing around with Hob’s sort.
El was a good person too.
The very last thing Hob wants is for another good soul to wind up hurt because of him. Hob stares at the mirror, gazing into his reflection. His eyes are dark and unforgiving and so, so tired. El used to say his eyes were so warm and kind. How she loved the way they would light up when talking about history. What would she think about him now? All warmth and kindness leached out of his body by necessity. How cold and hard his heart had become in order to keep people away from him. She’d remark on that, for sure. That and how thin he had gotten. How his face had become gaunt in the years following her death. She’d tell him to drink jasmine tea and to eat something. She’d spray their bed with lavender mist to help him sleep.
She’d hold him, kissing his shoulder until the worries and pains of the day would fade away into nothingness. She’d stroke his hair, lightly scratching at his scalp and he’d moan happily, nuzzling his head into her fingers, begging for more.
If this were another life, Hob would stand in the bathroom, wondering if the stranger today would do the same for him. He’d wonder if he could hold the stranger at night, running fingers through his soft, feathery hair. In another life, Hob could learn to be happy again. He could learn to allow his heart to soften once more.
But it isn’t, and Hob is broken. Broken, angry, and ready to kill without a second thought. And he’s got a mission. A mission that he may very well not survive.
Taking a deep breath, he looks at his reflection once more before shutting away any stray thoughts about coffee flirtations, and concerned looks from crystal blue eyes.
He walks out the door.
The rest of his shift passes by without further incident. Usually the mornings are very quiet, without too much excitement. There has been the occasional rowdy lunch crowd, but they’re always manageable with a stern request to keep things under control. Once 2PM rolls around, Hob helps to set up a few things before the evening supper rush, and bids his colleagues a good night before heading back to the apartment he shares with Johanna.
Shares being a weird word to describe their situation. It’s Johanna’s place, as big as it is. She had mentioned needing a roommate, and Hob didn’t think it was for the money. Johanna would never admit it, but it was a lonely place to live all by yourself. In the year of them living together, they were slowly starting to get back to the friendship they once had. Once Hob had started working, he tried to give Johanna some money for rent and groceries, but she’d nearly tore his head off for even making that suggestion. Instead, he settled on fixing things around the apartment, and making sure the building was well maintained, while Johanna dealt with the money and Connolly-related connections.
It was very clear how their partnership worked. Johanna was the brains and the planner. Hob was the brawn and the finisher. They’d look over potential hits for the night and plan them out before Hob went and collected the information they’d need.
He doesn’t immediately see Johanna waiting for him when he comes through the door, so Hob either assumes she’s still in bed, or already in her office, planning their next attack. Hidden away, or not, she’d certainly left a bit of a mess while he’d been out. He could have sworn he’d tidied the place up yesterday, but it seems as though Jo spent the morning tearing it up again. A few clothes are strewn over the living room, along with what looks to be old handwritten notes and letters. Hob picks one up and nearly drops it, once he realises that it’s an old letter from Rachel.
That can’t be good , he thinks. Johanna has kept any talk about Rachel to a minimum since Hob moved in. All that he knows is that Rachel left when Johanna started becoming more and more hellbent on justice for El’s death. It started out small, gathering news articles and using connections to find police reports on similar crimes. Once she started asking her uncle John for help, that was when Rachel had enough. Johanna had woken up to find Rachel’s things gone, leaving nothing behind save for a note.
Hob takes a quick look at their liquor cabinet. Finding it undisturbed, he takes a deep breath and heads to Johanna’s room. He’s expecting to find her angrily throwing her stuff against the wall. Or, probably drinking from a bottle of cheap rum she’d hidden somewhere in the room.
No, what he finds instead, is Johanna sitting cross-legged, her back ramrod-straight, in the middle of her bed. Her eyes are staring directly in front of her, but not really focused on anything. It’s as if she’s lost in the void, emotionally and mentally depleted. Hob takes a seat on the edge of the bed, and gently places a hand on her shoulder.
“Jo? Want to tell me what’s happened?”
Jo takes a deep breath and shakes her head. That’s a no then. Hob shrugs, fine by him. He stays sitting next to her, rubbing her shoulder and her back, until she’s ready to talk.
It’s damn near heartbreaking to come back and find that your friends (who you thought would make it through anything) are just as broken as you are. In a way, it just goes to show how much El kept the group together, and without her around, they all quickly fell apart. Maybe people like Jo and Hob were always meant to be irreparably broken. And no matter how loving their partners were, they could not fix them. All it took was a final strike to knock them over the edge.
“She’s getting married,” Jo says, still not looking at Hob. He doesn’t have to ask who, the answer is obvious.
“Did she call you?”
Jo laughs ruefully, wiping at her eyes. “Fuck no. She has no reason to call me. Found out through Mikey.”
Hob nods. Michael D’Abruzzo, one of the members of their friend group back in University. He was mostly friends with Jo and Rach, but he and Hob had gotten together a few times before he and El became serious with each other. He had remained friends with them all, and was even a groomsman when he and El got married.
“Mikey had called me up to see if I knew about Rachel, and if I’d be going. Naturally, I told him to fuck right off.”
Hob chuckles, “Naturally”.
“He asked about you, before I hung up on him. Wanted to know if I’d heard from you, or if I knew if you’d ever be coming back.”
“Was that when you hung up on him?”
“Told him that if you wanted to talk to annoying little weasels, I’d be sure to give you his number. Then I hung up on him.”
That was good of her, he supposes. He was not willing to see nor talk to anyone else from his past. None of them understood, not really. To lose a spouse in such a cruel and violent way, and all because you were too useless to have done anything about it. He couldn’t look at any of them, because he could see the pity and sadness in their eyes. The thought of them looking at him like the shell of a man he felt himself to be, was enough for him to want to tear their fucking eyes out.
So no, he refused to contact Mikey, Cristian, and Hugo when he got back. Really, the only person who understood was Jo. They would have to deal with leaning on each other until vengeance was served (or until he died because of a stupid mistake) (whichever came first).
“That explains the mess of letters downstairs.”
“Thought I should burn them. Wasn’t El into that stuff? Burning things so that they stopped haunting you?”
Hob laughed. El had been into many things, a lot of that new-agey, inner healing stuff that he personally didn’t subscribe to, but it made her happy, so he’d indulged her.
What would the stranger from today think of all that? Would he believe that burning old letters from lovers passed would help cleanse your soul of their memory? Did he have letters to burn, and people to forget?
“She was. Right after I proposed, she brought a box over to the apartment, and burnt the letters she’d kept from previous partners.” Hob chuckles, wiping a stray tear from his eyes. “She said that it was healthy to remove their presence completely now that she was starting a new life with someone she had no intention of ever letting go.”
Johanna finally turns to him, and she isn’t someone who cries. She’s someone who yells, and throws things. She leans on his shoulder, sniffling back the emotions and doing her best to seal any cracks in her heart. Hob pats her hair, placing a small kiss on her head.
“It’s shit,” she whispers.
“Yeah. It is.”
There is no need to specify what Johanna means. It’s evident that everything is shit. That Johanna and Hob will never again be with the people they love. It’s shit that they cannot find a way to move on. That they are both stuck on one crucial moment in their lives and cannot seem to get past it. That they see no other way forward than to do what they’ve been doing: fighting violence with more violence. With nothing more to say, they sit quietly and keep each other held up by sheer force of will.
Hob will eventually help Johanna into bed. He’ll make sure she’s comfortable and warm, before exiting her room. He’ll go back into the living room and clean up the mess that Johanna made. He’ll take Rachel’s letters and place them into a box. He’ll take that box and keep it safe until Jo’s ready to finally burn them. He’ll fold the clothes strewn all over the living room and place them into another box. He’ll make sure the alcohol is in a safe space so that Jo doesn’t decide to go on a depression binge. Once that’s all done, he’ll make some dinner for them; something warm like soup.
He can’t do much else. He’s become almost useless at knowing what to say and how to help. But this , this he can do. And it’s enough to provide comfort for now, and allow her to feel the grief and pain inside.
Chapter 3: take your throne, paint the walls
Notes:
A couple of small warnings for this chapter. Hob roughs a guy up right from the get-go. If you want to skip it, the scene changes at the paragraph starting with Still, it’s never easy.
Also, we've got a bit of a shower-wank scene, so if you wanna skip that, it starts at Taking his time, he lathers and rubs the sore spots on his body. and ends with He’s being so fucking stupid.
Chapter Text
“I swear, man! I don’t know shit about Connolly!”
Hob circles the man laying curled up on the ground. He’d already fought a few of his buddies, while letting a few of them run back to Connolly with their tails between their legs (it’s always a good idea to send a couple of messengers back). This is the last person left involved with the string of recent arsons in the neighbourhood. Connolly’s latest strike to rid the area of immigrant families so that he could swoop in and buy the properties.
Jo’s friend, Matthew had started giving them tips about some big cases being discreetly swept under the rug by the police. Hob had been hesitant to invite another person into their group, especially one that was a former cop. But, Matthew had already been a big help providing them with police radios, and kevlar, as well as a few weapons. If he can help with tips and pointers from his connections on the force, and if Jo trusted him already, well Hob could learn to trust him as well.
Dragging a crowbar slowly on the floor, close to the man’s face, Hob continues to circle him. “See, I want to believe you, Frank. I really, really do. Thing is, these little arsons happening lately? Word on the street is that you— ,” Hob pokes Frank’s forehead with the tip of the crowbar, “--are the mastermind behind them.” Hob crouches low to Frank’s eye level. The man’s shivering, clutching his stomach and a colder part of Hob wants to roll his eyes. They’re always like this, these murderers. Completely uncaring while burning down buildings full of families, yet once caught, they shake a shiver like the cowards they are.
“Aw, come on Frankie. Where’s that vicious spirit I’ve heard so much about? How do you think the residents on Hutcherson felt when you and your goons took away the one place they could afford to live?” Hob scratches the scruff on his chin, tapping the crowbar on the floor. “It’s really fucking coincidental that not even a month later the property was purchased by one of Connolly’s holding companies.”
The man whimpers, his face turning a very bright shade of red. “I—I didn’t know—”
Hob rolls his eyes and stands up. “Wrong answer, friend.” He tosses the crowbar on the ground and delivers a swift, hard kick to Frank’s stomach, and another one to his chest. Frank looks up at him, coughing up some blood.
“Please,” Frank pleads, “I have a wife.”
Hob scoffs. “So did I,” he says, kicking the back of Frank’s head, knocking him out. He steps away from the mess he’d made. He always takes a few moments to breathe before checking in with Jo. It’s the knocking people out and sometimes killing them that’s the most difficult for him. Frank will most likely get to go home to his wife, but he won’t be the same after this. Hob tries not to think about the consequences of his actions. As far as he’s concerned, these guys chose to follow Connolly and attack innocent people. They chose this life.
Still, it’s never easy, and he’ll sometimes hear El in his head, asking him if this is what he truly wants. If he’s happy with the violence in his life.
He never is.
Better than doing nothing, he supposes. Doing nothing gets more innocent people killed.
“ Hobs? You alright?” Jo’s voice comes in through the wireless radio Hob’s got connected to his ear. He drags a hand across the mask on his face, careful not to pull it off (he makes sure to keep it on until he’s safely far away from any targeted spot).
“Yeah. I’m good.”
“ Good. So Di Giovanni didn’t know anything ?”
“If he did, he wasn’t saying. Got most of his crew incapacitated at the moment, so maybe the cops will actually bother to pick them up and incarcerate them. I managed to stop them before they torched the place.”
Hob looks at the fallen bodies on the ground. He’d made sure to secure their arms with zip ties. He crouches down and does the same to Frank. It had come too close. The gasoline was being prepped to be poured, and Hob had caught some of the guys with Molotov cocktails ready to be tossed into the building.
Hob knows this place. Mrs. Vardakis on the third floor used to bring him some mountain tea whenever she went grocery shopping. El used to watch Mr. Malik’s children whenever he had a late night shift at the 24 hour clinic. They were both at her funeral. Too many buildings were already lost here. He wasn’t about to lose another one.
“You should nab Di Giovanni’s bag.”
“Why the fuck would I do that?”
“Because he could have some information in there that could help us.”
Hob rolls his eyes. Stealing from a crime scene is never a good idea. It can easily lead to being tracked back to your place of operations. All it takes is being careless on where you dump the stuff and soon you’ve got several mobsters banging at your door, forcing you to sneak out of a perfectly good apartment in Brooklyn.
Not that Hob has any experience with that.
“It’s a bad idea, Jo. It could lead Connolly back to us.”
“We’ll burn everything we don’t need, Hobs. Grab his bag, please. I’ll see you back home.”
Jo cuts off, much to Hob’s annoyance. He stares at the lonely black knapsack, laying next to Frank’s prone form. Grumbling to himself, he grabs the bag. Making one final check over everything, he sneaks out of the alley, before the police sirens fill the air.
Making his escape after fulfilling a job is always the difficult part. Hob makes it a point to hide his car several metro stops away from his target. Luckily for him, Montville is a city full of old, small streets, cutting into each other. Easy if you want to make a quick get away. Keeping his head down, and his hoodie up and over his head, Hob makes fast and determined decisions, cutting through parks and alleys.
Once he’s about a couple of blocks away from the metro station, he removes his mask, and makes his way inside.
Johanna nearly pounces on him as soon as he crosses their threshold. She reaches for the bag, and Hob all but throws it at her. Ever since finding out about Rachel’s upcoming nuptials, Jo’s been far more intense than she used to be (and that’s saying something). Hob removes his hoodie, and the kevlar vest he always wears.
“Oh, by the way, Matty sent over some new gear for you today,” Johanna says, already rummaging through the knapsack.
Hob groans, not really in the mood to look at some new gear. He just wants to take a long shower to clean off any remaining blood and settle into bed with a historical novel his coworker Jessica had recommended as well as a cup of lavender tea.
He leaves Jo to her scrounging, making his way to his blessed shower. Thankfully, no one had tried to shoot or stab him this time. He did get a nasty bash to his knee, which he’ll definitely feel for the next week. It’s a miracle it hasn’t fallen off with how many people have gotten a good hit there. It has started to cramp up something awful during cold and rainy days. It hasn’t gotten to the point where he’s completely useless, and using a heating pad and some naproxen is enough for him to get through the day (and any jobs if he needs to).
Hob turns on the water to steaming and groans loudly as the water soothes his aching muscles. The showers he gets to have whenever he comes back home are probably the best part of the day. There have been moments, while living in New York, where he didn’t always have this luxury. The ability to have a good, hot shower is something he will never take for granted. Nothing will make you feel more human than being able to wash yourself off from the grime and sweat of the day.
And the blood, in Hob’s case.
Taking his time, he lathers and rubs the sore spots on his body. His mind starts to wander then. Hot, wet, and vulnerable, this is when he’ll allow his mind to travel to places he would never dare to otherwise.
The stranger’s crystal blue eyes are, of course, the first image that comes to mind. The way he stared at Hob, like he wanted to know every single thing about him. How his long, thin hands gripped the coffee mug, bringing it up to his pretty petal-pink lips. How his red tongue lapped some remaining froth from said lips.
Here, in the shower, away from everyone, Hob will allow himself to imagine a reality where the stranger is there with him, rubbing the ache away from his shoulders. Kissing the tense spots whenever he’d flinch because Christ he has some really bad knots there. Here, in the shower, he imagines a hand sneaking down to his hips, gripping tight to them and grinding against him. Peppering kisses down his back all the while. Here in the shower, a hand will reach around and take hold of his aching cock. One that has been begging for release for so, so long .
Here, in the shower, Hob will slowly reach down, imagining thin, strong fingers instead. And he’ll pull, and think, and pull, and imagine, and pull, and dream. Over and over and over again. Kisses on his back, a hard grip on his hips, a body grinding against him, and fingers enthusiastically gripping his cock taking him closer, and closer, and closer.
He comes hard and fast, spilling out onto the shower floor, gasping so loud, he almost worries that Jo will hear him.
All over a man he really only met once.
He’s being so fucking stupid. He hasn’t even seen that stranger since the time he approached him, and that was almost two weeks ago. He’d seen many attractive people before; men, women, non-binary folks as well. That stranger was definitely attractive, and definitely Hob’s “type” (in men, that is —El had been soft and curvy, with long thick blonde hair and warm hazel eyes). Maybe it was a combination of being back in Montville, and finally working to tie up any old loose ends here that’s forcing him to think about a different path he could have taken. Because the Hob of nearly a decade ago, were he single, would have flirted with strangers in bars. Maybe even taken one home with him.
Hob cleans himself off and exits the shower, drying himself and throwing on some soft pyjamas. He should probably go to bed, but he’s already feeling hunger pangs, and if he doesn’t eat something now, he’ll wake up at a stupid hour, cranky and needing food.
Johanna, while not done rummaging through Di Giovanni’s bag, has pulled out some fancy-looking envelope, and is inspecting it.
“Find something interesting? You planning on crashing a wedding or something?”
The look Jo gives him is very concerning. She’s got a sly smile on her face, looking Hob up and down. That can only mean she’s got some sort of scheme brewing in her head, and one that Hob will most likely be opposed to.
“Whatever you’ve got going in that brain of yours, the answer is ‘No’.”
“You don’t even know what I’m going to say.”
Hob makes his way into the kitchen, wanting to get away from Jo before she unleashes her plan on him. He’s hungry, tired, and not in the mood to hear what she’s got to say. Unfortunately, Johanna Constantine never really gave a shit what people wanted, especially when she had an idea in her head. So of course, she follows him.
“So The Alecto Theodoridou Foundation always does these big galas. They like to make a big show of doing it for ‘charity’, but most of it is used as a tax write off. It’s their way of making an appearance as upstanding citizens, keeping up the front of people who give a shit about their communities.”
Hob scoffs, wondering if people actually fell for that shit, or if he’s the only one who has seen these people for who they really are. He pops some toast into the toaster, while gathering some butter and raspberry jam. He grabs a box of shortbread cookies, handing it to Jo.
“Let me guess, your family is often present at these functions.”
Johanna shrugs, grabbing one of the cookies. “We would get the invitations, but my family was never into these ‘gaudy, nouveau riche displays of wealth’. As if they’d forgotten how our family even got to be a part of the upper crust.”
The toast pops, and Hob uses this time to prepare his snack and boil that lavender tea for himself. He’s the only one who drinks it, Johanna sticking strictly to coffee. It’s a miracle she hasn’t had a heart attack with the amount she drinks.
“Right. So what’s the point of this?”
The sly smile has returned to Jo’s face. She flips the thick invitation card, and flashes it in front of Hob’s face. He shakes his head at the obviously expensive invitation. It’s a cream coloured card, folded into three sections, and adorned with black and silver ribbons. Obviously an attempt to look classy and elegant. He fetches his prepared tea and takes a nice deep sip, sighing as the delicate lavender scent fills his senses.
“What’s going to happen, my dear Robert, is that we will be making an appearance at this evening gala.”
Hob chokes on the tea. Is she fucking nuts? There is absolutely no way in hell that Hob will set foot in the same room as these people. Not only does he hate each and every single one of them, but he’s never been a classy person. It will be painfully obvious that he does not belong. Whatever operation Jo plans on hatching will be over before they even enter the ballroom (because of fucking course the venue has a ballroom).
“Have you lost your mind? I’m not exactly ‘upper crust’ material. Plus, you and I both know that most of these people have some connection to Connolly—”
“Exactly!” Johanna says, stealing some of his toast ( seriously?) and taking a big bite. “Think of the information we can gather by showing up and sleuthing about. Maybe one of these people will know something about the next buildings Connolly’s planning to hit.”
Hob sets his tea down and pinches the bridge of his nose. He just wanted some food and tea. This is the very last thing he wants to involve himself with. He’s never been the sort to play spy master. He’s a bust through the door and punch type of person.
“And what exactly do you need me for, then?”
“Muscle.”
“Oh for crying out loud, Jo. You’re not exactly making a good argument for yourself here.”
“Look, I’m not about to use my status as a Constantine. Hopefully, we can sneak in without too much information given out, but in case—”
“No. There’s no way we’re doing that.” Hob paces the room, running his fingers through his near shoulder-length hair. “I will not have you risking yourself for something that is a stupid suicide mission.”
“I’ll be fine , Hobs—”
“No, what if they recognize you?”
“No one’s seen me since I was a child—”
“What if they ask for identification?”
“This isn’t a fucking night club.”
“What if we’re forced to run? What if they follow us? All it takes is one mistake and our cover is blown. Goodbye Knight of Good Fortune . Goodbye Connolly.”
Johanna sighs, sinking into a kitchen chair. Hob takes a seat beside her, pushing the box of cookies closer to her.
“Jo. Ever since you found out about Rachel—”
“ Don’t Hobs.”
He does. “Ever since you found out about Rachel, you’ve become even more obsessed with tracking Connolly and tearing apart each of his businesses.” Hob reaches over and places his hand on top of Jo’s. Thankfully, she doesn’t try to break his fingers for the audacity. “I know we’re all for tearing shit apart, but we need to be smart about this. We can’t afford to make mistakes now. Not when we’ve been careful so far.”
Jo grumbles, grabbing a cookie and biting into it. “You’re a fucking asshole.”
“Clearly.”
“I could have gotten her back if we had caught Connolly a year ago. I could have gotten her back, and maybe I would have—”
“You don’t know that. And throwing ourselves into situations that can turn deadly in seconds isn’t the way to deal with that.”
“Says the man who fucked off to New York for five years and took down one of the mob bosses there.”
“You’ve got to stop bringing that up.”
Jo stays quiet, eating some more cookies. Hob sips at the tea, and while it’s gotten a little cool from sitting out in the open, it still tastes wonderful, and soothes any nerves that have frayed. Eating his toast, he starts thinking. It is definitely a stupid idea for Johanna to go to an event like that, and he is in no way prepared to wine and dine some of these people.
But, what if he doesn’t have to be perfect? What if it’s just enough to be a regular guy taking the spot of a friend who could not make it? He could pass himself off as some nobody who’s there for the free meal that his friend generously paid for. They have a way of communication, and if he keeps it open for Johanna to hear through, she could take notes that could improve their planning.
“What if I went by myself?”
Johanna frowns. “You just spent the last half hour chewing my head off for even considering going to this party.”
“Yeah, because you are well known. I’m just a nobody. They’ve never seen me before in their life. I can make an excuse that I’m here because my friend didn’t want to go. Give me an envelope with some cash as a ‘donation’ and I doubt they’ll ask too many questions.”
Johanna is silent, slowly chewing on the cookie. She’s got her Johanna-plotting-look on her face, tapping her fingers against the wood of the kitchen table.
“We could use our radio communication system. That way I can listen in. We could possibly get information on other members of Di Giovanni’s squad. Maybe even some of Connolly’s bigger allies.”
Hob smiles, raising his tea mug to salute her. “Now we’re talking. I can check in with you every so often—”
“Every hour and a half. Else I’m calling you on your cell, and I won’t stop until you answer.”
He raises his hands. “Fair. Fair.”
Johanna nods, settling back onto the chair. She grabs Hob’s last piece of toast and munches on it.
She smirks, and Hob has a bad feeling about that.
“We’re getting up early tomorrow. Gotta get you a fancy tuxedo.”
Hob chokes on his tea, “I’m sorry—A what?” But Johanna is already walking out of the room. Hob calls out to her, “Jo? I’m not wearing a fucking tuxedo! Johanna!”
Chapter Text
He’s wearing a fucking tuxedo.
He hates to admit it, but it fits him perfectly. Even if that’s the case, he feels like a damn tool in it. Like he’s expected to show up to the Grammy’s or something. Or like he’s meant to talk in a snooty accent.
He’s staring at himself in the mirror, getting ready for this gala. Jo’s in the other room, prepping the envelope of cash to be given. He’s got a pressed, crisp white shirt with hidden buttons, a black bow tie (something he’d never considered wearing because the only people he’d seen wearing bow ties were the annoying hipsters who hung out at high end coffee shops). The jacket is nice, he’ll admit that much. It’s some kind of material that looks almost shiny in the light. It fits him like a glove. Jo had chosen it of course. Hob was all but hopeless in the store. He had no commentary on the pants. He was just thankful they’d found a pair that fit over his thighs. He’d had a bad habit of wearing dress pants that were far too large for him, in the fear that he’d rip them when bending to pick something up.
As if that wasn’t enough to make him feel awkward, Jo had found an almost floor length grey wool coat in a pattern he learned was called Glen Plaid (Christ’s sake). Jo had been exceptionally ecstatic upon seeing him, giggling and wanting to take photos as the tailor measured and made adjustments.
For the shoes, he’d had a pair of shiny black dress shoes that he’d only worn once, for his wedding. Sadly he’d lost them in the move to New York. He found a pair that were similar enough to the ones he’d had and bought those.
Jo had also insisted that he get his hair cut for the occasion, and when Hob had fought her, she’d scoffed and said he’d look like a greasy mobster without one. They were aiming for Hob to act like the innocent, clueless, yet handsome man who cleaned up exceptionally well.
And that meant a small hair cut, as well as a shave.
The entire affair was so ridiculous. He was beginning to regret all of his life’s choices, particularly the one where he convinced Johanna that allowing him to take her place was the best idea.
Johanna had even rented a car for him to drive up to the event. Nothing too ostentatious, but certainly more than Hob had ever dreamed of driving (a sleek, silver Audi S5).
With a final inspection of himself in the mirror, he looks up above, and takes a deep breath. “Bet you’re laughing up there. Never thought you’d see me in a get-up like this, huh.” He closes his eyes and breathes in deep through his nose. “Wish me luck, love.”
Johanna’s waiting for him, a bottle of beer in her hand, and a cell phone in the other. As soon as she sees Hob, she says a quick goodbye and hangs up the phone.
“That Matthew?”
Johanna paces around, looking him over. It makes Hob feel a little uncomfortable. As if he’s some sort of cow being ready to be bought at market.
“I must say, Hobsie, you clean up very nicely.”
He rolls his eyes, doing his best not to bat Johanna’s hands away as she adjusts his collar and suit jacket. She takes a moment to just stare at him, hands pressed against his chest.
Hob raises an eyebrow “something wrong?” he asks.
Johanna gives him a sad smile, patting his suit down. “No. You look perfect. I can hear El in my head.”
Hob blushes, Johanna catches his hand before he ruins his hair by running his fingers through it. “Think she’d find me ridiculous beyond compare?”
“Nah. She always found you to be the most handsome man she’d ever met. I think she’d find you even more so.”
Hob bites his lip, thinking about El and how he would have worn something like this… for her, if she had wanted to go out to a fancy place like the theatre.
“Right. Before we both start crying like the losers we are. Do you have everything?”
Hob pats his chest, where a small wire is attached. A radio for Johanna to listen to everything going on. The envelope is sitting nicely on top of the coat he’s meant to put on. He’ll tuck it into the inner pocket, until he reaches the venue.
“Yes mum,” he says, flinching as Johanna smacks his bicep.
“Smart ass. You be careful, alright?”
“Of course I will. What could possibly go wrong?”
“I mean it, Hob. Any sign of trouble, and you’re out of there. You don’t have your armour, or the suit Matthew’s been working on.”
Ah, yes. That special package Matthew had dropped off a few days ago, had been some new pieces for Hob to add to his protective armour. Namely some coverage for his shoulders and knees. As well as some heavy-duty, yet lightweight gloves.
The biggest surprise was a helmet providing complete coverage of his entire head. Modelled after a typical mediaeval knight’s helmet, it was made sleeker, and completely in black (in order to “match his vibe” according to Matthew). When Hob had asked where the hell Matthew had gotten that gear, Johanna explained that Matthew had some experience working with armour, and had made them himself.
How he’d ended up working as a cop, Hob didn’t know and he wasn’t about to ask. In all likelihood, Matthew was recruited for his skills and ended up hating the job he was forced to do. In this economy, it happened all too often.
As soon as Johanna had started talking about logos and colour coding the armour, Hob had shut that conversation. There was no way he was going out dressed like a rejected member of The Justice League. The last thing he needed was to have Superman delivering a cease and desist letter to him.
“Aww, you’re worried for me.”
“Don’t start Hob.”
“No, it's very sweet. It’s as if you have a tiny fleck of warmth inside that deep cavern you call a heart.”
“I mean it, Gadling. I’ll lock you out of the apartment and have Henri fire you.”
Hob smirks. “Then who would be around to piss you off?” He wraps his arms around Jo, pulling her close. She reluctantly hugs him back.
“I promise , I’ll be careful. Anyone gets suspicious of me, and I’ll leave.”
“And call me every hour.”
“ Not doing that, but I will give you a call as I’m leaving.”
“If I don’t hear from you by midnight—”
“You will call me and sic Matthew on my ass. I remember.”
It was sweet how much Jo worried about him. Granted, this wasn’t nearly as life threatening as the missions he usually went on. And before coming home, he’d been using less gear and barely any protection. He’d had to learn, through several mistakes and many, many scars, how to dodge and how to fight. He’d had no other choice. It was that or die.
Her concern now probably stems from the fact that she’d grown up in this life. She knows what they are capable of, and how things could turn deadly in an instant. He could not fault her for that.
He gives her a kiss on top of her head. “I’ll be back soon, okay?” She nods into his suit jacket before letting go and heading back to her laptop, where several programs are already running (for tracking, listening, and dozen other ones Hob has no idea about). With a final wave, he heads out the door.
Getting to the venue isn’t difficult at all. Neither is parking the car. Hob’s thankful for that, at least. Usually these fancy places force you to give your car to a valet service, and Hob is more than a little paranoid. As if the kid working the valet stand cares enough to look through his things, much less knows what to look for.
Things get a little more tough once he arrives at the venue’s entrance. He could feel the odd looks people were giving him as he made his way inside. Do they already know he isn’t one of them? Were they aware that he had come in on a stolen invitation? He steels himself and takes one small, cautious step at a time, making sure to keep an eye out for anyone looking too intently at him.
“I must say, I am very surprised to see you here.”
Hob spins around, ready to shove away from the deep voice speaking to him. He stops dead in his tracks to find—
“ Stranger ,” he gasps out.
Standing tall, and in an outfit he’d never dare to wear himself, but looks breathtaking otherwise, is his stranger. He’s dressed in a velvety looking suit jacket and matching pants. He’s also wearing a see-through lace black top that flares out at the neck. Dangling from his ear is a beautiful ruby earring.
He’s a fucking vision is what he is.
He offers Hob a tiny smile, barely visible if it hadn’t been for Hob staring intently at his face.
“Stranger? An odd choice of name don’t you think?”
Hob can feel himself blushing, rubbing his ear nervously, while finding the right words to say. Of course, the man haunting his daydreams would be here. It’s typical of Hob’s shitty luck that this would happen during a mission he cannot afford to fuck up.
Come to think of it, what on Earth is he doing at an event for the upper crust of society? Clearly his Stranger must either be someone of influence, or—
Or he’s also a part of the dark, criminal underbelly of the city. That would be very upsetting if it were true. Not that Hob has any hope of spending more intimate time with him. Not at all. But he’d seemed like such a kind-hearted, shy person at the Inn. The type of person who would rather sit at home alone writing poetry and listening to The Cure . Nothing at all like someone potentially connected to a crime family.
“Bit hard to know what to call you, when you’ve never told me your name, isn’t it?”
“You raise a good point,” he says, a smile growing a touch bigger. “You may call me Morpheus,” he says, offering his hand out.
Hob smiles and takes it, giving it a nice shake. Morpheus . It’s a lovely name, and somehow suits him perfectly. Like he’s the heir of some distant land where the rulers gave their children outrageous names in order to make it clear how noble they were. That or, his parents were obsessed with The Matrix.
“Pleasure to meet you, Morpheus. You may call me Robert,” he says before thinking otherwise. He and Jo had come up with an alias for him (Gerry Reilly). So much for that. Hob could kick himself. Not even five minutes in and he’s already fucked all the shit up.
Morpheus bends closer to Hob’s ear, “Are you here with anyone, Robert?”
Hob tips his head a tad closer. “Not really my scene, to be honest. Came here because a friend begged me to take their invitation.” Hob pulls out the cream-coloured invite and waves it. “Said they should make some kind of donation, but really weren’t up for spending the evening all dolled up, when they’d rather sit on their couch watching Netflix.”
A small sigh of laughter tickles his face. Hob takes a half step away from Morpheus, slowly making his way towards a group of society women accepting more envelopes and donations. Morpheus casually walks behind him. As much as he knows he should be avoiding him, Hob can’t help but smile and feel some semblance of warmth inside.
He hands his envelope to one of the women with a flourish, flashing a bright smile. It doesn’t escape his notice that Morpheus has completely bypassed the society women, choosing to walk right into the ballroom. Hob takes his time entering, taking note of the people hanging back. There are a few big names amongst the invitees. Not only big crime names, but also local celebrities, and a few players for the local hockey and soccer teams. He recognizes a few faces from press conferences.
And of course, the local politicians. Members of the mayor’s cabinet, as well as local ministers and representatives. It shouldn’t surprise him, seeing how deep the roots of crime run in the city, but it’s disheartening all the same.
It’s no matter. He’s here for one bad apple and only one bad apple. He hasn’t had a chance to think about what will happen once Connolly’s empire turns to ash. Hob’s fully anticipating going down in the flames. He loves life, and he loves living. He always has. It’s been impossible to find a reason to live after losing Eleanor. Fighting Connolly: That’s been his reason to stay alive.
What happens after? For now, he lives one day at a time. One mission at a time.
Hob goes to check his coat. He takes his time entering the ballroom, taking in the intricate designs of the walls around him. The walls are decorated in an art deco style –not really his scene if he’s being completely honest– with some expensive-looking paintings hung up. Several arm chairs, fancy couches, and what must be a chaise-longue line some of the walls, along with small tables holding vases of flowers.
It’s all extremely over the top.
And yet, it’s absolutely nothing compared to the ballroom. Hob stands in complete shock taking in the room. In the centre of the room hangs a massive chandelier with several crystals hanging off of it. Attached to the top of the chandelier, and looping down to arch back up to the ceiling, are several white drapes, making the chandelier look like an ethereal, heavenly being.
Any windows to the place and covered up in thick white curtains, with purple and blue lights shining on them. The entire room is doused in purple and blue lights. The dance floor, made up of real hardwood, seems to be overtaken by couples waltzing to the real, honest-to-God orchestra playing off the side. While off to the side, they are not ignored, as a beautiful spotlight shines directly above them, making them a prime focus of the evening.
There are waiters and waitresses scrambling around with hors d’oeuvres . Hob hasn’t gotten a close enough look, but he’s almost certain that the finger foods will be more expensive than anything he’s ever eaten. Probably caviar and truffles covered in gold leaf.
He spots a bar off towards the back of the room, and thanks God up above for that. He’s hoping for a good aged whiskey. Maybe one older than his father, God rest his soul.
“If I didn’t believe you were taking your friend’s place before, you have me completely convinced now.”
Hob remembers to breathe, and turns to Morpheus. He’s got an amused smile on his face, and a mischievous sparkle in his eyes.
“I think the decor here is worth more than my entire salary for a year.”
“Hmmm. Perhaps .”
It should be so easy, Hob thinks, to enjoy someone’s company. To smile and talk without any pretences. Not to wonder if the person you’re chatting up could be someone related to the people who ruined your life. To just be two people, at an event, clearly attracted to each other.
“I am afraid I must take my leave of you. There are responsibilities I must attend to.”
Responsibilities . Interesting. Hob probably should have gotten a last name out of him. Johanna probably knows who he is, with all the information she has on these people. He could know right away if Morpheus is connected to Connolly or not.
Robert Gadling
Sent 21:46
Does the name Morpheus ring a bell to you?
Johanna The Mad
Received 21:46
Oh Hobs, I was waiting for you to ask me.
I am DYING here!
Of all the fucking people, you’ve ended up meeting fucking Morphy!
Robert Gadling
Sent 21:46
Morphy??
Johanna The Mad
Received 21:47
It’s what I called him when we were young. Went to school with his siblings Dessi and Appie.
Robert Gadling
Sent 21:47
Ok… and??
Is he someone I need to worry about?
Johanna The Mad
Received 21:47
Morphy? God no.
I mean he’s a bit of a wet cat
But he’s one of those tortured artists types
More focused on his notebook instead of whatever his dad’s got going on.
Robert Gadling
Sent 21:47
His dad?
Johanna The Mad
Received 21:48
Jesus, of course you don’t know.
Morpheus is part of the Endless family
Old money type. Not really “involved”
But his dad has allies
Probably wants Morphy to take over at some point
Robert Gadling
Sent 21:49
And does he want to?
Johanna The Mad
Received 21:49
No clue
I highly doubt it
He’s a bit of a Black Sheep
Mind you, all these questions have me thinking
Robert Gadling
Sent 21:50
No
Whatever it is
No
Johanna The Mad
Received 21:50
You don’t even know what I’m going to say
Robert Gadling
Sent 21:50
Doesn’t matter
Answer is still no
Putting my phone on silent now
Hob shuts his phone off and tucks it back into the pocket of his suit jacket. Jo won’t be impressed over that, but he doesn’t care. He isn’t interested in any ideas she has involving Morpheus.
Morpheus Endless, whose father has allies. Judging by Johanna’s reaction to Hob’s questions, and from what she’s heard over the wire, it doesn’t look like he’s involved with Connolly or his crew. Hob breathes in a sigh of relief. It doesn’t change anything about them. Hob is still uninterested in anything more than good conversations, and being casual acquaintances. The only thing that’s changed is now Hob is even less inclined to involve Morpheus in his life. If what Johanna’s said is true, and Morpheus wants nothing to do with his family’s allies, it would be cruel to drag him down.
Even more cruel if he is a kind person, taking care of his younger sister. Most likely another person on the outer edges of their family.
Hob reaches the bar and orders a Canadian Club Classic 12 . He’s always been a whiskey person, and he enjoys the smooth, complex flavour that it offers. He leans casually against the bartop, watching the couples spin and dance, not a care in their world.
Must be nice, he thinks, to have all that money and power and not have to worry about anything at all; any inconvenience can be taken care of with a snap of a finger. He’d been the sort to wonder why it wasn’t enough for some people. Why, no matter what, they always needed to have more. So much so, that they would resort to harming those around; Innocent folk minding their own business.
His eyes latch on Morpheus talking with some older gentlemen. He truly is a handsome person. The type of man Hob would have flirted with, with the intention of getting his number. The type of man Hob would have taken home and wrecked ten ways to Sunday. The type of man Hob would have wanted to cook breakfast for.
Not important to think about. Not the point of coming here tonight.
Hob relaxes his shoulders and watches some of the other people conversing in groups, trying to make himself look as inconspicuous as possible. Several men have gathered near the bar, talking in hushed tones. Hob is an expert in blending into the background, so he’s able to listen into the conversation. He catches a couple of names, like Morningstar and Burgess, but they don’t tell him anything. He’ll have to remember to ask Johanna about them once he gets home.
“Have you grown weary of the event yet, Robert?” It must be a gift for Morpheus to be able to use his voice like that. To be so sonorous, Hob could slip off to sleep with him whispering in his ear.
“Conversation could be better, but the drinks are more than acceptable,” he says, shaking his whiskey. “Have you done a round on the dance floor?”
“I do not dance,” says Morpheus. He orders a glass of some expensive wine and settles in next to Hob. And in Morpheus’ case, that means standing ramrod straight while Hob remains leaning casually.
Hob raises an eyebrow. “No? I imagine all you rich guys would be experts at dancing.”
Morpheus doesn’t answer right away, and for a second Hob is worried that he may have fucked shit up. But he takes a small sip of his wine, and takes a deep breath.
“I am of the belief that engaging in dance with someone you care about is something so intimate. It should be kept private for as long as possible. You can say so much with just a look; with the way you hold your partner’s hand; with the way you move in unison across the dance floor.”
Hob, somehow without noticing, has been pulled closer to Morpheus, until he finds himself staring deeply into Morpheus’ bright blue eyes. He wants to dive deep and swim within them. Get lost inside and never come up for air. He doesn’t understand what it is about this man that has him completely spellbound. How his deep voice and sweet Mona Lisa smile have started to live rent free in his head.
He feels the cool of Morpheus’ fingers as they lay next to his on top of the bar. Hob is careful to tap down the urge to wrap his hand around and squeeze.
“And—um—Have you someone to dance with?”
Morpheus closes his eyes (beautiful long lashes fluttering closed, brushing the tops of his cheeks) and looks mournfully down. Hob wants nothing more than to lift that chin up and make him smile once more.
“Not for a long time, no.”
The sheer sadness in his voice tells Hob that he must have lost someone near and dear to him. He knows that story all too well. He hasn’t really danced with anyone but Eleanor. They’d never done anything fancy like waltzes or the like, but they would slow dance often in their apartment, Hob spinning her slowly and dramatically until she laughed in her loud, joyous voice.
He taps the side of one of Morpheus’ fingers, “I know what that’s like. It isn’t an easy thing to get through.”
Morpheus shifts his attention (and his blue, blue eyes) to Hob. Hob wonders if Morpheus remembers Eleanor at all. She’d been at the tavern a few times, working the bar with Hob. She’d also taken it upon herself to talk to the regulars, and get to know them.
“No. It is not. I—I can’t imagine losing your partner—the way you—”
Hob lifts a hand to stop him. Got it, he remembers El. “Please. I’m not really good at talking about the before .”
“Of course. I am sorry nonetheless.”
Hob takes a long sip of the whiskey, taking pleasure in the way it burns him on the way down. It pulls him momentarily in a different direction and helps him focus on something other than the conversation.
“It’s fine. Really I—”
“Covering for your father again, are we, Morpheus Endless?”
Hob looks back at the voice and is greeted by a tall, thin, angry-looking man , with wiry white hair and cold, piercing blue eyes. Morpheus, doing the best he can to appear gentlemanly, though this man has clearly interrupted them mid-conversation, simply nods his head in acknowledgement.
“Apologies, Mr. Burgess. My father sends his regards, and hopes to see you in the summer, once he and my mother return from their home in France.”
That doesn’t seem to appease the obviously angry Mr. Burgess. He taps his cane impatiently on the floor, stepping even closer into their space. Hob tightens his fists and breathes deeply, reminding himself not to do anything stupid. And that Jo would be listening in on everything.
“Your father has been giving me the runaround, Morpheus. I have been asking him for assistance in my pursuits since last October.”
“I understand your frustrations, Mr. Burgess but—”
“You understand nothing . Stupid boy, standing here making idle chat with a common rat who managed to sneak in,” he says, glaring at Hob.
Oh. Okay then. He wasn’t going to say anything (better to remain quiet and invisible), but he’s involved now whether or not he wanted to be.
“Never been called a rat before. You’d think I’d be insulted by it, but rats are pretty smart. And friendly too. Sweethearts, really.”
Burgess turns to Hob, attention fully on him. Morpheus makes to stand in between the two, but Hob places his hand on his shoulder. He’s got this.
“Really what you’ve done is offer me a rather lovely compliment. I actually find it rather amusing how you attempted to insult my friend here by implying that speaking to me is somewhat beneath him. That given the choice, he should be so lucky as to share such riveting conversation with one such as yourself. Thing is, Mr. Burgess, I have a pretty good feeling this conversation you’ve rudely forced upon Mr. Endless was over before it even began.”
Burgess, at first looking confused as to where Hob was going with his long winded explanation, finally begins putting the pieces together. He clutches his cane so tight, his knuckles turn white. Morpheus frowns, not understanding quite yet.
“After all, I may be a classless dirty rat, but I, at the very least, can carry myself with at least a tiny shred of dignity. As opposed to bashing that cane about like an angry goose.”
Burgess lashes out towards Hob, raising his cane and making to whack him with it. Hob grabs the cane before it comes down on him. He holds tight, bringing his face close to the fuming old man.
“I would think twice about what you’re about to do. Do you see all these lovely people now staring at you? What would they think if they saw you making a complete spectacle of yourself like this?”
Hob releases Burgess, and he backs off, glaring at the two of them before stalking away. Morpheus has a look of bewilderment, mixed in with… attraction? He’s staring at Hob with a small smile on his face, looking very appreciative.
“You alright?” Hob asks him.
