Chapter Text
They came to America when George was a boy.
Sometimes, if he thought about it hard enough, he could still hear his mother's voice, on that late summer night when she'd broken the news. His father had a new job opportunity, she'd said, a better life lined up for the four of them across the ocean. It would be an adjustment, of course, but a worthwhile one. She'd seemed absolutely certain of that, even as her children spent weeks protesting the move. They would all be happy in America, and so they had to go.
That was sixteen years ago.
George was no more convinced of that happiness now, at twenty-one, than he was at the age of five.
They'd settled in Texas, in a small everyone-knows-everyone kind of town. The kind of place where no one ever forgets that you're an immigrant, they just stop bringing it up. Mostly.
Well, as long as George didn't talk too much, anyway.
He'd never fully lost his accent, no matter how much his father had encouraged him to hide it growing up. George might've understood if they lived in the city, where blending in was possible, but here? Too much effort for no gain. He'd always be "that London boy" even if he lived another fifty years in this town.
Maybe he was just being dramatic, but another fifty years sounded more like a death sentence to George.
Maybe it had sounded like one to his father, too, considering he'd up and left. George had no idea where the man was now — no one in their family had heard from him in over six years. Last they knew, he was off to finally make his fortune, the same one he'd sold them on when they left Europe behind.
In the darkest corner of his heart, the part he could never tell his mother or a priest about, George hoped he hadn't made so much as a penny. That he was miserable, wherever he was. Would serve him right, the bastard.
Of course, the grief of being abandoned wasn't his only reason. There was envy there, too. His father had made it out, had taken his life into his own hands no matter the cost. George, left to pick up the pieces and help keep their family afloat, wanted that same freedom.
If George had the same chance…would he take it? Consequences be damned?
He didn't know. He doubted he'd ever know for sure, if he'd ever even get the chance.
But he still wished for it, all the same.
He met Dream on a Tuesday.
If anyone in town had asked him (not that they would've), George wouldn't have had any guess that the day would be special. Frankly, he couldn't remember the last time a day had felt important. His weekdays all blended into each other — an unremarkable mix of waking up, going to work, and then going back to bed. His weekends were largely just more of the same.
The job at the diner wasn't bad, really. He'd had worse work. The pay was decent, the owners nice enough, and the few regulars didn't usually give George a ton of trouble as long as he kept the coffee coming. It was just…dull. Like most of his life.
His sister had referred to it as him sleepwalking, the last time they spoke. Like he was only half-aware of life going on around him. A spectator in his own existence. Of course, she'd never had to spend hours waiting tables, so George had felt perfectly justified in telling her to mind her business.
Even if, to himself, he could admit she hadn't been wrong.
George's sister had taken to Texas the best out of the three of them, but even she had seized the chance to leave once she got it. She was out north with her husband now, the two of them doing some high level government work she never gave details on in her letters. Whatever it was, it was important enough that they almost never had time to come and visit anymore.
He missed her. The house, small as it was, felt so much emptier without her around.
So, yes, he was bored. Bored to tears, though he'd never admit it out loud. But that was just how life was for George. He'd never expected anything different to come along. Certainly not on a slow, quiet, rainy Tuesday afternoon.
If he were the romantic sort, George might've liked to say he saw Dream for the first time sitting in a corner booth, a hand tangled in his hair, looking wistfully out the window like some tortured poet.
The reality was that George was the one looking out the window, longing mostly for his shift to end, when his eyes caught on the car out front. Not because of the car itself — it belonged to his boss, and it had been "for sale" ever since he'd gotten a better one last summer — but because, for once in the entire time George had worked there, the driver's door was left wide open. The handle, obviously broken even from where he was standing.
And somebody was busy helping himself to whatever had been left inside.
"Hey!" George called, more in surprise than anything else. He didn't make a habit of calling out thieves, especially when it wasn't his property getting messed with, but he'd never seen someone be so blatant about it. He couldn't decide if the brazenness of it was impressive, or just plain stupid.
Being fair, maybe it was both.
There was a muffled yell from inside the car, and the young man was clutching the back of his head as he withdrew from it. He must've banged his head on the car ceiling when he heard George shout, tall as he was. The man was young, eighteen at the most, and clearly not expecting to have been caught in the act.
The cook, the only other person in the diner that day, poked his head out from the kitchen. "Everything alright, George?"
George looked again at the young man outside, who against all reason and common sense was still standing there. Like he hadn't just been caught in the middle of a crime! The man's eyes met his, and he gave George a smile, holding his hands up as if to say he came in peace.
No gun. No disguise. He wasn't a very good thief.
He was also, obviously, from out of town. George probably could have guessed that from the situation alone, but seeing his face proved it. Because George knew everyone here, whether he wanted to or not, and he knew he couldn't have forgotten a face like that.
"Uh," George said eloquently. "No, sorry. False alarm."
The cook shrugged, buying the lie easily. George had never given him a reason to think he would lie before, after all. He'd never needed to, before tonight.