Morpheus nods watching the angry Burgess walk out the ballroom, “That man was an associate of my father’s. Not a very kind man. I don’t know why my father still keeps contact with him. All he’s ever done is cause problems.” He turns back to Hob. “You need not have come to my defence.”
Hob blushes, melting under Morpheus’ intense gaze. “Probably not, but still—,” he says, tugging nervously at his ear “--Would be a shame if you’d end up getting unfairly chastised by that bitter, angry old man .”
Morpheus snorts a laugh, and honestly it sounds like a mix of a Canadian goose honking at some children, and a donkey one of his friends used to have in the yard.
It’s also a wonderful sound. Music to Hob’s ears.
The rest of the evening passes without further incident. Hob is able to find some food to eat, and while it doesn’t completely satisfy him, at least he gets to tell Jo he’d eaten something worth more than the entirety of her wardrobe.
As for Morpheus? Spending time with Morpheus only reminds Hob of something he can never have. He’d done just fine before, only having an incomplete picture of the tall, dark, and handsome man. Someone he’d met only once, who could not match anything his imagination came up with.
Problem is that now he does. Exceeds it even. Morpheus decides to remain close to Hob, in order to “make sure everyone here knows you are more than worthy of sharing the space with them”. Hob would be lying if he said he doesn’t find it sweet, yet unnecessary. In fact, it makes his initial mission of listening in on people all the more difficult.
Somehow he doesn’t think Jo would mind that much. He can picture her right now, howling in laughter as Hob scrambles to make conversation with an attractive man who is both incredibly sweet, and also so fucking smart. Hob didn’t think he’d find someone as passionate about something as he is about history. Morpheus, as it turns out, is passionate about stories. Whether they be from the oral traditions of Ancient Greece, to fantasy trilogies like Lord of the Rings , he loves them all. And that softens something deep inside Hob’s heart. After all, he loves history so much because of the way even the smallest nobody can alter the course of nations. How stories of these people can help shape the future for the better or for the worst.
As they stand outside, staring up at the dark, moonlit night, Hob finds himself wishing he was a different man, for the first time since El died. He wishes he could be the type of man to take Morpheus out on a date. To wine and dine him, and let him talk about Tolkien and Homer and Dickens, and never tire of him.
For the first time, in a very long time, Hob remembers what it’s like to be happy. Thing is, when you feel so happy, you suddenly have something to lose.
And with that, like in the fairytales, the magic of the evening ends when Hob’s watch reminds him that it’s midnight.
“I haven’t enjoyed an evening this much in such a long time,” he sighs, eyes watching the twinkling stars above.
“No longer weary of the evening, Robert?”
“How could I be, when I’ve had the pleasure of good company?”
“No. It was I who had the pleasure.”
Hob laughs softly. “Agree to disagree?”
They remain quiet for some time. Hob should call in to check with Johanna soon, before she worries over him. Granted she’s probably listening in on their conversation, so she should know that Hob’s fine.
“How are you getting home?” he asks, unwilling to end the night, and wanting to keep the magic going for as long as possible.
“I have a car that will pick me up very soon.”
“Curfew?” Hob jokes.
Morpheus smiles. “Something like that. Delia, my sister, tends to be… anxious if I’m not home after a certain amount of time. So I do my very best to be home when I tell her. In this case, no later than half after midnight.”
“Makes sense. I hope she’s alright. I remember when you had to rush off that time.”
“She was fine. We’ve been working on her anxiety, but sometimes, she needs me there with her and nothing else will calm her. She’s learned to call me when she feels an attack starting.”
Hob had always wanted siblings. His parents had tried to have a large family, but failed pregnancy after failed pregnancy made it impossible for them. They got lucky with Hob and decided to cherish him as their only child. He would wonder, sometimes at night, what it was like to grow up with siblings.
The closest he’d come to have siblings was when Jo came into his life. They certainly tease each other like siblings, as well as look after each other. In every way, but blood, she is his sister.
“It’s sweet. How you care for her.”
Morpheus doesn’t respond. He just shrugs his boney shoulders, sighing deeply.
“I had no other choice,” he says, almost too soft for Hob to hear. Before he can ask him about that, a fancy car pulls up to the entrance. Morpheus gives Hob a small sad smile and adjusts his shimmering wool coat.
“I’m afraid our night must now come to a close. I thank you, Robert, for the wonderful company you have given me tonight.”
Hob rubs the back of his neck, wanting to fiddle with the cuffs of his sleeves, or the buttons on his coat. This is what’s supposed to happen, his brain supplies. He cannot have more than this. A lovely evening that was supposed to have gone completely differently. A serendipitous moment between two people, never to be shared again.
“I couldn’t have asked for better company. Take care of yourself, Morpheus.”
He stays a while, on that driveway, making sure Morpheus gets into the car alright and leaves without any issues. Once the car is completely gone from view, he walks slowly to the car Jo rented.
The night is over, and he’s had a small reprieve to freely imagine a different life. That was all this was. Nothing more than that. He hooks up his phone to the car’s Bluetooth. He has a feeling Jo will be calling soon. He starts the car, and slowly exits the venue parking. For the last time today, he permits himself some thoughts about blue eyes and soft black hair. For the last time tonight, he welcomes thoughts of passionate ramblings about Shakespeare (of all people), and Chaucer. For the last time tonight, his mind wanders to a place where he isn’t broken.
The phone rings. The fantasy ends. He’s back home.
“Hey, Jo. Were you thoroughly entertained tonight?”
Notes:
Was I inspired by Tom's Sandman premier look, and Ferdie's tuxedo photo shoot?
Yes... yes I was. And I am not ashamed to say it.
Chapter 5: slay your devils, kill ‘em all
Summary:
Warning for this chapter: Hob beats up some drug smugglers and things get a little bloody in the process. If you want to skip that, it starts with There’s a piece of the broken lock still hanging on the outside door. and ends with Hob lays on his back for a few seconds, breathing deep and calming his nerves.
Not much else to know, except Hob receives a couple of injuries along the way.
Chapter Text
It’s cold when Hob steps out of the metro station. The leaves are floating down from the trees, a lovely indication of the fall weather. He allows the wind to tickle his face and takes a deep breath before making his way to the next target.
The evening gala from last week ended up being a bust overall, save for Hob’s personal enjoyment. It’s a good thing they have a former cop on their team, as Matthew had begun keeping tabs on ongoing cases, while filling Johanna in on potential jobs for them.
Johanna had tracked down a trafficking ring, several shady ‘massage parlours’ all within a 5 mile radius of a warehouse near the docks. All signs pointed to human trafficking, something Hob was hoping was not true. He’ll take anything, weapons, drugs, anything .
In any case, he makes his way through the crowds of people (mostly tourists) onto the quieter streets. The old docks are usually a big attraction for people in the city, full of vendors and rides, as well as fun houses and escape rooms. The entertainment stretches for several kilometres, up until the history museum, where it ends. Walk a couple more blocks from there, and one could find themselves in the more commercial loading docks. Hob doesn’t have an exact address of this warehouse, but he’s got a general idea.
“Found anything?” Johanna asks through the Bluetooth speaker in his ear.
“Nothing yet,” Hob responds, making sure to pull on his mask, as well as attaching the helmet Matthew made for him. He’d hated it at first, and thought he looked ridiculous, but he’s grown to like it. He had gone after an associate of Frank Di Giovanni a few days ago, and it had come in handy. The associate wasn’t alone and his friend had tried to club Hob over the head. Matthew’s genius had prevented what could have been a terrible evening.
“I’ve been looking at store front cameras, as well as traffic surveillance. It looks like if there is anything sketching going down, it’ll be happening on Laprairie.”
“Not too far from here. That’s good. Hopefully this guy gives us more info than Di Giovanni.”
“You know there is a way for us to get all the info we need on who’s connected and allied to each other.”
Hob growls in frustration. She just will not let it go, will she? Even since Hob had gone to that charity gala, Johanna has been on his case about Morpheus Endless. She’d started while he was driving home, putting forth another one of her brilliant ideas.
“It’s a good idea, Hob. He clearly already likes you, and you’ve been cheerful for the first time in years.”
“No. I am not going to flirt with someone for insider information. I refuse.”
“We won’t get an opportunity like this. The Endless family knows everyone. They have their hands in almost every organisation. Everyone wants to be on their good side, everyone wants something from them.”
“It doesn’t matter, Jo. I will not use a person like that. Not someone who wants nothing to do with this whole mess, anyway.”
She hadn’t stopped there. She’d found a way to bring up the topic almost everyday. Every time either of them showed frustration over their tracking skills, she’d mention it. Hob was starting to get really annoyed by it all.
The thing was, he liked Morpheus. He could admit that now, after several intense imagination sessions in the shower. Hob knew better than to expect anything, and so he was happy to leave everything as it was. If they saw each other again, it would be nice for however long it lasted. There was no way he would use him in order to fuel his revenge. Already he had dragged Johanna (albeit she’d forced him to do so) as well as Matthew (who was tired of the corruption in general, having reached his limit, interestingly enough by The White Horse murder and arson), two people were already more than enough.
Johanna didn’t get it though, and once she got an idea in her head, there was nothing anyone could do to deter her.
“Swear to God, Jo, if you bring up Morpheus one more time, I will throw this communication device into the river.”
He hears a frustrated sigh on the other side. “I just don’t see why you’re being so stubborn about this. If he’s so ready to be removed from this life, bringing down people like Connolly is the best way to do it. All he has to do is give us a list of names.”
“And what if he’s caught? What if someone realises that he’s ratting out the families? I won’t have someone else get hurt for this. Especially not…” He stops suddenly, not wanting to admit that he likes Morpheus to Jo.
“You care an awful lot for someone you’ve just met.” Johanna says.
Hob lets that hang in the air, making his way through the old cobblestone streets of the historical district. He doesn’t want to have this discussion anymore, but he still needs Johanna on the line, until he gets to the location.
“Hob?”
He sighs. So much for that. “Yeah?”
“Do you like him?”
He dives into an alley, criss-crossing in between buildings, getting closer to the docks and warehouses. It’ll be easier now to go by unnoticed, since the bulk of traffic will remain closer to the touristy areas.
“I’d rather not talk about this right now.” He keeps sticking to shadows and walls, hoping it’s enough to conceal him. It should be, he’s done this so many times, both here and in New York.
Johanna gasps, and Hob knows it’s over for him. “Oh my fucking God, Hobs. You like him! Seriously? Of all the people you could have developed a crush on, you crush on Morpheus Endless! Are you seriously brain damaged—”
“For God’s sake, Johanna, enough!” Hob snaps over the line. He had warned her that he was done talking about this. He’d warned her so many times and she refused to listen.
She remains silent on the other end. Whether it’s because she’s angry with him, or she feels bad for pushing him, he doesn’t know. Whatever it is, it makes no difference now, as Hob arrives on Laprairie Street.
There aren’t many large buildings on the street, a few small businesses, as well as an art gallery or two. Further down the street, however, closer to the water’s edge and past the major road (Jean-Chabot) are several big warehouses. They’re commonly used as storage when the cargo ships come in, and any one of these could be used for whatever Connolly’s man has going.
If he even is Connolly’s man. Matthew had assured them that Tommy O’Brian was a recent addition to Connolly’s team, being an expert in smuggling and transport. Anything Connolly could want in the city, Tommy could get it for him. Which, if you’re a crime lord buying up old properties and renovating them into condos, you need the extra capital to support that. Being a shitty landlord isn’t enough.
Hob is able to count five warehouses from where he is. Two of them are almost falling apart, a side effect of being in an area often overlooked by the city. One of them is covered in advertisements for one of those counterfeit bag stores. While technically also considered trafficked goods, it isn’t Hob’s business to shut down something like fake Gucci bags. Those bags are extremely overpriced for nothing anyway.
That just leaves two more warehouses. One right at the edge of the dock, and one closer to the intersection between Laprairie and Jean-Chabot. Nothing differentiates the two, so Hob is left with making an educated guess on which one to break into.
“The one closer to the intersection has seen some activity within the last week. Couple of trucks have been loading and unloading meat,” comes Johanna’s voice. Good to see she’s still involved and not totally hating him for yelling at her.
“Which leaves the one by the water. Makes sense. If I were trafficking something very illegal, I’d want to keep it as far away from roads and people as possible.”
“Be—”
“Careful. I know, Jo. I will be.”
“Good. I—um. I need you back at the house to yell at you.”
Hob chuckles. This is what he appreciates about Johanna. They can yell at each other and have the most bitter of fights, but they’ll always end up coming together once again. Sometimes it’ll take a few days to brush shit under the rug, but other times, it’ll be a matter of minutes.
If Johanna has decided this quickly to talk to him, and extend some sort of olive branch, it means she knew she was wrong. She’ll never admit it, not while Hob’s conscious at least. But, they’ll both know that she was in the wrong here.
“I’ll see you at home, then,” he says, and Johanna disconnects the call.
Getting from his hiding spot within the shadows and across the street will be the more difficult task. It would be a bad decision to bolt across from where he is. Jean-Chabot is well lit, and there aren’t trees or bushes that can offer coverage. What Hob will have to do is maybe go a few further streets up, and make his way around the bulk of buildings.
He sneaks up a couple more blocks, keeping to his strategy of staying within the shadows and clinging to the wall. When he reaches a darker portion of Jean-Chabot, he quickly darts to the opposite side of the street. There are a few containers littered close to the docks. Hob uses them to hide himself as he circles back to Laprairie.
Hob grumbles to himself, hating that he’s impressed with the choice of hiding place. Out of public view, yet still lit enough to prevent people from snooping about. Not too deserted, where anything out of the ordinary is surely noticed and taken note of. No one would ever think to check for criminal activity here, with the two dilapidated buildings right next to it.
The target is insights now. The lights are all off, but that could mean anything. There is a main door that leads onto the street, but Hob wonders if there is a side entrance between this building and the one next door. Keeping close to the ground, Hob slinks towards the two buildings, squeezing between them.
As luck would have it, there is a small, skinny side door (most of these old buildings still have smaller doors). Hob removes a lock picking tool and fiddles with it. It takes him a while for it to work, as locks older than fifty years are less likely to break easily, but he’s able to pop it open.
The door swings open with minimal creaking. He opens it just enough for him to slide inside. There are some boxes stored off to the side, so he uses those as coverage. There is one guard posted by the door leading out of the room. Hob has to be smart about this. Charging won't work if there are other people further in the building. He’s more convinced now that the place could be swarming with them. If he can get this guard away from the door and fully in the room, he could maybe put him in a chokehold. That could knock him out for a few minutes. Enough for him to get a better scope of the area.
There’s a piece of the broken lock still hanging on the outside door. Hob creeps back and slowly grabs it, taking care to make as little noise as possible. Crawling on his stomach, he gets as close as he can to the door, before tossing the lock on the opposite side of the room. Immediately, the guard leaves his post, making his way to where the noise came from. Hob smiles, quietly following, keeping to the shadow. The guard keeps his head down, searching amongst the boxes for anything out of the ordinary. Hob quickly gets behind him and grabs him from behind. He clamps a hand over the guard’s mouth and wraps an arm around his neck, cutting off any air supply.
The sharp, quick sounds of a man gasping desperately for air are all that Hob hears, but it does not deter him. His shoes scrape the ground as he attempts to find some traction. One nearly lands a blow to his shin. Hob adds more pressure to the man’s neck, feeling the muscles constricting under his hold.
The man claws at his arm, and had he only been wearing a hoodie, it would have caused some damage, but as it is, all he feels is a slight vibration on his wrist. Garbled shouting underneath Hob’s hand has him worrying, and he keeps his eyes on the door in case reinforcements show up.
None come, and the scratching on the floor stops. The vibrations on his wrist go away and the man slowly quiets down, until all movements stop completely. He lets the man down carefully, hiding him behind some of the boxes.
With that taken care of, he makes his way out of the room and into the main portion of the building. He doesn’t get far, stopping dead in his tracks at what he sees before him.
It isn’t people, and he’s thankful for that. But pounds and pounds of some kind of drug. At least, that’s what he assumes. It looks like cocaine, but darker, and more grey. There are several more guards keeping watch of the stash, so Hob makes sure to stick to the walls.
What the fuck is that? He makes a mental list in his head of what it could be. Meth? Crack? Heroin? It could be just about anything. Maybe a combination of the three? Who knows what people use to quiet their demons these days. Even if Connolly isn’t involved, this is something that Johanna needs to be made aware of. Discreetly, he turns his communicator back on, walking into another room away from the activity.
“Hob? Everything alright?” Johanna’s voice comes through right away.
“Not human trafficking, but some sort of illegal substance. I’m thinking it’s a new drug being flooded onto the streets. Maybe Matthew will know more about it,” he speaks softly, keeping close to the walls and going as far into the room as he can while remaining inconspicuous.
“I’ll let him know. He’ll probably let one of his buddies know. Try to wrap things up as quickly as possible, so that you’re not caught in the middle.”
“Thanks. I’ll do my best here.” Hob disconnects the call and starts to plan out how he will take down the several people crowding around the merchandise.
As he turns around, the helmet connects with a large bit of plywood. Hob stumbles backwards, cursing out loud. His head spins momentarily, but he is able to regain balance before the bit of wood comes at him a second time (thank you, Matthew). He grabs the board and pulls it toward him, causing the person holding it to stumble forward. Hob uses the surprise, in order to punch the assailant in the stomach.
The person goes down in a heap, dropping the plywood. Hob yanks it away from him, and brings it down on his back. The man groans and curls into a ball.
“Wasn’t the smartest thing to do, was it?” Hob asks. The man stays silent, clutching his stomach and breathing heavily.
“Oh, come on. I didn’t punch you that hard did I?” He says, standing over him. He prods the man’s shoulder, in order to get a better look at his face. He’s a young one, probably no older than 23.
Un-fucking-believeable.
It pulls at something deep within Hob. He swears they keep getting younger and younger. Cannon fodder for a war they don’t understand, choosing a life like this out of desperation and lost chances.
“Consider this a warning, kid. You still have a chance to get out of this with your life. I’d take it and never look back.” Hob lands a punch to the kid’s face, knocking him out.
Here’s hoping the kid takes his advice and does his best to find something else to save him from a life of desperation. As detrimental to society as the drug trade is, Hob can’t help but understand. These kids’ futures are absolutely fucked. Society is trying to crush the fire within them, the economy doing everything it can to keep them down and poor, and older generations refusing to listen and understand.
After all, being in his thirties, he’d seen and heard it all before. Too many excuses, and not enough action.
But that was neither here, nor there. Hob shifts the kid behind some boxes and quietly makes his way out of the room.
A baton connects with his bad leg. This time , Hob feels it completely. He grunts, collapsing to the floor, his knee vibrating with pain. The guard delivers a swift kick to Hob’s lower back.
Not good. Not good.
A few other guards have noticed the fight going on and have started making their way towards them. If he has a plan, he needs to enact it right now . As the guard goes to kick him again, Hob grabs the man’s leg and gives it a quick, hard tug. He loses his balance and falls backward. Hob gathers all the courage inside of him to ignore the burning pain in his knee and lift himself up.
Another guard grabs him from behind, attempting to restrain him. Hob uses an old trick he’d learned in New York. Using the momentum of the man launching himself on him, Hob rolls his shoulder, flipping the man over his body and onto the floor. He dashes behind some machinery while the two men scramble to get up with the help of their friend.
His leg is screaming at him in pain. He can barely put any weight on it without his whole leg losing sensation. Fuck! He’ll be feeling that injury for at least a month, if he’s lucky. He may have to use a walking aid, and do his best to stay away from future jobs.
“You fucker! Come out and fight us,” shouts one of the guards. They’re getting closer. Hob reaches into the scabbard he carries with him. He doesn’t like using it all the time, but considering these men are armed and ready to kill or seriously hurt him, he has no choice. He pulls out his sword, says a prayer to El and forces himself out.
Don’t think of the pain , he repeats to himself, as he takes on the first guard, slashing at his legs and dodging when he comes back with a baton. Another guard digs another baton under his chin and puts pressure against his throat. Hob coughs out, but manages to head butt the guard, and he lets go. He spins around and lands a sucker punch, feeling the crunch of a broken nose. The guard goes down, but not before the first one delivers a hard blow to his shoulder. Hob grunts against the pain and nearly falls once more, but he pushes through and slashes the sword against the guard’s leg, finally catching flesh.
The guard screams in pain, crumbling on the floor.
Two down, one to go.
Hob limps away from the shaking, prone man on the floor. The last man is clearly hoping to take him by surprise. Not the worst idea. He must have seen him take the whack to the knee as well as the one to the shoulder. Probably thinking that he could be taken down by quick blunt force. If he were in any other position, that may be true. Matthew’s armour and helmet have been irreplaceable. If he didn’t have them, tonight would have ended very differently. A small headache is forming behind his eyes, no doubt the fault of the plywood attack from before. Had he not had some protection for his knees, the whack he took there would have most likely torn his ACL, or even broken it.
Hob remains as quiet as he can, the only sound filling the air are the pained moans of the man whose leg was slashed. Hob hopes that he didn’t slice a major artery or vein. He has enough red in his ledger from New York, he isn’t keen on collecting more unless strictly necessary.
A shadow dives in between two stacks of barrels. Hob makes his way towards them, trying to make out any shape or movement. The darkness of the room makes that exceptionally difficult. A slight rumble has him spinning around in time to see several barrels cascading down towards him. Hob dives out of the way. He twists in order not to land on his bad knee, but that causes one of the barrels to ram into his side.
Definitely one of the worst jobs he’s had in a very long time. Either he’s been making too many stupid mistakes, or these guys are far more experienced than the henchmen he'd been fighting before.
The last guard attacks from his hiding space, pulling out an automatic weapon from behind him (where had those been?). Hob reaches for his sword on the floor. He brings it up to meet the rifle, struggling to keep it away from his face. The guard shouts expletives in his face, putting all of his weight on the gun. Hob decides to take a risk here, and it could either win for him, or kill him.
As the man looms over him, leering at him—his smile widening, showing off his glistening teeth— Hob uses two of his fingers and shoves them into the man’s eyes (a trick he learned from Ethan). He digs as deep as he can go as the guard screams, letting go of the gun and covering his eyes with his hands. Before he can move away, Hob takes the pommel of his sword and connects it to the man’s head. He goes down with a heavy thud.
That’s three .
Hob lays on his back for a few seconds, breathing deep and calming his nerves. As much as he wants to stay laying down, he knows he doesn’t have much time to get up and make his way far from this place. Soon, the adrenaline will slow and stop, making the injuries he’d received all the more painful.
Struggling to get up, Hob rolls his shoulders, feeling the sharp pain. That’s another place that needs to be iced. He wonders how much Advil he can take before it becomes dangerous. Does Johanna know? Probably not. He hides his sword back in its scabbard, and slides the scabbard through a concealed slit in his armour (again, thank you Matthew).
He limps as quickly as he can, towards the back exit. He’s confident that he got all of the guards stationed here. It doesn’t look like they were planning much tonight. As he slides out of the door, he can hear the very distant sound of police sirens.
Made it out just in time then.
Hob retraces his steps through the small bushes and keeps to the darker parts of the street. He makes his way back to the intersection where he’d crossed earlier that night, and continues on for a few more blocks. There is a metro station several blocks from here, and it’s much closer than the one he previously used. Normally he tries to keep things as consistent as he can, but his knee is protesting more with every step he takes.
He hobbles far enough, taking the small streets and dark alleys in an attempt to hide himself in the better lit parts of the neighbourhood. When he gets to about a block away from the metro station, he removes his helmet and mask, pulling up his hoodie, to cover as much of himself as he can.
As he comes up to the metro, he groans, staring at the broken down escalators. This city can be the fucking worst sometimes. Is it really so difficult to make sure the very limited forms of access are working properly?
It’s no matter. He grabs onto the handrails and slowly makes his way down to the platform. Thankfully the train shows up just as he reaches there, so he’s able to limp inside. He chooses to forgo any seats, even though there are plenty available. If he sits down, he may not get back up again. Instead, he leans against some opposite doors, and lets the noises of the metro and its patrons lull him into a sense of calm.
Johanna is pacing nervously back and forth when he arrives. Fuck, was he supposed to call her? His brain is in desperate need of some pain meds and warm tea.
“Jesus Christ, Hobs. I’d tried calling you and connecting to your wire, but nothing was working. If Matthew hadn’t called and assured me that you weren’t at the site, I would have gone out looking for you myself.”
“Was just another job. Same as the rest,” he mumbles stumbling into the flat. Jo dives to catch him before he hits the floor, steadying him on his feet. His knee was so brave, getting him through a long metro ride and a fifteen minute walk home before finally deciding to give out completely. He doesn’t think he can move it anymore tonight.
“Hob, what happened?” Johanna asks, leading him to their couch. Hob stops right before being dropped on the couch. He pulls the sword and scabbard out from the slit in his armour, and places it on the floor. He then drops his helmet on the floor and slowly takes off his hoodie and his chest armour underneath. His bruises must look pretty bad, because Johanna’s eyes grow as big as saucers.
“They were tough, these guys. Good at stealth and using blunt force weapons. If it hadn’t been for Matthew’s gear, I don’t think I would have made it back.” Hob groans, leaning back against the soft couch, hissing as the fibres make contact with his sore back.
“What do you need?” Johanna asks, getting up from her seat. Hob tilts his head at her.
“Help me out of the rest of my armour, please? I can’t move my legs,” he gestures to his legs. He’s worried to see how bad they look. The right one is most likely swollen pretty bad, he can feel it pressed uncomfortably against the armour material.
Johanna helps him out of the armour. He winces as the material rubs against his bad leg, and it’s swollen up pretty bad. Johanna curses, staring at it. Hob leans back against the couch throwing an arm over his eyes. It’ll be a struggle to get to his room and into his bed, but he can probably manage it, now that the suit is off of him.
“We need to get that leg in some warm water. Let’s get you into the bathtub, and I’ll draw you a hot bath.” Johanna says, pushing the suit aside with her foot and getting back on her feet.
“I don’t think you can carry me to the tub, Jo,” Hob says, laughing through the exhaustion.
“Not carry you, but I can help you there. Come on, you can lean on me.” Johanna bends down and wraps one of Hob’s arms around her shoulders. She hooks her arm across his back, holding onto his waist.
“On the count of three,” she says, bracing herself for Hob’s weight. “One, two, three.” Using Hob’s force and her balance, they manage to get him off of the couch, but not without Hob moaning in pain as his knee takes in more abuse. Slowly, they make their way into the bathroom, Johanna setting the pace, carefully guiding him and making sure not to aggravate his knee anymore.
“You don’t have to do this,” Hob mumbles, the pain making his head a little cloudy.
“Shut up, Robert. You’re my friend . And you may be an asshole sometimes, and don’t know when to stop talking but—” she takes a deep breath, “you’re my friend.”
Just that admission alone is a lot for Johanna all at once, and she looks away from him, refusing to meet his gaze. They both know that when she says something like ‘you’re my friend’, she truly means ‘I care about you’. Out of the two of them, Hob has always been the more open with his emotions. As closed off as he’s become, making sure those closest to him (really just Johanna) know how important they are, is still important to him.
Hob sighs, leaning his head against Johanna’s. They’ve had some rough spots in their friendship, but she truly is someone he can rely on.
“Thank you, Jo,” he says, his eyes fluttering closed, letting her lead him into the bathroom. He sits down on the toilet seat, while Jo draws a bath for him. She looks questioningly at Hob’s bath salts and bath bombs, unsure which ones to use. Hob chuckles and waves her away from them. He’ll be fine with just the water to soak in. Johanna, as much as he loves her, doesn’t believe in pampering herself, and finds baths a waste of time.
“Will you be alright in here?” She asks, once the bath is appropriately filled.
“Should be fine, but if I’m not out in an hour, make sure I’m not asleep and drowning.”
“I know you’re joking, but please don’t drown in the bathtub.”
Hob nods at her, giving her a small salute as she exits the bathroom. Very slowly, he takes off his tee-shirt, his shorts, boxer-briefs, and socks and gets into the tub.
Immediately the warmth hits his knee, and the relief is instantaneous. Hob moans in satisfaction, sinking deeper into the water. The heat caresses the injuries on his shoulders, and his side. His mind is mush and he’s more than fine with that. He doesn’t have any energy to even think.
With the injuries he’d sustained tonight, it’ll be some time before he can go out on jobs again. Hob closes his eyes and replays the night over in his mind. He had done everything right, doing the best he could to remain unseen, and dispatching any guards quickly and silently.
Sometimes, no matter how well you execute a job, there will be things that go wrong. In this case, one of the guards must have seen him going into the second room in order to communicate with Johanna. That’s all it takes, is for one person to suspect something going on for a job to fall apart. That kid must have told a colleague his concerns, which would explain the surprise gift his knee had received. Once Hob began fighting, it was over as the final two guards noticed the commotion.
He dips his head back into the water, soothing the headache only slightly. He should have asked Jo for some Advil, or probably some muscle relaxant. He’s going to have to rub some muscle cream on his back before going to bed. There’s no escaping the pain he’s in for tomorrow, but he can try to alleviate as much as he can for now.
He takes his time washing his hair and body. As he runs his fingers through his hair, his mind wanders to Morpheus (as it tends to do when he sits idly). He pictures Morpheus, sitting behind him, rubbing his shoulders after a difficult job. Maybe, if he were with Morpheus, he wouldn’t want to take on any more jobs. Maybe he’d train and wait until he can have Connolly, and end things there. Maybe he can have the calm peaceful evenings, reading and relaxing in the arms of someone warm and stable.
He hasn’t seen Morpheus since the gala a couple of weeks ago, which is understandable. Now that he knows the kind of influence Morpheus has, it makes sense that he wouldn’t just show up out of nowhere at the pub Hob works at. He probably has better places to go, and important people to see.
And there he goes, being needlessly maudlin again. He needs to finish his bath and get to sleep. Most importantly, he has to ban all thoughts about Morpheus Endless. Their moment has come and gone. They had the gala and that was enough for him. It was enough to have that small moment where he could be Hob Gadling, passionate about life, history, and good banter.
Hob finishes his shower and makes his way into his bedroom. He keeps it tidy there, not many personal items around. He tends not to keep too many things, not knowing when he has to make a break for it. He has a bookshelf though, with some of his favourite books ( Marlow’s Works , The Complete Wilde Anthology , The Iliad and The Odyssey , Pride & Prejudice , and so on) and graphic novels, as well as a couple of history-related knick-knacks he’d picked up while living with Jo.
Also in the room is an acoustic guitar. He’s not a very good player, but he’d enjoyed it quite a bit while in university. He’d often play for El, while they were dating and had proposed to her after singing one of her favourite songs ( Somewhere Out There by Our Lady Peace). He hasn’t touched another guitar since she died. It was nice of Jo to leave one in his room, but to even think about picking it up is too painful.
It isn’t much, but it’s his , and he hasn’t had something that was his in a very long time. In New York, he didn’t even have an apartment for very long, often choosing to take short leases of three months or less if he could. Because his leases were so short, he hadn’t bought any furniture or anything that he could call his.
Whether this guest room of Jo’s was meant to help give him some roots or not, Hob is still grateful that he has a space for him to settle, and especially a soft, warm bed to come back to.
A bed that waits for him to collapse onto it very, very slowly. Jo’s left some pain medication on the desk next to the bed, along with a glass of water. He shuffles toward his dresser, and pulls out some soft, comfortable pyjamas. He struggles putting them on, wondering if he should have just slept in the nude.
Finally, Hob crawls into bed, his muscles protesting as he settles in and makes himself comfortable under the sheets. His hand slinks out and grabs the pills, popping two into his mouth. He grabs the glass of cool water left as well, and swallows.
Taking a deep breath, he covers himself completely in blankets and lets the exhaustion pull him into a deep slumber.
Chapter 6: you found a song in your own heart
Chapter Text
Authorities have been scouring the scene of the latest in a string of violent attacks against notorious gang affiliations. The attack, which occurred last Monday evening, left four men in hospital with one under critical condition. So far, none have been willing to give up any information on their assailant, but there have been growing theories.
Police are under the suspicion that these attacks are just a part of the ever growing wars between several underground gangs and mob families. The infamous ‘Demons of the North Shore’ have tried to claim the attacks as their own, but not everyone is convinced of their involvement.
“The M.O. of the assailant is not one connected to the Demons,” says officer Julien Maitre. “When we see an attack from one gang to another, we typically see a more brutal crime scene. One where no one is left alive. Whoever did this just wanted to injure. Possibly to stop the cargo from circulating the city,”
General public opinion vehemently disagrees with the police.
“It’s The Knight. How else do you explain the sword slashes on their legs?” replied JaxK in a comment on yesterday’s story. They are referring to, of course, the Knight of Good Fortune, the city’s own version of Batman.
Not much is known about the mysterious vigilante, but several people have reported seeing a man in a dark hoodie stalking the crime scenes. Not much else is known about this mysterious person, and while bloggers and True Crime podcasts have been reporting on these attacks, The Riverview Gazette cannot confirm the accuracy of these reports.
When asking officer Maitre of his opinions on The Knight’s legitimacy, he refused to comment on the matter. Upon reaching out to other officers in the district, it appears none have any comments or concerns about the man in the shadows.
“His weapon of choice seems to be a sword, but some of these drug guys have reported that he fights like he’s a pro in Mixed Martial Arts,” writes Elizabeth Yang of the Modern Heroes Podcast.
“He never sticks around. Probably afraid the police will shoot him first and not bother asking questions. After all, he’s doing their job better than they are, and killing less people too,” says Malik Saleh from the News Clues blog.
“So I’ve been doing some digging, because of course I have. And not too long before these criminal shut downs started here, there were similar reports coming out of New York. I wonder if The Knight took some inspiration from that?” says Sasha Novik from the Investigation Nation Podcast
Whomever this Knight is –or wherever they may be– one this is for certain. The city has been irrevocably changed by his actions. With a strong stand, comes bolder criminals. One only hopes the same won’t occur here.
Johanna slams a newspaper in front of Hob as he cleans glasses behind the bar. It’s a slow morning, and he’s very grateful for that. His knee has been on the slow healing path since Monday, with some days being better than others. Last night, he must have slept on it wrong, because he could barely move it this morning. He needed to use his cane in order to get down to work. Johanna had insisted he take a few days off in order to recuperate, but he refused. Hob was never a person who liked to sit around and do nothing.
“Why are you throwing a newspaper at me?”
Johanna points to a headline in the Crime section: “Gang Wars or The City’s Knight in Shining Armour?”
“You’re getting famous, Hobs,” she whispers, with a smile on her face. Hob glances over to the article, reading the first few paragraphs. He should have seen this coming. Sooner or later, people were going to notice a hooded guy creeping about in shady areas. Plus, the fact he chooses to use a sword isn’t exactly inconspicuous.
Thing is, if this helps scare some people into dropping from Connolly’s empire, he can’t see the problem with it. It works with the big heroes like Bat-Man, doesn’t it?
Besides, the media was already referring to him as The Knight of Good Fortune (bit of a load on the tongue if you ask him) for at least six months now. This isn’t a big deal.
“You know, I don’t really see the problem with this?”
“You don’t?”
“Nope. As far as I’m concerned, either will work well for us. Like say giving me more info on Connolly in order to prevent the world’s worst shaving accident—”
Johanna snorts.
“ Or , people just don’t pay it any mind and we continue on as we’ve been doing.”
Johanna grabs the paper back and folds it, leaving it on the counter. Hob thinks she’s the only person who still subscribes to physical newsprint copies. She says that some of her best memories involve doing the puzzles with her uncle John after sleeping over at his place.
“How’s the leg doing?” she asks, taking a seat in front of him. Hob makes his way to the coffee machine to make her usual order (two shots of espresso with a squirt of almond flavouring).
“Hurts like fuck,” he grunts.
“That’s a shame. If only you had a kind, loving boss—”
Hob sighs, “Johanna—”
“One who lovingly prepares warm baths for you and offers to let you stay home—”
“Johanna Eunice—”
She practically jumps over the counter, reaching for him. Hob laughs and moves out of her way, pretending to focus solely on the espressos being made.
“Do not use my middle name on me, you fucker.”
Hob raises an eyebrow at her. “Do not bug me about my life choices. Questionable as they may be.”
Johanna rolls her eyes, but she sits back down and accepts the coffee that Hob places in front of her. Hob leaves her to it, and hobbles over to another section of the bar, where he finds the inventory list. Normally, the day manager Henri takes care of the inventory, but Hob’s been pitching in to help when Henri is occupied with other tasks. Hob takes the list and starts tallying up the liquor on the shelves.
“Speaking of questionable choices,” Johanna says, standing up and getting ready to walk out, still holding the mug of espresso in her hands. “Look who’s just shown up.”
“You can’t just take that, Jo!” Hob shouts at her as she leaves the pub.
“I can take what I want, I own the fucking place,” she shouts back.
“Un-fucking-believeable,” he says, marking down the missing mug on the inventory list. Jo will end up either keeping the mug for some stupid reason, or she’ll end up breaking it.
“Do you normally swear so casually at your boss?”
Hob’s head darts up to a very familiar voice. Morpheus stands in front of him, all dark and beyond beautiful, bathed in the pub’s warm lights. He’s wearing a soft-looking sweater that looks like it shimmers in blue and purple, along with what looks like a very cosy black coat. He looks both untouchable, and huggable at the same time. It’s so fucking annoying.
Hob grins at him. “Not usually, but she’s a special case.” He nods towards the back exit of the Inn, where the stairs to the upstairs apartments can be found. “I’ve known her since forever, and we’ve always been like this. She’s like a little sister you can’t help but annoy.”
The corner of Morpheus’ lips quirks a little, and Hob wonders if he’s thinking about his own little sister. “I understand all too well the nature of such a relationship.”
“You have the same relationship with your sisters?”
“When she is in good spirits, I do enjoy lighthearted banter with Delia. As for Dee, I believe her favourite pastime is trying to get me to lighten up.”
Hob places the inventory list to the side. It can wait a few minutes while Morpheus is here. After all, he’s doing it as a favour to Henri. Hob grabs his cane and makes his way over to start working on Morpheus’ drink.
“Robert, are you injured?”
Hob looks up from the espresso machine, to where Morpheus is staring at his leg with avid concern.
“It’s nothing to worry about. Took a nasty fall the other day. It hasn’t completely healed. This leg hasn’t been working well for a very long time.”
Morpheus frowns. “You should not be working with an injury like that. You could aggravate it.”
For some reason, hearing the nagging from Morpheus doesn’t get on his nerves quite as much as when Jo does it. It’s probably because Morpheus is staring at him with those big blue eyes, and batting those impossibly thick lashes at him.
“I’m fine, honestly. And I can’t stay in bed all day doing nothing. I’d drive myself crazy.”
“ Robert —”
Hob shudders “Okay, from now on, call me Hob, please? Hearing the name Robert like that makes me think of my father.”
“That’s not a common nickname for Robert.”
Hob finishes off Morpheus’ drink, and slowly brings it to him. He leans against the counter, studying Morpheus as he takes a sip of the beverage. The way his lips curl over the ledge of the cup and the way he sighs when taking in the drink.
He’s losing the plot.
“Umm, yeah. So, my mother used to call me her little hobgoblin because I was so mischievous and pretty much a little shit. Eventually hobgoblin shortened to Hob. And the name’s pretty much stuck.”
He tugs at his ear nervously. He doesn’t always talk about his parents. They’d passed away when he was in his late teens. Nothing super dramatic, but his mother had passed away after a long battle with ovarian cancer, and his father had passed away a year later (to the date) of a massive heart attack. The doctors had called it Takotsubo cardiomyopathy, or “broken heart syndrome”. Hob was expecting to pass away from the same thing after Eleanor died. Like his body would just shut down due to the stress associated with her sudden death.
Life had a way of reminding you that there was still something to fight for.
“Funny thing about the name though,” he says, moving away from the topic of his parents. “Once I was in university, studying history, I read up on the etymology of my name. I’m a little conceited in that way. So, apparently Hob was a very, very old nickname for Robert. So it all worked out perfectly.”
Morpheus smiles, eyes laser focused on everything that Hob’s saying. It brings back the memories of the gala, when they spent the night talking about their interests, the both of them in deep concentration to each other.
“Your charming stories will not distract me.”
“Really?” Hob asks, giving his most charming smile. “Not even a little bit?”
“You really should be resting. I could help you back upstairs—”
Hob, without thinking, reaches for Morpheus’ hand, to pull him back to his seat. It’s almost a shock as their hands meet. Morpheus’ hand is much cooler than Hob expected. Then again, the man has no fat in his body, so of course he must be freezing all the time.
And there goes his mind once more, imagining wrapping him in one of the throw blankets Jo keeps in the apartment.
They stare at each other neither one moving their hands. It feels as though the moment is frozen in time. As if the universe is aware that they are both on the precipice of something important, so it’s giving them a few minutes to process what’s going on. It wants them to make the right choice here. It’s pushing them both towards something that could heal or break them.
Hob takes his hand off of Morpheus and the moment dies in an instant.
“Um. Thank you, but—”
Morpheus looks away, face turning a rather adorable shade of red. “I—That is—”
“I’ll be alright. I promise—”
“Of course. I don’t mean to imply—”
“No, of course not.”
They don’t say anything. Hob grabs a cloth towel and wipes down an imaginary stain that he swears was just there. Morpheus, meanwhile, stands awkwardly, watching Hob work, until he decides to sit back down to his coffee.
Someone comes up to the bar, and asks Hob for one of their specialty coffee drinks. He gives Morpheus an apologetic smile and goes back to work.
The drink takes longer than expected, due to the customer’s complicated requests (seriously, why order a specialty drink if you’re going to change the entire recipe?) as well as a few additions to the order (a matcha green tea, as well as one of the carrot muffins). Hob’s not expecting to find Morpheus still waiting for him, but there he is, completely engrossed in the newspaper that Jo had left.
When Hob walks up to him again, he notices that he’s reading the story about The Knight. His face isn’t easy to read, but his eyebrows are scrunched in concentration.
“Good news?” he asks, pointing at the newspaper.
“There have been quite a few stories about this Knight of Good Fortune,” Morpheus says, face still stuck inside the newspaper.
Hob starts transferring some glasses from the dishwasher onto the drying rack, giving him something to do so that he doesn’t outright demand to know what Morpheus thinks of the Knight. He hears Johanna’s voice in his head, pushing him to gather information from Morpheus. Hob shakes his head, ridding the voice away.
He is so curious though.
“What’s your take on him? This Knight person?”
Morpheus hums, still reading the paper. Hob tries not to lean even closer to him, keeping his eyes on the glasses, and finds one that needs an extra bit of polishing according to him. He grabs a cloth towel and takes his time wiping it over.
“He’s playing a stupid game,” Morpheus says, frowning. His voice, normally deep and sonorous, has become a touch colder.
“How do you figure? He’s been preventing trafficking in and out of the city.”
“The type of people he is involving himself with are a dangerous sort,” Morpheus says, lowering his gaze into the coffee cup he’s still nursing. Normally, Hob would offer to refill it, or warm it up with some heated oat milk.
While he understands the level of concern coming from Morpheus, Hob can’t help but feel a little defensive about it. He’s been doing this for several years now. He knows the risks pretty damn well. He knows that he could go out one night and not return. It’s most likely that he will not survive the end of whatever he’s doing with The Knight.
Despite all of that, he’s intrinsically connected to The Knight, and so Morpheus’ opinion matters.
“I would assume he knows. Why else would he be going after them like this?”
Morpheus scoffs “Fame most likely. Or to make a name for himself. It’s dangerous and it will get him killed one day.”
Hob stares at him. He can’t truly think that, can he? There are no pictures of The Knight available (he would know). He has been careful to never be caught. Whatever witnesses there have been to his activities have all been accidental.
“ Fame ? Really? There isn’t any information on him. No one knows who he is, and barely anyone has seen him. Those who have, can’t even give an accurate enough description of him.”
“People love a good mystery. Already there are several crime podcasts on him—”
“You listen to podcasts?” Hob shakes his head, “Never mind, not important. What if he’s just some guy wanting to fix something that has been a problem in this city for years. Lord knows the police have done fuck all ”.
Hob crosses his arms, defensively. Thoughts of the immediate aftermath after El’s death and The White Horse burning down creep into his head. The way the police handled her murder case was one of the many strikes that convinced him that he needed to cure this cancer by himself. It was clear who was responsible for their deaths. They had been getting threats from Connolly’s cronies for months before the attack. It was well known that he had offered both him and Eleanor several hundred thousand dollars for ownership of the pub. El had called the police on more than one occasion to complain about people harassing patrons, and causing disturbances right outside the pub. The police simply said that it was all a part of living in that area.
And then came that night. They were doing some late night planning of events when they were attacked and—
After a few days in the hospital, fighting for his life, Hob was left with his wife dead and his pub burned to the ground, and the police claimed to have no suspects. Hob had come forward to give a statement and description of the assailants that night, but it came to nothing. Without evidence, it wasn’t enough (or so they claimed) to officially charge anyone with the crime.
Not too long after joining their team, Matthew had come up to him and opened up completely. He had been put on the case, and before the pub had burned down, he watched as his superiors decided that any evidence found at the initial crime scene had something that made it insufficient. He had tried time and time again to convince anyone to do a more thorough search, in case something was hidden. He’d brought up the complaints and calls by Eleanor, and the threats they’d received, but any pleas had fallen on deaf ears.
It was this case which finally convinced Matthew to leave the police force. He’d been going back and forth on leaving, but this was the final push for him.
“He is far from being just some guy,” Morpheus says, with an extra air of derision when saying ‘just some guy’, and that really rubs Hob the wrong way.
“Well then, what exactly is he, according to your expertise?”
“As I said before, someone clearly desperate for some notoriety. Putting himself into a world he knows nothing about without any forethought into his safety or the safety of those he holds dear. These people, and those connected to them, will not just go after this ‘Knight’. They will go after each and every one of the people he loves.”
And there it is. The one thing Hob’s been worried about since starting his crusade. That Johanna, and now even Matthew, will have their lives severely impacted by his choices.
“I think you’re wrong, Morpheus. I think The Knight has his own personal reasons for choosing to engage in something so dangerous. And I don’t think he’s doing it lightly.” Hob takes a deep breath, and thinks about Eleanor. “If it were me ,” he starts, looking away from Morpheus’ bright, inquisitive eyes, and staring at one of the Inn’s wall decorations. “If I was in the position to stop these assholes. To make sure no one has to watch as someone they love died, and being unable to do anything about it. I’d do it. No questions about it.” He forces out a cough and rubs his eyes.
A cool hand covers his own hand, still holding onto the bartop. Hob turns, and there is Morpheus once more. He is less severe and cold, and more… sad . Guilt-ridden.
“You feel a kinship with The Knight, don’t you?” He says, his thumb rubbing the inside of Hob’s wrist. It feels so nice , and comforting.
“Doesn’t matter if I do or don’t. I’m speaking as someone who lost everything and themselves in one fell swoop. Someone who had gone to the police for help, as I was always told to do. Someone who was then ignored and was refused justice.” Hob clenches his fist under Morpheus’ hand. Morpheus tightens his grip.
“I understand you, Hob. And while I do not agree with you entirely, I—I understand,” he whispers.
Hob nods, not daring to look at his face. He can’t look at it right now. Not with all the emotions running through his veins. He’s too much right now, and the only way to remedy that is to work and let the emotions fade into the background.
He pulls his hand away from Morpheus’ grip. “Thank you, Morpheus.” Hob pushes himself away from the counter, and notices the inventory list still laying there. He should probably get back to work. This conversation has left an awful taste in his mouth. He grabs the list and looks over it, pretending to be interested in the items. Really anything to prevent him from looking at Morpheus’ face. Afraid that he’ll see some form of sadness within them (or worse, pity).
Morpheus takes the hint that the conversation (and the impromptu meeting) has ended. “I suppose I should leave you to your work then,” he says. Hob turns his head, finally looking at Morpheus. He was right, there’s pity written all over his face, maybe a bit of remorse as well. Neither of which Hob needs right now.
“I—do not always understand the— perspective of others around me. I tend to be set in my opinions and rarely ever change them,” he says, in that deep, smooth voice that’s haunted Hob’s dreams and daydreams.
Unable to understand other’s views and experiences? Yeah that sounds about right if what Johanna’s told him is true. Rich, pampered kid from a family that dabbles in mob activities here and there. He was most likely told what to think his whole life, and although he wants out, it takes a while to shift one’s way of thinking.
Thing is, Hob doesn’t have the time to guide him through all that.
“I understand that, I do. I also understand how impossible it is to change, whether it’s your opinion, or your life. I hope you learn something from this.”
Morpheus nods and —after taking the newspaper with him— strides out of the Inn.
As soon as he’s gone, Hob wonders if maybe it was a mistake to let him go after such a tense conversation. Maybe he should have insisted he stay and taken an early break.
Not enough time for “maybes”.
Morpheus doesn’t come back for another two weeks. The weather outside grows colder with each passing day. With that, comes more pain in his knee. He no longer needs to use the cane —thankfully— but it’ll stiffen up throughout the day, and he’ll have to take a few moments in the break room giving it a rest.
And those are the good days.
Today… Today isn’t a good day. He woke up with a sharp pain right where that fucking baton hit him. Today is a ‘grab the cane and pray the knee doesn’t give out’ kind of day. He’d made himself some tea in the morning, and prepped a few heat therapy bags to bring downstairs. Jo, thankfully, is still asleep. She’d been up late last night, tracking potential hits. The crime scene has been suspiciously quiet lately, and it’s left the both of them tense, anticipating something big coming up.
They’d told Matthew to keep an ear out for anything his buddies on the force could tell him. In the meanwhile he’d been hard at work, making some adjustments to the armour he’d made. He’d told Hob that he was playing around with some materials that could add some extra protection to his knees, while still keeping the armour lightweight. He was also looking into extra support and braces for his leg for days when it refused to cooperate with him.
Hob takes his time going down the stairs. Geoff’s already waiting for him, but spares him the attitude when he sees the cane in Hob’s hand. He can’t lie that he’s grateful that the cane prevents Geoff from being rude with him so early in the morning.
Both of them quickly get into the routine of opening and prepping the place. Henri comes in an hour after opening and frowns when he notices the cane.
“Bad day, today?” he asks Hob, raising an eyebrow at the cane. Henri’s one of those old school types. Believing in taking care of his people and expecting the respect back. He’s not a bad person to work with, always ready to jump in and get his hands dirty if the situation calls for it. Hob has seen him do everything from tending the bar, to cleaning an accident on the floor during rush hours.
Hob’s never sure what to tell Henri when it comes to his knee issues. He isn’t a bad manager, but they’re all well aware that since getting injured, Hob’s been slower, and has needed more breaks in order to recuperate. He tries to keep up as best as he can, but some days are more difficult than others.
“Never stopped me before,” he says, pulling out the washed glassware from last night.
Henri leans on the counter, crossing his arms. “Yet you refuse to take the day off. You live with the owner, we all know that. You have the ability to do so without repercussions. Why don’t you? Why put yourself through the misery?”
Hob sighs, not wanting to explain his inability to sit still, especially after El’s death. How if he’s alone for too long with his thoughts, they become dark and haunting. Keeping himself busy keeps the thoughts away.
“I can’t sit still to spend the whole day in bed,” he chooses to say.
Henri hums, rubbing his trimmed, grey beard. He’s studying Hob, dark grey eyes staring at the lines on Hob’s face. Hob wonders what Henri can see there. No one really knows much about his past, and Henri is careful to keep it that way, but they all have their theories (except Hob, he knows better than to mess around with someone’s history).
“You have the eyes of a soldier,” he says, frowning. Hob straightens up, and shifts his body away from Henri. “You’ve been through something, and have been fighting it ever since.”
Hob clears his throat, nervously. “How can you tell?”
“You’re always guarded in the way you stand. Your eyes are angry and ready to attack. I’ve seen that look before,” he says, rubbing his arms. “Seen it in the mirror, actually.”
Hob copies him, rubbing his own arms, giving them a squeeze, grounding himself to the present.
“You don’t have to tell me the details. I read the news about The White Horse . But, if I can give you some advice?”
Hob nods, tucking some hair behind his ears.
“Don’t hold onto that anger. Fighting to the bitter end won’t do anything to help with the pain and the grief. Learn to let go of it, and find a way to heal without the darkness living inside,” he says, pointing an index finger to Hob’s chest, right where his heart is. “Allow yourself to be happy if the chance shows up.”
Somehow that causes thoughts of Morpheus to enter Hob’s head unprompted. Hob won’t admit it, but he misses him. He misses his shy smile, and his feathery black hair. And those intense blue eyes. Hob’s been seeing that shade everywhere. In the flowers on the ground, in the feathers of a blue jay, in the intricate pattern of a glass vase.
He’d tried rubbing a few out in the shower in a desperate attempt to expel the thoughts of him. All that accomplished was an even deeper desperation for the touch of long elegant fingers and soft petal lips.
“I’ll think about that. Thanks Henri,” he says, giving Henri a tired smile. Henri sighs, patting Hob’s shoulder before walking away. It’s clear Henri doesn’t believe him, but Hob’s not ready to let go yet. Not until he has Connolly where he wants him.
The front door bursts open as Hob’s wiping down the glassware. A tiny young woman prances inside. She’s so small that Hob can practically put her in his pocket, but she’s got a rainbow of thick, curly hair, parted to the right. The left side of her head is completely shaved off. She’s wearing a neon coloured tee-shirt of a band Hob’s never heard of, along with a pair of ripped black jeans. Thankfully, she’s also got a coat on, otherwise, Hob would go searching for one to cover her up.
The girl skips toward the bar and hops onto a stool. She shifts in the seat, spinning around a couple of times before Hob finally walks up to her, ready to ask her for any kind of ID.
“Can I help—”
“I don’t have my ID,” she says, chewing on a bright pink varnished nail, “I must have left it at home, I think. But that’s ok, I’m not supposed to be drinking anything,” she leans into Hob’s space, putting one of her hands on the side of her mouth, as if telling him a secret. “My brain gets really fuzzy and stormy if I drink anything. Dreamy makes sure there’s no fuzzy drinks in the apartment.”
Hob nods slowly, doing his best to follow along with everything she’s saying. She’s speaking in a very fast paced voice, with a high pitched voice that almost sounds like it’s vibrating.
“You’re confused. I can tell because you’ve got the same look on your face that many of my classmates have whenever I answer a question. But that’s probably because I often forget what the question was, and I start answering the question, but then I forget where I was going, and I’m doing it now, aren’t I?”
Hob frowns, wondering if this girl is lost, or possibly drunk at the moment (or maybe high). Then again, if she’s insisting that she does not drink, maybe she’s just confused and needs someone to make sure she doesn’t get into any trouble.
“Is there someone I can call for you? I could make you a tea while you wait.” If he could keep her occupied until her guardian comes to collect her, he could prevent a lot of unpleasantness with other patrons, or God-forbid, the police.
She vigorously shakes her head, “Nope. Not right now. Dreamy’s in a pissy mood. He hasn’t been in a pissy mood in a very long time, and I tried to ask him why he was in a pissy mood, but he spoke in that scary voice, and I don’t like the scary voice and then I couldn’t breathe, and Dreamy had to squeeze me and sing the calming song—”
The girl starts tugging her hair and tapping her foot violently against the stool. Her bright blue and green eyes dart around the pub, analysing the people eating their breakfasts and drinking their coffees.
Hob has dealt with this before. He’d had students with anxiety disorders before, and while he isn’t sure if that is the case here, he knows the signs, and he knows that he should try and help her before she spirals into a full blown panic attack.
“We don’t have to call Dreamy now, if you don’t want to. We can just sit here until you’re ready.” She stops tugging her hair and stares at Hob’s open hand. Very slowly, she taps two fingertips with her own.
“They feel scratchy,” she says, tapping each one with a pattern only she understands. Hob smiles, oddly endeared by her. He lets her continue tapping his fingers until she calms down, her breathing slowly coming back to normal, and her feet settling back on the footrest of the stool.
“Would you like something to drink? A tea, maybe?”
She scrunches her face, “I don’t like tea. It reminds me of itchy dresses and my hair being pulled into a tight braid, and people staring at me. What’s that word for when you remember something because of a different thing?”
“Umm—I think they call that an involuntary memory,” Hob says. Well tea is out then, but perhaps she’d like some hot chocolate. “I think I have something you’d like. Give me a minute.”
She spins on her chair some more, twirling her hair through her fingers. “You’re nice, I’ve decided. I can usually tell when people are generally nice, even if they don’t really look it. Like Dreamy. Even though he can be scary, and sad all the time, he’s nice. He takes care of me because everyone says I’m too loud, or confusing, or don’t always make sense. I do make sense! It’s just really hard for people to speak my language…” She spaces out, as if trying to remember something. “Ummm—what was I saying?” she asks, shrinking in her seat.
As odd as this day has been, Hob’s heart softens for her. In the middle of making her one of the Inn’s specialty hot chocolates, he puts it aside, in order to give her his full attention. “I think you were saying that you know when someone is being a nice person?”
She brightens up, nearly jumping out of her seat. “Oh yes! That’s right. So I think you’re nice. Normally someone would have kicked me out and I’d have to walk outside back home and Dreamy wouldn’t be happy with me.”
He really should have insisted she find a way back to wherever she came from, or at least call this person taking care of her. But, he was never one to throw someone in distress out into the cold. Granted she isn’t distressed now , but anything could change. Of course he would make sure she was safe and warm until she allowed him to call her guardian.
“I do have a question for you, if that’s alright?”
“I’m all ears. Well, not all ears, that would be really horrifying. But can you imagine the amount of things you could hear ? I bet you could hear a fly being eaten by a spider with that many ears. What do you think?”
Hob smiles at her. “Probably, maybe even the neighbour across the street making their breakfast,” he says, indulging her.
“Exactly! You do understand!” She claps her hands, spinning some more on the stool. Hob is seriously impressed that she hasn’t collapsed from dizziness with how much she’s been spinning on that thing.
“Now, do you like hot chocolate? And do you know if you can’t have anything you’re allergic to?” He asks, wanting to make sure he doesn’t accidentally send this girl to the hospital just for being kind to her.
She scratches her head and looks up, humming to herself. Hob watches her, maintaining his patience, and being very grateful that no one has stepped up the bar just yet.
“I don’t know all of them, but Dreamy and Dee got this made for me after I had a brain accident during class,” she pulls up the sleeve to her coat and flashes a medical alert bracelet in Hob’s face.
“May I see that on your wrist?” he asks, holding out his hand to her. She is hesitant at first, a little unsure if she should trust him with her medical details. Hob waits, allowing her to decide for herself if she wants to take that step. It’s rewarding when she does, allowing her that sense of agency. Hob reads over the medical alert bracelet, and there aren’t many allergies, save for penicillin. Hob doesn’t want to read further, but his eye catches on ‘Epilepsy’ right underneath the ‘Penicillin’.
Brain accident . That must have been a seizure, which must have been so severe that it required immediate care and who knows what could have happened then. Whatever it was, it caused those responsible for her guardians to have the bracelet made in case this ever happened again.
She was clearly well loved and cared for. Even if she was afraid of one of her caretakers.
Hob lets go of her wrist and smiles. “Thank you for sharing that with me.” He turns and goes back to making the drink for her. She remains quiet, her foot tapping on the stool’s rest. She finds some of the salt packets and proceeds to make some sort of structure with them.
“My name is Robert by the way, but everyone calls me Hob,” Hob says, presenting the hot chocolate to her. It has orange flavouring mixed inside, with whipped cream and a dusting of cinnamon on top. Her eyes light up upon seeing the tower of deliciousness. She sticks her finger into the whipped cream and gives it an experimental taste.
“ Tingly !” she says, taking another lick of the froth. Hob smiles and continues cleaning his area while she enjoys her treat.
“My name is Delilah,” she says, mug halfway to her lips, “but everyone calls me Del, or Dellie, or Delia, or Lilah…” she pauses again, eyes looking momentarily vacant. For a second, Hob worries that she may be in the middle of a seizure, but she quickly focuses again, with a smile on her face and everything.
Hob sighs, relieved that Del’s (he didn’t catch all of her names, except Del) alright. “Well, it’s so lovely to meet you, Del,” he says, holding out his hand.
Del grabs it, and shakes it, before continuing with her beverage. Hob serves a few more customers who had come up to the bar in the meantime. Henri comes by a couple of times, keeping his observant eyes on Del. Hob smiles at him, ensuring that he’s got it handled. Henri wouldn’t kick her out right away, but he doesn’t have the patience that Hob does when it comes to people like Del.
He’s about to ask Del about her drink when he gets called to handle some other small tasks around the bar. Once that’s done, Sonia calls him to help with the midday rush of people —nothing that will hurt his leg too badly, but to help take some orders here and there.
By the time he gets back to Del, she’s long finished her hot chocolate and has her head on the bar counter, tracing the patterns of the wood grains. She’s a completely different person from the energetic, happy person who tumbled into the Inn early today. In fact, she’s the exact opposite, having traded all of that positive energy, for something akin to depressing.
Hob approaches her slowly, careful not to spook her. He sits down next to her and taps his fingers on the wood, keeping a distance, but remaining in her line of vision. Del blinks and lifts her head from the counter, smiling at him.
“Hobbity? Can we call Dreamy now?” She asks, pointing at the bar’s phone.
Oh thank God , he thinks, smiling at her. He was starting to get worried as his shift is supposed to end in about an hour or so. Hob knows that the night crew wouldn’t be cruel to her, and would let her stay as long as she liked. But the vibes of the Inn at night are extremely different from the morning, and the last thing he wants is someone coming in to take advantage of her. The staff is good-hearted and beyond amazing, but it would be so unfair to expect them to watch her for every second, especially when the place picks up for supper.
“Sure, of course we can call him. Do you have his number?”
Del pulls out a small book and hands it to Hob. It’s a tiny phone book, full of important numbers and addresses. He has no idea if Dreamy is this person’s real name (what kind of name is Dreamy ) but he’s one of the first people on her list (right after Dee).
“Would you like me to call him? Or do you want to?”
She shakes her head placing it back down on the counter, her long, colourful hair falling in a rainbow cascade over her thin arms.
Poor girl , he thinks, wishing he had a pillow for her, or at least a blanket. Whatever it is she must be going through, it must be so hard on her. Hob hopes that whoever comes to pick her up won’t be too angry with her.
He dials the number in Del’s book, but it immediately goes to voicemail. Hob groans. He’s so terrible at leaving voice messages. He always manages to sound like a complete idiot. The message that plays is one of those automated ones that reads out the number before beeping out of nowhere.
“Um—yes, hello. This is Robert Gadling calling from The New Inn . I have Delilah here with me. She’s fine! Completely fine. But she asked for you, and let me call you. My shift ends in about an hour, but I can stay with her until you arrive. Again, this is Robert from The New Inn . We’re located on Houle Street, number 560, in front of the park. Okay, umm—bye!”
He hangs up the phone and groans into his hand. Small, tickling laughter has him looking at Del once more. She looks a little better, still not as happy, but with some colour to her. He sighs and sinks into a chair behind the bar, leaning back against the wall.
“That was funny, I think,” she says, tracing the colourful fish on her mug.
“Well I’m glad I was able to put a smile on your face. Did you enjoy the hot chocolate?”
Del dips her finger inside the mug, rubbing it along the sides. It comes out completely clean, yet she still licks it. “It was very yummy. I’m very sad that it’s finished.”
Hob can understand that. The initial sadness that comes with finishing an amazing dish or beverage. He would offer to make her another, but he’s unsure of her eating habits, and frankly doesn’t want to get into too much trouble with “Dreamy”.
“Hobbity?” she asks, lifting up her head, and staring at his cane.
“Yes?”
“Did someone hurt you?”
Something about the way she asks him, has him wondering if she means something other than his leg. He chuckles, grabbing his cane and making an effort to get off his chair. It isn’t easy to get up again after he sits down. It’ll take a miracle to get back up to his apartment.
“Nah, did this to myself,” he lies, not wanting to give Del all the gory details. It’s funny how he already feels very protective of her, despite only knowing her for a few hours. Then again, he all but fell for Morpheus after one meeting.
He’s losing his mind, is what he’s doing. Too much time fighting crime and obtaining head injuries, and not enough time sleeping.
In any case, he doesn’t want to give Del the full story of how he came to his injury. She’s a good kid, and he wouldn’t want to accidentally trigger her. She keeps staring at him, her heterochromatic eyes peering down at him. It’s so strange, but he thinks he’s seen that intense look before. A look with narrowed eyes and a super focused gaze, as if the words out of his mouth are the most important.
Del looks like she’s about to say something when the door opens, and a loud, deep voice —and a voice Hob knows all too well— proclaims from entrance;
“Delilah Felicity Endless, what in God’s name are you doing here ?!”
Both Hob and Del flinch, slowly looking up to see none other than Morpheus glaring at the both of them. Of fucking course, Del’s his sister. He’d mentioned her more than once, about how she needed extra care because of her severe anxiety and other medical issues that he didn’t expand on. He’d even mentioned her fucking name— Delia . Was that one of the names people called her?
Hob chances a look at Del, and she’s miserable. Her bottom lip trembling, thumb in her mouth, being chewed on, while the other tugs at her hair. One foot taps wildly on the floor, while the other shakes violently. If Hob doesn’t intervene soon, she’ll have a whole meltdown. Regardless of who’s currently in the pub, and how good they are, it’s always going to be humiliating to experience something like that in public. Hob quickly limps away from the bar, stupidly leaving his cane behind, in order to stand in between Morpheus and his sister. He takes a chair from a nearby table and sits down in front of her, hands opened up towards her.
“Del? It’s okay. I think he was just worried about you. I know if someone I cared about ran off without warning, I’d also be so worried.”
Del keeps tapping her foot, twirling her hair around and around and around. She does glance down at his open hands. She stops chewing on her thumb and reaches for his hand, before looking behind him.
“Del? Can you look at me?” Hob asks, keeping his voice soft and calm. Del comes back, looking into his eyes. “There you are. It’s alright, I promise. I actually know Dreamy. I didn’t think it was the same person, but I call him Morpheus, and he’s one of my favourite customers.” Hob chances a glance at Morpheus, and finds that he is no longer furious. Instead, the look he has on his face is one of pure wonderment. Hob smiles at him before turning back to Del.
“He actually sits right over there where he comes to visit,” Hob points to the seat at the far side of the bar; The one Morpheus would always occupy (before he’d started coming to sit in front of Hob) (before they’d had that disagreement).
Soft, tiny hands touch his, trusting him to keep them safe. Hob smiles and gives her hands a very tiny squeeze.
“Delia?” Morpheus approaches them and bends down to her level. Del’s face, while anxious, is also so full of love and trust for him. She gives him one of her hands, and the smile that grows on Morpheus’ face is one so bright and beautiful that Hob is nearly ready to offer to help in any way he can with Del.
“I’m sorry I ran, Dreamy. You were angry and dark, and I kept asking to come here, because you’re always happy when you come here. I was trying to help, because I don’t like seeing you sad and angry and the way your forehead gets all wrinkly and tight. I just wanted to make you smile.”
Hob watches in rapt attention, as Morpheus raises his arms, beckoning Del to come closer to him. She all but launches herself into his arms, wrapping her arms around his neck and squeezing. Morpheus stares at Hob as he holds his baby sister, his eyes betraying a look of gratitude.
“Hob. I wish to thank you for taking care of Delia. She’s— she’s not a child, but it—it’s difficult for her sometimes to remember that.”
“I was happy to help. It’s clear that she adores you,” Hob says. He can see why though. Morpheus is a completely different person with her. He’s so gentle and kind. Not that Hob didn’t think he was kind before, but there was always that outer layer of frost to Morpheus. With Delia, it’s nonexistent. He’s soft and gives hugs, and makes sure she has her medical alert bracelet before she leaves.
Morpheus whispers something to Delia (that Hob doesn’t catch) and she nods, giving them some space. He stands up and waits for Hob to do the same. Sadly, at this point, Hob’s leg has all but given up on him. He’ll need a bit of time, and some heat on his knee if he wants a chance at getting back up.
“Afraid I can’t join you right now,” he says, with a small grin on his face.
Morpheus stares at his knee, frowning as if it’s insulting his mother or something. “Your knee is still injured?”
“Thing is with these kinds of injuries, you can be completely healed, without any visible problems, until you get a bad day.” Hob gestures outside to the bleak, grey weather. “And today is a pretty awful day. Something about the water and cold in the air that doesn’t agree with me.”
“Will you be alright getting back to your home?” Morpheus asks, his eyes conveying the same amount of concern that he’d just had when trying to calm Del down. It warms something deep inside of Hob. The same thing that’s been locked up for such a long time. The very same thing that only interactions with Morpheus have started to bring back to the surface.
Hob refuses to think too deeply on that.
“Eventually,” he chuckles, rubbing his knee. He’d kill for a warm bath with those lavender epsom salts he bought the other day.
“You’re going home now, Gadling.” The gruff voice of Henri comes up from behind them. Morpheus slowly backs away from the cranky older gentleman.
Henri —not allowing Morpheus to get away— gestures his chin out towards him. “You. Tall, dark, and skinny,” Hob groans, hiding his head in his hands. If he could disappear right now, that would be great. “Think you can help this troublemaker up to his apartment?” Henri nods towards Hob, before tapping him lightly on the head with his cane.
He lifts his head up and grabs the cane from Henri, who’s now got an almost shit-eating grin on his face. He thinks ‘almost’ because Henri does not tease, nor does he intervene too much in his employees’ lives. Henri, however, does enjoy mercilessly putting Hob through his own kind of personal hell.
“You really don’t have to—” Hob begins, until Morpheus stops him with no more than a look.
“I shall be happy to escort you to your domicile, Robert Gadling,” he says, with all the pomp of someone from a noble class family. Also, since when were they on a full name basis?
“Thought I told you to call me Hob,” he says, smirking at him.
“You did. I was merely trying to convey how much I enjoyed that little message you left on my voicemail.”
Shit-disturber, Hob thinks. And he’s got that silly little smile as well. At least someone got a laugh out of the pathetic voicemail he’d left. All nervous energy and tripping on his words. Definitely the epitome of confident attraction he is.
Oh well, it’s supposedly charming enough for Morpheus.
Hob shakes his head and uses his cane to help himself out of the chair. It’s far more painful that he was expecting and he grimaces as he slowly raises to his feet. Morpheus places a gentle hand on his arm in order to steady him, and another on the small of his back to help keep him upright. Hob would be lying if he said it didn’t feel amazing, having Morpheus there, beside him, partially holding him. Hob can feel the warmth of a blush spreading all over his face. He turns his head to Morpheus, noticing a similar flush across those pale cheeks.
“Um—thank you. We should um— we should get going. It’s just this way.” Hob points towards the back of the pub. The stairs to his and Jo’s apartment are accessible through the back of the place. It’s why Hob always unlocks the pub by the back door first.
Del, who has been waiting for them at the bar, is busy building another structure out of straws and milk creamers (much to the detriment to Raffi—Hob’s replacement). She hops off of the seat once she sees Morpheus, stopping once she notices the raised eyebrow. She slinks back to her spot and quickly takes down the structure, placing the creamers back where they belong. She sends Raffi a small salut and joins them.
“Hobbity is really nice, Dreamy,” she says, grabbing Morpheus’ arm, following them out by the kitchen. “He calmed me down, made me a hot chocolate, and he didn’t kick me out. Everyone always kicks me out. I’m always a lot for people. But Hobbity talked to me, and gave me hot chocolate and it had orange in it. And then he had to work, and I got sad, but he called you, and now you’re here and you’re not mad. But I think Hobbity is sad. Someone hurt him, I think. Is this the kitchen?”
Hob watches as Del regales her adventure to an attentive Morpheus, who listens to every single word she says, without rolling his eyes or belittling her. She still speaks a mile a minute, no matter what her mood is, but Hob finds it easier to understand everything she says now.
“Del, no one hurt me. Sometimes accidents happen,” he says shrugging. He waves goodbye to Geoff, who half-heartedly waves back, peering at the Endless siblings.
Once they get outside, the chill immediately hits Hob’s knee and he groans. He feels Morpheus’ sturdy presence beside him, keeping him on his feet. How such a skinny man has the strength to keep him up is beyond him. He looks up miserably at the tall, narrow steps that lead to the small door on the side. There are more stairs inside, but thankfully, he and Jo live on the lowest of the floors.
“Delia,” Morpheus says, looking at his sister. “There isn’t enough room for the three of us. You’re going to have to wait here for me while I help Hob up the stairs.”
Del’s absolutely devastated at learning the news. Her bottom lip trembles, and she raises her hand to her hair. “But. I wanted to help. Hobbity needs the two of us doesn’t he? Someone hurt him, and you and Dee always say that if you can help, you should. I want to help, and I can help.”
Hob turns to her, before she breaks. “You helped me so much already Del. Because of you, I’ve made a brand new and very colourful friend. A friend who loves my hot chocolate and who made my work day a lot more interesting. A friend who I will be happy to offer more hot chocolate to. What do you say?” Hob lifts his fist up, offering a bump to Del. A bump she quickly accepts, and while she’s still unhappy about being left behind, she settles at the bottom of the stairs, kicking some of the gravel about.
Morpheus offers Hob a thankful smile, wrapping his arm once more around Hob’s middle. Hob does everything he can not to fall against it, no matter how good it feels to have Morpheus so close to him. As they make their way up the stairs, he could swear he catches a whiff of basil and… apples? Something fresh as well, like a rainstorm. It’s so relaxing, and while his knee protests the entire walk up the stairs, Hob can’t complain.
He also finds that he doesn’t want this to end, ever. The more time he spends with Morpheus, the happier he feels. The fact that his knee has been on fire since they started walking, and yet he wishes he could remain wrapped in Morpheus’ arms, tells him enough.
“I must thank you once more, Hob Gadling, for your care towards Delia,” Morpheus says, looking over at Hob.
“And I’ll say once more that any decent person would have helped her. She’s actually a great kid. She’s got a good heart.”
Morpheus smiles fondly at that. “She is. Not many people see that.” They finally reach the entrance to Hob’s apartment. Morpheus moves his arms away from Hob’s waist, but keeps a steady hold on his arm. While Hob misses the more intimate touch of a hand on his back, he is grateful for the prolonged contact.
Morpheus faces him completely, and Hob notices the way his crystal eyes pop against his pale skin and against the grey around him. He is a bright star amidst the dreary and cold environment.
“You must allow me to repay you,” he says, those pretty lips pouting, and Christ above it’s so unfair, isn’t it? To look that good and forcing Hob to say no, because who the hell needs to be repaid for being a good person?
“Absolutely not. As much as I appreciate that, I refuse.”
Morpheus frowns, his eyebrows doing this little scrunchy movement, that’s so fucking cute Hob wants to kiss it and smooth it over with his fingers. “I cannot let this kindness go without a token of gratitude.”
Hob laughs at that. It is so charming the way Morpheus talks as if walking out of a Jane Austen novel. His coat lapel is a little messed up, so Hob adjusts it, smoothing it over, but keeping his hand on Morpheus’ chest. He’s being a lot bolder than normal, and it should be concerning, but all Hob feels is an overwhelming sense of peace.
“If you want to pay me back, all I ask is for you to come back to the Inn. Seems unfair that you should deny yourself something that makes you happy all because of an argument.”
Hob had noticed, of course he did. Morpheus had made himself scarce since their passionate disagreement. The first few days had been a bit of a relief, because it allowed Hob to process and gather his thoughts. But after a week, he’d started to miss him. After two weeks, he’d been almost convinced that he wouldn’t see him again.
Morpheus looks down at their shoes, his bashful maiden eyelashes batting against the tops of his cheeks. “I was under the impression that you would not wish to see me. You were quite angry with me when we left things off.”
Yeah. Yeah, that’s fair. Not really one of Hob’s proudest moments.
“I mean, friends fight sometimes, don’t they? Doesn’t mean they never want to see each other.”
Those bright blue eyes are once again focused on him, a look of disbelief on that beautiful face. “You’d dare assume one such as I would have need of your friendship?”
Hob frowns, worried that he might have overstepped some invisible boundary, and that he’ll have to watch Morpheus stride out of his life once more. Except, Morpheus smiles and huffs out a soft breath of a laugh.
This man will be the death of him, he thinks.
He shrugs. “Eh… Call it a hunch. Spending a whole evening talking about history definitely puts us above casual acquaintances, I think.”
“Indeed it does.” Morpheus glances down the stairs to where Del continues to wait ever patiently for her big brother to finish. “I suppose this is where I leave you.”
“Get home safe, alright,” Hob says, not wanting to let go of him.
It appears neither does Morpheus, “I will. And I will also come back. More often to the Inn. I rather enjoy the company there.”
It’s Hob’s turn now to gaze at their shoes, casually hiding the deepening blush on his face. “Sounds wonderful to me.”
Morpheus finally lets go of Hob and makes his way downstairs. About half way down, he turns and looks back up at Hob. “Rest your knee. I will not have my friends suffering needlessly.”
Hob gives him a silly little salute. “Right away, my dear friend. I’ve got a hot bath calling my name.”
Morpheus smiles, eyes almost twinkling up at him. “I will hold you to that. Take care, Hob.”
“Bye Morpheus. See you Del!” He says, making sure Del’s presence is once more acknowledged. She waves enthusiastically, before grabbing onto Morpheus’ hand. As the two of them start to walk away, and Hob finally gets a moment to think and process his crazy day, a startling truth digs its way deep into his brain.
He is utterly and completely fucked .
Chapter 7: is there more beyond those plains?
Chapter Text
Morpheus showed up more often after that day. Within the last month, he’d seen Morpheus roughly three times per week. Each and every time he’d come to the Inn, he’d take a seat at the front of the bar and would keep Hob company through his shift. If Hob was busy serving customers, or running around the place, Morpheus would sit quietly, writing in his ever-present notebook.
Hob had asked him once about it. It had made Morpheus blush in such a sweet way, and slightly stammer as he explained its significance.
“I do writing exercises. Poetry, short stories, quick narrative prompts. Sometimes, these are just observations of the people around me. I often wonder what their stories are, and make up narratives in my mind.”
They’d spent the remainder of Hob’s shift watching some of the customers of the Inn, with Morpheus coming up with a short story or two. He’d even persuaded Hob to come up with a story. Hob, not really considering himself a creative person in the slightest, tried his best, but he didn’t think he did as well as Morpheus.
His knee was doing a lot better as well. He still had the really bad days; days where he could barely come down for work. The thing was, instead of insisting he was fine and using the busy day to escape his thoughts, he now began to go down on the chance of seeing Morpheus again.
Those were the days where Morpheus would insist on helping Hob back up to his apartment. Hob would always fight him on it, saying that he didn’t need to do any of this for him. One day, he’d made a silly crack at himself, saying that Morpheus clearly had better things he could be doing. Morpheus had simply stared at him, those blue eyes peering into his soul.
“There is nowhere I would rather be, than here, helping you. It is not a burden, but a privilege to have your trust.”
Hob had needed several minutes to get over that, or else he’d be pulling Morpheus into his apartment. Consequences be damned.
Despite the happiness Hob was feeling with Morpheus in his life, he never forgot his purpose. And while the crime scene had calmed down momentarily, eventually it picked right back up, with even more drug trafficking, as well as the illegal importation of endangered animal parts, and stolen antiquities. Hob found it so odd that this was Connolly’s work, but both Matthew and Jo had done their due diligence, and so Hob did what he did best.
Shut the places down.
He’d been luckier the last several busts he’d conducted, and didn’t get as injured as he did when he’d busted that illegal drug shipment (and busted his leg in the process). The suit Matthew had made with the brace included worked like an absolute miracle. His leg still hurt, but at least with the brace, he was allowed some stability and some mobility. On the really bad days, the days where he’d need the extra help getting back up the stairs, Johanna would insist he stay home. They’d had several arguments over that, Hob hating that he was being treated as a delicate piece of machinery that was easily broken.
They’d almost had the same argument tonight, when Hob had spent the hour before leaving for his job with a heating pad on his knee. Yes, it was hurting a little today, but it was not any worse than the dull ache he’d felt from time to time. Not as bad as the bad days, but not entirely perfect either.
In any case, he’d managed to stop another arson attempt in one of the historic districts of the city. It had been one of the first working class neighbourhoods, and had miraculously remained relatively low-rent, until landlords began hiking up the rental prices, in order to attract young, rich, professionals into the neighbourhood. There had been a couple of blocks which still held buildings safe from the abuse.
A perfect target for Connolly.
The district was made up of industrial factories and manufacturers, along with several commercial apartments. Back then, you had to build your neighbourhoods in an area close enough that the workers could easily walk to them. This was before public transportation was accessible (though that’s still debatable) and far before the underground metro systems were built.
Hob had spent the night creeping through these structures, some abandoned, some very much still intact. The deterioration of the old, poorly maintained buildings amidst the new and flashy luxury condos seemed nearly poetic to Hob, in a depressing kind of way. He’d wondered if Morpheus would have something beautiful to say about that.
The closer he got to the building that was targeted for tonight, the sadder he got, thinking about how the character and history of these places were falling to ruin, all because some rich bastard decided he wasn’t rich enough. How decades of love and laughter stored within the walls meant nothing when one could cram as many people willing to pay a fortune for empty concrete.
It wasn’t right.
Those thoughts persisted in his mind as he battled against the arsonists, remaining careful not to make any mistakes. It had taken him longer than normal, as his leg slowed him down a little, but he’d managed to get the job done.
As he approaches his own neighbourhood now, nestled in another affordable neighbourhood, where rents are kept low, and communities look out for each other, he tries to look on the bright side. Places like this still exist. While the cancer of soulless capitalism spreads throughout his beloved city, small pockets of life still remain.
That’s got to be something worth fighting for.
Hob stops right at the parking lot to the Inn. There is a man standing at the bottom of the steps, staring up at his apartment. He’s wearing dark clothing, and his face is obscured, and so Hob has no idea who this person might be. While he knows, he knows that there is no possible way he was followed home (he’d made sure of that), there is always a chance that someone could figure out who he is and where he lives. Hob approaches the man carefully, shuffling his backpack onto his back. He has no time to reach for his helmet, or his mask, and he doesn’t want to kill this person unless he has reason to, so the hidden sword is also out of the question.
But he can use his fists. He’s always been good at that.
The man turns suddenly, just as Hob is about to grab him, and he is met with familiar, beautiful blue eyes.
“Jesus… fuck ! You nearly gave me a heart attack, Morpheus!” Hob shouts, jumping back and clutching his chest.
Morpheus looks equally stunned, having flinched from the unexpected close contact. He’s taken a step back, and is nervously rubbing one of his arms.
“I. Apologize Hob. I did not mean to frighten you,” he says, keeping his eyes on the ground. Hob approaches him slowly, placing a hand just above the arm Morpheus is still rubbing. Not explicitly touching him, but there in case he needs it.
“No. No. It’s not your fault. I don’t get many visitors here, so I’m extra cautious when someone shows up.”
Morpheus stops his anxious rubbing and looks at Hob. He’s wearing glasses today. Sleek, rectangular, black frames. They look really good on him and compliment the sharp angles on his face.
“I had. Hoped to see you. Considering I was unable to come to the Inn today.”
Very difficult to remain upset at a man, when he’s standing on what could be your front porch, wishing to see you. With any other person, Hob would find this more than fishy, but not with Morpheus. As suave and arrogant as he was in his element of galas and fiction writing, he was also painfully awkward at times, pulling a face that Hob liked to call ‘the sad, wet cat’.
Truth be told, he had missed him today. Not that he was expecting him to visit today in particular, but it had been a couple of days since he’d last seen Morpheus, and he was starting to wonder.
“Well, here I am,” Hob says, holding his arms wide.
“Yes. Here you are,” Morpheus says, a small smile on his face. He shoves his hands inside the pockets of his long, wool coat (also in black), and sways back and forth, almost as if he’s nervous about something.
“Is something the matter?” Hob asks.
Morpheus shakes his head, closing his eyes tight. Hob places a hand, ever so slowly, on Morpheus’ arm, and gives it the barest of squeezes.
“Hey. You can look at me, if you need to. It’s alright.”
Another thing he can come to know about Morpheus, in the month of them getting to know each other, was that he also had some sort of anxiety disorder. Much of the way he’d acted at the gala, and during their first few meetings had been a mask he wore. He could fake the confidence, but deep inside, he struggled a little with people. It seemed that anxiety ran in the family.
Frankly, it was also ironic that the man Hob had slowly been gaining more feelings for claimed to be living behind a mask. In reality, it was Hob himself who wore a mask and lived a double life everyday. Hiding his true violent nature behind the façade of a shy and sweet bartender.
Morpheus opens his eyes, and Hob smiles. “There you are. Care to tell me what’s going on?”
“I have not been fully honest with you, Hob,” he starts, a look of guilt passing over his features. Hob’s a little surprised by this confession, but he keeps an open mind, wanting to hear the full story before passing judgement.
“What have you been dishonest about?”
“My anxiety. Normally, I had told you that my aloofness was a mask I wore.”
“Yes, but there’s nothing wrong with that, Morpheus.”
“I am aware. But the truth is, I can fake the aloofness because I normally do not care for people. I have a very limited amount of space in my head to care.”
Hob nods along. Again, makes perfect sense, if one were to consider Morpheus having grown up in the kind of family where they’d abandon a member just for being mentally ill. You’d have to put up barriers where you could, and only allow a select few to see you for who you truly were.
“I have found that, very recently, you have become one of the few people allowed to take up space in my head,” he says, wrapping his arms defensively around his midsection. Hob, on the other hand, gasps a sharp intake of breath.
“You—you mean—”
“I had not anticipated that this would happen, and if I were to pinpoint when it began, I don’t think I’d be able to tell you. But, you occupy my mind entirely, Hob Gadling. To the point where I am so afraid that you will come to dislike the person I am without my mask.”
The mask again. If only he knew how much Hob understood him right now. All too well. As much as he’d imagined the alternate reality of getting to have Morpheus and being allowed to hold him in his arms, he didn’t think it was an actual possibility. It amazes him how calm he is about the whole thing, now that he has Morpheus’ confession.
Maybe it’s because, deep down, he knows that as much as he is ready to scoop Morpheus in his arms and twirl him around, he can’t.
He can’t because he spends his nights fighting dangerous men, with dangerous connections. He fights men who could one day follow him home (tonight had only reinforced that fear) and hurt the people he loves.
He fights men who could one day decide to come after Morpheus, or Del. Two people he’d grown exceedingly fond of. What would happen then? How would he ever be able to forgive himself if what happened to El—
With El, he had been so happy and life felt so rich and complete. They were starting a business, their careers, and even a family. He had everything he could have ever dreamed of. Everything he never believed he would ever have.
God… El . How the fuck could he even think about betraying her memory like this? After all that he’d done to get to this point, would he consider throwing it all away for someone who would ultimately replace her in his heart and his mind?
He could have that again. Wake up with a warm body pressed against his. Feel a lover’s embrace as they softly pepper kisses over his shoulder and the back of his neck. Pull a grumpy Morpheus out of bed and make breakfast for him and Del.
Morpheus could be the anchor that keeps him stable here on Earth. The light that guides him out of the darkness he’d created for himself. And in return, Hob could be the support Morpheus needs to care for Del, and in dealing with his family.
Morpheus actually thinks Hob would hate the person he is without his mask. That’s not even possible. He already adores every facet of this beautiful creature he’s come to know. There is absolutely nothing that could change that. No matter how awkward and clumsy he is. Hob could spend the rest of his life telling Morpheus how wonderful he is each and every single day.
He’d tell him in the morning, kissing his eyelids and sniffing his sleep-mussed hair. He’d tell him in the shower, bodies pressed against each other, fingers carding through hair. He’d tell him as they shared a meal, feeding each other and laughing in the joy of shared love. He’d tell him in the middle of one of his impassioned speeches about Tolkien’s world building and his obsession with languages.
He’d tell him after making love to him, when they’re laying together in post-coital bliss, with their legs tangled together within the sheets. He’d take Morpheus’ hand, and he’d kiss each one of his delicate fingertips. And he’d whisper, into each one all of the things he loves about him.