Well, there was a first time for everything…
As soon as his co-worker had disappeared back into the kitchen, George turned back to the window. "Come in" he mouthed, and he waited until he saw the man move towards the door before he all but sprinted to the counter. The stack of menus sat where it always had, and George pretended to be looking them over, with great interest, to give himself the illusion of normality. His heart, oddly, felt like it was seconds away from beating right out of his chest.
A moment later, the bell above the door jingled pleasantly. The sound had never been more welcomed.
"I don't want any trouble," the man said, just as soon as he entered. He was still smiling, his tone light considering what he'd just been doing not two minutes prior, but there was an edge to him now. He looked more worried here, in front of George, than he was in the middle of a crime. Well, maybe that made sense — he had more room to run, outside.
So why take the invitation?
The real question was, who was crazier: the thief who accepted an invite inside after getting caught, or the idiot who gave it to him?
…Don't answer that.
A clattering sound came from the kitchen, and George was reminded again that they weren't alone. Jerking his head in the cook's direction, he pressed a finger to his lips. The less anyone heard, the better. He wasn't looking to go down as an accessory to the crime.
The thief, thankfully catching on, lowered his voice to just above a whisper. "I was only looking, sir. I've been thinking about buying it."
"Bull," George said. "Look at you. You don't have money for dinner, let alone a car."
"If I'm too poor for dinner, why invite me in? Seems cruel to tempt a man like that."
George rolled his eyes, even as a smile threatened to worm its way onto his face. "No one's too poor to get out of the rain. Not like we've got any paying customers tonight anyhow, you might as well sit for a while."
He gestured at the back booth, the one furthest away from the kitchen, where no one would be able to hear them if they came in. The man followed his gaze to the spot, the curiosity in his eyes growing.
"I don't know what you're after, sir," he said slowly, glancing back at the door like he was still calculating an escape route.
"I'm not after much at all," George told him, "just some company. Enough to make me forget anything I might've seen out the window this afternoon…"
Silence fell, for a moment. Then, to the surprise of both of them, the man laughed.
"You, sir, drive a hard bargain," he said, giving George a different smile. One that felt much more sincere than the one that came before it. "Though I think I might be the real winner tonight."
The sincerity was contagious, it seemed, because George smiled too.
Maybe being called an accessory wouldn't be so bad, if it meant he could keep the man talking just a little while longer…
"I'm George, by the way," he said, as the man settled into his seat in the booth. After a moment's consideration, he sat down across from him. "No need to keep calling me sir, it's too formal."
"George," the man echoed, as if testing how the name settled on his tongue. He seemed to like it. "A pleasure to meet you, George, despite the circumstances. My name is Dream."
"It is not."
"As sure as the sun rises," Dream said, an amused glint in his eye. "My mother thought a unique name would help me stand out. Can't blend in when your name is Dream."
"Not sure you've ever tried to blend in," George teased. He certainly hadn't been trying that a few minutes ago.
Dream shrugged, not the least bit embarrassed. "Didn't think I needed to. It was the only car out front, I figured this place was empty. To tell you the truth, though, I'm glad it wasn't."
"Yeah? Why's that?"
"Because," Dream said, "I think I'd rather know you than be heading home with it now. Plenty of cars out there no one actually needs — but I'll bet there's only one of you."
George coughed, his face growing hot. Damn charmer. "You a farm boy, Dream?"
"Guilty," Dream said, looking even more amused, "what gave it away?"
"You flirt. Shamelessly and without reason. Only known the local farm boys to still flirt when there isn't a pretty girl around."
"No girl," Dream agreed. Then he leaned forward, placing his hand on top of George's. "But certainly someone pretty."
George looked away. He couldn't trust his voice to stay steady if he didn't. "What brings you into town? Never seen you around before."
Dream shrugged. "Boredom, mostly. I don't live too far away, but I'd never passed through until today. Liked the thought of some place new."
"You came to the wrong place to solve that," George said, unable to keep the bitterness out of his voice. "Got nothing but boredom. Why do you think I wanted company so bad?"
"So that's how I caught your eye, eh? And here I thought it was my winning smile." Dream laid a hand against his heart, his expression turning to one of exaggerated grief.
George laughed at that. "Well, maybe that helped too."
They sat together for a while longer, out of words but not done talking. It still felt a little crazy, sitting here with a thief, but already George felt comfortable around Dream. He didn't want this to be the last time their paths crossed.
He wasn't ready to let the first interesting thing in all of Texas slip back out the diner's door.
"Tell you what," he said, "I get a free meal working a slow shift. Nothing special, but it'll fill us both up. My treat."
Dream hummed, considering the offer. "That's mighty kind of you, George. Not sure what's in it for you."
"Just want a promise," George told him.
"What kind of promise?"
"That you'll come back." Then, just to break the tension, "and that you won't try stealing again until after my shift."
Dream's smile was almost blinding. George had never seen anything quite as beautiful as it before.
"Deal."