So no, Hob could never hate someone like Morpheus. And a part of him knew that the first time he spoke more than five words to him.
It is actually Hob, with his violence and bitterness and how he will stop at nothing to repay the blood he lost with more blood, who is unlovable. It is Hob who will end up losing everything he loves should the violence seep through his mask. Once Morpheus sees who Hob truly is on the inside, he will be afraid. He will hate him.
The cold wind nips at his hair, biting at his face, as if to remind him of the person he chose to be. There is no point in thinking about what ifs or about happy memories that will never come to be. How can he mourn for something he knew he could never have? How can he mourn for a love that he is now considering turning his back on?
The wind howls these questions at him, each one threatening to beat him down. Can he let go of everything he had loved and open his heart again to someone new? Can he take the leap of faith with Morpheus and trust that everything will be alright, so long as they love each other? Can he allow Morpheus into his life, when there is the very real chance that his mission for vengeance could wind up hurting him?
He can’t. As much as it breaks his heart into a million pieces, he cannot do that.
“Morpheus—” he begins, but coughs as his throat closes up.
Morpheus gently grabs Hob’s shoulders. “I know it is a lot. And I know that the death of your wife left you with a hurt so deep that it changed you.”
Hob shrugs away from his touch. No, he doesn’t want this. He doesn’t want Morpheus to see him like this. “Please don’t mention El. I’m not—I can’t. ”
“I am not asking for anything you are unable to give. Simply having you in my life is more than enough.” Morpheus keeps staring at him, imploring Hob to give him something , anything, really. The sad truth about this is, Hob has nothing he can give to Morpheus.
What can a man who’s been beaten and bruised offer someone who has everything still going for him? Why would Morpheus even want anything from him? He’d failed the one person who’d relied on him the most. And now, going so far as to consider forsaking her memory for someone new.
How long will it take after failing Morpheus as well, for Hob to move on yet again?
As the seconds tick by agonisingly slow, the cold, oppressive air swirling around them, cutting them to their bones, Morpheus’ face shifts as well. His shoulders slump, his back curves inwards. His eyes, once alight with the adrenaline of confessing to love, now go dull with the reality of rejection. He turns his head away from Hob, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his coat as the chill envelops him, making him shiver.
And Hob—Hob can’t stand any of it. He hates it! He hates everything that brought him to this very point. He hates that he fell in love with a perfect person full of light and love and kindness. He hates that she was snatched away from him without mercy, without a second thought. He hates that it broke him. It broke him so deeply that he never expected to find the hope to put himself back together.
He hates that it was the reason for him to banish any hope altogether and find peace and comfort in the violence he sought out and the blood that he shed.
He hates that he couldn’t just let it go .
Most of all, he hates that now, over five years later, he has found a new reason to keep going.
And he can’t have that.
Hard stone collides with his knees as he crumples to the ground. He thinks he’s breathing, but no air is entering his lungs. He can’t feel any of it. He can’t—He—
“Hob! Hob it’s alright—”
It’s not alright. How could it ever be alright?
“I need you to breathe for me.”
He is , damnit! He’s fucking trying, but the air won’t enter his lungs. It isn’t working. Nothing is working. He shouldn’t have come back. He shouldn’t have gone to New York. He should have—He can’t—
Cold hands are carding through his hair. A sweet voice humming in his ear. A soft, peaceful melody. Another cold hand rubs his back. He should be worried about the bullet-proof suit he still has on underneath the hoodie, but his brain and his common sense are both so far away right now.
“All we can do is keep breathing…”
He takes a breath. It comes easier now. Smoother. His face is wet and he can feel the phlegm in his throat. He hadn’t even realised he’d been crying. He coughs out a small sob, reaching out with shaking hands to grab at a soft, woolly coat.
“All we can do is keep breathing…”
Another deep breath in. He’s alright. All he has to do is keep breathing.
“There you are. Keep breathing, Hob.”
He’s well aware, by this point, that it’s Morpheus holding him as he completely breaks down in the parking lot of The New Inn. It’s Morpheus who was waiting for him at the foot of his stairs. Morpheus, who cares about him.
Morpheus, who Hob cannot bear to see hurt because of the choices he’d made.
His legs have suffered thanks to his little show of dramatics. Hob has to grab at Morpheus as he gets back up on his feet. Morpheus’ arms remain wrapped around his chest, keeping him together.
Keeping him safe.
As the cold keeps battering at them, Hob stays warm in Morpheus’ arms. They shield him for a moment longer as he collects himself.
“‘M sorry,” he mutters, voice horse from the sobbing he’d been doing. Morpheus just shushes him, still running his fingers through his hair. Hob’s eyes close, as nails gently scratch his scalp.
“You are not ready,” Morpheus whispers.
No. No he’s not.
“I—” Hob starts, unsure of what he wants to say. Scared that admitting the truth to Morpheus will mean losing him forever.
“It is alright, Hob. I know.” There is a slight crack in Morpheus’ voice –to match the one growing in his heart- but still neither one of them makes an effort to move.
“I’m so sorry,” he says, once again. Sorry for encouraging Morpheus to talk to him, sorry for engaging with him at the gala, sorry for allowing him into his life only to shut the doors and leaving him out in the cold.
The cold.
It grows around them, and soon it’ll break through, finally swallowing them whole. They’ll be forced to break apart, acknowledging that this did not turn out as they had hoped.
“There is nothing to be sorry for,” Morpheus says, his nose nuzzling the side of Hob’s head. And God, he wants this comfort. He wants to be happy. He wants Morpheus .
Morpheus gently moves away from being pressed against Hob’s head, so that he can get a good look at him. Hob is completely wrecked, with his bloodshot eyes, and tear stained cheeks, but he doesn’t think Morpheus cares about any of that. Instead, he runs his thumbs under Hob’s eyes, wiping away the tears that have fallen. He brings their foreheads together and just rests there for one last moment.
“I can wait,” he says, so soft that the wind nearly blows his words away, but Hob catches them in time.
Hob drags a shaky hand up to the side of Morpheus’ face, and slowly rubs the back of it against a soft, cool cheek.
“I’m so scared I won’t ever be.” He says, with a broken voice.
There are now tears on Morpheus’ face, Hob takes his turn to wipe them off of his face, taking great care, not to scratch him with his rough hands.
“Then I will still care for you, and cherish you, in any way that I can.” A soft kiss is pressed on the side of Hob’s head, lingering there, soaking up what remains of their brief, intimate moment. Holding on to the small wisps of warmth before the cold takes them away.
As is with every moment they’ve shared, it is gone too soon. Morpheus, handling Hob with the utmost care, pulls the two of them apart. Morpheus’ eyes are tired, and watery. There are a few black streaks under his eyes from the tears that managed to escape.
“I am afraid that I have overstayed my welcome.”
He hasn’t. He can never. He is welcome anytime and every time.
“Will you come back?” Hob hates that his voice sounds so small and defeated. That he still asks for more, when he can’t give Morpheus what he deserves.
“I may need some— time — but I will come back. I cannot find it in myself to leave you for long.”
With that, Morpheus plants one final soft kiss on the crown of Hob’s head, before turning and walking away from the parking lot. As soon as Morpheus walks away, Hob immediately feels the chill of the early December wind wrap around him, drowning him.
He makes his way up the stairs, each painful step a reminder of what he lost tonight.
Step—Step—Step.
A healthy, happy life. A chance to be himself again. A chance to sing and laugh and fall madly in love.
Step—Step—Step.
Warm arms to hold him. Soft lips to kiss him. Delicate hands to rub when he is sore and tired.
Step—Step—Step.
Home. Hearth. Love.
Step—Step—Step.
A partner he could love. A child he could care for. A family he could keep.
Step .
Morpheus.
Hob drags himself into the apartment. It is dark and cool inside. He figures Jo must have seen them outside and decided to leave them alone and go to bed. He had felt hungry upon leaving the target location, but now? Now, all he wants is a quick shower and his bed.
Once he’s done his shower, he shuffles himself into his bedroom and slinks into his bed. And despite the warm blankets that cover him, and the hot shower he just had, Hob still falls asleep shivering against the deep chill in his bones.
It’s another cold day outside.
The last week has felt that way, and Hob wonders if the weather is reflective of his morose mood. Maybe it affects him more because of how difficult it’s been to get out of bed in the morning. Ever since the night where Morpheus expressed how important he was to him, the days have felt longer, and it’s taken everything just to pull and tug himself through the day.
Working the Inn has been no better than being dragged through the mud. Morpheus hasn’t been around at all. Hob can’t say he blames him. If he were rejected in the way Morpheus was, he’d move countries away, just to never have to interact with the person again. The thing is, he misses him. God, he misses him so much. It’s gotten to the point where every tall person wearing black leaves Hob’s heart hammering in his chest. Deep down, he knows that this is normal. It’s been a little more than a week since their ‘talk’.
Doesn’t make it any less painful to go through the days without him.
Everyone around him has noticed his moods as well. Geoff has stopped complaining about the late openings and has simply given him a sad smile, while patting him on the back. Henri has been giving him space as well, offering small extra jobs for Hob to do during down time at the Inn.
A few of their regular customers were bold enough to ask him if he was alright, and would comment on his cloudy mood. He’d just sadly smile and shrug, making a comment on the gloomy weather and how it’s had a negative affect on his knee.
And that wasn’t entirely untrue. His knee hasn’t been doing great with the cold weather outside. He and Johanna do the best they can to keep their apartment warm and free from too much humidity, but the building itself is very old, and made before things like appropriate insulation were a thing in construction. There’s always that little bit of a chill that creeps into the walls and hardwood floors.
Thankfully there haven’t been any calls or tips coming in Johanna’s radio. Matthew has been hard at work collecting old pieces of tech, and upgrading them to be useful (like scanners and trackers, as well as a better radio communication system). Hob figures it won’t be too long before Connolly’s men are on the move again.
Thing is, he doesn’t think his heart is in it anymore. He still wants to take him down, death be damned and all that. But now, ever since watching Morpheus walking away into the cold, dark night, he’s been regretting not jumping at the chance to be with him. The voice that had been convincing him that being with Morpheus would be a mistake has been replaced with a kinder, gentler voice —one that sounded a lot like El— telling him that he should allow himself to be happy. That there was nothing wrong with falling in love again and having someone to love him back.
He’s just going through the motions.
Today is no exception. He’d gotten up an hour earlier than normal (that’s another thing, he’s barely been getting any sleep) and had showered quickly, before brewing some coffee for himself. He’d gone into the Inn right after, deciding to get a head start on the day’s tasks. No one was going to complain about him being there early, and if they did, well he’s the boss’ roommate, and a damn good employee to boot.
Both Geoff and Henri were surprised to find out how early he’d come in. Henri had even come to talk to him, to make sure he was feeling alright, and that he could leave early today if he needed to. Hob had thanked him, but he would stay as late as needed, even offering to do a double if anyone called in sick.
There must have been a pretty haunted look in his eyes, because Henri forbade him from staying longer than his shift.
Thankfully the Inn was incredibly busy that morning. There were plenty of exhausted university students rushing in, desperately seeking a space to cram for their end-of-term exams. Hob had talked to Johanna when he’d first started at the Inn, suggesting that they give a small discount to students during exam periods. Not only would it give them an incentive to study in their warm pub, but also a small reprieve from the overcharged, burnt monstrosities that popular chains like Starbucks sold.
Last year, around the same time, he’d even helped some of the history students with some good mnemonic tools, as well as ways to focus on the important details instead of trying to cram in an entire semester’s worth of information.
As of right now, there was a crowd of panicky, nervous students all lined up at the bar, tugging at their hair, and anxiously flipping through notebooks and textbooks. Hob felt for these kids, and so left out a few plates of home baked cookies that one of their upstairs neighbours baked for the Inn. Litsa made these incredible melomakarona cookies that the kids would devour without question (he’d leave a list of ingredients for those with food allergies).
Leaving the kids to their studying, Hob continues serving the customers lined up at the cash register. He’s got some help behind the bar today, one of the temp workers for the holidays. Penny’s her name, if he remembers correctly, and she’s one of the international students from London. She’d told him that she’d taken on several jobs during the year in order to save for the upcoming semesters when her scholarship to the university would run out. A good kid, and one he hoped Henri would keep after the holidays ended.
He’s in the middle of taking an order for a group of frazzled theatre kids when he hears a familiar voice coming from the far side of the bar.
“You don’t understand my language! I need to see Hobbity! He understands my language and no one else can help. I saw him, but there are too many people near him and I don’t like crowds. There are too many people now, and I’m feeling squeezy in my heart. And it’s been bad. It’s been really bad. And Dee’s going to be so angry that I came to Hobbity, but no one understands !”
Hob turns his head to see the familiar rainbow hair of Del at the other end of the bar, close to where Morpheus used to sit before they’d begun spending time together. She’s trying to get Penny’s attention, but Penny’s already overwhelmed with the orders coming in. Hob looks around for someone to help, and gestures for Henri to come take over for him, so that he can attend to Del.
Henri, thankfully doesn’t say much, already used to seeing Del. She had been coming more often, mostly with Morpheus. There had been a few times where she’d come by herself, but she wouldn’t stay too long, only ordering a small hot chocolate to go and head to her classes.
Hob leaves the bar area and goes to Del. The first thing he notices is that she is not doing well at all. Normally, Del is very vibrant, taking care to style her hair in exciting different ways, putting on bright makeup to accent the clothes she wears. But now… Now her hair has been pulled into a messy ponytail on top of her head. There isn’t a bit of makeup on her face, and her eyes look more hollow and dark. Her clothes are different too. While normally dressed in neon band tee-shirts and funky pants, she is currently wearing a pair of plain black jeans, as well as an oversized shirt of The Cure .
Probably the most concerning of all, is her lack of anything to keep her warm. They are well into winter. The last few days had snow flurries falling over the city. Why isn’t Del wearing a coat or anything to protect her? He knows, at this point, that Morpheus is so good at making sure that Del has everything she needs whenever she goes out. Why wasn’t he aware of this?
Del launches herself into Hob’s arms as soon as she sees him. She’s sobbing on his shirt, screaming into it. Hob holds onto her, protectively wrapping his arms around her. He tries to make out what she’s saying, but she’s speaking way too fast, and her words are muffled by his shirt.
“Del, love? I need you to breathe for me, can you do that?”
“Nononono! Can’t do anything. I can’t do anything Hobbity. I’m all alone and I can’t help! And I want to help, but Dee is already so worried and she has to worry about me too and I want to help! ”
Hob rubs her back slowly, and allows her to continue crying and sobbing. At some point, he leads her away from the chaos of the front of the Inn, and to a quieter, employee area. He asks one of the employees there to get a glass of water for Del, as she still has not calmed down, nor has she let go of him.
“Del? I’m going to need you to let go of me, so that I can help you.”
“Please no. Don’t leave me, don’t! They never come back. They leave and they don’t come back. Ollie left, and my parents left and—and—they don’t come back!”
Something horrible must have happened for Del to be reacting this way. Hob wonders why she came to him, when she could have just gone home to Morpheus. Even Dee, their sister, would have helped if Morpheus was unable to.
“Del?” He says, placing his hand over hers, in an effort to both comfort her and to try and pry her off of him. She grabs onto his hand, thankfully. Poor girl is fucking trembling.
Of course she is, Hob. She just spent Lord knows how long outside in the winter cold without a proper jacket, or a hat or gloves.
What the fuck happened ?
“Del, I will not leave you, alright? I will not leave you until you ask me to leave.” Her hold on him loosens a little more, though she is still shaking like a fucking leaf. He slowly detaches her iron grip on him, and lowers himself on his knees, so that he’s directly facing her. He never lets go of her hands.
“Del, how do my hands feel?”
She hiccups a sob. The employee that had gone to search for water comes back with a glass full of ice cold water. Hob thanks them, and they leave. Del’s momentarily distracted by the employee and cries some more.
“Hey. It’s alright. I’m still here, Del. Think of my hands, okay? How do they feel?”
She sniffles and squeezes his hands several times, before she traces her thumb over one of his fingers.
“Warm,” she says, giving them another squeeze, “and scratchy. Like last time.” She continues to squeeze them, with her fingers tapping against his. Tapping a rhythm that he now assumes helps to regulate her emotions.
Hob smiles at her. “Very good, Del. You’re doing well.”
Del sniffles, letting go of Hob’s hands for a moment in order to rub at her leaking nose. He grabs a nearby tissue box —probably left by the same employee— and offers it to Del, who snatches several tissues.
Once she’s done blowing her nose and messily wiping her face, she holds her hands out once more for Hob to take them. He does.
“Do you want to tell me what happened?”
She sniffles, shaking her head. “It’ll be real if I tell you. But Dee’s already telling her friend who lives here, so maybe it really is real. Which means—” her lip trembles. Hob gives her hands a small squeeze, tapping his thumb against her knuckles. Del slowly mimics him, tapping along.
So, Dee, the oldest Endless sister, is upstairs with Jo. As if that wasn’t confusing enough, why did she come with Del? Why didn't she leave her with Morpheus? Why wasn’t Del already with Morpheus? Wasn’t he her primary caretaker, along with Dee?
Why—why wasn’t Morpheus here?
His heart sinks, and he thinks he’s let go of Del’s hands, because she squeezes them again.
“Del—” he says, barely above a whisper, “where—where is Morpheus?”
She finally looks up at him. Her blue and green eyes blinking back some more tears. “Dee was coming to pick me up, but Dreamy had gone down the street to get us some food because Dee was going to eat with us before we left. Dee came over and Dreamy wasn’t back and we waited and he still wasn’t back, and Dee asked me where Dreamy went—” she starts sobbing again, “Hobbity, I couldn’t remember! I tried really hard, I promise I tried. I thought and thought and I think it was pizza, but I don’t like pizza all the time, and Dreamy knows that. But we had sushi the other day, and Dreamy likes different food. And I know Dee likes sandwiches, but the place was further and—”
Hob keeps breathing, though his heart is about to fucking explode. He knows there are other sounds in the room, and he can hear Del talking to him, but the only thing going through his head right now is static.
Morpheus isn’t here with Del, a Del who is distraught and in complete crisis, without any winter gear. Their sister, Dee is with Jo. Jo, who knows their family, and the other ‘big name families’ in the city. Jo, who is an expert at tracking and finding people.
And Morpheus isn’t here.
He needs to know. It won’t be real until he hears Del saying those words. Otherwise, he’ll keep on thinking and thinking and come up with scenario after scenario.
“Del. Where. Is Morpheus?”
She sniffles, tears once more streaming down her face. “An angry man took him. He took him and he said he won’t give him back.”
Chapter Text
“Johanna!” Hob bashes on the door to this apartment. Del is shivering next to him, clinging onto his waist. He’s doing everything he can to keep her against him without flying into a blind rage.
He’s gone.
Morpheus is gone .
Taken by ‘an angry man’ according to Del.
As soon as Del let those words slip from her mouth, Hob’s brain completely shut down. If it hadn’t been for a pair of heterochromic teary eyes, he would have completely wrecked the employee staff lounge. Instead, he’d taken Del by the hand, and quickly led her out of the room, nearly knocking over Henri, who had come to see if everything was alright.
Henri was a soldier, and he knew the look of black out rage when it was clouding over a man’s eyes. The type of rage that controls you without any mercy. The type of rage that will not stop until satiated with violence and blood.
And he’s seconds away from reaching that.
Del is with you. Keep her safe.
Del is with you. Keep her safe.
Henri didn’t bat an eye. Told Hob to go handle what needed to be handled and that was the end of it. He’d grabbed his coat, but gave it to Del as she clearly needed it more. No one else stopped them as he stormed outside and stomped up the stairs, Del close on his heels.
“Johanna! Open the fucking door!”
Del is with you.
Del is with you.
The door jerks open as he’s about to bash it again. Jo stands there, not at all impressed, but Hob couldn’t give less of a fuck.
“You have a set of keys you— Hey! ” Hob pushes past her and storms into the kitchen where a woman is sitting at their dining room table, clutching tight to a mug of tea.
She’s strikingly beautiful. Dark skin with a head full of thick tightly coiled hair. She’s wearing a long-sleeved black sweater, and skinny black jeans.
And she’s been crying.
“Dee!” Del rushes to her and throws herself into the woman’s arms. “Dee I’m sorry I left, but Hobbity is downstairs and he can help! He helps me and he helps Dreamy!”
The woman looks Hob up and down, assessing him through inquisitive dark brown eyes. He stiffens under her gazing, suddenly worried about what Morpheus has told her about him. Does she know that he broke her brother’s heart? Does she know that they’d been running at break-neck speed towards something until—
“Where. Is. He?” He seethes, his heart picking up pace, and his vision beginning to blur. He’s been holding back the wave of rage that’s been building up inside of him, but the longer he waits for someone to tell him something, the worse the release will be.
“Hobs?” Jo says, entering the room and walking towards the woman. She places herself in Hob’s line of vision and lifts both her hands in an attempt to placate. He doesn’t need to be calmed down. He needs to move . He needs to hit something. He needs—
“We are trying to figure that out,” says Jo, slowly inching closer to him. Hob takes a step back, still with enough clarity in his head not to do anything stupid. His head is a cacophony of noise, each voice screaming at him for action, for vengeance, for blood .
They took him.
They won’t give him back.
Who knows how long he’s been gone?
Who knows if he’s even alive?
Maybe it was Connolly that did this.
Another love taken from you.
Another one. Another one. Another one.
“Please. Someone tell me,” voice cracking at the edges. Jo takes another small step forward, reaching her hand out.
“I need you to relax, Hob. We can’t help him while your head is like this.”
Hob looks at Jo’s hand and back up at her brown eyes, her serious face. He slowly places one of his hands in hers. She places it over her chest as she takes a few deep breaths. They’d done this exercise before, on days when either of them woke up to nightmares plaguing them. They track each other’s breathing, at the same time calming themselves down.
“Jo… Please? Tell me,” he whispers.
“I think I should take over,” says the woman (Dee, apparently). She joins the two of them, having ensured that Del was alright and settled.
“My name is Deidre Endless. Everyone calls me Dee. I am Morpheus’ elder sister, as well as co-caretaker of our little sister, Delilah.”
“She came to see me not too long ago,” Jo adds, keeping a firm hold on Hob’s hand. While he still wants to hit something, her presence helps keep him grounded. “I wanted to get as much information as possible before telling you. I’ve noticed how—”
“Just tell me he’s not—”
“He’s not, Hobs. I promise you, he’s not,” Jo says, giving his hand a firm squeeze. She looks over to Dee, who is pacing the floor with determination. “Dee?”
She stops her pacing and looks at Jo, nodding. “A few days ago, my brother left the apartment he shares with Del, in order to pick up some food for us.” She begins, picking up her pacing once more. “He never returned. I tried calling around to the nearby food places, but no one had seen him.” She looks over to Del, who is preoccupied with the tablet in her hands. “Poor Del. She was blaming herself because she couldn't remember where he had gone. Her memory has always been a struggle for her, and she’s always so hard on herself.
“There was one place, a small Indian place that had an order for a Morpheus, but he’d never picked it up. Del and I had gone to check it out, but there was nothing that suggested the worst had occurred.”
Dee slowly makes her way to the set of couches in the living room. Jo takes a seat next to her. Hob doesn’t follow them. He can’t find it in himself to sit still right now. How can he sit still when Morpheus is God knows where.
“Whoever took him must have done it by surprise. If he was distracted for even a minute, and someone was trailing him, it would have been that fast,” Hob says, dragging his hands through his hair. If someone had known to sneak up on him like that, and where he’d be, chances were that he was being trailed. Who knows for how long?
More than likely, the person who nabbed him was someone connected to his father and his business associates. But still, Hob could not shake the dread in the pit of his stomach that he was the one who caused this. That, somehow, Connolly found out who Hob was and was now using Morpheus to bait him.
It would work. God help him, it would work in an instant.
“That’s what happened, we suspect,” says Dee.
“Do you know who did this?” asks Jo, with Hob walking closer to the two of them.
Dee sighs and looks between the two of them, “Morpheus hates being a part of the family business, and for the most part he’s been ignored by our father in favour of Potmos, our eldest brother. But every so often, he has to play the part of loyal son and do my father’s bidding, even though he’d rather be reading in his library and writing in his room.”
Sounds exactly like him, Hob thinks. The shy, sweet man who had easily charmed him, and who’d begun to break down the iron wall he’d put up around his heart. He’d told him, from their meeting at the gala, that the life of his father was not one he wanted to lead. Each and every time he visited the Inn, he’d share his stories and poetry. The pieces of himself that he chose to share were unrelated to the expectations of his father.
“He’d told me as much,” Hob mumbles, placing his hands at the back of his head in order to keep them still. The monster inside of him has been quieted with the presence of company, and the strong need to find out all he can about what happened, and he’s conscious enough to keep it at bay.
“So, one of your father’s associates tried some sort of power move?” asks Jo, as calm as ever. He’s grateful for that, even if he wants to tear his hair out. One of them needs to keep a cool head right now, and he’s clearly in no shape to do that.
“Roderick Burgess,” she says, pulling out another phone and opening a photo to the same, angry old man that had insulted both Hob and Morpheus at the gala.
“I know him,” he seethes, the monster inside of him growling, begging to be unleashed now that a target has been placed. Now that he has a face to imagine pummeling into the ground for daring to touch—
“Hob, I need you to breathe. We don’t know why—”
“It doesn’t matter,” Hob says, digging his nails into the thighs of his jeans. It does not matter why Morpheus was taken. It changes nothing. He’s still being held captive somewhere; alone and unsure if anyone will come for him.
“You care deeply for him, don’t you?” says Dee, getting up from her seat. She walks over to where Hob’s staring up at the ceiling, tapping his foot against the hardwood floor. “He told me about you,” she says, reaching for one of his arms and slowly pulls it down towards her. Hob watches her dark brown eyes. This person who probably knows Morpheus better than anyone else. This person Morpheus loves so much that she is one of the only two from his family that he speaks about. This person who must be so wonderful and amazing. And if it were any other situation, he would be smiling and charming and the Hob that’s been slowly coming back to life.
“He doesn’t deserve this,” he whispers to her. She nods solemnly at him, cupping his cheek with her other hand.
And this. This small act of kindness breaks him. He leans his head into the warmth of her palm and weeps into it. Dee has all the grace to allow him to lose himself while she’s there looking for help in finding her little brother. As if that’s not bad enough, Hob lets her lead him to where Jo is still seated. Hob shakes his head as Dee tries to get him to sit down. She doesn’t argue and takes back her place beside Jo.
“Burgess. During the gala, he was demanding Morpheus talk to your father about something,” Hob says, remembering a few details from that interaction. Normally how the old man nearly beat him with his cane, all because Hob had insulted him.
But there was that anger in his eyes, the indignation on his face when Morpheus dismissed his demands. Morpheus, who wanted nothing less than to entertain the whims of the men his father kept on a leash.
Jo sighs, “Roderick Burgess comes from old money. They’re an old branch of the Constantine family, but not one we like to talk about. The families fell out centuries ago, when one of the Constantine heads sold one of our ancestral homes to the up and coming Burgess head,” she leans over balancing her arms on her legs. Hob hadn’t known that about her, that she’d had that connection to the Burgess family
“Burgess’ son, Randall,” Dee continues, placing a hand on Jo’s knee ( that’s interesting) “He’d started getting into trouble with local gangs. Wanting to make a name for himself and all that. Roderick, his family having friendly relations with my family for generations—”
“-Probably because of the Constantine connection,” mutters Jo, rolling her eyes.
“Right. Roderick wanted reassurances from my father, that if anything happened to Randall, that he would side with him and avenge him.”
“Blood for blood. I know how these families work,” says Hob, rubbing his eyes.
Dee stares at him, “indeed you do. In any case, Randall was found dead about a month ago, caught in a gun fight between the Demons of the North Shore and the Eastern Saints . We don’t even know whose side he was fighting for, but that didn’t matter to Roderick. A few days after Morpheus disappeared, my father and elder brother called the family in for a meeting.” Dee fetches a folded piece of paper from her bag. It’s printed on some sort of fancy cardstock and has an honest-to-God emblem on it.
Jo takes it and gives it a quick look, flipping it back and forth. “Definitely Burgess, that’s for sure. I’d recognize that stupid family crest anywhere.” She hands the paper over to Hob. The crest is odd, a pentagon within a circle, a flame coming out of each point.
To the Distinguished Family Endless,
For years your arrogance and disrespect towards my great name and heritage have gone without repercussion. For years I have tolerated your insults, knowing that in due time, we could come to an understanding, perhaps with both our sons at the helm.
With the death of my son, Randall, that dream is no longer a possibility. I had asked you on multiple occasions to side with me should that ever happen. Many times I have asked, and many times, you have scorned me.
Well, I shall be shunned no longer. Consider ourselves allies no longer. As of the death of my dear Randall, the pact set forth by our ancestors is no longer applicable. While you were sitting idly by, I have been planning and finding new allegiances, and we’ve managed to take from you what was taken from me.
He is plenty comfortable, for now. I can’t promise that he will remain that way for long.
Do not bother asking what I want. Nothing can bring my Randall back, but at least with your son, I am able to hit you where it hurts.
Do not bother coming after us, my new associates have provided plenty of guards to ensure my safety and protection.
You should have kept your pride in check. It is a shame now that both of our sons must now pay for your mistakes.
- Roderick Burgess
Hob can’t control the shaking in his hands as he reads over the letter. The man wanted nothing ? He was keeping Morpheus prisoner out of spite ? And what did that mean, ‘comfortable for now?’ What the fuck was he planning on doing? What had he already done without anyone knowing about this?
Without Hob knowing about this?
“He’ll fucking pay for this,” he says, trembling hands giving the letter back to Dee, who give him a assessing look. Hob crosses his arms over his chest. She’d made a comment earlier, about him knowing how these old families worked. She must have pieced it together, who he really was. Jo isn’t really secretive about her special set of skills, and that couldn’t have been the only reason Dee Endless sought her out.
“You’re him, aren’t you?” She says, narrowing her eyes at him. “The Knight. ”
Jo stares at the both of them, her eyes growing wider as Dee finally unearths their whole mission and plotting. God and all it took was a couple of minutes of them all being in the same room together.
Hob stands up once more and paces the room, the urge in his belly to hit something rising once more, so he shoves his hands into his hair and tugs at the roots.
“And you’ve been helping him,” she says to Jo, who doesn’t offer any apology nor any explanation.
“You’re correct on both fronts,” says Hob, breathing slowly through his nose.
“I’ve heard about you, from the news and from my father complaining about how your attacks have been bad for business.”
Hob glares at her. “You’re not associated with Connolly, are you?”
“ Hob!” Jo seethes, probably reprimanding him for asking such serious questions out of the blue without any preparation. Probably not the best idea either to ask the eldest Endless daughter of her father’s mob connections.
Honestly, fuck that. All he cares about is Morpheus and getting him back.
“ I am not associated with anyone,” she says, her dark eyes never leaving his. Very different from her shy, awkward younger brother and vibrant, anxious baby sister. “But no, my father has no connections to Liam Connolly. He does profit from the other families squabbling over territory, and so when someone like The Knight starts disrupting that, he grows concerned.”
Hob scoffs. “Causing rich fucks like your father to lose some change isn’t why we do this, no offence.”
“None taken. He is a rich fuck. It’s why Morpheus and I have very limited contact with him and why we refuse to allow Delia back under his influence,” says Dee, and even Hob has to admit that had they met under any other circumstance, he’d probably get along really well with her. “Why do you do this, then? If not to bring the elite down to their knees?”
“You remember El, from the White Horse ?” Jo says.
“Of course I remember El. She saved my life while I was suffering through med school.”
“She’s the reason we do this,” Hob says, walking away from them. He needs a few minutes to set his mind straight. He’s been running on nothing but adrenaline and pure rage for the last couple of hours. Jo is right, though he hates to admit it, he can’t help Morpheus while in this state. He needs to be calm and smart about this. Obviously they will be working to get Morpheus out of wherever Burgess has him. Hob would have gone even if Jo had said no, but he’s got eyes and he sees the way Jo and Dee have been looking at each other. She said yes before even knowing what Dee needed.
Del is still sitting at the table, on that tablet. As Hob passes behind her, he notices that she’s been working on a magnificent digital art piece, full of colour and beauty. Flowers and fishes and rainbows swirling together. She looks up at Hob, a small smile on her face.
“Dreamy got this for me. It helps me when my head gets too loud. I use the colours to help quiet it down.”
“Think it could help me?” Hob says, taking a seat next to her.
“I don’t know. Are you good at controlling the colours? It’s not so easy. Dreamy tried to explain it to me, but he did a bad job at it, so I started playing with the buttons, and found the ones that worked for me.”
Hob hums, watching as Del taps the buttons on her program in rapid succession, adding layers of more flowers to her piece, and then blending some of the colour blocks, creating some pool for more fish to swim through. Hob could barely keep up with what she’s doing, but he does find it to be very relaxing.
His phone vibrates in his pocket. He had missed a couple of calls earlier, and hadn’t bothered to check who it was that had called him. There were more important things to worry about. Besides, there weren’t many people who called him. Namely just Matthew and Jo.
Whoever it is, they’ll leave him a message.
“Hobbity?”
"Yeah, Del?”
“I miss Dreamy.”
She leans her head on his arm, thin arms wrapping around his bicep. He pats her shoulder, breathing slowly through the pain in his heart.
“This is his shirt,” she says, pointing to the black The Cure tee-shirt. Hob chuckles lightly, wiping away a few tears from his eyes. Of fucking course Morpehus would be into The Cure . He looks like he could be Robert Smith’s emo son.
“I miss him too,” he says.
“Are you going to help find him?”
Hob wraps his arm around Del’s shoulders, bringing her in for a hug. She melts into his arms, snuggling close to him. “I promise. I will do everything I can to find him,” he whispers. He doesn’t tell Del that he’d die trying to get him out, but he feels it. Even if he ends up dying, he will rescue Morpheus.
It’s late when the two Endless sisters finally leave their apartment. Jo had made a small order from the Inn’s kitchens for some food while they continued discussing how to go about finding and rescuing Morpheus.
Del made sure to stay close to Hob during the discussions and he was thankful for that. Her presence kept him grounded, and watching as she created design after design was calming. Their closeness didn’t escape Dee’s ever present, watchful eye.
Jo had mapped several of the properties that the Burgess family owned, found both through public records of estates and property listing, as well as hacking into notary and accountant offices. They had deduced that out of the five properties that Burgess owned, they could rule out the three overseas properties in London, Dubai, and Shanghai. If he had sent the message only a couple of days after Morpheus disappeared, that wouldn’t have been enough time to get him out of the city.
That left two properties that Burgess owned; his main residence in one of the more affluent areas of the city, and a country house further North that was primarily only used during the summer months.
Hob was certain that Morpheus was being kept in the country house. It would be too risky to keep him in a heavily populated area. Jo disagreed, saying that keeping him close and in the city is easier if he wanted to keep guards at the ready. Dee agreed with Jo, adding that whomever this new ally of Burgess was, they’d more than likely be in the city, helping Burgess with whatever he needed.
Which posed another question: Who was this ally that Burgess bragged about?
They all had their suspicions. Jo believed it to be the Thessalian family; a family as old as the Endless and just as ruthless. While the Endless tended to keep out of mob activities, the Thessalians were as cutthroat as they come. Coming up from literally nothing, they would do whatever it took to remain in power (even selling family members out— if the rumours about them were to be believed). Dee suspected it to be the crime syndicate headed by Lucifer Morningstar, the owner of several seedy and legitimate night clubs all over the city. Lucifer had wanted to arrange a pairing between themselves and one of the Endless children. Morpheus, at one point, was considered to be the top choice. He refused, and Lucifer did not take that well, vowing to challenge that slight one day.
Hob had held himself tighter listening to Dee’s story. He couldn’t believe that the Morpheus he knew was almost married to The Morningstar. He would have hated every second of that existence. Lucifer Morningstar was infamous for their cruelty and their saccharine, sweet disposition (right before slicing someone’s throat).
Hob had his own theory. He believed that Connolly was responsible. And it wasn’t because of what he’d done to Hob personally. Connolly, like the Thessalian family decades ago, was trying to make a name for himself. What better way to up his game than to strike an allegiance with a powerful man, and kidnap the second son of another? Burgess might not want anything from Morpheus, but Connolly sure as fuck does.
When it came to being able to supply guards and henchmen to work for Burgess, Morningstar and Connolly were more likely to provide than Thessalian.
Eventually, Del began to fall asleep on the couch, her fingers clutching tight to The Cure tee-shirt. Hob had covered her in one of their blankets, but they all knew that they wouldn’t get any more done tonight. They needed to do research on the two properties, as well as reconnaissance on both of them, looking for points of entries.
The thing about this mission was, they really only had one shot to do this right. One wrong move would alert Burgess that a rescue mission was imminent. And that meant he would opt to rid himself of Morpheus altogether.
They’d called Matthew to look into the property up north, to see if there had been any activity there recently. Dee would ask a couple of her own tech-savvy friends to do the same for the Montville house. With goodbye hugs and a promise to resume the following day, Dee and Del left. Dee had actually surprised Hob by wrapping her arms around his neck and squeezing him tight.
“He cares deeply for you. You’ve become his reason for leaving the house. We will find him, ” she’d whispered in his ear. Hob had teared up when she’d said that, promising himself that when they got Morpheus back, he would never let him go again. As long as he lived.
Sitting alone now, in the kitchen, and nursing a steaming cup of lavender tea, Hob does his best to breathe normally, but he can’t. The rage monster, while no longer tearing at his inner walls, is not completely gone. Just waiting . Waiting to be unleashed without mercy. That’s how he intends to deal with the monsters keeping Morpheus cold and alone.
He stares at the sword leaning against the wall. He’d taken it out of his room in order to sharpen and polish it. Taking care of his weapons was something that usually helped to calm him down. Fuck all it did tonight, but at least it was ready to do some serious damage.
He should take a shower, and maybe try and get some sleep. Jo had gone to shower and plan some more in her room (she was always best at coming up with plans while alone). She looked almost worried about leaving him alone for too long. He doesn’t blame her. She’d seen him right after El’s death. Having to see her best friend fighting against a rage demon and almost losing that fight is a lot for a person.
He’d talk to her tomorrow. He owes her that much at the very least.
Hob is cleaning up everything, when his phone rings.
His phone had rung several more times throughout the night, until Hob finally checked who it was that could have been calling him. There was no name on the ID, but the number had an area code from New York, which could mean one of two things: That Ethan was calling to chat, check-up, or request assistance. Or, and probably more concerning, that Fitzgerald had realised that Ronan Gallagher survived that crash into the Hudson River last year and was now living in Montville as Robert Gadling.
He looks down at the number, sighing deeply as it’s the same number that’s been calling him all day. Double checking to make sure Jo isn’t nearby, he answers the phone.
“Hello?”
“Robbie!” shouts a familiar drawl on the other end. “You’re a difficult fucker to catch. Too busy these days to chat with little old me?”
It’s Ethan, then.
Hob frowns, not looking forward to talking to Ethan, who was supposed to stay in New York, without any access to him or his cellphone. “How did you get this number?”
“Now, is that how you greet an old friend, Robbie? After all I’ve done for you?” Ethan chuckles, and Hob gets a sinking feeling at the pit of his stomach. If Ethan’s calling him, it can’t mean anything good. The fact that Ethan’s calling him right after the disappearance of Morpheus Endless is even more concerning to him.
“I thought we were settled before I left. All debts paid and everything.”
“Paid in full and with added interest, which is why I’m here. I’ve been keeping a very interested eye on you. You’ve made quite a name for yourself, Mr. Knight. Or do you prefer Good Fortune?”
Hob pulls the phone away from his ear, growling as Ethan’s laugh peels through the cell phone. Ethan would know all about the Knight . Ethan was the one who taught him everything he could, and got him the training for everything he couldn’t. Namely helping him to hone his fist and sword fighting.
They’d grown up together, in the less privileged area of the city. While Hob had two parents who tried to give him all the love he could want, the same wasn’t the same for Ethan. He was brought up in an angry household, and that had made him into an angry person. Around high school, he’d started becoming destructive, and he’d tried to get Hob involved, but Hob stayed out of it.
Until his parents died, and he had a reason to be angry. He’d gone out and he’d fought. Anyone who looked at him wrong, or approached him would act as a conduit for his anger. Ethan cheered him on the entire way. Until Hob got arrested for brawling in a bar, and Ethan skipped town.
If it wasn’t for the kindness of some of Hob’s other friends, he would have continued down that path. Instead, he’d found therapeutic methods to channel and deal with his anger, and went to college.
It wasn’t until after El’s death that Hob considered looking Ethan up. He’d heard through the grapevine that he’d gotten in with some of the mobs in New York. He knew it was stupid to ask a favour from someone like Ethan, but he was desperate. If he wanted to inflict his vengeance on these people, he would need to think like one, act like one.
So he went to New York, found Ethan, and fought his battles for the next five years.
And now, he’s back, calling Hob at the absolute worst time.
“What do you want, Ethan?” Hob asks, rubbing his eyes. He gets up from his seat in order to prepare another mug of tea. If Ethan is calling him so late (and has been calling him all day) he thinks he’ll be needing it.
“Got a small job for you, right here in good ol’ Montville.”
“I don’t do jobs for anyone—”
“Not even if they involve Morpheus Endless?”
He nearly drops the phone, heart skipping a beat as Ethan continues talking. “Oh I know all about your little dalliances with Mr. Endless. I may not be mob material anymore, but I still know how to use my connections to check up on old friends. Now before you growl into that phone like an animal, let me explain.”
“Make. It. Quick,” he seethes, the monster scratching, begging to be let out, salivating at the chance to rip someone to shreds.
“I am not involved with that Burgess idiot. However I have friends in high places who are — displeased at the idea that someone as high profile as Morpheus Endless could be snatched up out of the blue. It’s like a declaration of war, according to some of the families. A war they'd like very much to prevent.”
Hob stands up straight. “You want to help,” he says.
“I want some goddamn peace and quiet for once. Fitzgerald kicked the bucket not too long after you left town, so smaller factions have started rumbling about. Wouldn’t be surprised if they tried to make allegiances here.”
Fitzgerald died? When the fuck did that happen, and how did he not know anything about it? Sure he’d cut off all ties from his life in New York, but you’d think the death of a well-known mobster would have made the news.
And who was the one to have done the deed in the end?
Declan Fitzgerald had a lot of enemies in the end, a lot of people would have benefited from his death. The easier question to ask would have been ‘who didn’t want the man dead?’
Fitzgerald’s death would confirm Ethan’s reasoning for being back in Montville. As his biggest threat is no longer an issue, he would be free to do whatever he wanted.
And what he wanted now, was to prevent a massive mob war, by helping to rescue Morpheus.
“What do you know?”
Hob could almost hear the sly smirk on Ethan’s face. “For one, I know where Burgess is keeping him.”
Hob burns himself on the kettle when Ethan says that. He yelps and swears, dropping the damn thing back on the stove and quickly turning it off. The monster inside of him only grows stronger, anticipation reaching closer to its boiling point.
Someone knows where he is.
Hob can find where he is.
They can get him out.
“Ethan,” he says, voice calm, yet slipping closer and closer to the edge of no return. “How do you know that?”
The bastard chuckles. “Burgess, the idiot, can’t keep his mouth shut to save his fucking life. He bragged about it to my patron, to gain some clout. Only thing he gained was another enemy. You don’t fucking touch the Endless family.”
Hob, having cooled his hand under the running water (thankfully, it isn’t too serious of a burn), empties out the tea kettle. No matter what, if Ethan tells him where Morpheus is, there is nothing that will stop him from getting him out tonight.
“Where is he?” he all but growls into the phone.
“Down boy. You’ll get your time to shine, don’t you worry. Funny, you could have known this information hours ago had you bothered to answer your phone.”
“Ethan, I’m not fucking kidding. Either you tell me now, or I’ll find you and make you tell me.” The monster thrashes inside, screaming to be let out. It’s tired of waiting. Now is the time for action.
“You haven’t changed a bit, have you?” he laughs. “There’s an abandoned building near Montcalm in the Lebanese district. Burgess has him stashed there in the basement, until he can drum up enough capital to keep him in a more— permanent place.”
So they’d been wrong in the end. Morpheus wasn’t being held at any of the Burgess properties. That meant they’d have to spend even more time coming up with potential places Burgess could have been keeping him. Time, which, according to Ethan, they did not have.
They would have missed their chance, and Morpheus would have been forever lost to them.
No. No he will not think about that. He has a location. He can save him.
He will save him.
Hob knows exactly where that building is. It isn’t far enough to require a trip on the metro, thank goodness, but also in an area where he’d be able to park Jo’s car. That will be useful as he doesn’t know what state Morpheus will be in once they find him.
Hob looks towards both his and Jo’s rooms. It’ll be a task to gather his gear without her knowing and asking too many questions. He won’t be able to walk out of the apartment with his full heavy-duty armour, but he does have some lighter armour that is less complicated to hide. It won’t provide the protection he needs, and it won’t have the brace that Matthew built for him. That could cause more problems, but at this point, Hob doesn’t care. Let them kill him. If Ethan can get Morpheus out of there and back home, it’ll all be worth it.
The sword is easy enough to stash in the car. He’ll simply attach the scabbard to his jeans, along with a couple of the guns Jo always keeps hidden in the trunk of her car (insurance, according to her).
“You’re going to storm the place, aren’t you?” Ethan’s crisp voice interrupts Hob’s planning. He knows him too fucking well.
“You joining in?” He asks, even though he already knows the answer.
“I was hoping for a friendly reunion,” he hums over the phone. “Alright, Robbie. Let’s go get your boyfriend back.”
Notes:
Hold on to your butts, friends. It's gonna be a bumpy ride until the end. :)
Chapter 9: swing that sword that you made with the pain
Notes:
We're getting to the point where things get pretty intense. There is A LOT of violence in this chapter, as Hob goes... well... Feral. I can provide a small summary of what happens at the end of the chapter if you
The backstreet is unlit and littered with massive dumpsters. and ends at Hob whips his head around to see Morpheus.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Hob was never good at waiting.
Ever since he was a child, and would burn his mouth on the cookies his mom used to make because he couldn’t wait for them to cool.
“My little hobgoblin. You need to wait.” His mom would say as she gave him a cold glass of milk.
When in school, he would always drift off in class, always eager for the moment that the bell would ring for recess, or lunch, or the end of the day. His teachers would write notes home to his parents about Hob’s inability to pay attention in class.
When he got into college, his impatience often led him to make stupid mistakes, like having many ill-advised one-night-stands, because he couldn’t wait and needed to kiss and be kissed right fucking now .
And with El, he couldn’t wait to propose to her. He nearly made himself sick with waiting for a year after they’d started dating.
“You’re fucking, ridiculous ,” his friend, Hugo had said when Hob had shown him the ring. All of his friends had said that El would run for the fucking hills. Instead, she laughed and admitted that she was surprised it took him a whole year of waiting.
He wasn’t good at waiting.
It was the anticipation, really. It always made him sickeningly anxious to wait so long. His mind would come up with every single possibility that could happen. The more he waited, the more convoluted the scenarios became, until he could not wait anymore and got on with it.
Because of that, he never bothered with staking a place out before a job. He’d always arrive and get right to the point. Yes, he was able to be stealthy and take his time, but in his mind that wasn’t the same as waiting and doing nothing.
Which is what he’s currently doing. Parked a couple of blocks away from where he knows Morpheus to be. All he has to do is get out of the car and unleash hell on those who had dared to touch him.
Problem is, he’s alone, with very basic gear, and no plan of attack. If Burgess’ letter was telling the truth, then he’ll be walking into a place swarming with guards and people paid to make sure Morpheus stays right where he is.
Once he’d hung up with Ethan, Hob had set about gathering whatever gear he could. His leg had grown a little stiff from sitting down for so long. He hoped it wouldn’t go completely numb, or cause him too much pain tonight. He’s been good at pushing through the pain, but he can’t afford any mistakes tonight.
He’d slipped on a pair of thick, black jogging pants. He was able to slip on an old bullet proof vest (not as high quality as the one he currently uses, but it’ll do) and grab a mask. He’d just have to make sure not to get knocked in the head too many times. Going in with a partner would help immensely with that.
He’d pulled on a holster for the two pistols he’d be using, before slipping on a soft, but warm black hoodie. Before leaving, he’d stood in front of Jo’s door, and listened to hear if she spoke to herself (her habit when planning a mission). Upon hearing silence, he figured she had gone to bed.
Grabbing his sword and Jo’s keys, he quietly slipped out the door, muttering a silent apology and a prayer for forgiveness if he comes back alive.
His cell phone buzzes.
+1-347-555-8462
Received 22:49
I’m almost at the car
Hob quietly slips out of the car and into the shadows surrounding him. He’d picked a good spot to park where it was barely lit with little to no foot traffic. They’d have to sneak their way through the tiny streets, full of closed immigrant-owned grocery stores and deli markets. The people who owned these places usually lived right above, but seeing as it was late already, it’s more than likely they’ve already gone to bed.
Ethan approaches him, still looking like the smug bastard he was when Hob had last saw him (from under a hiding place on the George Washington Bridge). Still tall, blonde, and slim, and always wearing a pair of sunglasses, no matter how dark it is outside. Hob had commented once on those stupid things and how he could not understand how Ethan was able to see in them.
“I can see plenty fine with them on, Robbie. And besides, everyone needs to have some sort of signature. I think these bring out my handsome face.”
Hob had scoffed. It was a dumb fashion choice then, and it’s an even dumber decision now. Honestly, Hob thinks it has more to do with the fact that back in the day, when they were younger and stupid, Ethan had gotten into a massive scrap with some bigger guys. They’d fucked him up really bad, especially his eyes. He didn’t lose his sight, or anything like that, but he was left with some nasty scarring. He’d been really bitter and angry about it, and sometime while living in New York, took up the practice of wearing dark shades to cover them up.
“Ready to roll, Robbie?” he asks, slapping Hob hard on the back. Hob slowly rolls his shoulder and heads to the trunk of the car in order to grab their weapons. Ethan has always been the weird sort of unhinged that you wouldn’t want to spend too much time around. He’d gotten used to it in New York, where his presence felt like something less than a prickling feeling at the back of your neck. But after a year away from his influence, he couldn’t help but feel unnerved.
It was all so fucking convenient, wasn’t it? Ethan showing up right when Hob needed someone like him around, all too ready to jump into action. Then again, that always was Ethan. Ready and always twirling those knives he keeps hidden on his person.
“Do you need anything from here? We’re not as well stocked as you Americans are, but these ones are nothing to laugh about.”
Ethan whistles low and runs his hands across a few of the guns Hob has revealed in a secret compartment in the trunk. He rarely uses them, even though Jo insists they would make his job a lot easier. He prefers using his sword and his fists if anything. They’re a lot quieter, and get the job done just as effectively.
Tonight though, tonight he doesn’t care for being quiet, or subtle. He grabs two particularly strong pistols, each one with a silencer attached, as well as some extra ammunition. He loads them into his holster and zips it up part way. Ethan picks up a single smaller gun, along with some ammo. Hob notices several flashes of light when Ethan opens his blazer.
Tons of knives it is then. Ethan hasn’t changed a bit.
Hob shuts the trunk door, lifts his hoodies over his head and swiftly makes his way to one of the narrow streets, Ethan close on his heels. He keeps trying to make conversation, but Hob’s only focus is on Morpheus and mentally preparing himself to spill some more blood. It’s been several months since he’s actually killed someone. Normally, he’s very careful to incapacitate, and not kill guards. He understands that most of the time, they’re people that have been put into terrible positions due to life. The only times he’s come close to taking a life, were instances where he was self-defending.
Back in New York, that was a different story. He’d been freshly wounded and wild back in New York. In New York, he’d wanted to satiate his rage monster with as much blood as possible. After five years of getting a taste of the blood, while still plenty angry, he’d decided he’d save his blood thirst for someone who actually deserved it.
Like Burgess, in this case, as well as anyone who dared stand in his way when rescuing his — Morpheus.
“Gotta admit,” Ethan says, as they dart across a small park and into a dark alley. “I’d missed the layout of this city. New York is very similar, with the dark, creepy alleys and random green spots, but they’re full of people. Homeless and drug users, or kids being stupid.”
“We have that too. Disenfranchisement isn’t just an American reality. I’m just avoiding the areas where they tend to gather. Plus with this cold, chances are many of them went to seek out any shelter. They’re probably underground, in the metro stations.”
“Do a lot of skulking around, do you?”
Hob turns back and raises an eyebrow at Ethan. “I had the jobs you sent me to in New York. I have different jobs back home. A lot of them involve skulking around.”
“I mean, yes, obviously. But you, my friend, have that brain that works like a Google map. I would have just walked right up to the place. You’ve got all these secret spots that take you where you need to go.”
Hob makes a quick right into another narrow street. This one is better lit, so he has to act the regular pedestrian until he and Ethan can duck into a darker section. “You grew up here too, Ethan. This was your city. These were your streets—”
“This was never my city, Rob,” he spits almost angrily. “I was glad when I left it behind and made New York mine.”
So the bitterness remains. Good to know. He can’t say he blames Ethan for how he feels. The city wasn’t always kind to the two of them, and Hob at least had some people who loved and cared about him. Ethan didn’t have the same privilege. He got out as soon as he was able to.
Even if that meant he’d left Hob in a jail cell to do it.
Ethan stops Hob, just as he’s about to turn onto Montcalm. He points to a large, unlit building, which at first glance looks completely empty. However, once Hob takes a closer look, he can make out several guards lining the property. In his head, he can count roughly six of them, covering a total of three entrances.
This is the place then. The monster inside of him hisses against his sternum. It’s ready to strike.
“I count six. You?”
“Same. We could sneak around, and take three each—”
“I prefer the fast and quick method,” says Ethan and although Hob can’t tell, he’s almost certain that the asshole winked at him.
“Not smart. That will attract whomever’s inside to come out. Not to mention alerting everyone in the vicinity, putting innocent bystanders at risk,” Hob whispers, avoiding the most obvious reasons because he doesn’t want to think about what they would do to Morpheus, should Burgess get too spooked at a rescue attempt.
“Good point.” Ethan takes a deep breath, patting his blazer down, feeling for his many knives. “We go with your plan. I think we can go around the back through the narrow alley.”
Hob nods, and they make their way down Montcalm, both keeping their bodies close to the walls of the buildings. Once they reach an opening that leads into the backstreet, they crouch down and slink behind the building. Hob keeps Morpheus’ face on his mind and begs for him to hold on just a little while longer.
I’m coming, love. I’ll be there soon.
The backstreet is unlit and littered with massive dumpsters. Hob keeps close to one of them, as Ethan targets one of the guards who is just a little bit separated from his partner. He takes out one of his knives and gestures to a rock beside Hob’s foot. He picks up the rock and throws it away from their spot. The noise alerts the guard and he starts walking away from the building. Ethan emerges from behind the dumpster, stalking the guard like a lion. Before the guard turns around, Ethan’s got a tight hold on the man and slices his throat.
It takes less than five seconds and he’s dead.
This is why it’s always unnerving to be near Ethan. The man is ruthless and deadly. He drags the corpse behind another dumpster and resumes hiding. The guard’s partner comes back from around the building.
“Jake! Come on, man! This shit isn’t funny anymore. Stop fucking around.”
Hob presses himself against the dumpster and circles around, creeping silently towards the second guard. He grabs the man by his jacket and wraps his arm around his neck, immediately feeling the crunch of bone underneath. The man sputters and gurgles against the pressure in his neck.
“I’m sorry for this. But you chose to hurt the wrong person,” he says, jerking his arms out and breaking the guard’s neck. With a sickening crunch, he falls limp. Hob drags him to where Ethan is still hiding with the first guard.
“Two down,” he whispers.
“We have two options.” Hob says studying the back of the building. It won’t be long before the other guards notice something is wrong and come charging. “We can split up and quickly take out the other four guards.”
“Two for you and two for me. Generous. I like it.”
“Or,” he says, a chill running down his spine. “We take out the ones on the left, and then run back and hit the ones on the right.”
Ethan rubs his chin, the still bloody knife dangling carelessly between his fingers. “Personally, the first option sounds better. We have less chance of them finding out our plan and alerting the others that way.”
Hob nods. He was thinking the same thing. As much as he had hoped to not have to face two guards at once, he has no choice here.
“Alright. I’ll take the door on the right side. I didn’t see a door on the left—”
“I’ll find a way inside, Robbie. Don’t you worry about me,” he says, flashing his signature, charming smile.
Hob grips the pommel of his sword and makes his way towards the right side of the building. He looks back at Ethan already heading to the left.
Hob presses his back against the brick of the building, taking long, yet slow steps to the edge of the building. He peers around the corner and watches the two guards chatting in front of a large, black door.
He’ll have to be smart about this. He could use the same method of distraction and toss a rock. But he doesn’t want to risk any more commotion than necessary. He pulls out one of the guns from his holster, and aims it at the guard further away from him. If he can get a good headshot, he can take him out and go for the second one before he even realises what’s happened.
Hob bides his time, doing the thing he hates doing the most. Waiting. The guard takes a half step out, putting him in Hob’s range for less than a second.
It’s enough time.
He pulls the trigger, hitting the guard between the eyes. In the time for the other guard to react to the shot and check over his buddy, Hob is already aiming for the second. This one is a little more difficult to hit, as his body is angled weirdly. He has to emerge from the back and creep in a little closer in order to get a better shot. As soon as the second guard stands up and turns around, he’s met with the end of Hob’s gun.
“Fuck—” is all he’s able to say as Hob pulls the trigger. Blood splatters on the wall and sprays across Hob’s face. He is thankful that the mask and hoodie are still covering most of him. He never enjoyed having to scrub someone else’s blood off himself.
The monster purrs with the satisfaction of three kills in a matter of minutes. But the night is still young, and who knows how many people they’ll have to dispose of inside the building. Hob keeps the gun close to him, reaching for the knob of the door. He gives it a small twist and is surprised to find that it is unlocked.
Keeping himself flush against the outside well, he pushes the door open and takes a look inside. The building is completely dark, except for a small overhead light at the end of a long hallway. Hob pushes himself inside, spinning around immediately to check the wall to his back. Finding that clear, he takes small, calculating steps, keeping his gun in front of him and checking for shadows hiding against the walls.
Getting closer to the overhead light, Hob find it really fucking weird that the place is completely empty. Burgess’ letter had all but promised that there would be an army of henchmen waiting for those who dared to try and rescue Morpheus.
Was that all a fucking lie?
A small scraping sound alerts Hob to someone nearby, but not before they reach around him and wrap a thin cord around his neck. He drops his gun and chokes against the garotte. He tries to pry his fingers under the cord, but the man behind him holds firm and tugs even harder. A garbled scream escapes from Hob’s mouth, and his vision clouds over.
No . I am not going to die like this.
Hob forces himself to calm down and think of a way to get out of this. He brings his arms down to his side and delivers a strong jab to the man’s gut. He slightly loosens his grip on Hob’s neck, allowing him some movement to slam the heel of his foot down on the man’s toe. His fingers slip from the cord around his neck, allowing Hob to grab it and free himself. He coughs and gasps for air, stumbling away from his attacker. He doesn’t allow Hob to go very far, already coming after him with a fist ready to knock him out. Hob blocks it with his arm, and brings his good knee up to connect to the man’s groin. He grunts in pain, doubling over. Hob slams his elbow against the man’s back, sending him crashing onto the floor, writhing and moaning.
Hob fetches his gun and points it at the man. Before he can shoot him, he stares at his face. He’s really fucking familiar. It’s the same face from several months ago, from the arson job on Hutcherson.
“Frank di Giovanni,” he seethes, kicking the man over with his boot. “I should have fucking bashed your head in with the crowbar when I had the chance.”
Di Giovanni coughs out some blood. “Y-you should have killed all of us. C-Connolly will fucking slice your throat up when he gets you.”
He fucking knew it. He knew that it was Connolly involved with Burgess. Call it instinct, or just common sense. Who else would have been stupid enough to go against one of the biggest families in the city?
“He’s welcome to fucking try, Frankie,” Hob reaches over and grabs Frank by the throat, squeezing it tight. “Thing is, I’ve been looking forward to meeting him.”
Frank grabs at Hob’s hands, the sickening sound of air caught in his throat is all Hob can hear. He lifts his hand away, and Frank gasps for air, shifting onto his stomach.
“You fucking asshole,” he sputters, coughing up some more blood.
“Yeah, you’re not wrong about that,” Hob says, giving a solid hard kick to Frank’s stomach. He reaches down and grabs him by the hair, wrenching his head up. Frank glares up at him, blood foaming from his mouth. It would be so easy to let him go again. To allow him to run away back to wherever festering hole he came from.
And maybe, if this were another job, he would.
But it isn’t. And letting him go the first time allowed him to be involved with hurting Morpheus.
And Hob will never forgive himself for that mistake.
“I’m a massive asshole. Always have been, and always will be, most likely. But there were a few people who believed I could be better.” Hob takes his gun and points it in between Frank’s eyes. “Killing one of them wasn’t enough, was it? Taking away the homes and livelihoods of innocent people wasn’t enough was it?” He seethes in Frank’s face, pushing the gun deeper.
“You say I should have killed you when I had the chance. Believe me, Frank, I ain’t making that mistake again. You should have left town when I let you go. Seems like we’re both learning from our mistakes tonight.” He pulls the trigger, killing Frank instantly.
“Fuck, Robbie. I knew you were screwed up back in New York, but this is a whole other level of fucked.”
Hob staggers onto his feet, careful not to stare too much at Frank’s body on the ground, at the blood slowly spreading underneath. If he stares for too long, he’ll slow down. If he slows down, he won’t finish what he came here to do.
Just keep going , he thinks to himself. Don’t think about the blood, or the bodies, or the violence.
He’s here for one thing and one thing only. No matter how many bodies he has to drop along the way, he will get to Morpheus.
“New York was a job I did for you,” he says, turning to Ethan. He pushes past him, heading toward the overhead light at the end of the hallway. “This is personal.”
Ethan whistles, following close behind Hob, covering his back. Taking slow, calculated steps, they make sure that there are no other surprises waiting for them behind hidden dark corners. They’ve been lucky enough that no one has been alerted to their presence yet, but Lord only knows how long that will last.
As they get closer to the light, Hob finally notices it. A door. One that he’s certain will lead them to Morpheus. He reholsters his gun, and jogs towards it. He tries to open it, but it’s locked. Ethan steps up to the door and nudges Hob to move over. He pulls out one of those many knives he’s got on him and twirls it in his hand before bending over to take a look.
“Sneaking around and picking locks, just like old times, eh Robbie?” he says, jamming the knife into the lock and jiggling it around. Ethan and those damn knives of his. They were his speciality, both when they were kids, and when he’d met back up with him in New York. Well, the knives and learning to fight dirty. He’d taught Hob several tricks to get out of sticky situations, most of them involved jamming your thumbs into eye sockets.
But the knives. Ethan loved his knives. Sometimes, Hob would think, a little too much. During the five years he’d spent with Ethan in New York, there was hardly a time he’d see him without them.
Hob places a hand over the hilt of his sword. In a way, he understands that. He does feel somewhat more secure knowing his sword is on him.
A soft click, and a triumphant laugh from Ethan indicate that the door is unlocked. Ethan steps aside and gestures for Hob to take the lead once more.
“After you,” he says.
Hob peers past the frame and sees some stairs leading down into another dark hallway. Hob thinks he can see a faint light at the bottom, but he’ll have to make his way down to get a better look. He pulls out his sword and keeps it in his guard, making his way down each step.
As they reach the bottom of the stairs, Hob can make out the dark, empty hallway, with a light coming from a closed door at the end. Although they are at opposite sides, Hob can already hear a loud voice coming from the room. If he had to guess, he’d say it was Burgess.
Most likely with Morpheus.
Ethan’s hand presses against Hob’s shoulder, already urging him to be smart about their next move. Hob nods and slowly walks towards the light. They had been surprised thus far over the lax security (considering Hob had initially expected a swarm of henchmen), but for all they knew that real fight would happen just beyond the door.
“Have you nothing to say, Morpheus?”
Hob stiffens. He’s here. It’s really him. Ethan’s grip on Hob’s shoulder tightens, almost pulling him back from bursting through the door and cutting everyone down to pieces.
“Keep calm, Rob,” he whispers into his ear.
Breathing through clenched teeth, Hob creeps even closer to the door, Ethan right behind him. The monster inside grows louder and louder.
“You know your father has not offered me anything for your return. Can’t say I’m too surprised. The worth of a second son is all but non-existent after all.”
Hob growls. Ethan shushes him from his steady position behind him. Hob shrugs off his grip on his shoulder. He’d already known that Morpheus’ father had not made any effort to retrieve him, it was why Dee had come to Johanna in the first place. But to hear it coming from Burgess’ mouth, and for it to be used as a taunt in order to break Morpheus ever more.
Hob tightened his grip on his sword.
“However, if you would be willing to give me something worthwhile, perhaps I may be inclined to let you go.”
Ethan hops beside Hob and reaches for the door. He places a finger to his mouth, signalling to keep quiet. Hob nods. Ethan twists the handle and it miraculously opens. Hob shifts himself to the opposite side of the doorway, giving Ethan the opportunity to look inside.
“I have been asking you for three days now. Keep pushing me and I will find a way to be rid of you once and for all. No one’s coming to find you. No one cares enough for you. Not even that dirty rat who dared insult me at the gala. Maybe I’ll persuade my associate to go after him.”
Let him fucking try , Hob thinks. That would make his job all too easy. Hob will gladly put a bullet in Connolly’s head once he sees him again. No hesitation needed.
“Oh? I see that got your attention. Now, will you give me what I want?”
Ethan pushes the door a little more and peers inside. He put up two fingers, an indication that there are two guards with Burgess and Morpheus.
They’ll have to be careful with how they proceed. If they can get one guard by surprise, it leaves the second for Ethan to take.
Hob wants Burgess for himself.
“Answer me!”
A hard slapping sound and a softened grunt has Hob leaping to his feet. Ethan, while wearing a resigned look on his face, still tries to calm Hob down once more. He places a hand on Hob’s chest, and with a warning look, pulls out a small throwing dagger from the inside of his blazer.
“Keep. Still,” he mumbles. Hob seethes through his teeth. He can’t wait anymore. Ethan shifts the door a little wider, in order to give himself a better line of fire. As the door opens further, Hob is finally able to get a good look inside.
Two guards are stationed on either side of the room, their backs to them. In order for Ethan to get a perfect hit, one would have to move very slightly towards the door, or they would have to fully enter, alerting them immediately.
It’s a fucking waiting game. One that Hob hates most of all.
He instead turns his focus to the two people in the centre of the room. Burgess, also with his back to them, crouched in front of someone tied to a chair—
Morpheus .
The monster inside Hob’s belly growls at the sight of him. Head lolling to the side, with several bruises littering his beautiful pale face. His lips are swollen and bleeding. This was not the first time Burgess laid his hands on him.
I’m going to kill him . Hob thinks, hands squeezing the hilt of his sword. I’m going to watch as he begs for mercy, and I will kill him.
Burgess grabs Morpheus’ chin, forcing him to look up. Hob’s feels his heart ripping from his chest as he gazes at Morpheus’ eyes. As beautiful and crystal blue as always, they are dimmed, the light having all but escaped from them. Dark circles beneath them indicate how exhausted he is. The bastards probably weren’t even allowing him to sleep. Were they feeding him? Allowing him to drink?
“Ethan,” Hob grits, pushing himself closer to the door. He can’t wait. He needs to hold Morpheus right now. He needs to wrap him in his arms, and tell him that he’s alright. That nothing will ever hurt him again. He feels it, deep in his bones, the need to sweep him far away from all of this. From evil men who will hurt him without a second’s thought.
Ethan holds a hand up and points to one of the guards. The one on the left side of the room, shifts a little in their place. They roll their shoulders and look to the right, at their partner.
They’re getting a bit antsy. They’ll have to start moving any second now.
Ethan steadies himself, preparing to aim and let the dagger fly. They’ll have less than a couple of seconds between Ethan throwing his weapon, and them bursting inside. Hob takes a long deep breath, calming the rumbling mess deep inside the pit of his stomach.
Any. Second—
The guard takes a small step to the right, and barely has a chance to take another before Ethan throws his dagger, hitting them in the back of the neck.
They burst into the room, Ethan slicing the guard’s neck as he pulls out his knife, immediately heading to the second. Hob launches himself at Burgess, sword raised high above his head, reading to bring it down in one fell swoop.
Kill! Kill! Kill! Kill! His monster shouts at him.
Burgess brings up his cane, blocking Hob’s strike. The old man is able to land a solid kick to Hob’s bad knee. Hob grunts in pain, but pushes through it, the adrenaline rushing through his veins, and the monster screaming inside for Burgess’ blood. Hob shoulders himself against Burgess, roughly shoving him away from Morpheus. The old man stumbles onto the ground, his cane clattering out of his reach. Hob steps forward and kicks it away before Burgess can grab at it. He then brings his foot down hard on Burgess’ hand, feeling the crunch of breaking bones beneath his shoe.
More! More! More! More!
Burgess screams in pain, glaring up at Hob. He tugs at his hand, trying to get away, but Hob refuses to let him go. He’s nowhere near done with him. He lands a hard kick at Burgess’ chest, the monster inside delighting as his foot connects with brittle ribs.
“You. Have. No idea—” Burgess gasps before Hob kicks him again, this time in the stomach.
“Shut up. You’re the one who has no fucking idea what you’ve just done.” Hob looms over Burgess. The man’s face full of blood leaking from his mouth and nose. Hob scoffs at the impertinent look on his face. Seconds away from certain death and he still has the nerve to try and look intimidating. Hob supposes that’s just how it is with these old money type people. They just never know when to admit defeat. To be able to accept that a dirty rat has them beaten.
“The thing is, Roddy, you made a big fucking mistake allying with Connolly—”
“He’ll come after you—”
Hob backhands him, splitting Burgess’ lip. The monster sighs, feeling the blood at the back of his hand.
“I did ask you to shut up, didn’t I?” Hob says. He keeps calm, his eyes glaring down menacingly at the man nursing his injured lip. “You should have been watching the news, Burgess. Connolly’s got a target on his back. Has had one for a while now.” Hob places the tip of his sword over Burgess’ chest, right where his heart ought to be.
“The worst thing about this, Roddy, is that I get it. See, I lost someone very dear to me. Someone who was good and kind.” Hob places a foot over Burgess’ throat and presses down slightly, causing him to choke, spitting foam and blood from his mouth. “What’s funny about this, is that man who you’ve been beating the shit out of,” Hob points to Morpheus, finally taking a look at him. His eyes are entirely focused on Hob. While he had been lolling in exhaustion only moments ago, he is now completely alert and trained on every move Hob is making.
“He’s my salvation,” he says, more to Morpheus than to Burgess. For a moment, their eyes meet, and Hob is certain that Morpheus knows . He looks at him and he knows that he is The Knight . Has always been. And that whatever they have going on between them is enough to pull him out of any pain and anger he’d had since losing El.
Burgess gurgles, yanking Hob’s attention away from Morpheus. Incredible, the man is still attempting to get the final word in before Hob ends his miserable life. He lifts his foot from Burgess’ throat, but keeps the sword’s tip on his chest.
“Got something to say?” He says.
“You’ll never get out of Connolly’s grasp,” Burgess wheezes. “He—is already five steps ahead of you.”
Hob chuckles, leaning closer to Burgess’ bloody face, “Even if he’s ten steps ahead of me, I don’t care. I’ve been planning on it being me and him in the end,” Hob puts pressure on the sword, feeling the give of skin and muscle beneath the blade. Burgess gasps in pain, jerking away from the point of contact. “As for you, Burgess, there’s no room for greedy little shits like you.” Hob stands up and quickly shoves his sword deeper into Burgess’ chest, the squelching sound of muscle and tissue being sliced filling his ears, finally satisfying the monster inside.
Burgess, sputters, more blood foaming at the mouth, before he coughs out a final breath and dies. Hob yanks the sword out of his chest and cleans it using Burgess’ shirt.
“H-Hob…”
Hob whips his head around to see Morpheus, still staring at him. Ethan is standing right behind him, having cut off the ropes tying him to the chair. Whatever anger or thirst for blood that remained inside of him is gone in an instant. With one look into Morpheus’ beautiful blue eyes, Hob searches to find his way home again. He sheaths his sword back into its scabbard, and slowly approaches Morpheus. He reaches for his mask and pulls it off, revealing his face to him.
“Yeah. It’s me, love.”
Morpheus reaches for Hob’s face, rubbing a chilled thumb over his cheek, wiping away some of the blood that had splattered there. Hob closes his eyes, wanting more than anything to wrap his arms around Morpheus' thin, cold body and warm him up. But, he is all too aware that he’d just brutally murdered a man right in front of him. He should be expecting Morpheus to run away from him, horrified by his actions.
Instead, Morpheus draws himself closer to Hob, wrapping his arms around his neck. Hob follows suit, pulling Morpheus close to him, his arms snaking around his too-thin waist.
“I knew it,” Morpheus whispers into Hob’s ear, “I knew you were The Knight . I knew you would come for me.”
Hob chokes out a sob, moving one of his hands to cradle the back of Morpheus’ head. He kisses his temple, breathing in the scent of his hair, his skin. Taking in the fact that he’s alive and finally safe in his arms.
You have him. He is safe and warm. Nothing will hurt him again.
“I will always come for you,” he whispers back.
Notes:
So... Hob kills two guards with Ethan. They then split up and take on two more guards each before sneaking inside.
Hob's taken by surprise by none other then Frank di Giovanni. They fight, and Hob ends up shooting him.
They head into the basement, and pick open a locked door at the end of the room. They overhear Morpheus being slapped around by Burgess, which almost sends Hob into a frenzy.Ethan stealthy kills one of the guards before they burst inside. Hob goes after Burgess, while Ethan takes out the last guard. Burgess kicks his bad knee, but Hob is able to knock him down and crushes his hand under his boot. They have some back and forth and Burgess taunts Hob about Connolly before Hob stabs him with his sword.
Chapter 10: the curse of small desires, easily acquired
Notes:
Small violent scene at the end. It starts at The truck comes out of nowhere. and goes on to the end of the chapter. I'll give a small explanation of what happens in the end notes.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
“I don’t mean to interrupt this sweet and tender moment,” Ethan drawls from behind them. Hob, still holding Morpheus close to him, looks up. Ethan’s got his signature smirk on his face, and he’s trailing one of his bloody knives. Hob doesn’t need to ask how it went down with the second guard in the room. Ethan’s stance says enough. “But this place needs to be cleaned up , if you catch my drift, and you need to get your boyfriend far away from here.”
It doesn’t escape Hob’s notice the way Morpheus nuzzles closer to him at the mention of boyfriend . Nor does it escape his notice of something warm fluttering in his heart thinking about that.
All things to think about once he gets Morpheus away from here and back home. And after he ends Connolly once and for all.
“Yeah. I’ll be back once I take him home. Wouldn’t be fair to leave you to deal with this mess all by yourself.”
Ethan chuckles, “I don’t think it’ll be too much of a problem, but I won’t say no to an extra pair of hands. Don’t be too long,” he says, winking at them.
Hob rolls his eyes at Ethan, before gently lifting Morpheus’ face to get a good look at him. Other than a couple of bruises and a small split on his lip, it doesn’t look like he has too many injuries. His black t-shirt is very dirty and ripped at the hem, as well as his black jeans. The bastards didn’t leave him with any shoes or socks, nor with any coat. Morpheus presses a few fingers to Hob’s jaw, as if sensing his agitation.
“I am alright.”
Hob traces the split on Morpheus’ lips. Lips that should be kissed softly and with reverence were instead battered and torn.
“They hurt you,” he says, running his thumb over the edges of a nasty bruise under Morpheus’ eye.
Morpheus leans his head into Hob’s touch, and it all but breaks his heart, because after having been through what was clearly a traumatic experience, all he wants is to be held by Hob. After seeing what he is truly capable of; seeing the monster he’s kept hidden inside for so long, and seeing The Knight at work, Morpheus still trusts Hob to be gentle with him.
And he will be. Morpheus deserves nothing less than that.
“They did,” he whispers, eyes fluttering closed, “but it’s over now. And I wish to no longer be here.”
“Fine with me, love.” Hob forces himself away from Morpheus’ touch in order to find him something warm to wear. He steals some boots from one of the guards, as well as a coat thrown off the side of the room (whether it belonged to the guards or Burgess, it doesn’t matter).
Morpheus quirks an eyebrow at him, as if to object to wearing such basic clothing. Hob responds by being more insistent, pushing the clothes into his hands. Morpheus sighs, but puts them on. Ethan, the shit that he is, is laughing in the background.
“Not a fucking word out of you,” Hob warns. Ethan lifts his hands up in surrender, before moving further away from them.
Once Morpheus is dressed, Hob places a hand lightly on his back. “Think you’ll be able to walk?”
“I think so. They—they kept me fed and hydrated. But I—” Morpheus leans into Hob’s shoulder, the exhaustion clearly taking over. Hob shifts his weight, so that he can sling one of Morpheus’ arms around his shoulders.
“Easy does it, love. I’ve got you,” he says, keeping Morpheus steady. The added weight isn’t doing his bad knee any favours. Now that the rush of adrenaline is long gone, the pain inflicted by the kick Burgess gave him is affecting him.
“Your knee—” Morpheus starts as Hob grunts, limping out of the room. Ethan follows close behind, and Hob is so thankful for that. He proves himself to be useful once more, as he places himself on Morpheus’ other side, giving them more support as they make their way out of the basement.
“How will you get him back to your car? Burgess got you pretty good. How long’s your leg been fucked like that?”
“Too fucking long,” Hob grits out. He squares his shoulders and keeps moving, determination and stubbornness carrying him through (his lifelong companions, pushing him past every difficult tragedy in his life).
“Take one of the cars parked out back. No one’s going to miss a car if you take it for a few minutes. Drive your boyfriend home, and then bring it back. Once we’re done clean up duty here, I’ll help you back to your own car and you can go off to wherever you spend your time.” Ethan smirks at Hob, “I’ll even add a special bonus of not messaging you until I’m back out of the city.”
“You’re being way too accommodating,” Hob says, narrowing his eyes at him. While taking one of the cars out back does make the most sense, and would make his journey back far more bearable, there are still a few risks involved with that. If they’re stopped at all, it would cause a lot of problems for them. Problems that Morpheus no longer needs.
Hob looks over at Morpheus again. His eyes are completely closed, head lolling against Hob’s shoulder. Seems he wasn’t the only one who had an adrenaline crash. The faster he can get Morpheus back home, where his sisters can look after him, the better.
Stealing a dead henchman’s car it is then.
Ethan dangles a key chain in front of him. “You just helped me get rid of a massive thorn on my associate’s side by going all Rambo on Burgess and his shitty excuse for an army. I mean how many were there? Eight? Nine people tops?”
Ethan has a point. As slow as they had to go in their rescue, this was not the most difficult job Hob had to do by a long shot. Then again, having Ethan with him as extra help was a major factor in why they were able to get to Morpheus as easily as they had.
Hob holds out his hand, and Ethan drops the keys into them. “Snagged them off of the guy downstairs.” The logo on the car keys is that of a Toyota, and Hob hopes it won’t be difficult to find in the back.
He gives Morpheus a small shake, rousing him from his nap. He gasps as he bursts his eyes open and Hob has to calm him down by gently rubbing his arm.
“It’s okay, love. It’s just me. We’re going to take you home now, alright?”
“N-no. To Dee,” Morpheus stammers out. He tightens his hold on Hob’s hoodie, as Ethan slips away from him.
“Okay. I’ll take you to Dee.”
“She’s a doctor. And she’ll have Del with her. I don’t—” he stops short, hiding his head in the crook of Hob’s neck, breath shuddering. “I can’t be alone, Hob,” he mumbles.
Hob kisses the top of his head, wrapping his arms tight around his thin, frail body. As long as he’s alive, he’ll make damn sure Morpheus never has to feel so alone again. “You won’t be. I promise.”
Hob waves a goodbye to Ethan, and leads Morpheus out of the dusty, old warehouse. He exits from a different door than the one he came in from. It leads to the parking lot near the back of the building. Hob takes a look at the dumpster where the two bodies are still very well-hidden. Whatever Ethan’s planning on doing to clean the mess up, he hopes he doesn’t forget the two back here.
There are a few cars parked, and thankfully only one is a Toyota (a large black RAV-4). Hob helps Morpheus into the car and fastens his seat belt on. Morpheus presses his face against the window, breathing deeply, tracing his finger along the glass as Hob gets into the driver’s side of the vehicle.
“We can open the windows, if it’ll help,” he says, attaching his own seatbelt and starting the car. Morpheus clearly needs some way to keep himself grounded while they exit the area. Hob rolls down the windows once Morpheus gives him a small nod. He feels a hand making its way to link up to his. He takes and gives it a gentle squeeze.
“Let’s get you to Dee’s. What’s her address?”
“5678 Houston Avenue.”
“Fancy area,” Hob says, backing out of the lot and heading onto the road.
“It is close to the hospital she works at. She loves her work, and prefers to remain closeby in case of emergencies.”
Sounds exactly like the woman who had come to see Jo earlier that day. Christ, had this all really happened in one day? It seems like forever ago since Del had shown up at the Inn, shivering and crying.
Better for it. They all should have expected that Hob would not have allowed Morpheus to go another day in captivity. Not if he had anything to say about that.
“I met her.”
Morpheus lifts his knees up onto the seat, boney ends peeking from the ripped holes in his jeans.
“Dee?”
“Yeah. She had come to see Johanna about—” he stops short, thinking it’s best that he maybe not finish that sentence. He takes a look at Morpheus when they stop at a red light, watching as the moon casts a silvery glow over his dark hair. He’s got an arm hanging out of the window, and his head resting on it, letting the wind play with his hair.
“You can close your eyes, if you want to. Relax a little. We’re not too far from your sister’s place, and I can wake you up once we get there.”
Morpheus lifts his head, giving a small, yet sad smile to Hob. “I still can’t fully believe that I’m out.”
Hob squeezes his hand. While the monster inside is beyond satisfied with the death of Burgess, he wishes he could go back and kill him again. Kill him for every day he kept Morpheus locked in that dark, damp basement.
“Tell me about The Knight ,” Morpheus asks.
Hob’s a little hesitant on talking about his reasoning for taking up that mantle. Especially, considering the last time they’d spoken about The Knight , things didn’t go so well. Morpheus runs a thumb across Hob’s knuckles, tapping it lightly against his hand. At the next red light, he looks over to Morpheus again, and he looks genuinely curious about his secret lifestyle.
“Not much to tell,” he sighs, turning back to the road ahead. The streets are empty, save for a few cars here and there. Still far too early for morning commuters, it’s the dead, peaceful hours where time seems to stand perfectly still. “You told me you used to go to The White Horse , right?”
“I did. With Dee and Del. Sometimes our other siblings would join us if they felt so inclined.”
“How many siblings do you have?”
Morpheus sighs, “Seven. Potmos is the oldest, then it’s Dee. I’m next, followed by Oliver, and the twins, Dessi and Apollonia. Delia is the baby.”
“Big family. Must have been nice.”
“At times. When we weren’t ripping each other’s throats out.” Morpheus shifts in his seat, moving away from the window and closer to Hob. He wonders if he should close the windows, but figures if Morpheus hasn’t said anything yet, it’s probably because he still needs the fresh air. “We weren’t taught how to be siblings. Only how to be of use to each other.”
Even though you hate it . Hob thinks, taking his turn to rub a thumb over Morpheus’ knuckles.
“Tell me about The Knight ,” he reminds him.
“Right. I owned The White Horse with my wife, El.”
“I remember her. She was very kind to Delia. She liked her quite a lot.”
Hob laughs, “yeah. That was El. People loved her immediately. You don’t expect a light like that to go out so quickly.”
“The fire.”
Hob wipes a few tears from his eyes, not knowing when exactly he’d started crying, but it was inevitable whenever he started talking about Eleanor. “She died before the fire took the tavern. Some men had come to the place demanding we give ownership over to their boss—”
“Liam Connolly.”
Hob stares at him. At Morpheus' deathly serious face. Yeah, of course he would know who Connolly is. They all knew each other after all.
“Yeah. He—uh—he tried to kill us both. Only ended up killing El.” In his mind’s eyes, he can still see her broken and bloody body laying on the floor. Her blond hair turning red with the blood seeping into the wood. He can see his own hand reaching for her. His raspy voice begging her to hold on as police and ambulance sirens fill the room.
She was dead long before then.
“I’m sorry—I,” he says, voice breaking and throat closing. He has to pull over momentarily in order to get his breathing under control. Morpheus’ thin hand has reached over, rubbing circles on his back. And how fucking ridiculous is that ? Morpheus, just having been rescued from a fucking kidnapping is now comforting the man who had saved him.
You can do this, Hob. Remember to breathe.
He takes a deep breath and clears his throat, pulling back into the road. He hates talking about El and about her death. He’s avoided talking about it for so long, hoping that he could push the pain and grief as far down as possible. He had to, if he was going to get anything done with her gone.
“Was a wreck afterwards. Still am, depending on who you ask. But I wasn’t going to let her death go unpunished. So I left. Went to New York where I learned how to find and destroy people like Liam Connolly.”
“And now…”
“Now I go around in armour, picking off his operations one sleazy spot at a time. Managed to stop several arsons, some drug trafficking. Once I prevented some illegal arms dealing.”
Morpheus doesn’t say anything to that. He just keeps his hand nestled in Hob’s and stares at him. Hob peers at him through the corner of his eye, and notices those bright blue eyes considering him. Really trying to look at him and see him. Hopefully he’s willing to understand why The Knight does what he does. It was never about fame or notoriety. It was about seeking justice where none had been provided.
“That’s why you were at the gala that night. Is that why you—”
Hob breaks at a stop sign and turns fully towards Morpheus. “No. Look, I was at the gala to try and get some information on Connolly’s associates. But that is not why I spoke to you.” He softly lifts Morpheus’ chin so that he can see his beautiful eyes on him. “I spoke to you, because I liked you. Because spending time with you made me feel…” He takes a sharp breath through his nose. “ Whole again. For the first time since El, I felt what it was like to be a functional person.”
Morpheus smiles, nuzzling his head into the palm of Hob’s hand. Hob runs his thumb over his sharp cheekbone. “God. I was so fucking scared that I’d lose you,” he whispers, feeling the tingle of tears under his eyes. Morpheus leans closer to him, touching their foreheads together. “I was so scared. I was ready to rip the world apart to find you.”
Morpheus shifts his head and places a delicate kiss on the inside of Hob’s palm. “You did. You found me.”
The remainder of the drive to Dee’s is in silence. Morpheus keeps an iron grip on Hob’s hand, while staring out the window. He never does end up closing them, and Hob has a feeling he won’t be able to stay in enclosed spaces for a while. Even though he knows that Morpheus will be fine with Dee, Hob is still feeling anxious at the thought of leaving him again. The idea of Morpheus not being safe and warm in his arms is enough for Hob to tighten his hold on the steering wheel so much, it feels like he can pull it completely off.
Hob parks the car by the curb right in front of Dee’s house. It’s a very cute place. Typical cottage with brick siding and a pointed roof. Smoke rising from the chimney tells Hob that a warm fire is being well maintained. That’s good. He always did like cosy fireplaces and the smell of wood smoke from chimneys.
He jumps out of the car, and runs to the passenger side, ready to help Morpheus out. Morpheus, being frustratingly stubborn, tries to get out of the car by himself and nearly face plants onto the ground. Luckily Hob is able to dive and catch him, tugging him close into his arms.
“Please, let me help you,” he says, rubbing his back. Morpheus nods, leaning close to Hob’s body. He can’t help but wonder what happened for the few days that Morpheus spent with Burgess and his crew. He says they kept him fed and hydrated, but he doesn’t look well at all. Whatever it is, he’s sure that his sister will be able to get him the help he needs.
“Hob,” Morpheus says, as they reach the front door.
“Yeah?”
“I don’t want you to go.” Morpheus clutches onto Hob’s sweater. He’d been doing that a lot all night. Wanting to keep Hob as close to him as possible. Hob can’t say he blames him. If it were up to him, Morpheus would stay in his arms for the remainder of eternity. He places a tiny kiss at the top of Morpheus’ head, nuzzling his hair.
“Oh, love. I won’t be gone long. I promise,” he holds Morpheus in his arms, gently rocking him back and forth. “I will come back tomorrow, and I’ll never let you go again.”
“I don’t—” Morpheus chokes on his words, and that only makes Hob hold him tighter.
“You’re alright, my darling. My beloved.”
“I don’t know if I can sleep without you,” he sobs.
Hob loosens his hold on Morpheus, in order to take him in once more; to absorb the pain and misery in those blue, tearful eyes. He leans over and places a kiss on each of his eyelids, wiping away the tears with his thumbs as he goes.
“My wonderful love. I swear I will come back to you. And when I do, we can lay together under the sheets, and I will tell you over and over again just how safe and loved you are. I will hold you until your eyes drift closed, and if you allow me, I will kiss the dips and edges of your shoulders as you sleep. I will make sure you know I will always be here.”
Morpheus honks out a laugh and a sob combined, and as ridiculous a sound it is, Hob loves it more than anything.
“Hob?” he asks, face pressed against Hob’s cheek.
“Yes?” he says, warmth spreading from deep inside his chest.
“Can I kiss you?” he mutters, lips lightly touching the stubble on his face.
Hob smiles, turning his face to meet Morpheus. He slowly brushes some of his hair away from his eyes. His heart beats quickly in his chest as he memorises every single detail, from a small freckle near the corner of his eye, to the sharp, pointed edge of his regal nose.
He loves him.
He truly, truly loves him.
“Yes,” he says, allowing Morpheus to bring their faces together and plant a soft, sweet kiss on his lips. Hob drags his knuckles slowly down the side of Morpheus’ face, cupping him at his jaw.
The kiss is over far too quickly, but Morpheus is exhausted, and needs to be taken care of properly. And Hob has a job to finish. He keeps running the back of his hand slowly up and down Morpheus’ face.
“I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“You promise?” Morpheus asks, not wanting to detach himself from Hob’s hold.
“With every breath I have in me.”
“I’ll be waiting for you,” Morpheus says, playful quirk of his lips.
Hob huffs a quiet laugh, before reaching behind him to ring Dee’s doorbell. He probably should have called her, but this way, he gets to spend a few more moments, holding the man he loves.
“Christ, one kiss and you’re already head over heels,” Hob says.
Really, he’s the one who’s head over heels. He has been since Morpheus snuck into his life. And now, no matter what happens, he knows he gets to have this. He gets to have someone to love again. Someone he can allow to love him back.
Someone who will breathe life back into him.
Bustling and movement coming from the inside causes Hob to finally let go of Morpheus. It proves to be one of the more difficult things he’s had to do tonight, especially once Morpheus starts whining at the loss of contact.
But he does have to go, and it would be best if he gets out of there before Dee can ask too many questions. Hob would rather not have a conversation with her about how many people he ended up killing just to get to her brother.
“You won’t even have time to miss me, okay?”
“Be careful,” Morpheus says, holding onto his hand.
Hob brings up to his lips and kisses the back of it. “The hard part is over. It’s just some small odds and ends to tidy up.”
With that, he lets go of Morpheus’ hand and jogs back down the stairs, making sure to turn back and keep his eyes on him. The lights in the house all open in rapid succession as Hob climbs into the car.
He waits until Dee opens the door and screams in joy, wrapping her arms around Morpheus’ thin frame before he starts his car. Dee looks up at the noise and catches his eye. He smiles at her and gives her a small wave before taking off into the night.
He’ll be back first thing tomorrow. Once he’s done helping Ethan back at the warehouse, he’ll head home for a desperately needed shower, and possibly to beg Johanna for forgiveness for running into danger headfirst.
But it was worth it. From the moment Ethan called him up to him finally getting to wrap his arms around Morpheus again, it was all worth it. And no matter how angry Johanna will be with him (and he already knows she’ll be livid with him) he’d do it again in a heartbeat.
He thinks about Morpheus on the drive back to that cursed place, and how blind he was to anything other than getting him back. How he’d felt so adrift from everything and everyone upon finding out he'd been taken. How it was the exact same feeling he felt when Eleanor was killed.
Alone.
Lost.
And with a hunger so deep and gnawing, it would only be satiated with blood.
The hunger for Connolly’s blood had died down within the last six years, but it was still there. It just learned to be patient. With Morpheus, everything was still so new. He was giving Hob hope for a better future. One where he didn’t need to be so hungry for blood all the time.
And then he was taken, and the monster awoke once more.
Now, while temporarily satisfied, it rumbles deep inside his belly once more. Seeing Di Giovanni at the warehouse, and knowing he was involved confirmed that this was another one of Connolly’s hits.
Hob tightens his grip on the steering wheel, eyes hard and focused on the road ahead of him. It won’t end. None of this will end until he finishes what he came back to do. As long as Connolly is alive, he’ll continue to hurt innocent people. People who want nothing to do with the mob life. People who were caught up at the wrong place at the wrong time, or who were connected to the wrong people.
People like Eleanor and Morpheus.
No more .
As soon as Hob finishes cleaning up with Ethan, he’ll see about maybe getting his help in snuffing Connolly out once and for all.
And once that’s done, he’ll finally be able to put El’s ghost to rest. He’ll finally be able to sleep without thoughts of her vacant eyes staring at him.
He’ll be able to love Morpheus completely, and without guilt.
He’ll be able to live —
The truck comes out of nowhere.
Hob is cruising past a green light, when bright lights suddenly flash to his right. He doesn’t even have time to dodge out of the way when the truck t-bones the RAV-4. The speed of which the truck came at him, sends the SUV spinning out of control. Hob’s head smashes against the window, leaving him disoriented and seeing black spots in his vision. As he forces himself to sit up again (struggling against screaming ribs and a shoulder that is definitely dislocated), another truck speeds towards him from his left. Instead of hitting him directly, it crashes against the backseat section of the SUV. It still manages to knock Hob around so much that his bad knee collides with something broken in the car and tears through the skin causing Hob to scream in pain.
He–he can’t move. His leg is jammed, his ribs are fucked, he can barely see without wanting to keel over. He can’t fucking move . Pain shoots up his back, his head spins, black creeping around the edges.
No. No. He can’t.
He’s slumped over the steering wheel of the car, he thinks. There’s someone stalking towards the car. Hob grunts trying to squirm away. To free himself, but his head is so fuzzy and full .
And there are white dots in his vision.
And black creeping.
And the man. That’s a man outside. He walks closer.
And how weird was it that two cars hit him one after the other? Does that normally happen during accidents?
He has to move. He tries to lift his head, but there is a sharp pain in his back.
Move Hob. You need to get out of here.
This was no accident.
The darkness spreads across his vision. It hurts . He wants to go home. He wants—
So tired.
His door is pulled open by a medium sized man, wearing dark blue jeans and a thick winter jacket. A man with thick auburn hair, a matching beard, and ice cold blue eyes. Hob grunts in pain, fighting against the pull of darkness.
“Now, now. Is that a way to treat someone savin’ ya from this nasty car accident?” says Liam Connolly, slimy smile spreading across his face.
Two men approach from either side of Connolly. He signals at them, and they reach inside the car, yanking Hob out of his seat and throwing him onto the road. One of them steps closer, leering down at him.
Ethan .
He smiles down at him, relishing in the look of betrayal written on Hob’s face. It can’t be Ethan. How could—
“I can’t believe you forgot the most important lesson I taught you, Robbie.” Ethan bends down and grabs Hob by the hair, yanking his head up. He grunts in pain, his shoulder on fire. “Don’t trust anyone. Especially when things are too easy.” Ethan tosses him back on the ground and walks away, a look of disgust painted on his face.
Hob, fight!
He tries. He’s fucking trying, but he can’t move.
“You know, I can kill you right here and now. For all the trouble you’ve caused me, it’d be well worth it.” Connolly says, walking back and forth.
Hob grits his teeth and with a shout, pushes himself off the ground, and towards Connolly’s legs, the beast inside fully ready to kill.
Connolly steps to the side and lands a punch to Hob’s gut, knocking the wind out of him, and sending him crashing once more to the ground. He wheezes past the pain and the darkness and he thinks—
“Thing is, I really want to spend more time with you. Make you really feel what it’s been like for me this past year. So I’m just gonna have some fun.”
He thinks—
With the dark taking him over, and Ethan grabbing him with another henchman to stuff him into a waiting jeep.
He thinks—
I didn’t want to break my promise, Morpheus. I’m so sorry.
And he knows nothing more.
Notes:
I'm sorry?
How many of you predicted that? xD
For those who wanted to skip the last chapter. Hob gets T-boned by a massive truck. He is dragged out of the car by Connolly's men, one of them being Ethan. They rough him up a bit before stuffing him into one of their cars where he passes out.
Chapter 11: no one’s coming to save you
Notes:
This is the roughest chapter, and where all the scary warnings come into play. You can skip this chapter, if you want. I'll provide some important points at the end for you all.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
It’s cold when he comes back to himself. That’s the first thing his body takes note of. The biting cold on his torso, hands, and feet. It really only lasts a split second because the pain comes at him in waves. The most pressing is the throbbing, pulsating pain in his shoulder, made worse by his arms being stretched above his head.
Christ , his head. It’s spinning, even with his eyes remaining closed. The entire room is spinning around him, and he doesn’t even know where he is. Hob tries opening his eyes, but that only makes the dizziness worse. He moans, only just now finding the gag stuffed in his mouth.
Perfect. He thinks, opening his eyes once more, breathing through the nausea and disorientation. Experience tells him that he needs to stay awake and stay focused on what’s happening around him, in order to find something that can help him escape. He takes a deep breath through his nose, coughing at the sharp pain in his ribs.
The room is empty, save for a few chairs, and a table. There are some pipes and beams running through the room. His wrists have been tightly attached to one of them. Hob tugs at them in order to test the strength of the bindings. Nothing budges. He suspects they must have used zip-ties, if the way they cut into his skin has anything to say about that.
His feet aren’t tied together though. As he tries to move his legs, his bad knee burns in pain. He grunts in pain and tries to put the barest of weight on it, but even slight pressure on his injury sends white spots dancing in his vision and he stumbles once more. The only thing keeping him upright is the beam his wrists are attached to.
Right, that’s why they didn’t bother tying his legs. He wouldn’t get very far on that knee if he could even use it.
No, he’ll have to be smart about this if he wants to get out. Wait for Connolly to make a mistake. For him to underestimate how capable Hob is. His henchmen and associates certainly have spent the last year underestimating him. In fact, it was his own stupid mistake that led him here in the first place.
He had underestimated Ethan.
He knew . He fucking knew that Ethan was up to something. It was all too convenient, him showing up back in town right when Hob needed someone to help him. It was such a fucking coincidence that he happened to know where Morpheus was being held. He should have been smarter. He should have told Johanna what he was planning. He should not have gone alone.
Then again. Who’s to say Connolly would have let anyone else go? He couldn’t see him allowing Jo or Matthew to live if they were working with The Knight . He hangs his head in shame, thinking that something like that could have happened to Morpheus. What if Connolly decided that he wanted a bargaining chip to hold on to? What if they followed him to Dee’s house?
Hob tugs on the restraints, growling as they won’t budge. He tries swinging his body in an attempt to put more weight on the beam, but all that does is pull on his dislocated shoulder and his bruised ribs. He sighs, sinking back down. The fast movements have done nothing to alleviate the pain in his head, so he closes his eyes once more, concentrating on breathing through his nose.
The commotion he caused must have alerted someone, because once he stops struggling, the door to the room bursts open. Hob opens his eyes to see none other than Connolly himself striding confidently into the room.
The presence of his enemy ignites another fire deep inside Hob and he manages to pull himself up shouting muffled curses through the gag in his mouth. Connolly, the smug bastard, doesn't react. Instead, he pulls up a chair and sits down in front of him, placing a black bag next to him.
“I hope I’ve been able to make you comfortable Mr. Knight , or do you still go by Gallagher? I’ve also heard you’ve been using Gadling and Gaffney over the years. Not very clever, I don’t think. You could have changed the first letter of your aliases at the very least.”
Hob glares at him, his wrists pulling at the zip ties. How much did Connolly know about him? Did he know about Jo and Matthew? What else did he know about his relationship to Morpheus?
“Not a very good idea to keep doing that. You’ll tire yourself out, and with that concussion and your other injuries, it's not especially smart. Besides, I just want to have a talk right now.” Connolly reaches into his bag and pulls out a water bottle. He gets up and brings the bottle up to Hob’s face, showing him that it’s still sealed.
“Just in case you’re worried about me drugging you,” he says, pulling the gag out of his mouth. The sticky dryness causes him to cough, but Connolly soon pours some of the water into his mouth. Hob, drinks everything up greedily, coughing and sputtering through the cool liquid offering him some respite.
Once that’s done, Connolly sits down once more, crossing one leg over the other. Hob flexes his jaw, thankful that he can move it again, he stares at the man in front of him. The man who for the last six years, he has thought of destroying. Hob always knew that in the end it would come down to the two of them. He had hoped that he would be in a less vulnerable position to do something about it.
He has to rely on his patience now. Clearly Connolly wants something out of him, otherwise, he would have killed him on the street.
“Ethan tells me you go by Robbie, and according to him, he’s known you forever.”
All the good it’s done him. Ethan, someone who at one point had his back (as he had his), who taught him everything he knew about fighting with your fists and fighting with your brain. About bringing down empires with well planned attacks.
Ethan, who fought side-by-side with him, was now working with the man who killed his wife and broke him. The man responsible for the destruction of close knit communities and buildings that have been around for the last hundred years.
“Wouldn’t trust a word Ethan says,” Hob spits. Connolly only laughs at him.
“Someone’s bitter. You should have known better than to place all your faith in someone like him. I could spend hours telling you all about good ol’ Ethan Nico Rith and it wouldn’t cover half of the shit he’s done. But that’s not why I’m here.”
“I’m assuming it has something to do with my good looks and charming personality.”
“Funny guy,” Connolly says, getting up from his chair and coming once more to stand face to face with Hob. His blue eyes staring right into him. They aren’t anything like Morpheus’ eyes, Hob thinks. Morpheus’ eyes nearly twinkle with the wonder in which he perceives the world. Morpheus may give the prescription of one who is cold and unfeeling, but his eyes tell a different story.
Connolly though, his eyes are striking for an entirely different reason. This is a man who will not give a second thought to who he kills, so long as it gets him what he wants. Hob maintains eye contact with him, refusing to show even a hint of intimidation. In the end, Connolly is just a man.
“I do consider it to be one of my finer qualities,” Hob says, forcing the corner of his lips to quirk just a little, mocking Connolly. A hard punch to his gut indicates that Connolly isn’t as easily amused. Hob grunts, curling in on himself, the zip ties cutting deeper into his wrists as more weight is put on them. His head is jerked back, as Connolly grabs a fistful of his hair.
“I would think twice about that, Robbie. You see, I’m already very annoyed with you. Have been for the last year.” Connolly reaches into his long trench coat, and pulls out a gun. Hob attempts to wrestle himself free from Connolly’s grip, but he only holds him tighter. He jams the gun into Hob’s side. “It would solve all of my problems to kill you now. I could dump your body in the river. No one would find you.”
Connolly releases Hob from his grip and removes the gun, tucking it back into his coat. Hob releases the breath he was holding in and allows his body to sag once more.
“Then why keep me here? What do you want, Connolly?”
Connolly slowly walks to the table in the middle of the room. He picks something up from underneath. From his current position, Hob is unable to tell what it is, only that Connolly starts dragging it on the floor.
“At first, I thought it was just one person behind all those little sabotages. The modus operandi was the same after all. Sword slashes, beatings with crowbars, and making sure to leave a few survivors. Almost as if, those who did end up dying were only a result of defence.”
Connolly crosses in front of Hob, and he can see now that the tool he’s been holding is a crowbar. He shakes his head, sighing in resignation. He should have guessed it would come to this. Connolly’s not only ruthless, but somewhat sadistic as well. Whatever he’s got planned for him will be to break him.
“Then it occurred to me. How was The Knight surviving each encounter? Those workers you allowed to live, they told me about the fights and how you would show up with more and more protection. Not to mention how easily you kept finding each location of my operations. How the fuck were you doing it?”
Hob stays silent, keeping his eyes focused on Connolly as he vents. He can try and break him all he wants, there is no chance in hell he is ratting out Johanna or Matthew. They joined up with him because they believed Hob could take him down. He’d sooner die than betray them.
“The only possible solution is that you had help. You aren’t the only person trying to take down my little business.”
Hob scoffs. “Right. Business. Keep calling it that, if it makes it more legit in your mind.”
“I never said it was legit. Regardless of that, it’s still my business, and you still spent a year tearing it down. Who helped you do it?”
“Who says I had any help? Maybe I’m just that good.”
Connolly playfully swings the crowbar back and forth, taking great care to just barely graze Hob’s knee. It’s an obvious threat to the world of pain he’ll be in for if he doesn’t give him what he wants.
“Oh, you are good, Robbie. I’ll admit that. It took kidnapping your boyfriend and partnering with your old mentor in order to catch you—”
“So you did plan that. Morpheus Endless’ kidnapping?” he says, the monster inside seething at the thought.
Connolly shakes his head. “Didn’t have to. Old Roderick Burgess was always a loose cannon, and once Ethan confirmed that Endless was associated with you, I gave him the… support to launch his mission.”
The monster inside his belly screams out, pushing Hob to launch himself at Connolly, pulling and yanking at the ties holding him to the beam. Ignoring the pain in his leg, he reaches out and attempts to kick the crowbar from Connolly’s hand.
This whole time… This whole fucking time Morpheus was taken because of him. Because he was connected intimately with Hob. Because Hob had allowed himself to become too comfortable with someone.
It was El all over again.
Hob growls, shouting in frustration as Connolly moves out of the way, and his wrists chafe some more.
“Does that upset you? Good. You’ll be happy to know that unlike Burgess, I’m not stupid enough to get my hands dirty like that. Only a complete idiot makes an enemy out of the Endless family. And with Burgess dead, there’s no one to connect me to the crime.”
“You better fucking pray I don’t get out of this, because when I do—”
“You’ll what? Sneer me to death? I think it’s perfectly clear who holds the cards in this situation.” Connolly brings the crow bar back up to Hob’s face, tilting his chin up with the tip. “Now let’s try this again. Who were you working with?”
“Fuck off.”
“Not yet, sadly,” Connolly says, before taking a step back and winding up with the crowbar behind him. Hob has only a split second to conjure an image of Morpheus’ eyes once more before Connolly brings the bar back down, smashing his knee.
Black spots dot Hob’s vision as he screams, feeling the crunch of bone and tendons twisting. Sweat beads across his forehead as he sobs through the pain vibrating all along his leg.
Keep thinking of Morpheus’ eyes.
“We can keep going at this all day if we have to, Robbie.” Connolly says, and Hob can’t retain his concentration on him, because the only thing on his mind right now is his leg.
“Fuck. You,” he gasps in between sharp breaths through his teeth. Connolly clicks his tongue at him, raising the crowbar another time.
“Wrong answer.”
He brings it down.
“Robbie, Robbie, Robbie . I'm even surprised at just how stupid you’re being.”
Hob would come back with a biting retort, but Connolly made sure to gag him again before leaving. Probably got tired of hearing him scream. Wouldn’t have mattered anyway, because there’s nothing for Hob to say to Ethan. He could ask him why he betrayed him, or how he got involved with Connolly, but who’s to say Ethan would even be truthful with him?
No, Hob’s got nothing to say.
“You could end all of this by giving up your little friends. He’s gonna find them either way. He has ways of figuring this shit out.”
Hob lifts his head and glares at Ethan. He hopes that’s enough to convey just how little of a fuck he gives. Johanna isn’t stupid. She knows how to keep her tracks covered and when to run if need be. And Matthew is a genius with providing an extra layer of protection for them whether it be on their bodies, or at their locations. They’ll be fine.
“That leg of yours looks really bad, Rob. Don’t think you’ll be able to use it again after this. Though, I doubt Connolly’s gonna keep you alive if you keep pissing him off.”
He’ll get out of here. He has to. He closes his eyes and thinks about blue eyes and black hair, and the fact that Morpheus is still waiting for him. Hob promised that he would come back to him.
And it’s true. His leg will never be the same again. But that’s okay. He can live with using his cane for the remainder of his life. He can deal with physiotherapy and pain management.
He just has to remember Morpheus.
Just… remember Morpheus.
A sharp pain on his cheek forces his eyes open. Ethan waves at him before slapping him another time.
“Don’t go falling asleep on me just yet, old friend. We’re not finished talking.”
Hob grunts. He’s so goddamn tired, and all he wants to do is escape for just a moment. To think about the future and find the strength to hold onto the hope of making it out of here alive.
“You know, I feel bad for getting you mixed up in all of this, Robbie. I really do,” Ethan says, pressing his foot against Hob’s stomach and giving him a little push. He’s still sore from the accident and Connolly’s punch earlier that day, so it’s not pleasant. “I’m gonna come out in the open for you. Lay it all down. Bear my soul, if you will.”
Hob rolls his eyes. God, he’s so full of shit.
“Fitzgerald? I’m the one who killed the old man.” Ethan laughs at the look of shock on Hob’s face. Hob had a feeling that Ethan wasn’t being entirely truthful on how he ended up back in Montville, but he didn’t think Ethan had the guts to murder Fitzgerald himself.
“By the time you skipped town, the man had no one left, save for a few loyalists. It wasn’t difficult at all to catch him unaware and put a bullet in his head.” Ethan reaches into his beige blazer and takes out one of his stupid throwing knives. Hob finds himself trying to squirm away from him as Ethan gets up in his face, and presses the knife just below his right eye.
“Though to be honest, would have preferred to be more close and personal to the bastard, you know?” Ethan puts a little bit of pressure on the blade, nicking the skin. Hob breathes in short quick breaths, his heart palpitating against his chest. The fighting instinct in him tells him to knee Ethan in the balls before he gouges his eye out—
Ethan pulls away, removing the knife altogether.
“But I needed things to move quickly, you know? I had plans, Robbie, and you helped with that! See because you spent all that time breaking down Fitzgerald’s operations, it was so easy for someone to come in and swoop everything up. And guess who that person was?”
Hob shakes his head. It can’t be. That would mean—
“They call me The Corinthian back home in New York. I find it’s a fun twist on my name, don’t you think? Ethan Nico Rith was not threatening at all. I just had to rebrand myself. Find something a little more… Intimidating .”
This whole time. He had been helping to set up a new dynasty in New York. One that would be powerful enough to create an alliance with the next powerful dynasty in Montville.
This whole time… he was helping to build the very thing he was desperate to destroy.
Hob continues to shake his head, refusing to fully believe the words coming out of Ethan’s mouth. It can’t be. Ethan was someone who hated the mob. They were responsible for leaving him abandoned and alone on the streets. They were responsible for ruining his life. He had walked away from everything!
“Aw, don’t be like that, Robbie. You would be congratulating me if you weren’t, you know,” Ethan gestures to his lips. “But you’ve got a lot to think about, so I’m just gonna let you hang around while I sit here and take a small nap.”
Hob chokes back a sob, thinking back on every single day he had shared with Ethan back when they were in New York. They hadn’t lived together, Hob wanted his own place. But he spent so much time in Ethan’s apartment. He’d seen him going on dates, picking up attractive man after attractive man. He was planning for a future where he could attempt to finally be happy.
He told Hob that he was determined not to live that life anymore. That there were better things in life to look forward to, and being killed before reaching the age of fifty was not one of them.
And all of that was nothing but a big fucking lie. One that Hob had been so naive to play into because he was so fucking optimistic all the time. Because at the core of him, he believes that people are always better than they seem. People are always capable of change, of improvement if they choose so.
Stupid of him, really.
As the exhaustion of the day creeps in on him, his thoughts drift back to one person. The same person who has become an anchor to this world for him. He can hold on just a little more, through the physical and emotional pain if he just keeps thinking about Morpheus.
Everything may have been a lie, and he doesn’t know what else Connolly and Ethan have in store for him, but he will get through this. If anything for the one last thing that remains true.
That Morpheus is out there, and that he loves him, and that he’s waiting for him.
And Hob will come home to him.
Hob.
How long has he been here?
My darling.
The hours and days have all blended together into a mixture of pain, hunger, and exhaustion.
My beloved.
They’ve planned it perfectly. Connolly coming in to give him water and a few scraps of food before interrogating him. After the second day, Hob figured he was doing this in order to get him to spill his secrets out of desperation for more food and water. After the third day, he’d lost all sense of time. But, that was also the day Connolly decided to knock his head around, so everything after that is a bit fuzzy in general.
Once Connolly has had enough of Hob’s refusal to answer, he angrily stalks away. Ethan will take over after that, making sure Connolly didn’t beat him too much, and cleaning up the worst of the injuries. Ethan was there to make sure Hob didn’t sleep for too long, as well as taunt him, all part of their two fold attack to break him.
And Hob was scared. At the point where he no longer knows how long he’s been stuck here, he’s so fucking scared. Because he knows they’re getting close. The more time passes, the harder it becomes for him to hold on—
Darling. You’ve held on for so long.
That was the other thing. The… visions. Rationally (whatever rationality still remains) he knows they’ve started as a way for his mind to escape the pain and the hunger. His mind is sleep deprived and his body is pushing through its final limits.
Still. He can’t help but smile at seeing her— His Eleanor— once again. God, but she is beautiful. As beautiful as the last time he saw her. Before—
I’m here, my love.
She reaches a hand out to him, and he wants to feel her soft, warm fingers on his face once more. He wants so desperately for her to push the greasy, sweaty locks of hair away from his face. To wipe the dried blood from his mouth. To wrap her arms around him and tell him that everything will be alright.
“Not. Real,” he rasps. Ethan is asleep on a couple of chairs, so Hob is lucky enough to have some time with El without being disturbed.
El smiles, her hazel eyes twinkling, bringing light into the cold, dark room. Her golden hair falls in cascading waves down what looks like the mediaeval-inspired dress she wore to their wedding. She places her hand on his face and he swears he can feel her. He leans into her touch, knowing all he’ll feel is cold air, but still hoping it’ll be different this time.
You have fought for so long my love.
Her fingers card through his hair, forcing a sob from his lips, because it’s not real. None of this is real.
“Please,” he begs. Wanting her to go, but also needing her to stay.
You can stop fighting.
“No. Can’t,” he sobs, shaking his head. He doesn’t even have the strength to tug at his restraints anymore. All he can do is sag pathetically, his wrists long turned into bloody messes. He can’t even balance himself using his feet anymore. Not since he tried to take Ethan down on the second day and they decided to duct tape his ankles and thighs together to prevent any future escape attempts. His legs just hang there uselessly, one in a never ending state of throbbing, stabbing pain.
You can. You must.
“No,” he moans, pulling himself away from El’s comforting touch. He hates this. He hates this because he knows he wants to follow her. He knows that there is a part of him that died with her that day, a part that wants more than anything to give up and finally rest.
“Promised,” he gasps, the agony in his stomach scratching at his walls. The deep pull of hunger that he’d never had the misfortune of feeling up until now. It’s too much. All of it and he can’t. He can’t —
Let go, Hob.
He continues to sob and refuse her. He won’t let go. Not until Connolly puts that promised bullet in his head, or that knife through his heart. He won’t go back on his promise. He has something still to live for. Something that he has to hold onto above everything else.
“I’m sorry El,” he murmurs, the strength he’d been keeping to stay awake quickly leaving him. The lines around El are blurring away. She won’t stay for very much longer.
Hob. You can let go.
“Forgive me,” he whispers, as El’s face fades away. He keeps his focus on her bright hazel eyes, as they are always the last to go. They shimmer, almost as though she is ready to cry as well. As if it breaks her own heart to have to leave him once more.
Always my darling.
Eleanor finally slips away completely, fading into the darkness. Hob hangs his head low and allows himself this moment of quiet to cry, shivering and sobbing and feeling the cracks in his heart that have grown deeper.
Hob stopped fighting the tears several days ago. Both Connolly and Ethan had tried jeering at him— Connolly throwing ice cold water in his face as a way to “clean himself up” and Ethan using one of his knives to wipe them away. All that did was strengthen the resolve he had to not tell them a single fucking word. And that in turn caused Connolly to become angrier with him.
He’s just so fucking tired. And he knows that Johanna and Matthew are looking for him. He knows they wouldn’t just abandon him to die like this. It’s just been so long that he’s been here already, and he doesn’t know how much more of this he can take. He’s never been one to throw in the towel, not when things looked to be extremely bleak. Hob always held on for one more minute; one more hour; one more day. If he could survive taking that next step, he would be alright. It’s what got him through his parents dying, and living the rough life with Ethan. Ultimately it’s what got him through El’s death. The need to see another day, and the drive to avenge her.
So much for the avenging part.
Has Morpheus forgotten him? Will he forgive him if he hasn’t? He had every intention of coming back to him, he still does. So long as he’s breathing and has blood in his veins, he will fight to stay alive for him.
But will Morpheus forgive him? After he’d told him that he won’t be able to sleep alone. After he wanted to be held and to stay wrapped in his arms. Will he forgive him? After Hob let him go, promising to hold him, only to go back on his word.
He doesn’t think so. But he’s not about to let death decide their relationship is over. Not when it’s barely just begun. No, he’s not ready to give up yet.
Letting go of El, and holding on to Morpheus, Hob welcomes the sweet release of sleep to hopefully get him through the next few hours.
Hurry up, Jo. I’m holding on as hard as I can, he thinks as he closes his eyes.
“Rise and shine, Robbie!”
Hob startles awake as loud noise pierces through his ears. He groans, throwing his head back as the ringing in his ears won’t stop. Ethan, that fucker, is standing inches away from his head laughing like this is all some big stupid joke to him.
No bigger joke than that name you chose for yourself , Hob thinks, because really? The Corinthian? Sounds like a biblically-inspired serial killer more than anything.
“Boss called me not too long ago—”
“Thought you were partners,” Hob rasps, still holding onto to being as big a pain in the ass for Ethan as he can.
Ethan glares, “don’t get smart. You know what I meant.”
“Right,” Hob mumbles, letting his eyes droop closed again. They burst open again as Ethan smacks his face a few times.
“Told you to stay awake. Connolly wants you good and ready for when he comes to see you today.”
Hob rolls his eyes. Normally, it’s Connolly himself who wakes Hob up. Ethan does enough to make sure Hob doesn’t sleep for more than a couple of hours a night. Just enough to make sure he doesn’t die of sleep deprivation, but still pushing him closer to breaking. That’s been their whole play these last few days (weeks? How long has it been?). Feeding him just enough to keep him alive, giving him just enough water to make sure he doesn’t dehydrate completely, and allowing him minimal rest.
Even the injuries they’ve given him have been so cautious. Yes, Connolly broke his knee, but he wrapped it up before he left. Within the time he’s been there, Connolly’s beaten him black and blue, making sure to hit areas that weren’t susceptible to internal bleeding. The man must have had some experience with human anatomy. His face is swollen, and he’s lost a few teeth, but as far as he knows, he hasn’t suffered from too severe of brain injuries.
All just to keep him alive. So that he can give them the information they’re so desperate for.
“Lovely,” Hob mutters, rolling his eyes.
“Yeah. He’s decided that it doesn’t matter who your partners are,” Ethan says, pulling one of the chairs and sitting backwards on it. He leans casually towards Hob, always with that smug look on his face.
“Oh no?”
“Nah. Because the people in the city? Many of them have very little drive to do anything. Knock them down enough and they give up. With you gone and out of the picture, Connolly thinks there won’t be anyone else to come after him.” Ethan takes out one of his favourite knives and Hob steels himself for what’s about to happen. He fucking loves playing with those knives, especially when he can use Hob as a canvas. Sure enough, Ethan lifts himself up from the chair and approaches Hob.
“He thinks that because he killed that little wife of yours, that you were the one who pulled everyone together. I mean it makes the most sense, doesn’t it?” Ethan slowly drags the knife over Hob’s chest. He stops right above where his heart is, pressing the tip just hard enough to draw the tiniest bit of blood. It’s the game of it, for Ethan. To push the boundaries enough that fear creeps up into the eyes of the people he torments.
Hob glares at him, challenging him to fucking do it, knowing full well that he won’t. That in the end, Connolly is the more powerful of the two, and if Ethan disobeys him, he’ll end up in the exact same position Hob currently finds himself in.
“Take out the leader, and the rest will fall. Isn’t that what you’ve been doing? I mean it’s what you expected when you took down Fitzgerald.” Ethan moves the blade right underneath Hob’s chin, to the soft part of his jaw. And Hob isn’t afraid, he’s not. But he wants to get away from Ethan. He’s had enough of being used as a plaything to entertain a madman with a sharp knife.
“You should stay still. I might accidentally—”
Hob grunts as Ethan slides the blade across the bottom of his jaw. Putting just enough pressure for it to hurt and bleed a little, but not enough to seriously injure him.
“Oh come on, Robbie. That’s a little dramatic. I barely touched you.”
“F-fuck off,” Hob gasps, sucking in sharp breath after sharp breath through his teeth.
“Soon. Connolly will be here in a few hours. And he’s pretty much done with you. You’ve been fun and all, but he’s a busy man. He’s got an empire to build and with you out of the way, he can finally build it.”
Hob lifts his head one more time, his sluggish, cloudy mind slowly putting the pieces together. Connolly no longer needs him. He’s decided keeping Hob around is no longer worth the frustration. He’s decided not to seek out Johanna and Matthew, believing that they won’t continue Hob’s work.
Which means—
"In other words, Robbie, make your peace, because Connolly’s going to kill you today.”
Notes:
Okay... how are we feeling? Do we need some water? A soft blanket? A warm cup if tea? Take a few minutes, to take a breath. This was a tough one.
Breakdown of the chapter for those who chose to skip:
- Hob wakes up tied up. Connolly tells him that he's chosen to keep him alive in the hopes that he can get Hob to reveal who his accomplices are. He beats him up a little, but Hob stays snarky and defiant. Connolly confirms that he plotted to encourage Burgess to kidnap Morpheus in the hopes that it would draw him out. Connolly then picks up a crowbar and asks him again to tell him who he's been working with. When Hob refuses, he brings the crowbar down on his knee. Some more roughing up happens before Connolly beats him once more with the crowbar.
- A few hours later, Hob wakes up to see Ethan taunting him. He reveals that after Hob escaped New York, Ethan finished off Fitzgerald and has been building his own syndicate out of the ashes left behind. He now goes by The Corinthian.
- Several days go by and Hob is starting to hallucinate due to the pain and the hunger. They don
Chapter 12: called the curse in the cradle
Notes:
POV switch here for the next couple of chapters. We're gonna check out how Morphy's doing for a little bit.
Chapter Text
You would think that he was dying with the way Dee and Del have both been acting since he’d come home. Granted, he had been kidnapped, and tied up in a cold basement. Not to mention the several times Burgess had lost his temper and left him with a bruise or two on his face.
But it hadn’t been all that bad . Except for the part where he’d been finding it impossible to sleep in the room Dee had prepared for him, choosing to sleep in Del’s room.
After Hob had left (much to Morpheus’ objection), Dee wrapped him into her arms and pulled him into the house. She’d immediately began looking him over for any obvious signs of injuries. She’d wanted to cart him off to the hospital she worked at, in order to have all the tests done on him, but he’d outright refused. He wasn’t beaten or abused. They’d made sure he’d been fed and hydrated. There was no need to get Dee’s coworkers involved.
That hadn’t exactly been reassuring for her. She did a quick physical exam on him, finding the abrasions on his wrists and ankles from the ropes that kept him bound. Other than those, and the bruises on his face, there was nothing else. Dee had ended up giving him a bottle of water, and another bottle of Gatorade in order to replenish any lost electrolytes.
All he really wanted was a shower and to crawl into bed. Thankfully, his sister obliged him, letting him use her master bathroom in order to clean himself up. Dee had left a pair of soft, cosy pyjamas for him, which he was so thankful for.
He hadn’t been able to sleep. The dark of the room was too much for him, and he kept seeing the sneering guards in the shadows on the walls. The way they would taunt and leer at him, describing all the things they would do to him now that no one would come save him. So Morpheus had snuck out of the room, and had gone to look for Delia. He just needed to see her, and make sure she was alright.
Luckily, she was in the room right next to him. He was able to quietly open her door and peer inside. Dee had placed dozens of glow in the dark stickers on her walls. Rainbows and butterflies and fish all mingled together in Delia’s little world. A world that contained several sections for her to create, to imagine, and to decompress when it was all too much. On a pile of pillows, next to bright pink night lights, was where he found Delia, fast asleep and wearing his old tee-shirt of The Cure .
Morpheus had intended to leave, having been assured that Delia was fine. But her sanctuary looked so comfortable and bright. He needed bright so desperately. So, he crawled near to where she was sleeping and settled into the soft pillows and throw blankets.
It was there where he was finally able to get some sleep, and to be grateful that he was able to see his sisters once again.
He’s no stranger to people disappearing because they’d pissed off some boss or another. It is merely the reality of being born into a family such as his. No matter how much he longs to break away from their influence, the point still stands. He was born an Endless , and while his father chooses his involvement carefully, there are still those who would seek to use their power and name in order to build themselves up.
It should come to no surprise that it was Burgess. No one else would have been stupid enough to kidnap him in order to anger his father. As his father’s second son, Morpheus was just a spare. Someone his father could drag into meetings while Potmos was busy in school, or running businesses under the Endless name. His father never saw him as anything more. That was his role, his function . Just like Dee’s was originally supposed to be as the family lawyer, until she decided to pursue medicine instead. Father had been furious with her, until their mother had calmed him down and reminded him that having a doctor in the family could prove to be useful to them.
Because that’s all they were to their parents in the end; useful pawns for them to use. It’s why Oliver had left the family when he could no longer take being the muscle and hurting people. It’s also why Delilah reverts into childhood during moments of great duress. The last time he saw his mother, she had been going on about how beautiful “her little flower” must be by now, and how she could gain them a wonderful alliance. Morpheus had to remind her that not only was Delilah barely into her twenties, but she had been trying to heal from their influence for the last few years. She was doing so much better now that he and Dee had guardianship over her (their parents gladly signing her over to Dee), but it only proved just how detached their mother had been towards Del.
Dee and Del, now hovering over him as if at any moment, he could disintegrate into thin air. He’s reminding himself to be patient with the two of them. Also, the feelings of warmth and love were some that he desperately needed right now. They helped to keep the anxiety away. He tells himself that what he had gone through was nothing compared to others. Yes, it was traumatic, and yes he has trouble sleeping because of it, but he’s still alive. He came home.
Besides there are other things he needs to worry about, other than his road to recovery.
Namely, that the sweet, beautiful man he’s come to care deeply for is the vigilante known as The Knight of Good Fortune . Not only that, but he’s been the one responsible for the rise in panic from his father’s associates. If anything, that was something Morpheus was thankful for. Anything that will cause those old crusty mummies to shake in fear is a good thing in his book.
But it also explains the scars he’d noticed on Hob’s hands, his arms, and his face. Morpheus never really asked about them before, but they were always on the back of his mind. Along with the limp in his right leg. Hob had explained that it was a silly injury that hurt him from time to time. The thing was, Morpheus didn’t really believe him. Not with the scars and other injuries he kept on noticing the more they spent time together.
Morpheus was just very in tune to everything Hob was doing. He was always like this whenever he had a small crush on someone. He’d always been attentive to every little detail, whether they be on a person or a room, or a story. It was just much more strong when it came to someone he was interested in.
And his crush on Hob had started long before he started going to The New Inn .
He had been lost in thought more than once staring at the handsome bartender at The White Horse . Back when he was questioning his sexuality, and thinking he wasn’t exactly as straight as he thought he was. He’d been dating the beautiful Calliope Theodoridou, having been set up by both of their parents as some sort of alliance. And he loved Callie, he did. But he had been coming to the realisation that he also liked men. The more time he spent at The White Horse , staring at Hob, the more he could not deny that part of himself.
Dee had tried to get him to say something to the man. Not to get his number or anything (as he was very clearly spoken for) but to get to know him and to maybe have a friend. Morpheus didn’t need any more friends. He had Lucienne, his best friend from University, her partner Gault, and Jessamy, a friend he’d made in a writing group he’d been forced to attend.
Besides, why would he torture himself with getting close to someone who made him confused like this? He was married, and happy, and Morpheus was practically engaged. No. He wouldn’t go looking for trouble if it could be avoided. He would find his own way of being happy with Callie, and the future they were building together.
Then Eleanor Gadling, the sweet woman Hob was married to, who would always offer Del hot chocolate whenever she was allowed to go with them to The White Horse , and who had been a late night presence as Dee was cramming through medical school. That same Eleanor, was brutally murdered. A few days later, the tavern burned down. Morpheus and Dee had gone to the funeral, though they had stayed far away from the family. He saw Hob though. Saw how defeated and broken he was, being wheeled around, his own injuries not completely healed.
Morpheus had wanted to say something to him. But what do you say to someone who has just lost their partner? So he stood back as Dee went to the grief-stricken man, and the woman taking care of him and offered her condolences on behalf of the two of them.
A week later, Morpheus found out that Hob had left town, and that was that.
Except it wasn’t. Even though the man who had initially given him a gay crisis had left town, it didn’t make him any less gay and he had to deal with that. Even if it meant having the most difficult conversation with Callie. She was pissed, wishing he had come to talk to her as his feelings were starting to change. She would come to understand once all the raw emotions were gone and they were able to take time away from the drama of breaking up an engagement.
Morpheus would spend the next few years dating different men, women, non-binary folks as well, trying to figure out what exactly his identity was while angering his father at the same time.
He was figuring out how to be happy. And he had Hob to thank for that.
So when The New Inn opened a few blocks away from the old tavern, he had to go and see if Hob had returned. If anything, to thank him. He hadn’t, but Morpheus loved the vibes of the new place, so he kept on coming.
It was more than a lovely surprise to see Hob once again. He was rougher, and more tired, and the brightness around his eyes had dulled since the last time Morpheus had seen him, but it was still him. He wasn’t going to try anything. Morpheus was seeing someone, and he had long ago gotten over his crush.
Still, it was good to see him.
Better still to build up some sort of relationship with him. Morpheus had been seeing someone when he first saw Hob again at The New Inn . Someone Morpheus wasn’t exactly keen on breaking it off with all because his first gay crush happened to be back in town. He believed himself to be better than that.
Morpheus could hardly believe his luck, when, nearly a month later, and after his relationship had ended naturally, he’d see Hob again at Alecto Theodoridou’s annual gala. While he was on friendly terms with Callie still, her fury of a mother was something else entirely. He was still expected to not only show up to her galas from now until Hades called her back into Tartarus, but he was expected to always give a sizable donation.
In the end, going to that gala had been more than worth it.
Morpheus stares out the window. The last week had gone by in a bit of a blur for him. He’d spent most of his first day back, sleeping in Del’s room. By some miracle, his baby sister had not woken him up with her excited squealing that he was back and alive. Instead, he woke up several hours later, wrapped in a very soft, and very warm blanket.
After a brief panic, where he’d forgotten where he was, he quickly left the room in order to ask Dee if Hob had shown up, dismayed when she shook her head. Dee assured him that it didn’t mean anything and that he was probably resting. If she knew Johanna, she would not allow Hob out of her sight after the stunt he pulled rescuing him.
But he promised he’d be here . He thought, while allowing Dee to take note of his vitals and make sure his appetite remained steady.
He said he would be back. He swore he would be back. He thought, as Del hugged him and stayed attached to his hip.
It’s now been nearly a week since Hob rescued him from Burgess, having promised to visit him. Several days where he’d seen nor heard nothing from him. Granted he spent most of that time sleeping and recuperating from the exhaustion and trauma of being held in a dark, damp basement. But neither Dee nor Del had heard anything from Hob.
Morpheus had considered going to The New Inn and asking outright why Hob was avoiding him. Maybe even march up to the apartment he shared with Johanna Constantine. The Constantine family were allies of their father, but Johanna was a bit of a black sheep. Morpheus remembered her from when they were younger. She was a friend of Dessi and was often seen hanging around them and Apollonia.
In the end, Dee (who was on texting terms with Johanna) had spent the week calling her, only to end up on voicemail. Del was happy to go to The New Inn and find Hob for him, but he couldn’t ask that of her. He would go, once enough time had passed for him to go from disappointed to furious.
“Morpheus?” Dee enters the room he'd been resting in. She’s got a tray with her with a bowl of light broth, as well as some lightly buttered toast. A couple of things to slowly build his appetite back up.
Dee sits down at the edge of the bed once Morpheus takes the tray from her. It’s a really sweet gesture, even though it isn’t all that necessary.
“How are you feeling?”
“Still tired, a little sore from sleeping on Del’s pillow fort last night.”
Dee frowns. “Do you want to talk about why you’re still sleeping in her room?”
“No. I do not,” he says, not meaning to sound as curt as he does. After all, Dee means well and she’s really only looking out for him. He cannot imagine what it must have been like for her during the four days or so that he was missing.
“It could help. Keep you from moping about all day in your room. It isn’t like you.”
Morpheus nibbles on some of the toast. His appetite has greatly improved since Dee started taking care of him. He’s pretty sure he can stomach something more than a few pieces of toast and some light broth.
He’s deflecting. Choosing to focus more on the food rather than Dee pushing him to talk about the things he really does not want to. He knows she’s right too, and that’s the worst part about this.
To talk about his time there. About the awful things Burgess and his guards said to him. To have to sit in the dark and damp room, not knowing if and when someone would come for him. Burgess doing everything in his power to strip him of that hope.
How, during the worst of the time there, he would think of bright brown eyes, and soft umber hair. How Hob was out there, his beautiful Knight , and maybe he’d find him. Maybe he’d bring him home.
“It is. All too much. Sometimes,” he says, tapping the spoon against the edge of the tray, making a taptap-tap-tap beat.
Dee places her soft hand over his knee. She does not stop him when he taps his utensils or fingers like this. Instead, she just finds a way to let him know that she’s there, and listening.
“The dark. It is too much. I end up back there. Del, she—” taptap-tap-tap, taptap-tap-tap . “She helps me. It is easier with someone there.”
It wasn’t as if he hadn’t tried to sleep by himself. He did, every night. He would wait until he could not keep his eyes open any longer before turning to bed. The problem was that as soon as he tried to close his eyes and settle into the quiet and the dark, that’s when the feelings would return. The feeling of cold ice in his bones and dampness in his lungs. That’s when the itchiness and burning of the coarse rope around his wrists would return, and the stiff, hard wood against his back.
And Burgess, always Burgess laughing, and screaming, and living on in his dreams.
What he wanted was Hob there, to hold him and remind him that he was safe and warm and wrapped in soft sheets and strong arms. He wants Hob here with him now, talking to him about history or ranting about Shakespeare. Anything to get his mind out of the dark. There is an ugly voice at the back of his mind (one that sounds a lot like his father) that tells him that Hob has abandoned him. That he was scared off by that kiss they had shared and the promises made to each other on Dee’s porch.
Still.
He promised.
And that promise came from a man holding onto vengeance for six long years. A man who knew the weight of words and how they power one’s actions. Hob tore through hell to pull Morpheus out of the dark, and he promised he would guide him through the shadows that lingered.
What else could Morpheus do but believe him?
Only now, it’s been a week, and still no Hob.
“Del offered to let you sleep in her room, you know,” Dee says, gently moving some hair away from his eyes. Morpheus shakes his head. The very last thing he wanted was for his baby sister to be looking after him. He was supposed to be taking care of her, not the other way around.
He’s about to say something, when Joan Jett’s Bad Reputation blares out of Dee’s phone. She has her phone programmed so that a different song plays out for the important people who call her. He’s heard a few of them several times, but this is the first time this song has been used. Judging by the way Dee all but leaps off of the bed and rushes out of the room, holding up a single finger, it’s a very important call.
Morpheus climbs out of the bed and quietly follows her out of the room. He knows he shouldn’t do this. Clearly whatever call this is, it’s meant for Dee. But she had been calling Johanna all week to ask her about Hob. There is a very high chance that this call is from Johanna.
Which means news about Hob and why he hasn’t come by yet.
As he passes Del’s room, he peeks inside to see her laying on her back, with her feet above her, toes wiggling. She’s got her tablet with her, most likely creating another art piece. She’d been hard at work, creating a whole bunch for him. Her way of trying to cheer him up after everything. He leaves her be and continues down the hall, following the sound of Dee’s voice, coming from her room.
He’s snuck up on Dee hundreds of times while they were kids. He and Dessi were little monsters about it, always listening in on conversations that Dee or Potmos would have. Back when he and Epi were still on good terms that is. In any case, he’s done this before, so he knows that Dee is most likely pacing back and forth in her room, back turned away from the door. Morpheus reaches for the knob and opens the door, just enough for him to listen clearly.
“Jo, love you need to breathe for me, yeah?”
He was right. It is Johanna after all. Which means she’s calling about Hob.
“I don’t know, Jo. I’ve been calling you for nearly a week asking you that. Yes. Yes I know—The day we came to see you. He dropped him off and left. I thought he went back home—”
Morpheus’ body stills. Not even the smallest muscle dares to move as he holds on to every single word coming out of Dee’s mouth. Johanna must be asking if Dee has heard anything on her end, and the last time she’d seen Hob.
Which could only mean—
“I don’t think it was your car. It was smaller, I think. And a different colour. Why—”
The car they’d been in was a black SUV, he thinks. His brain was still fuzzy from that night, and a lot of the details escaped him. He does remember Johanna’s silver car, often parked at The New Inn in the back.
“A ditch ?”
Throwing the door open, Morpheus rushes into the room, unable to wait any longer. He snatches the phone out of Dee’s hand.
“Where is he? What happened?” he barks, turning away as Dee tries to take her phone back.
“Morpheus—” comes Johanna’s voice on the other end. Her voice is rough, cracking, almost as if she’d spent the last week screaming.
“Johanna? What’s happened to Hob?”
“I don’t know, we think he got captured by Connolly. He’s a fucking idiot! Always having to be self-sacrificing and throwing himself into danger without fucking backup! I told him to wait. I keep telling him not to rush into missions.”
Johanna’s tirade continues, but all Morpheus hears is static. Dee grabs the phone back from him, but he just stands there, frozen still.
Missing . Hob was missing. Evidently since bringing him home nearly a week ago. How— how could he be missing for that long without anyone telling him otherwise? Why hadn’t Johanna called sooner? He could have helped. He knows people. He can ask—
“I don’t have Ollie’s number, Jo. You know this— Yes, and he cut us all off when he left— Don’t you think I want to help?”
He can’t hear anymore of this. If Johanna is asking about Oliver, it’s not because she requires his artistic skills. Oliver was the family’s muscle. The one their father would send out to intimidate (and break legs if need be). He’d hated it, and left as soon as he had enough money to ensure no one from the family would come after him again. Asking for Oliver’s’ contact information could only mean one thing; Johanna was planning a rescue mission and she needed someone like Morpheus’ younger brother to help.
Morpheus stalked out of Dee’s room, dead set on changing and—
And do what exactly? Force his way into whatever Johanna had planned. Putting himself directly in harm’s way, after he spent years keeping himself as far away from this life as possible. Morpheus wasn’t a fighter. He was kidnapped out of the blue practically in broad daylight. What was he expecting to do? Go and get himself killed? Get Hob killed?
He changed into a pair of soft jeans, as well as a warm sweater. It didn’t matter. Anything was better than staying here and doing nothing. If he could help Johanna in any way possible, he would.
Hob dove into danger, getting himself kidnapped in the end in order to save him. Now it was his turn to go after Hob.
He walks out into the hallway, and can hear Dee still on the phone with Johanna. She won’t be chasing after him, making sure he stays in the house. She’d be right to do so, and that was the worst thing. Morpheus knows this is a stupid idea. He isn’t completely recovered from his own ordeal, and now he’s rushing right back into a situation he isn’t the least bit prepared for.
But… it’s Hob. And Morpheus would never forgive himself if he didn’t try. The cold feeling in the pit of his stomach only grew as he thought about whatever Connolly could have been doing to him. A week . He’s had Hob for a damn week, while Morpheus sat here wondering why he’d failed to visit him.
He should have made Del go to The New Inn . He should have insisted that Dee bang on Johanna’s door.
He should have made his way over there. He should have asked more questions instead of moping about Burgess. If Hob dies, it’ll be because he didn’t think to look for him. If Hob dies, it’ll be because he went to save him. If Hob—
“Dreamy?”
Del’s standing near the bottom of the stairs, wide eyes staring right at him. Morpheus snaps out of whatever speeding train of thought he’d been caught in and smiles at his little sister.
“Hello, Delia,” he says, taking her small hand in his.
“You’re not here, are you?”
Morpheus laughs ruefully. Leave it to his sister to pick out his exact moods. Delia was always very good at that, knowing how someone was feeling, even when they were careful to keep their intentions hidden under various masks. When he’d come home after that rainy, cold evening at Hob’s doorstep, Delia had been the one to tell him that Hob “had a lot of dark clouds in his heart” but that he still cared about him. It was Delia who knew that Hob wasn’t being entirely truthful about his knee injury.
“No. I’m not,” he says, sitting down on the stairs, stretching his long legs out so that they rest over the last couple of steps. Delia sits down between them, her hair tickling his arms. He threads his fingers through her colourful locks, absentmindedly braiding little pieces here and there.
“You’re with Hobbity.”
Morpheus twists the small locks of hair, allowing them to momentarily distract him enough so that he doesn’t fall into another mind spiral. When Delia started splitting her time between living with him and Dee, one thing that always helped calm them all down was braiding each other’s hair. Morpheus finds it especially calming to feel the difference in textures between his fingers.
“Not yet, little sister,” he says, threading one lock over the other.
“I like Hobbity. He’s nice, even if he has clouds. His clouds match yours.”
“He’s missing, Delia.”
“Did an angry man take him too?” she asks, tugging at the hem of her shirt. Morpheus wraps his arms around her, tugging her close. His own abduction, as brief as it was, was not easy on her. Delia was never one to adapt the best when it came to change. When her guardianship went from their parents to him and Dee, she shaved all of her hair. When they’d toyed with the idea of having her go back to school, she locked herself in her room and refused to come out at all.
She hasn’t let him out of her sight for more than a few minutes since he’s been back, clinging to him as a baby bird to their mother.
He kisses the top of her head, “yes,” he says, his voice breaking into a sob.
“Then find him, Dreamy,” she says, reaching for one of his hands and giving it a squeeze.
He chokes back another small sob, before getting up off of the steps. He reaches down and gives Delia a great, big hug.
“I won’t be gone long, okay?” he whispers.
“You better not.”
Chuckling, he lets her go and reaches for his wool coat, hanging on the bannister. He rushes to the entrance hall, and slips on a pair of Dee’s combat boots (she’ll forgive him for taking them) (hopefully).
“Morpheus?” Dee calls him from upstairs. He and Del stare at each other. It won’t take long at all for Dee to realise he’s not in his room, and when that happens, she’ll come bounding down the stairs, prepared to make him stay at home.
“Go, Dreamy,” whispers Delia, shooing him away with her hands. She spins around and bounds up the stairs. “Dee! I need my art book!” she shouts.
This is his chance to escape. With Dee momentarily distracted, he snatches her key from the tiny hook by the door and runs outside. Dee’s jet black Volvo is sitting perfectly in the driveway, plugged in and fully charged up. He’s driven her car a thousand times, even though he prefers his own little Kia back at his complex.
The door bursts open as he starts the car up and Dee rushes down the stairs calling his name. He gives her an apologetic look as he backs out of the driveway. The last thing he hears as he takes off down the road is Delia cheering him on, shouting at him to find their Hobbity.
That’s exactly what he intends to do.
Chapter 13: you learned to see beyond the stars
Notes:
POV switch to not confuse anyone. We're switching to Morpheus' POV for the next couple of chapters. :)
Chapter Text
“Have you lost your fucking mind?”
Charming as the last time he saw her, Johanna Constantine throws the door open to the apartment she and Hob share and meets Morpheus with a cold stare. While her dark brown eyes are sharp enough to kill him on the spot, they are tired. Dark purple rings circle them, along with heavy bags tugging at her lids.
“I want to help,” is all he can think of to say. He’d spent the drive over rehearsing what to say in order to convince Johanna not to shut the door in his face. He was ready to wait by the door until she gave in and allowed him entrance. But if that could be avoided altogether, it would have been preferable.
Johanna laughs in his face. A sarcastic, yet pitiful laugh conveying the summation of all the stress she must have been under for the last week. “Help? You want to help? It’s practically your fault he’s in this mess—”
“Jo!” Another, deeper voice interrupts Johanna’s tirade, before she can really make the most out of his guilt. Because she isn’t wrong. If Hob hadn’t gone off to rescue him, he wouldn’t have been captured. If Morpheus had been more careful and not allowed Burgess to pick him off the street, he would be coming here under completely different circumstances.
Johanna is shoved aside and a taller, dark-skinned man of medium build steps into the doorframe. He has a strong jaw and kind, dark brown eyes, with a friendly smile on his face. He grabs at Morpheus’ coat and pulls him into the apartment before closing the door.
“You must be Morpheus,” he says, holding out a hand. “I’m Matthew. Sorry about the pulling-you-inside thing, but the last thing we need is Jo shouting into the stairway.”
Morpheus tentatively shakes Matthew’s hand. He’s got a solid, firm grip. Matthew nods and releases him, heading back into the apartment. Johanna isn’t too far behind, still glowering at him.
“Shoes off, coat on the hanger. Hobs might be missing, but he’ll have a shit fit if he comes back to a messy apartment.”
Morpheus nods, accepting that this is the way he’ll be welcomed into the apartment, and choosing not to question it further. He toes off Dee’s boots and peels off his heavy winter coat, hanging it next to a bulkier bomber jacket. One he instantly recognizes as belonging to Hob. He touches the fabric of the sleeve, becoming overwhelmed. Though Hob’s been missing for a week, the place still smells like him. Lingering notes of his body wash and shampoo in the air, mixed with a faint hint of cooking spices.
Morpheus wraps his arms around his torso as he takes slow steps into Hob’s living space. He hasn’t stepped foot inside before, always leaving The New Inn before Hob’s shift was up, or leaving him at the front of his door. There had been a few moments, here and there, when Morpheus would wonder why Hob never invited him inside. Why he was fine to just keep things casual and at a distance. For the longest time, Morpheus believed that Hob simply wasn’t ready to take things further than their light-hearted flirting and easy friendship. Even though it was obvious from the get-go that something different was blossoming between the two.
The last meeting before Morpheus’ kidnapping certainly confirmed things. Although there were feelings between them, Hob was clearly not ready to take things further. He still held a whole world of guilt and pain from the loss of his wife. Pain that would not allow him to love again.
At least, not yet.
Morpheus would have been fine waiting, even without his kidnapping speeding things up along with a kiss and a confession of love. For Hob, he’d wait a century and more.
Morpheus had spent the months getting to know Hob often imagining what his apartment would look like. He imagined it would be filled with books and trinkets from his days as a history professor. Hob was so passionate about literature and culture, he could see his living space occupying vast collections of renowned writers, along with old VHS tapes and DVDs.
Instead, the living space could be described as very minimal. With beige couches that look well-worn, if a little uncomfortable, a small coffee table and a large desk full of computer equipment. One screen depicts what looks to be a program tracking several moving vehicles, each one allocated to a specific code. A couple more screens show images from store front cameras, occasionally blinking in order to shift views and vantage points.
So this was how Hob was able to get around the city without being detected, and how he was able to pinpoint which buildings to strike. Morpheus moves in to get a closer look at the tracking program, peering closely at the code. He knows next to nothing about computer software. Apollonia was the sibling “chosen” to handle the family’s online presence. Their father had pushed her into studying computer sciences, learning how to develop and manipulate coding. In fact, from the look of things, he wouldn’t be surprised if—
“I have your sister to thank for that,” Johanna says creeping up behind him. “She took a look at an old program my uncle had helped me develop, and tweaked some of the coding to make it more reliable for my specific needs.”
“What does it track?”
“Mostly police vehicles. A few registered vans that we know belong to Connolly and his crew. We would use them to figure out which buildings to target next, while keeping an eye on police and first responders.”
“And you would keep contact with him the entire time, letting him know when to leave a scene before police arrive.”
“Exactly. The store front cameras are mostly to help lead him out of places he wasn’t too familiar with, but Hobs was always good at improvising, so we mostly kept them around in case we saw something shady going on aside from our targeted attacks.”
“Wouldn’t always work though,” says Matthew, inspecting a shiny black helmet, one Morpheus recalls seeing The Knight wearing. “That’s why they brought me along.”
“Don’t flatter yourself too much,” Jo says, snatching the helmet away from Matthew and pointing at several pieces of armour on a long table. Matthew shrugs and tinkers with some of the pieces.
“How long has Hob—” he says, clearing his throat when the lump refuses to let him continue.
Johanna sighs, biting her lip. “Your sister came to us about a week ago. She wanted Hobs and I to help find you.”
“How did Dee know about you?”
Johanna cocks an eyebrow at him. “Ran into her about a month or two ago. We got to talking and texting. She’s always known of my skills , no doubt having heard about them from Apollonia. She and Dessi could never keep their mouths shut.”
Morpheus scoffs, sounds exactly like the twins. It’s why he stopped telling Dessi anything. It would always get back to Apollonia, and sometimes to their father.
“Anyway, We had a fucking plan to get you out. Hobs was supposed to wait. I trusted that he could wait one fucking night!” Johanna clenches her fist tight and tosses the helmet onto the couch. “I keep telling him over and over to think before taking rash actions, but he’s so fucking stubborn.” Johanna pushes her palms flat against the table holding the computers, struggling to keep herself together. And Morpheus knows he should do something here, so he places a hesitant hand on her shoulder, hoping that it’s enough to convey just how much he understands. How much it’s killing him inside that Hob is gone.
Thankfully, Johanna doesn’t shrug him off, but shakes her head. “I don’t know where he went. He left us no note. I woke up to a message from Dee saying you were home, but no Hob. I thought maybe he’d spend the day hanging over you because he was all but feral when you were missing.”
“No. I assumed he would want some space after. And Dee kept calling you, but you were never answering—”
“I was so angry . Angry at Dee for coming to see us, angry at you for putting him in that position, angry at him for not listening. I didn’t want to hear anything from either of you until I found him. And I thought I could find him myself. I’ve done it before. When he left for New York without even a fucking goodbye.”
Morpheus looks down, continuing to rub Johanna’s back. That must have been after the death of his wife. Hob had told him how broken he was after Eleanor’s death, and that he’d left for New York for five years. Seems that Johanna must have been keeping tabs on him, even though he’d left her with no warning.
“I listened to the police radio, checked the programs, sent Matthew to scout every single possible lead, but they were all dead ends. Every. Single. One. We were running out of time. The only reason we know he’s still alive is the fact that Connolly’s activities have slowed down.”
Matthew pipes up, “according to my —umm— police contact, Connolly’s presence within the force has slowed down this week. Whispers amongst the cops is that he’s tying up some loose ends.”
“Which we think means Hob. It’s possible he’s hoping to catch all of us, but a man like Connolly will get bored of keeping Hob around for too long. Unless, Hob spills the beans about us—”
“He would never—” Morpheus bites out, ready to defend Hob’s integrity. He may be ruthless, and broken, and more of a mess than he initially thought. But he would never sell out the people closest to him.
“No shit, he would never. You think I don’t know that?!” Johanna snaps, finally shrugging his hand off of her “Hobs would sooner—”
Matthew comes between the two, “let’s make sure it doesn’t come to that, alright?” He leads Morpheus away from an angry Johanna. He brings him back to the table full of armour pieces and weaponry.
“You made Hob’s armour?” he asks.
“I did. Took a while too. It was a part of my old job, crafting protective gear in an age where weapons would be more and more powerful,” Matthew tosses a lightweight knee brace to Morpheus. The metal is strong, yet easy to move in. He thinks back on Hob’s knee injury and how this would have been used to help keep himself balanced.
“I was also able to provide him with his weapons,” Matthew continues, moving down the table to a small row of guns, none of which are familiar to Morpheus (this was Oliver’s domain). “Not that it did him any good. Fucker just wanted to always use that sword of his, even though I tried to convince him that guns were more efficient. But does anyone listen to Matthew, the former cop? Matthew, who knows how these sleazebags work?”
Morpheus drags his hand across several pieces of armour, wondering which ones Hob preferred to use. Matthew nudges him, and hands him another helmet. It’s different from the one Johanna snatched away. This one looks like a helmet you’d see a knight from the Middle Ages wear. The completely black helm is rounded at the top, with a sharp piece attached in the middle. The front was crafted with two almond-shaped holes for the eyes, but with some sort of chain mail attached in order to cover the rest of the face.
“That was his favourite,” he says. Morpheus turns it in his hands. It isn’t made of metal, but a lighter material, not that Morpehus knows anything about this kind of stuff.
“He had so many comments on the designs, fucking nerd. I had to modernise it a little, to make it sleeker and easier to blend into the dark. The material isn’t completely steel, but a combination with titanium. Also padded on the inside because our guy likes to take shots to the head.”
Thinking of Hob being beaten and having taken more than one head injury makes him wince. He places the helm back on the table and wanders off, feeling suddenly out of his depth and overwhelmed. While he’d figured out long ago that Hob was The Knight , it’s still a lot for him to fully comprehend. Which is silly. He saw him kill Burgess right in front of him. Brutally too. It’s amazing what the brain can choose to forget when it comes to trauma.
“Early this morning, Jo got a call. Someone found her car in a ditch, all the way in Lac Seraphin. We’ve been trying to find it, but all the devices installed in the car had been disconnected,” Matthew says.
"Lac Seraphin? But that’s almost an hour away.”
Matthew nods “Exactly. And that was the point where Jo all but lost it. I mean we both did. I called someone I was hoping to keep out of everything but she—” Matthew stops suddenly and clears his throat, looking away. “Point is, I owe someone a life debt—”
Johanna interrupts him. “Pfft. Just give Abby the fuck of her life and you’re good as even—”
“Jesus, Jo. Can you not?” Matthew says, glaring at Johanna, who has miraculously gotten past her anger. Enough to come back to the conversation at the very least. He understands her attitude towards him. After all, they were cut from the same cloth, both from prestigious families and seen as outsiders. It seemed that whatever operation she, Matthew, and Hob were running was working for them. There wasn’t any room from complications.
And Morpheus was a massive complication.
Perhaps Johanna was right. Maybe it was his fault that Hob was captured. After all, he was taken some time after he dropped Morpheus off. Maybe he should have insisted harder that he stay. Keep him by his side until the morning came and the roads were less empty.
Or, maybe he should have stayed away when Hob told him he wasn’t ready. Maybe he should have moved on from his sweet smile and warm brown eyes.
He was already used to bone-aching loneliness, what was another disappointment in a long line of heartbreaks?
He feels a hand on his shoulder. “Make a place for yourself on the couch, stay out of the way, and maybe I’ll consider letting you wait here instead of kicking you out,” Johanna says nodding towards the couch.
They were leaving? If they were leaving, and Matthew was preparing armour and weapons, and Johanna was checking the tracking program… Did that mean?
“Wait here? Are— do you mean—”
Matthew smiles, pulling on a kevlar vest over his olive green shirt. “We found him. Or, we think we found him. Abby’s the admin assistant to one of the head detectives. He’s a real piece of work that one. Told the officers under him to avoid a specific area in the Saint-Francis district, even though it’s part of their patrol. Thing is, with this detective, Abby’s been trying to gather intel on him. She suspects he’s been on Connolly’s payroll for a few months now. Even though I told her not to dig too deep on him, I’m glad she decided not to listen to me."
Morpheus stares at Matthew as he talks about Abby. The way his tone changes from relief at having a lead, to worry for Abby, tells him that Matthew cares deeply for her.
“Why has she chosen to investigate her boss’s dealings?” he asks.
Matthew chuckles. “She was inspired by The Knight . Her mother lives in a building that was nearly burnt down by his thugs. Hob stopped it several months ago. Apparently he’s been inspiring a whole bunch of people into fighting back.”
Pride swells in Morpheus’ chest. It will do Hob a world of good to know that his work meant something. That he didn’t spend all this time fighting for it to fall to ashes.
But, can he stand by and watch as Hob puts his life at risk time and time again? With how little he knew of his life beforehand, it was already a lot for him to bear. To watch as Hob tended the bar in pain. To watch as he grew more tired and drawn with each passing day. Not to mention, watching how utterly ruthless Hob was back in that warehouse. Morpheus could see that it wasn’t the man Hob wanted to be. That it was a man he chose to be out of necessity.
Could he ask Hob to give it all up? Ask him to leave that life behind. Could he take Hob away from all of this and keep him safe in his arms? Convince him that tearing down Connolly’s empire just wasn’t worth his life?
The real question, perhaps is could he live with himself if he asked Hob to walk away from avenging his wife? Would Hob grow to resent him for taking that away?
“It’s almost noon. We should get going before traffic hits the city,” Johanna says, grabbing another vest and tugging it on. Matthew starts loading up a few guns into holsters attached to his chest and hips. He tosses one to Johanna and she attaches it to a holster on her ankle. Morpheus grabs a final vest and pulls it over his head.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Johanna asks, eyes blazing and teeth clenching.
“I am coming with you,” he says, reaching for a set of holsters. Johanna grabs his wrist and shoves him away.
“The fuck you are! You are staying here, or did you want me to handcuff you to the radiator?” Johanna says, blocking his access to the weapons left on the table.
“Jo, maybe we should—”
“ No Matthew. Hob got himself captured rescuing him. I won’t let him prance into a fire and get himself killed.” Johanna takes a step closer, completely in Morpheus’ space.
“I can’t sit by while he’s out there and hurt,” Morpheus seethes, eyes narrowing. She could try and intimidate him all she wants, but he is still an Endless. He comes from a long line of power. Power that those like the Constantine family will only ever dream of possessing. “Now, I have been patient and I have chosen not to make a scene in your home. But heed my words, Johanna Constantine. Friend of Hob’s or not, you will allow me to join you.”
“I will not let Hob’s actions be in vain. If he’s dead—”
“If he’s dead, and you prevented me from seeing him one final time, rest assured, it will be your biggest mistake,” he says, stepping even closer and straightening his shoulders, pushing himself as tall as he can. Using all the confidence that being an Endless had instilled in him. The weight of his name being used as his own armour.
“Swear to Christ,” she mumbles, shaking her head. She looks at Matthew, who simply shrugs and continues putting on more armour.
Not getting involved, smart man.
“Fine.” She grabs one of the guns and throws it at him. “If you’re going to insist on coming along you have to follow the rules. You are a civilian, and someone my best friend, for whatever fucking reason, cares deeply for. Not to mention the stupid little brother of the girl I’m currently making out with.”
Not the image he was hoping to receive when he came here, but he supposes he deserves that for threatening his sister’s girlfriend.
“All I ask is that I’m allowed to be there once he’s rescued,” he says.
“You will stay in the car at all times. You will hold onto the gun we give you, and you will keep yourself hidden.” Johanna scans the remaining weapons on the table, picking up a switchblade. “You will hide both the gun and this blade on your person. Do not lose them. If someone catches you, do not hesitate to use them. God knows they won’t hesitate to shoot you.”
Morpheus takes the switchblade from Johanna’s hand. It’s small; easy enough to fit in one of his inner pockets. As for the gun, Morpheus picks up a holster and attaches it over his chest.
“Understood,” he says, holstering his gun.
Johanna rolls her eyes. “Idiots, the both of you. You’re fucking made for each other.” She angrily grabs some armour and equips herself.
Feeling better knowing he’ll be there to rescue Hob, Morpheus steps out of the room in order to mentally prepare himself for the task at hand. He walks down the hallway while Johanna and Matthew gather their gear, taking in the minimalist apartment. There are a few photos on the wall. He touches one of Hob and Johanna, arms around each other, and both several years younger. His heart melts as he takes in the life in Hob’s eyes. The same eyes that he remembers as being sad and shadowed.
He spots an open door at the end. There is one more photo next to it. It’s of a woman. She has a cherubic face and a wide smile. Warm hazel eyes staring at someone from behind the camera with all the love. Her golden hair falls in wavy ringlets over her shoulders.
This was Eleanor. Morpheus recalls her easy smile from his days at The White Horse Tavern . He places a few fingers on the frame.
“I’m getting him back. And I swear I’ll take care of him,” he says to her.
Morpheus pushes the door further open, assuming this to be Hob’s room. He knows better, was taught better. You never go into someone’s room without their express permission. But Morpheus has been desperate for any sense of Hob for the last week. He pushes away any sense of propriety and enters his room.
It becomes obvious that Johanna decorated the apartment, because Hob’s room is exactly what Morpheus pictured the apartment to look like. There are a few bookcases along the wall. Morpheus wanders to one of them and smiles fondly at the books. Collections by Jane Austen, and the Bronte sisters, as well as Wilde and Marlow.
He also finds a few fidget toys, as well as small historical knick knacks. A small mediaeval knight, a trojan horse, and a small lute. There is a guitar next to the bookshelf. Morpheus grazes his fingers across the strings. He imagines a younger, happier Hob playing songs (most likely songs in Middle English) for his friends.
Morpheus takes a deep breath and oh … It smells like Hob. If the entrance to the apartment had faint hints of Hob’s body wash and shampoo, his room is overwhelmingly him . Morpheus stumbles onto Hob’s bed, feeling the soft mattress beneath his fingers. Surrounded by moments and memories of the man he loves, Morpheus finally allows himself to weep. He allows just one minute to take everything in and finally feel the emotions he’s been keeping inside.
He reaches for one of Hob’s pillows and buries his face in it, taking in as much of Hob’s scent as he can, and openly weeping onto it. He allows himself to miss him, to hope for his safe return, to apologise for not realising sooner that something was wrong.
Morpheus doesn’t consider himself a religious man. He understands that people create stories and myths as a way to cope with life and hardships. But now, sitting in Hob’s room, he finds himself praying. Not to an invisible god or otherworldly being, but to an image of Hob. He prays for him to hold on just a little bit longer. He prays that he still has hope and faith in him.
There is a soft knock on the door. Morpheus looks up to see Johanna leaning against the doorframe. She must have been standing there for quite some time, because there are also tears trailing down her face. Morpheus puts Hob’s pillow back where it was and wipes his eyes.
“We’re um— We’re ready to go,” she says, gesturing back towards the living room area. She also wipes the tears from her face and walks away. Morpheus finds the strength necessary to lift himself up from the bed. He takes one final look at the room, at the place Hob calls home , before following Johanna.
Chapter 14: if you make it out alive, hold that bloody head up high
Notes:
Some more violence in this chapter, starting at A loud crash startles Morpheus. and ending with And just like that, it’s over.
Chapter Text
The ride to the location Abby provided is quiet and somber. Morpheus sits in the back seat of Matthew’s Toyota RAV-4. It doesn’t escape him that this is the second rescue mission involving that model of car. Though, the car Hob drove was jet black, and Matthew’s car is a forest green.
He figures Matthew and Johanna have already gone through their roles for the mission. Johanna reminded him before they got into the car that he was to remain in the back seat. He had considered slipping out of the car once both Johanna and Matthew were gone long enough, but in the end, he knew that he would not be of much help to them. If anything, he would cause them more stress. Sure, he knows how to handle a gun (they were all taught that at the very least), but he knows nothing about fighting. It would take one hit to have him on the ground and another hostage for Connolly.
And so, once they finally reach the location, he says nothing as Johanna and Matthew grab their final gear and exit the car. Matthew knocks on his window before following Johanna inside the building (an old, run-down duplex detached from the others on the street) (probably one that Connolly had recently ‘acquired’). Morpheus opens his door just a crack.
“Jo is going to hate me for this, but I’ve been getting a bad feeling while driving here, and I’ve learned to always trust my instincts. Wait about ten minutes and come in after us. Hopefully we’ll have cleared a path, or at the very least caused enough of a distraction for you to go in and get Hob out.” Matthew drops his keys into Morpheus’ hands.
“And what of you and Johanna?” he asks, considering Matthew’s instructions do not include him aiding him and Johanna should the need arise.
“The important thing is getting Hob to a hospital, or a doctor. If he’s still alive, he’s going to need medical attention. Jo and I will be fine.”
Morpheus frowns. That’s all well and good, but he cannot leave them behind. Hob would never forgive himself if his two best friends ended up dying for him. And he would never forgive Morpheus for leaving them behind.
“Matthew, you and I both know Hob will never allow that—”
“Then let’s hope my instincts are wrong in this case. Ten minutes, don’t forget,” he says before running away, giving Morpheus no opportunity to call out for him.
Morpheus grumbles, throwing himself back on the seat, settling in to wait. The ever present feeling of exhaustion and hunger he’s been feeling since his time with Burgess is creeping up on him once more. He really should have eaten more of the meal Dee made for him.
There’s nothing for it now, unfortunately. While the lingering feeling of his body asking him nicely for a small nap and maybe a sandwich is ever present, he can still ignore it for the sake of something far more important.
He reaches into his pocket for his cellphone. He had ignored it this entire time. It’s an old phone, far older than someone like him should have. He just hates the very idea of a Smart Phone tracking every single thing you do in order to sell you some shit product you don’t need.
Ten missed calls from Dee. As well as a whole slew of text messages from her.
Deidre (Dee)
Received 11:20AM
Answer your phone Morpheus!
Morpheus!
I cannot believe you. You are quite possibly the most frustrating, stupid, hard-headed, idiot of a little brother!
Received 11:45AM
What if you get hurt?! Have you thought about what that would do to me? To Del!?
Please think this through and come home.
Received 12:04PM
Morpheus, I’m not fucking kidding. I am so furious with you.
Received 12:17PM
At least tell me you’re alive. I can’t do this again.
Morpheus Endless
Sent 12:20PM
I am fine. I will call you later.
Morpheus turns off his phone and puts it back into his pocket. He can’t have Dee calling him while he’s most likely going to be sneaking around. He definitely cannot have Dee calling him while he’s working to get Hob out.
Deciding he’s waited long enough, Morpheus does a final check to make sure he has everything on him. Johanna had given him one of Hob’s old kevlar vests to wear. It’s a little large for him, but Matthew helped adjust it to fit more snug. He’s got the switchblade still in the inner pocket of his coat, and he can feel the gun still holstered to his chest. He slowly exits the car, hearing the locks activate as soon as he closes his door. He checks one final time for Matthew’s keys and sighs in relief upon finding them in another pocket.
As he makes his way to the building, he can already hear noises coming from inside. He has to wonder what could have gone through Connolly’s mind when he chose this location to keep Hob, considering the dense population of the street itself.
Did the police care so little about this area of the city, that no matter how many calls came in out of concern, they would still avoid it? Morpheus was all too aware of the corruption within the force. His father took advantage of that whenever he could. But to see the other side of it was… harrowing to say the least.
And it allowed Connolly to go about torturing Hob without fear of being caught.
The building is a mess.
Normally a duplex has two doors; one that leads into the main house, and another that opens to a staircase leading to an apartment. One of the doors is completely boarded up, nailed down with a large piece of wood. Morpheus reaches for the second door, quietly opening it, and stepping inside.
He hears the sounds of shouting and scuffling coming from a few of the rooms inside. He’s hoping that Matthew and Johanna have had enough time to handle any threats that might be lingering.
He turns a corner and sees Matthew kicking someone off of him. The tall thin man crashes to the floor and looks up to meet Morpheus’ eyes. He seethes, recognizing the man as the person who had helped Hob rescue him from Burgess.
“You,” Morpheus says as the man cracks a wide Cheshire grin at him. Almost as if this whole thing is nothing but a big game, gleefully enjoying every moment.
“Well, well. If it isn’t Robbie’s little boyfriend! How does it feel knowing he’s dying because of you?”
Matthew rushes at him, landing a solid punch to the blonde man’s jaw. He whips his head to Morpheus.
“Jo ran towards the back of the place. There aren’t other guards. Only this fucker and Connolly—” Matthew is cut short as the man slashes at him with a knife. He blocks it with his arm, wincing as he feels the impact through the armour.
“Go! I’ve got this,” he shouts, shouldering the man off of him.
Morpheus reluctantly leaves Matthew to deal with the man. He has to trust that Matthew is a capable enough fighter to take him. The floor creaks beneath his feet as he makes his way through what was once someone’s house. Considering the disrepair of the place, it’s a miracle it’s still standing. The walls are crumbling, leaving gaping holes where wires and rotting beams are visible. The ceilings have all been taken down leaving strong support beams and a few old water pipes. These old duplex apartments were made large and sturdy; spacious enough to house several generations and strong enough to last through each one.
He’s dying because of you , echos in his mind as he takes quick steps towards the back of the place. He pushes the taunts deep inside his mind, focusing on the task at hand. It isn’t over yet. He will not allow himself to succumb to guilt and self-loathing. Not until he has a reason to feel that way.
If there is still a chance that Hob’s alive, he will grasp at it and hold on with everything he has.
The sounds of Johanna shouting lead him to a room at the back of the building. Morpheus runs faster, his combat boots losing traction underneath the dust and debris.
There is a final room, at the back of the building, with a couple of walls still standing. Bodies crash against the already flimsy walls, propelling Morpheus even closer. He peers into a hole in the wall, but can’t see much, except for some thick piping and several support beams running where the ceiling should be. Two people grapple at each other directly in front of the hole in the wall, and Morpheus takes a step back.
This is the room.
This is it.
Morpheus dashes into the room and is met first by the shock and fury behind Johanna’s brown eyes. It doesn’t last long as a man charges at her, pulling her attention away from him.
He leaves her be and walks further into the room, keeping his eyes open for—
Oh God.
No. Please, no .
Hanging, limp and unmoving at the opposite end of the room; arms tied high above his head and legs bound tight together.
Hob .
Morpheus rushes to him, begging for there to still be hope left. That he isn’t too late. Hob’s head lolls forwards, he’s completely unconscious. His body, once lean, yet strong, has lost some muscle. He seethes, realising that they must have been starving him for Hob to have lost such weight in only a week. His face, covered in bruises and cuts, where it should be touched with only the utmost care and affection.
What have they done to him? Why did it take Morpheus so long to realise this was happening to him?
Please, please.
He places two fingers on the side of his neck, praying more fervently to any deity out there who cares enough about the lives of two broken men.
Praying that Eleanor allows Hob to come back to Earth. Allows him the chance to be happy again. Because he can be happy. He’s made it this far, he just has to make it just a little bit further —
A pulse.
A strangled cry of relief and Morpheus is gently lifting Hob’s face. He tugs the gag from his mouth and caresses him.
“Hob? Can you hear me?”
He doesn’t respond, and Morpheus can’t wait for Johanna to finish Connolly off before getting him out of here. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out the switchblade that Johanna had given him. He cuts the duct tape keeping Hob’s legs together first, before reaching up and cutting the zip ties. While slicing the bindings, Morpheus tries not to think about Hob having been kept here for a long week.
With a loud snap, the bindings are finally broken. Morpheus, while rail thin and unused to heavy lifting, is able to catch Hob, even though they both end up on the ground. The force of the crash manages to rouse Hob, if only a little bit. Morpheus gathers him into his arms, cradling his head in the crook of his elbow.
“Hob? Can you hear me?”
Hob’s glassy eyes strain as he tries to focus in on Morpheus’ voice. His chapped lips attempt to form shapes and sounds, but all that comes out are tiny whimpers of pain. A testament to his overall weakness. Morpheus moves some of Hob’s hair from his face. He moans, head reaching for Morpheus’ gentle touch. It’s almost too much for him to bear, seeing Hob like this, and he has to bite his tongue, lest he start to weep.
“It’s alright. I’m here. I’m here. We’re going to get you help—”
A loud crash startles Morpheus. He looks up to see Johanna on the ground, with Connolly straddling her, hands in a vice-grip around her neck. Her legs kick out, in a desperate attempt to get him off, but he keeps her pinned down.
He’ll kill her if Morpheus doesn’t act soon. He had dropped the switchblade on the ground once Hob was cut loose. However, the gun still holstered to him, is hot against Morpheus’ chest. The weight of having to choose whether or not to embrace the type of person his father always wanted him to be. The type of person who would take the life of another without a second thought.
The sound of Connolly laughing and Johanna’s boots scuffling the ground cuts through the air. Hob shifts his head looking for the source of the noise and tensing in Morpheus’ arms. The panicked look in his eyes sends a red-hot surge of anger through his heart.
If he won’t act now, they will all be lost.
“Stay awake for me, okay?” he places a kiss on the crown of Hob’s head. He struggles to grasp onto Morpheus’ arm.
“N-no,” he rasps, though it sounds more like a wheeze and a cough than anything else.
“I’ll be right back, promise,” he wipes a tear trailing down Hob’s face. He gently moves him onto the ground, and stands up tall. He reaches into his long black coat, and pulls out the gun.
One step. Two steps.
This is the man responsible for taking everything away from someone Morpheus cared deeply for. Someone who ended up breaking the soul of a good man, a kind man.
Step, step, step.
He lifts the gun, grasping it in both his hands.
He aims the gun for Connolly, but as both he and Johanna are still fighting each other, it’s difficult to keep his shot steady. He hears Oliver behind him, reminding him on how to maintain his posture and keep his hands as still as possible.
“Not much longer, sweetheart,” he says, as Johanna’s hand shoots up to scratch at his face. Connolly dodges her swipes and presses more firmly against her throat. “Once you’re gone, I’ll finish what I started, and it’ll be the end of The Knight —”
“Or the end of you,” Morpheus says, pulling the trigger.
The shot is loud and Morpheus loses his balance on the recoil, but it hits Connolly right in the shoulder. Connolly shouts out in pain, releasing his hold on Johanna and stumbling off of her. She gasps for air and quickly moves away from him, crawling on her arms and legs.
Morpheus regains his position, keeping his gun trained on Connolly, even though the man is on the ground, clutching his shoulder in agony. It is so easy to pull the trigger one more time. Just one more time and this will all be over. One shot, right to the head and they can finally be free. He can have a life with Hob and make sure he never has to put himself in harm's way ever again. One pull of the trigger and he can finally walk away from this life.
So why is he frozen in place? Why does his hand feel sweaty and shaky? Why does he find himself unable to complete such an easy task? It should be so easy. Why isn’t it easy?
Connolly finally turns to face him, and he must see the look of fear on Morpheus’ face because his mouth stretches into a cruel smirk. As if he already knows he’s won, even though he’s the one shot and with a gun to his head.
“Takes a special person to kill someone, doesn’t it?” he sneers, chuckling at him. Morpheus growls, and takes a deep breath, steadying his hand.
“Look at your man. He’s practically dead, and you still can’t pull the trigger, can you? This is why people like me will always come up on top. Because when it comes down to it, we never hesitate.”
“You’re right,” says a familiar voice. Morpheus chances a look behind him to see Johanna back on her feet and holding another gun in her hands. There is an angry red welt on her neck from Connolly’s hands, but her hands are steady, and her eyes are cold and hard. “Good thing I don’t either,” she says, pulling the trigger and shooting Connolly between the eyes.
“That was for El, you fucker,” she say, lowering her arm.
And just like that, it’s over.
And Morpheus remains frozen, hands clutching onto the gun as though it’s a lifeline. His mind whirring with the millions of possible paths that could have occurred all because he could not finish the job. His psyche is all too ready to plunge him into a guilt-induced spiral. It’s only when he hears Johanna calling out for Hob that he is snapped back to reality.
He drops the gun on the ground and runs back to Hob’s side. Johanna is already there, brushing stray locks of hair from his face and cupping his battered cheek. Morpheus drops down on the other side and grabs his hand. Hob turns to look at him, and his eyes are unfocused, fighting to remain open.
“Hey. I’m here. I told you I’d be back,” he says, petting his head. Hob’s breathing shudders, becoming more and more strained. He brings Morpheus’ hand to his dry lips and places a shaky kiss on his knuckle.
“S-sorry,” he rasps, his voice wrecked from what was no doubt a week of hell. Morpheus hushes him gently. Johanna has gotten up from her spot beside him. Morpheus keeps his eyes on Hob. His other hand comes up to run a thumb under Morpheus’ eyes, wiping away some tears that he hadn’t realised had fallen.
“Matthew! We need to move Hob now,” Johanna shouts.
“Stay with me, Hob. We are getting you out of here,” Morpheus begs.
Hob’s lips tremble and he shakes his head. Morpheus carefully places himself over Hob’s body, bracketing his knees on either side. He keeps his hands on the sides of his face.
“Robert Gadling, you look at me. You will keep your eyes open. You will live through this. You will not die on me, not now. Do not dare leave me like this. I refuse to allow this to be our ending. I won’t let it!”
Hob gasps in a rattling breath, his face pinched in agony. His eyes grow cloudy and watery. He’s fading fast.
Johanna and Matthew return. They surround him, ready to lift Hob and carry him back to the car. Matthew places a hand on Morpheus’ back, as if to persuade him to move. But he can’t. He won’t. How can he leave him? It would be easier to ask him to remove a limb.
“Hob! Hob, do not close your eyes,” Morpheus pleads, pressing his body even closer to Hob’s. He places kisses over his lips, and over his bruises. He runs his thumbs over the cuts wishing for them to heal. A shaky hand threads through his hair. Morpheus places a hand over it, keeping it still.
“My Dream,” Hob whispers, a sad smile spreading on his lips as his eyes flutter closed. Morpheus shakes him, wanting him to open his eyes one more time, but they remain closed.
“Morpheus, we need to get him out now,” Johanna says, wrapping a hand around Morpheus' arm and making to pull him away.
He shakes free of her hold, not wanting to leave Hob. Not yet. He has to wake up first. “Hob. Wake up. Please. Wake up,” he sobs, tears streaming down his face.
It can’t be over. Please don’t let it be over.
Please, let him keep him. Just, let him keep him.
Chapter 15: the pain is gonna save you
Notes:
Switching POVs again. Back to our main narrator.
Special thank you goes to Mallory for answering any medical-related questions I had and for giving me a reality check on accurate medical representation (thanks for nothing, Grey's Anatomy).
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
He’s never veered this close to death before. No one’s ever told him what it would be like to drift back and forth between living and dying. His mother believed that there was a great light at the end of the tunnel, and you either went towards it, or away from it. His father had a former classmate who’d told him that he drifted amongst the stars and cosmos when he was recovering from a severe car accident. A few friends had talked about family members seeing a kind presence in the room before passing on. A loving hand to help guide them into the beyond.
When Hob was in college he’d heard a story about a man who had lived an entire life in the span of months. Having a wife and family when a slight distortion broke the reality and pulled him out of his coma. That had terrified him, and when he was married to Eleanor, he would have few moments where he would remember the man and his story, being terrified that his life was nothing but a deep dream.
Fighting for his life now, he begins to understand just how wrong he was. How wrong everyone was. Or, maybe it’s different for each person. For him, for the most part, it feels like a mess of jumbled scenes, acted out within a series of blinks.
Blink.
Cool hands cupping the sides of his face, begging and pleading with him to stay awake. He wants to. God , does he ever want to keep his eyes open and swim in the peaceful blues of the man he loves. But he’s so tired , and everything hurts. He hasn’t been allowed to sleep for days, and he’s finally so comfortable. Being held and cradled. Feels—so—
Blink .
Hob’s moving and he doesn’t like this. Everything inside is telling him to fight, to push away, to go back to the gentle arms and sweet, blue eyes. He’d been seeing severe, icy eyes for so long that he’d forgotten that blue eyes could also be warm— hopeful .
He whimpers, because it hurts. Everything fucking hurts and he’s tired and hungry, and there’s dirt and grime sticking to every bit of him.
“Hush, my love. Be still. We are getting you help.”
Blue eyes meet him and he finds himself finally relaxing. They’re here. They haven’t left him. They—
Blink .
Hands pressed to his chest and people screaming. He thinks he hears someone wailing and he’s worried. He wants to lift his hand to touch the person crying. To reach out and reassure them, but he doesn’t think he can feel his arms. Why can’t he—
Blink.
More movement, and more shouting. The ground is very soft below him, but soft hands are cradling his head now. He looks up to brown eyes. Terrified brown eyes that water as hair is gently brushed from his face.
“Jo,” he whispers, his throat burning as he struggles to speak. She slowly caresses his face. He’s never seen her this gentle with anything.
Except maybe Rachel.
“Keep fighting, Hobs. We’re almost there—”
Blink.
“He needs a hospital.”
“How are we going to explain the state he’s in?”
“I do not have the tools and medicine to help him, Morpheus. He will die if he doesn’t get the proper medical attention he needs.”
“Please, Dee. Please don’t let Hobs die—”
Blink.
“I think Dee was right, even though Dreamy didn’t think so. He’s been marching back and forth, being very cloudy and grey, and I tried to draw some colourful fish for him, but that only made him more sad. I don’t like seeing Dreamy sad like this, Hobbity. I don’t like seeing you like this. I don’t like a lot of this. So, you have to come back and make Dreamy bright again. You have to come back and be bright again, without any bad people to hurt you—”
Blink .
A cool hand holding his so tight. A man sobbing next to him. Morpheus . He wants to hold him so bad, but his arms are— He feels so tired and weak. He can’t even open his eyes, because the pressure of the dark around him keeps him still— it keeps him locked tight and unable to touch, unable to see.
“They’re going to take you to surgery soon. Don’t leave okay? Even if—”
Blink .
This is different.
When did he arrive at The White Horse ? Because this is it. He recognizes the ancient stone walls and the wood beams from the early 1700s. The bar at the centre of the main floor looks exactly as it did the last time he saw it.
The tables are all empty though. Must be after the bar has closed. Hob makes his way deeper into the room, hands tracing each chair as he weaves around the tables. The lights cast a warm glow around him and for the first time in a long time, he feels safe.
Toward the back of the tavern, at a specific booth that holds fond memories for him, sits someone in a glowing white dress.
A little too on the nose with the heavenly allusion , he thinks as he makes his way towards her. He doesn’t have to wonder who it could be, because there is only person who would be waiting here for him.
Eleanor stands to greet him, wrapping her arms around him. Unlike when he was still in that building being starved and tortured, he can actually feel her arms around him, holding him tight. He lifts his arms to wrap around her waist, pulling her close. The scent of blueberries wafts in the air, from the mousse she used to apply to her hair.
“Oh my love,” she whispers, kissing the side of his head. His arms shake, as he dips his head onto her shoulder, taking in the feel of her, the warmth of her body once more.
“I’m so sorry,” he sobs, into her skin, planting kisses along her shoulder, blessing each and every one of the freckles that dot it.
“Why are you sorry?” she asks, her hand moving slowly up his back, nails lightly scratching his back. Hob loudly sighs, recalling the sensation of El lightly scratching and tickling his back. How it would lull him to sleep after a long day.
Why is he sorry? His immediate response is for already moving on from her. For falling in love with someone else. He wants to apologise for being willing to die for someone who wasn’t her, when he could not die for her when it mattered.
He’s sorry for failing her. For not being able to finish his life mission of avenging her death. He wants to apologise for allowing Connolly to remain alive after all the pain he had caused them.
Thing is, he knows Eleanor. His Eleanor would want him to be happy in the event of her death, just like he would have wanted her to be happy if he had been the one to die that night. To think of El being alone and angry all the time would break his heart.
Is Eleanor heartbroken to see the man he has become? Does she weep for him as he tears through criminals, collecting scars along the way? Did she want more for him with the second chance he had been given? What would Eleanor say if she knew the person he had become. The person who finally gave into his darkest, most violent urges.
“I’m sorry for the man I’ve become,” he finally says, tears streaming down his face. He grasps her so close, so tight to him. “I was so broken when he took you from me. I was so angry, I couldn’t find any other reason to keep myself alive, other than spilling that bastard’s blood.”
“I know, darling. I know,” she coos, fingers reaching the back of his neck and threading through his hair. Hob continues to weep, unleashing all the pain, all the agony within his heart that had been kept locked inside for six long years.
“I couldn’t let it go. I couldn’t let you go. It wasn’t fair. We were—and you were—”
One of his hands moves to her stomach, pressing lightly against it, against the life that had just begun to bloom were it not for a selfish man, intent on taking everything for himself. One of El’s hands drifts over his, clasping it.
“No, it wasn’t fair. I was excited to start a family with you. To have our little business and a baby as well. Our lives were just beginning,” she whispers, her voice cracking. Hob lifts his head to see that El has also started crying. Though, not as extreme as Hob. He keeps his hand on her stomach, but she moves hers to cup his face so gently. He closes his eyes and sighs.
“I died,” she says, rubbing her thumbs over his cheek bones, his tears collecting beneath the pads. “I know it broke you, and I know you had to struggle to carry on. But by some miracle, you survived.” Eleanor stands on the tips of her toes and plants a kiss on Hob’s forehead.
“Will you forgive me for—” he whispers, nuzzling her cheek. Eleanor smiles, standing straight once more. She brushes some of his hair back.
“Loving him? He makes you happy. He gives you a reason to wake up again. You apologise for becoming the man you are. But my love, the man you are with him is the same man who loved me.”
Hob closes his eyes and breathes in deep. He thinks of blue eyes and black hair. Of a pale face and rosy pink lips. He thinks of a brilliant mind and a good, kind soul. Morpheus, the man who, beyond all expectations, managed to pull him from the pit of despair. Who took a broken man and found a way to put him back together.
And Hob loves him.
Eleanor shifts her head slightly away from him, looking just above his shoulder. Hob turns around and notices that the bar has changed, looking more like his work station at The New Inn . In fact, much of the decor from The White Horse has morphed into the more modern-looking tables and chairs. Curiously enough, the placement of said tables almost makes a path, away from Eleanor, and into a partitioned section. It’s evident that a choice must be made.
Does he stay? Or does he go?
Eleanor grasps his hand tight, and Hob looks back at her for one final moment. They both know that his choice was made long ago, before he even approached her.
“Go,” she says, a warm smile on her lips. Hob wraps his arms around her, for the last time, pouring all of his love for her into this one action. Before pulling away from her, he places a kiss on the crown of her head.
“I love you,” he says.
Hob releases Eleanor from his hold, ready to let her go. He then makes the long arduous journey across the shifting floor of the place he and El built together. As he passes each table, they dissolve like sand in the wind, whispering away once and for all.
With every step he takes, he thinks of the love that is waiting for him on the other side. Of cool arms waiting to hold him. Of a life wanting to be shared with him, ready to take him away from everything that has ever hurt him. He thinks of the dream he and Morpheus wish to build together.
As he gets closer to the partition, the air grows cold, and his body becomes more— present , for lack of a better word. He hears commotion on the other side. Machines beeping and alerting. People shouting and in a panic.
This is it. The last chance for him to stay with Eleanor at peace in death, or fight to live, no matter the pain, with Morpheus.
It’s not even a question. Hob takes a deep breath, and with tears in his eyes, he passes through.
It’s fuzzy—He thinks—In his head.
And that’s not just it, there’s also the pain.
Throbbing, pulsing, radiating pain from various parts of his body. From where, specifically, he can’t say because it’s just everywhere .
It’s dull at first, and he’s able to ignore them in favour of resting just a little more. And he wants to rest.
But there is movement around him and people talking. A distant sound of beeping.
He’s been through this before. He thinks. A long time ago.
Blink .
“Are you awake, dear? You’ve been asleep for quite some time.”
Hurts , he thinks. And it’s even worse when a light is shone in his eyes. He flinches and that’s not good because his side fucking kills .
“Oh no, hon. You shouldn’t move. You’ll rip your stitches.”
Stitches? Where? Where is he? What’s going on? Why does his head feel so—so—full?
Blink.
Kind brown eyes look down on him.
Blink .
Soft instructions given to monitor something—
Blink.
“Hob? Can you hear me? It’s Deidre. Morpheus’ sister.”
He knows those names. He knows Morpheus. Where is Morpheus? Is he alright? Was he sobbing earlier?
“Hob, I need to focus on me for a bit, alright? Then I promise we’ll let you sleep.”
Sleep. Sleep sounds really fucking great right now. Hob tries to focus on the woman in front of him. She’s really pretty. With dark eyes and dark skin and a halo of thick, curly hair.
“There you are. We’re going to move you soon. I just wanted to check to see how your pain is being managed.”
That’s nice. He thinks. Can they get rid of it?
“I wish we could do that, but we have to be very careful with how much we give you on account of the trauma your body has gone through. We don’t want you to go into shock.”
Shit, did he just say that outloud?
“You did,” she says, softly laughing.
Well that sucks—
Blink.
It’s quiet when he wakes up.
He’s mostly numb, but the pain is still there. Everywhere. And it only grows the more aware he becomes of his body. The most obvious is from his right knee. And as soon as he’s figured that out, the pain grows almost exponentially.
And it isn’t just the pain in his body (though that is so fucking obvious), but he’s uncomfortable. There are tags attached to his arms and chest that itch. His whole body feels nasty, like it’s desperate for a power wash.
Despite all of that, he wants to continue sleeping. God knows how long he’s been out, but he knows it’s a million times better than whatever is waiting for him once he opens his eyes.
Unless—
He can’t find the strength to move just yet, and only trying brings another pain to the forefront. A sharp pain on his left side, near his stomach. A small sound, almost a whimper escapes his mouth and it’s met with a gentle hand touching his.
“Hobbity? Was that you?”
God, it hurts. It fucking hurts. And he can’t move, and these tags and wires are bothering him and now he hears beeping and alarms and—
“You can do it, Hobbity. You can open your eyes. I know it’s hard and I don’t always want to open my eyes in the morning. And the beeping is loud and scary and you have a lot of bad things hurting you. But we’re all waiting for you.”
That’s—is that, Del? Why would she be—?
“Dreamy’s waiting for you. He hasn’t been—he’s—he needs you, I think.”
The tiny hand around his loosens momentarily and the distant sound of anxiously tapping feet can be heard. Soft fingertips join the tapping, making a beat over his knuckles.
Hob focuses on the beat. On the tap-tap-taptaptap, tap-tap-taptaptap .
He can do this. He has someone waiting for him. He’s ready to come home.
His eyes ever so slowly blink open.
And he’s met with wide irises of blue and green, surrounded by a halo of bright colours and a wide toothy grin.
“Hobbity!” Del shouts and Hob winces because fuck his head is pounding and everything is so bright and loud and smells of strong disinfectant.
Del leaps away from him, covering her mouth. “Oh, Dee told me to be quiet and that you need to heal, but I forgot and I got too excited and now you’re hurting. But your eyes are open, and I told Dreamy that they would, and that you would come back to him, but it was so scary Hobbity.”
Hob can only moan in response to Del’s excited chatter. His throat feels like knives scratching on his insides. The sounds of Del’s exciting chatter grows fainter and Hob wonders if he’s about to slip once more, but the room doesn’t become any more blurry, and there aren’t any spots dancing near his eyes. Del must have left the room.
Speaking of which, where the fuck is he? He can’t still be with Connolly and Ethan, that much is certain. And he knows he isn’t dead, because that was definitely Del just then. As imaginative as his subconscious is, he knows he cannot recreate her spirit. Blinking a few times helps to see the room a little more clear, and from the plain white walls, and unimpressive artwork, he figures out that he’s in a hospital room. He’s been in this situation before. There are wires and tubes coming out of his arms and his hospital gown, which would explain the itchy comfortable feeling.
His right leg is suspended on a brace. There is a thick steel brace around the knee, as well as a bandage down his leg. His left arm is in a sling, attached tight to his chest. He doesn’t try to move again, for fear of whatever happened to cause so much pain to his left side.
He hopes someone comes back soon. He hates being here by himself. The memory of being alone and broken in a hospital bed is too raw for him (even if it’s been six years since El’s death).
“I told you, Dee. See, he’s awake! Look!”
Hob turns to the door and can<t help but smile as Del bounces back into the room, Dee hot on her heels. Dee’s in a pair of light blue scrubs, with a long sleeve green shirt underneath. Her thick, curly hair is tied up in the back of her head. She smiles at Hob with such warmth and she pulls out his chart and reads it over.
“Welcome back, Robert,” she says, looking over the machines and taking note of his blood pressure and heartbeat. She directs Del to sit on the other side of Hob’s bed. She’s got a cup of ice chips in her hands. What he really wants is some water, but considering he can’t even move without pain exploding, he’ll just have to make do with what he’s got.
“W-” he tries to ask, but the pain in his throat is too great for him to utter even a single word. Del taps him on the shoulder and offers him an ice chip. He huffs a small laugh and accepts it.
“I wanted to help,” she says, much softer than before. “Dee says it’ll be hard for you to talk because you’ve been asleep for a long time and it’ll hurt for you to use your throat. The ice is supposed to help.”
It does help. The cool water is a blessing for his sore throat. Del offers him another chip, and Hob takes it gladly. It soothes the dry, burning knives in his throat, like a balm after a long day out in the sun.
“Thank you,” he whispers, smiling at her. Del smiles back at him and at Dee, before handing the cup back to her and walking out.
“I’m going to wait for Dreamy,” she says.
“Morpheus?” he asks, the pain in his throat triggering once more. Dee feeds him another chip and shushes him gently.
“We had to practically drag him out of here. He refused to leave your side. Del was actually the one who convinced him to go home and take a nap and shower. He and Johanna have been keeping each other company during everything.”
Hob swallows the cool water, sighing as it continues to soothe his throat and makes it easier for him to talk. Dee places the cup down by his bed.
“Before we get into everything, I want to ask how you’re feeling?”
Hob hums, closing his eyes. That’s a loaded question if he’s ever heard one.
“Tired,” he says, his voice still weak, but not as painful. “Leg hurts. Head’s fuzzy. My side hurts a lot,” he mutters. It’s a lot of work for him to express what exactly is hurting him. It doesn’t help that his head is threatening to pull him under once more.
Dee hums. She pulls out a tiny light from her pocket and shines it into each of Hob’s eyes. He can’t stop himself from wincing at the pain that blooms from behind them.
“Alright, I won’t take too much time explaining everything. Once Morpheus arrives, he won’t allow me to get a single word in. To put matters delicately, you were in extremely bad shape when they first brought you to me. So bad, in fact, that had I not convinced Morpheus and Johanna to move you to the hospital, I don’t think you would have made it.”
Hob remains quiet. Somehow he already knew that. That this wasn’t just another one of his close calls. That this was something a whole lot more serious.
Dee goes on, “Aside from the severe dehydration, starvation, and sleep deprivation, you presented with a long list of injuries on your person. We have been keeping you hydrated as well as replenishing any lost nutrients while you’ve been under—”
“How long?” Hob interrupts, because aside from wondering where Morpheus was, that’s been one of the more pressing questions on his mind. How long has he been under?
“We were worried that you were slipping into a coma, but it’s been about a day and half since you were first brought in.”
“How bad?,” he whispers, leaning back against the bed, doing what he can to make himself comfortable (not that it helps).
Dee takes a deep breath, offering a comforting hand on Hob’s shoulder. “Aside from the abrasions on both your wrists, along with several cuts and bruises on your face. Your right knee suffered massive trauma. Your ACL is completely torn and the joint is practically shattered. We have it in a brace for now, but you will need to have surgery on it if you ever want to use it again. The orthopaedic surgeon will explain more, but following surgery, you’ll have a long journey ahead of recovery, and even at that, you won’t be able to have full usage of the leg.”
Hob closes his eyes and bites his lip. He doesn’t want to cry and he shouldn’t be so emotional over his leg. He knew this would happen. The moment Connolly took the first swing to it, he knew it was over. It was already causing him problems from before, and Connolly only made it worse, using it as a way to get information out of Hob.
“Hob? Do you need a moment?” Dee asks, giving his hand a squeeze. There are bandages wrapped around his wrists. No doubt because of the way the zip ties had cut into his skin.
A fucking week he was stuck there. A whole fucking week.
“No, please go on,” he rasps breathing through the tightness in his chest, the cracks forming in his walls. If she doesn’t tell him everything now, he’ll only feel worse later on. At least here, he can break without having to look at Morpheus’ sad blue eyes.
Dee nods and presses on. “Your left shoulder was dislocated, but because it was poorly fixed and aggravated by—” Dee clears her throat and now it’s Hob’s turn to squeeze her hand.
“It’s okay,” he whispers.
“By your arms being pulled for a long period of time, it did not get a chance to heal properly. We will have to speak with ortho, but you may be left with a slight bump in the region.”
“Fuck,” he says, more cracks forming in his walls. Dee grabs a box of tissues and offers some to him. He laughs ruefully and grabs a couple with his good arm, dabbing at his eyes. “What else?” he asks.
“Hob, we can stop—”
Hob looks up at her, eyes burning, and shakes his head wildly at her. “No. I need you to continue.”
Dee nods, squeezing his hand once more. He really does appreciate having her here with him. As horrible as his injuries are, and as difficult as his path to healing will be, Dee has a very calm and kind demeanour, with a warm smile and loving eyes. Hob would trust her in an instant, to guide him through whatever storm he has yet to face.
“Our biggest concern was the internal bleeding you obtained. CT scans indicated that your spleen had ruptured and blood was haemorrhaging into your abdomen,” she says, turning another page over on his chart.
Hob nods. Nothing surprising there. Connolly and that fucking crowbar of his. He really only used it twice. Once during the first day, where he’d completely smashed his knee, and once on the final day. Connolly’s intention had been to beat him with the crowbar until Hob either died, or Connolly just grew tired, in which case, he’d slit his throat.
He only got one good whack to Hob’s side when they heard Ethan shouting about a break-in, and well, the rest is blurry after that.
“We needed to rush you into surgery. Even as fast as we got you into the operating room, it was touch and go for a moment. You had lost a lot of blood and the damage to your spleen was irreparable.”
“So it’s gone,” he says.
Dee’s face is sorrowful. “Yes. It’s gone. We have some antibiotics in this IV bag, but you’ll have to be on prophylactic antibiotics for the remainder of your life.”
That’s the moment where he finally breaks. After all of that, all of the fighting and the pushing and the determination to see his life’s mission through to the end, Connolly ended up taking one final thing from him.
“Is that all?” he asks, voice utterly shattered.
Dee nods, placing a soft hand on his good shoulder. Hob finds himself leaning his head onto her touch and allowing himself to just cry with her there. Despite the fact that she’s working and has plenty of other patients to see, Dee decides to stay with him, helping to dry his tears and giving him that safe space to process how his life is now irrevocably changed.
Leading him through his storm.
After what seems like forever, Dee checks his stats one more time and presses some buttons on a machine next to him. A nurse comes in and Dee whispers some instructions to him. He smiles and nods before leaving.
“Nurse Jones will be back to administer a mild sedative. You’ve just had to digest a lot of information and I’m concerned about your heart. The last thing we want is for you to go into shock.”
“But, Morpheus.”
“He will be here soon, and I will make sure he stays with you until you wake up again. I promise.”
Hob sighs, his breath still shaky from the sobbing. The tears have not slowed down, but he lays back down on the bed. Nurse Jones comes back into the room with a syringe and a small bottle. Dee stays by his side, holding his hand as the nurse injects the sedative into Hob’s line.
It’s only a matter of seconds after that where Hob is wrapped into a warm blanket of dreamless sleep.
Someone’s holding his hand when he wakes up again. They’re also pushing the hair away from his face, petting it slowly. Hob finds himself leaning into the gentle touch, yearning for the comfort it brings him.
“Come back to me, beloved,” whispers a deep, melodious voice, so close to his ear, as if they are pressed up against him.
Hob cracks open his eyes, and the first thing he notices is that the room is significantly darker than earlier in the day when Dee spoke to him. He must have been out for a few hours at the very least.
His heart nearly stops as he turns his head and is greeted with a dream. The dream that’s kept him alive for the last week, when everything was screaming at him to give up.
Blue eyes, and black hair.
But, oh , how heartbroken those blue eyes are, and how exhausted with deep purple bruises marring the pale skin beneath them. As if they’ve been through hell and back. Hob smiles through the lingering pain in his body and squeezes Morpheus’ hand.
“Hob.” Morpheus whispers his name as if it were a prayer, a lifeline he’s been holding onto until they could be reunited at last. And now that the moment has come, they can finally let go.
“Hey—” Hob coughs, his throat burning up once more. Morpheus keeps petting his head, his other hand reaching over to a small bucket on the table.
“Most of them have melted at this point, but this should help,” he says, taking an ice chip and moving it so slow over Hob’s lips. The cool ice on his lips is beyond quenching. Hob looks up at Morpheus, hoping that his eyes can convey just how much this means to him. That he’s here, that he’s alright, that he didn’t give up on him.
“Open up.” He mutters. Hob obeys, opening his mouth and allowing Morpheus to place the chip right on his tongue. The little bit of water is a relief after a desert storm. It tickles as it trickles down his throat, soothing the fire within.
“Thank you,” he says, his voice less frayed and cracked. A tiny movement on his lips is almost missed, but Hob is pretty sure he tried to smile. Maybe if things were less morose and grave, he could smile with more ease.
“Alright?” he asks, his body refusing to cooperate with his need to pull his love into bed with him and hold him close. So he has to settle for squeezing the hand still holding his.
“You cannot be serious, Robert,” Morpheus says, his voice barely holding back a flood of emotions. It shakes and quivers, something begging to be let loose, and being held back by a man on his last thread. “You spent a whole week at the mercy of a mad man. You body is evidence of the man’s savagery, yet you ask how I’m— if I— ”
Hob’s heart sinks, watching as the man he loves slowly begins to break. A hand coming up to cover his mouth as he lets out a choked sob. His head turning away to hide the tears forming in his eyes.
He doesn’t want this. He doesn’t want to see Morpheus break anymore.
“I’m sorry—” he whispers.
“No. Please, do not.” Morpheus turns back to Hob and brings his hand up to his lips. He kisses each and every one of Hob’s fingertips, as if they were made of magic themselves. “It is I who is sorry, Hob. I should have looked for you sooner. Demanded information on your whereabouts. I could have prevented this—”
“No. I won’t have you blaming yourself for what happened,” he says, trailing the pad of his thumb over the bottom of Morpheus’ lip. It’s a little dry, and cracked as if he’d been chewing at it for quite some time.
“I spent the week you were being tortured—”
Hob flinches, closing his eyes against the sudden onslaught of memories. Of Connolly smashing his leg, or punching his gut over and over. Of Ethan playing with his stupid fucking knives, using his body as a canvas.
“It’s fine ,” he grits out, wincing at the pain in his abdomen. He looks back at Morpheus, his eyes begging him not to mention anything more from that horrible week. “ Please , Morpheus,” he whispers, cradling his head in the palm of his hand. He feels the shift as Morpheus nods, nuzzling deeper into his hold.
“I know I’ll have to eventually deal with everything,” Hob says, sniffing back a few tears. “But I’m just so fucking tired right now. Can we just— I just want—” His voice breaks, even after all this time, he still can’t find it himself to ask for something he wants. To ask for Morpheus.
Morpheus gently places Hob’s hand back on the bed. He leans over and places a soft, delicate kiss to his lips. And oh, if only injuries could really be cured with the help of a kiss, he’d take them all. He’d suffer injury after injury, if it meant he could have Morpheus here, kissing him so sweet.
“You have me, Robert Gadling.” Morpheus presses their foreheads together.
“I’m broken ,” he weeps pathetically, thinking of his knee, his beaten body, his missing spleen. How the remainder of his life will be a reminder of the hell he’d gone through.
“As am I. The depressing second son of a man who could not be bothered to care that his son was missing. But that’s fine, because I love you, and I know you love me. Broken bits and all.”
Hob smiles, lifting his good arm, in order to welcome Morpheus into his embrace. There isn’t a lot of space on the bed, but just enough for him to slot in, fitting himself perfectly against Hob’s body.
“I was so afraid I’d lost you,” Morpheus sighs, hand trailing down Hob’s chest. He kisses the top of his head, pressing into his soft, downy locks.
“I was afraid I wouldn’t come back to you. It was the memory of your face, your smile . The fact that I had promised to come back got me through the worst of it.” Hob clutches Morpheus closer as he feels him shivering beneath his touch. He closes his eyes and breathes in deep. The pain medication is once more making him feel drowsy.
“We’ll get through the rest, together,” Morpheus says, placing a small kiss at the base of Hob’s throat. It sends a pleasant chill down his spine, and a sleepy hum slips out.
“Sleep, my love,” Morpheus says, nuzzling further into Hob’s hold. “I am here, and I will not leave you.”
Yes , he thinks. Nothing will come between them ever again. They may be broken, but even broken men deserve to find a place to call home. And for Hob, it’s in Morpheus’ arms.
Notes:
:)
Go get some water. You've all earned it.
Chapter 16: Epilogue
Notes:
A final POV switch... Kinda a surprise... even for me when I first wrote it.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Three Years Later
Everything used to be so quiet before.
Before when it was just her and Dreamy, doing the best they can not to invade each other’s realms (Dr. Anastasiou calls their rooms that) (Del likes her, she speaks her language) (and her office has a ton of goldfish) (and she lets her show her art) (even put up some of it for the kids).
What was she talking about again?
Right, quiet.
It used to be very quiet before. Before Dreamy started writing more and talking less to their angry dad. Before Dee and Joey moved in together (Del likes Joey) (Joey is tough, but she’s also nice) (she lets Del hang out at the Inn whenever she wants).
It’s not so quiet anymore, and Del thinks she likes that. She thinks she likes that a lot, actually. She doesn’t like it when it becomes too much and she has to hide in her room, underneath her colourful tent. But then, Dreamy and Hobbity will come visit her and bring her cocoa or some soup and just lay down with her, watching as the colours shift through the sunlight.
She likes it now. With Dream and Hobbity here. They’re less dark, she thinks and aren’t as cloudy as they were before.
Well, Hobbity is still a little cloudy, but Del thinks Dreamy helps with that. He makes sure Hobbity goes to all his doctor appointments, he keeps their house cozy and warm all the time, and he makes sure Hobbity can have peace and quiet on his bad days.
He doesn’t have many bad days anymore. When he does, Del likes to find him and give him a mug of tea (Dreamy says he likes Lavender) (Del thinks it tastes like the flowers in her pictures). Sometimes, he’ll be on the couch, buried in a bunch of colourful blankets (Del’s idea), and sometimes, he’ll be in his and Dreamy’s room. If he’s on the couch, he’ll talk to Del a little and watch as she practises her art.
If he’s in the bedroom, Del knows he has no energy to talk or even see anyone except Dreamy.
And that’s ok.
He’s working through the clouds in his heart.
It was a lot worse before. When Hobbity couldn’t move and would stare at the wall. Del didn’t like that. She didn’t like it when Hobbity was lost. She made paintings for him, to help him find his way back. She started putting them up in places where he would stare. She didn’t know if she was helping, or making it worse. What she did know was that if she was stuck in the clouds, she would want to find a colourful rainbow to bring her back.
One day, Hobbity asked her about her painting. Then he asked her to paint some more for him.
When Hobbity was able to move again, he asked Del if she could decorate his canes. Del could feel herself flying with happiness.
(She may have gone a little overboard).
Hobbity doesn’t work at the bar anymore. He told Del that he used to be a teacher, which was so silly to her! Teachers are mean and shouty and they don’t speak her language when she tries to answer them. Hobbity is nice and makes her smile, and he speaks her language.
“Well, maybe that’s why I need to go back. So that other kids can have their languages understood,” he’d told her.
Dreamy wasn’t happy about it, and he was cloudy for a while. They were both cloudy and shouty and Del didn’t like it. She’d gone to Dee’s and Joey’s house because it was too much for her. Dee understands how Dreamy feels. Joey sometimes does things that make Dee worry. She tries to hide it from Del, but she knows her sister too well. She knows when Dee is in a sad mood.
Hobbity doesn’t do scary things anymore. He just teaches. Dreamy does a lot of writing, and he doesn’t talk to their dad anymore. Del’s glad about that. Dreamy never liked talking to their dad.
They’re happy now. Even if that means Dreamy has to go to work at one of the bookstores nearby. He’ll sometimes come home cloudy when he’s had a bad day, but Hobbity always knows how to make him smile.
And it’s not as quiet.
And when it’s loud, it’s a good loud. With Hobbity playing his guitar, and Dreamy singing and Del laughing.
It’s a good loud.
She’s waiting for Dreamy to come home. Del has the day off from school (she’s taking it more seriously) (and she gets to try all sorts of different art), and Dreamy promised that she could choose what to eat for supper because it was her turn yesterday, but Hobbity was having a bad day, and he was stuck in the bedroom for a long time. And Dream and Del ended up ordering some pad thai.
But he’s better today, which means Del gets to choose supper.
Dreamy left a couple of hours ago. Del can’t remember exactly what he was doing, but she knows it has something to do with Hobbity, and that maybe she has to keep it a secret. She’s trying to be better at remembering things, she really is. It’s just hard sometimes and her brain gets really full of everything.
Sometimes, things just slip out.
She’s sitting on a small bean bag chair in her room, with her feet up in the air, doing some sketches on one of the art design programs her tablet has. She’s taking a sculpture class, and she’s got a bunch of ideas she wants to try out.
The door unlocks with a click, and Del hops off the couch, rushing to greet Dreamy, finally remembering what he was out doing all day.
“Did you get Hobbity’s ring?” she shouts running down the stairs. “Can I see it? The design looked really—” she stops dead in her tracks and clasps her hands over her mouth in a panic.
Dreamy stands at the door, eyes wide and looking like someone threw a really big bucket of ice on him.
And he’s not alone.
“I’m sorry… what?” Hobbity asks, standing right behind him, holding a big bag of groceries.
“Delia,” Dreamy says and Del just wants to cry right now because she’s ruined it. Dreamy had asked her to keep it a secret because he wanted to ask Hobbity to marry him at the right time. He’d been planning it for so long and even Dee was involved.
“Oh no. Oh—oh—I’m. I didn’t mean—I forgot and I tried to remember, Dreamy, I did. But I thought you were alone and I didn’t think Hobbity was right behind you, and I didn’t do it on purpose, Dreamy.”
She ruined it. She’s always ruining things. That’s why her mom didn’t want her, and why her dad told Dreamy and Dee to take her. Del growls, collapsing onto the floor, digging her hands into her hair and she hates this! She hates having a stupid brain and she hates forgetting and she she hates that she can’t just—
“Hey, Del?”
She looks up at Hobbity. He’s sitting on the floor in front of her, and he’s got a small smile on his face.
“Your knee,” she says, sniffing and wiping the tears from her eyes.
“It’s fine. Do you need my hands?” he asks, holding out his hands for her. She keeps rocking herself back and forth, staring at Hobbity’s hands. The first time she met him, he’d held out his hands to her when her brain was Too Much. She touched them, feeling how scratchy and hard they were. It didn’t take away the Too Much in her head, but it helped keep her focused.
“He’s mad. And I ruined his surprise and I’m sorry,” she sobs, shaking her head. Hobbity keeps looking at her, with a small smile on her face.
“Oh Del, you could only make things better. And Dreamy is always a little grumpy, but he’ll be alright.”
“Hob’s right,” Dreamy says, coming around to sit next to him and holding his own hands out. Del sniffs, placing one hand in Dreamy’s palm, and one in Hobbity’s. Dreamy’s hand is cold, but soft and Del can feel the veins on the back of his hand if she searches for them with her fingers. Hobbity’s hand is still scratchy, and the tips are hard like there are little pebbles inside. He’d told her once that playing guitar will get you calluses in your fingers.
“I won’t lie, I wish I could have done this my way, and I am disappointed that my surprise is no longer a surprise,” Del looks down and tries to tug her hands away, but Dreamy closes his hand over her smaller one. “But this is a better way of doing this don’t you think? After all, we’ve grown into a little family ourselves haven’t we?” Dreamy whispers, a small smile spreading on his lips.
Del sniffs some more, but she nods. That’s what they are. It’s what they’ve been since Dreamy and Hobbity bought the house together. Before it was just her and Dreamy and Dee, but now they’ve also got Hobbity and Joey.
Dreamy looks up at Hobbity and holds out his hand to him. Hobbity smiles and places his hand on Dreamy’s palm.
“I think I may as well do this now that we’re all here together,” Dreamy says. Del lets go of both his and Hobbity’s hands, but she stays seated on the floor, knowing that they want her there. That yes, this is a moment between Dreamy and Hobbity, but she is important to this moment as well.
Dreamy pulls a small, fuzzy box from his pocket and shifts towards Hobbity. Hobbity takes a few seconds to turn to Dreamy, stretching his leg out, so that it lays next to him.
“Hob,” Dreamy starts and Del’s already feeling floaty and fizzy and her hands shake, jittering up and down in excitement.
“I am so proud of the person you are. You inspire me every single day to find reasons to fight to be happy and whole. Our lives have not been easy, and I never want to relive the first year of our relationship.”
Hobbity laughs, wiping tears from his eyes. Del happily taps his shoulder.
“Did it all for you, love,” he says in a voice so soft that Del almost misses it. “For you, and for Del. I love you both so fucking much. You’ve helped put me back together. Both of you have.”
Del wraps her arms around Hobbity’s shoulder, giving a great big squeeze, and she can’t wait until she officially calls him her big brother. Hobbity laughs and returns the hug, giving her one of his patented Hob-Bear Hugs.
They make her feel warm and safe.
“Now then, as I was saying,” Dreamy says, once Del and Hob stop hugging. “I won’t say that I knew from the first meeting that I wanted to marry you—”
“God, I fucking hope not,” Hobbity says, laughing.
“But having you as my partner, my husband , will make me happier than I’ve ever dreamed I could be.” Dreamy opens the little box and Del leans over to get a good look at the ring.
It’s really pretty. Two black bands held together with a middle row of rubies. There’s some writing on one of the bands, but Del can’t make out what it says, as well as an intricate vine pattern on the bottom band.
“ Myne owne hertis rote - In Aeternum, te amabo,” Hobbity says, his voice sounding watery as he finishes reading the words.
“What does that mean?”
Dreamy turns to her. “It means, My Own Heart’s Root - I will love you for eternity .”
“Can’t believe you used Middle English and Latin,” Hobbity says, still laughing.
“How else can I accurately represent the love of my life, than by using his two favourite languages to propose? Now, will you allow me the grace to finish?”
Del giggles, sitting back and tapping her feet in uncontrollable glee. This is it. What they’ve been waiting for since forever and ever and ever.
“Robert Gadling, will you marry me?”
Del watches as Hobbity smiles, nodding his head. She squeals as Dreamy places the ring on his finger and jumps for joy as Dreamy gathers Hobbity in his arms and they kiss.
“Come back down here, Del!” Hobbity shouts, reaching out for her. “I want to get a hug with my future little sister.”
Del dives back down, wrapping her arms around both Dreamy and Hobbity and it’s so warm and loud and good .
They aren’t quiet anymore. And sometimes things are cloudy and Too Much and everyone feels everything, and sometimes her brain refuses to work properly.
But it’s still good , and Del doesn’t think she would have it any other way.
Except, maybe once they get married, they can get Del a dog.
Notes:
And that's the end! Thank you to everyone who took the time to read this monster of a fic. It is the longest fic I have ever written and I am insanely proud of it.
Thank you for the comments and kudos and all that good stuff!
Be sure to read the other fics within the Big Bang. This fandom is SUPER talented and lovely!
Pages Navigation
im_not_corrupted on Chapter 1 Sun 03 Mar 2024 09:48PM UTC
Comment Actions
BazzyBelle on Chapter 1 Sat 03 Aug 2024 02:56AM UTC
Comment Actions
GinLane on Chapter 1 Sun 03 Mar 2024 10:04PM UTC
Comment Actions
BazzyBelle on Chapter 1 Sat 03 Aug 2024 02:58AM UTC
Comment Actions
Astrophel_Hireath on Chapter 1 Mon 04 Mar 2024 01:30AM UTC
Comment Actions
BazzyBelle on Chapter 1 Sat 03 Aug 2024 03:00AM UTC
Comment Actions
Janimoon on Chapter 1 Thu 07 Mar 2024 04:17PM UTC
Comment Actions
BazzyBelle on Chapter 1 Sat 03 Aug 2024 03:00AM UTC
Comment Actions
tryan_a_bex on Chapter 1 Tue 19 Mar 2024 02:03AM UTC
Comment Actions
BazzyBelle on Chapter 1 Sat 03 Aug 2024 03:00AM UTC
Comment Actions
Merin on Chapter 1 Fri 26 Apr 2024 09:08AM UTC
Comment Actions
BazzyBelle on Chapter 1 Sat 03 Aug 2024 03:01AM UTC
Comment Actions
Astrophel_Hireath on Chapter 2 Mon 04 Mar 2024 01:57AM UTC
Last Edited Mon 04 Mar 2024 01:58AM UTC
Comment Actions
BazzyBelle on Chapter 2 Sat 03 Aug 2024 03:03AM UTC
Comment Actions
Janimoon on Chapter 2 Thu 07 Mar 2024 04:56PM UTC
Last Edited Thu 07 Mar 2024 04:57PM UTC
Comment Actions
BazzyBelle on Chapter 2 Sat 03 Aug 2024 03:06AM UTC
Comment Actions
im_not_corrupted on Chapter 2 Thu 07 Mar 2024 10:18PM UTC
Comment Actions
BazzyBelle on Chapter 2 Sat 03 Aug 2024 03:08AM UTC
Comment Actions
onegoodeye on Chapter 2 Fri 08 Mar 2024 02:21PM UTC
Comment Actions
BazzyBelle on Chapter 2 Sat 03 Aug 2024 03:08AM UTC
Comment Actions
inmyfleabagera on Chapter 2 Thu 14 Mar 2024 11:23AM UTC
Comment Actions
BazzyBelle on Chapter 2 Sat 03 Aug 2024 03:09AM UTC
Comment Actions
inmyfleabagera on Chapter 2 Thu 14 Mar 2024 12:02PM UTC
Comment Actions
BazzyBelle on Chapter 2 Sat 03 Aug 2024 03:09AM UTC
Comment Actions
tryan_a_bex on Chapter 2 Tue 19 Mar 2024 02:18AM UTC
Comment Actions
BazzyBelle on Chapter 2 Sat 03 Aug 2024 03:09AM UTC
Comment Actions
Merin on Chapter 2 Fri 26 Apr 2024 09:27AM UTC
Comment Actions
BazzyBelle on Chapter 2 Sat 03 Aug 2024 03:11AM UTC
Comment Actions
deadseas on Chapter 2 Sat 05 Jul 2025 08:27AM UTC
Last Edited Sat 05 Jul 2025 02:39PM UTC
Comment Actions
Astrophel_Hireath on Chapter 3 Mon 04 Mar 2024 02:24AM UTC
Comment Actions
BazzyBelle on Chapter 3 Sat 03 Aug 2024 03:12AM UTC
Comment Actions
onegoodeye on Chapter 3 Fri 08 Mar 2024 02:41PM UTC
Comment Actions
BazzyBelle on Chapter 3 Sat 03 Aug 2024 03:13AM UTC
Comment Actions
tryan_a_bex on Chapter 3 Tue 19 Mar 2024 02:35AM UTC
Comment Actions
BazzyBelle on Chapter 3 Sat 03 Aug 2024 03:13AM UTC
Comment Actions
Merin on Chapter 3 Fri 26 Apr 2024 10:13AM UTC
Comment Actions
BazzyBelle on Chapter 3 Sat 03 Aug 2024 03:14AM UTC
Comment Actions
Astrophel_Hireath on Chapter 4 Fri 08 Mar 2024 04:33AM UTC
Last Edited Fri 08 Mar 2024 04:34AM UTC
Comment Actions
BazzyBelle on Chapter 4 Sat 03 Aug 2024 03:16AM UTC
Comment Actions
Pages Navigation