Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Hob had fallen asleep on his couch with a half-finished report in his lap, and a fifty year old murder mystery movie playing on the telly; he was startled awake by the ringing of his landline.

“Gadling,” he mumbled, managing to sound mostly coherent. The voice on the other end was enough to shake him the rest of the way awake.

“You need to turn on the news, Investigator Gadling,” said his informant, and then hung up. The man they still had no name for, only a face that might or might not be as real as the silly nicknames he and Dream had argued over when referring to him. Hob had wanted to call him Deep Throat, after the infamous American informant, which Dream had vetoed. Hob had then suggested Stakeknife, who had infiltrated the Northern Irish Army, which Dream had felt was in extremely poor taste. Dream had eventually suggested Balfour, after the 16th century Scottish judge, who had shifted alliances so skillfully during the Protestant Reformation.

Hob grabbed blindly for his remote control and switched to the news and hit the record on the system’s PVR; a BBC reporter was attempting to interview a London police inspector about a high speed chase that had apparently just concluded with a face-to-face confrontation, resulting in several police injuries. The inspector insisted that there was no information, and then excused himself to speak with another man in uniform.

*****

“Hob, you’ve been through this recording a hundred times. What are you hoping to find?” Dream paced back and forth behind him in their small office to stop himself from saying something even more critical to his partner. Hob had pulled him in here far too early to watch the news story he had recorded the night before, which he insisted must contain some clue. 

“I don’t know,” Hob said distractedly. He replayed the recording again, pausing it frequently to analyse each second. The only discrepancy they had been able to identify was the presence of a single man, in a dark suit, who looked somehow out of place, wearing neither uniform or any kind of government identification.

“And your mysterious informant just said to turn on the news?” Dream pressed. “He didn’t tell you anything else?”

“Yeah, that’s all he said.”

“Do we perhaps have any idea why the suspect was being chased?” Dream asked.

“Apparently failed to pull over while speeding.”

Dream rolled his eyes. “A dangerous criminal indeed.”

“There has to be something we’re not seeing,” Hob said, putting the recording on pause again and taking a still capture of the frame. “Some detail we’re missing.”

“How do you know he’s not just sending you on a wild goose chase, this mysterious informant of yours?”  

“Why would he do that?”

“Well, he has lied to you before,” Dream pointed out. “Both to mislead us, by his own admission, and supposedly to protect you, as well.”

“I don’t think he would have called me if there wasn’t something here,” Hob insisted. “Something he wants me to see.”

Dream leaned over to peer more closely at the still photo of the unidentified man. “Then what are you missing?”

*****

The officers at the shipyard were less impressed with Hob and Dream’s credentials than usual, and seemed completely uninterested in helping Hob identify the one fellow who had stood out from the crowd.

“I don’t know if you’re aware of this, but there were policemen from three different boroughs here last night,” the inspector said.

“For a moving violation?” Dream asked, raising his eyebrows.

The inspector shrugged. “I’m just telling you there was a lot going on.”

“The man in this photograph doesn’t appear to be wearing a uniform, or a visible badge,” Hob said, taking the photo back from the inspector. “You’re sure he’s not one of yours?”

“You’re not wearing a uniform or a badge either, sir,” the inspector said. “And like I told you. It was an absolute zoo here.”

“The report says that the suspect fell into the water,” Hob pressed. “Any explanation for why the body hasn’t been recovered?”

“It’s an ongoing search; we have divers down there in shifts. Believe me; he’ll be found.” The man paused. “Can I ask what interest the NCA has in this particular investigation?”

“The suspect matches a description of a reported fugitive,” Hob said.

“Really?” the inspector interrupted him. “How’s that? No description of the suspect has been released.”

The two men stared each other down for a few very long seconds, then Hob averted his gaze, conceding the point, and glanced back and to the side, where Dream had been watching this rather charged exchange.

“Could we have a look at the car, please?” Hob asked, with one of his self-deprecating smiles. 

The inspector waited another beat, looking from Hob to Dream and then back again. “The vehicle has already been impounded,” he said, and then walked away.

The manager of the police impound lot was bored and far less interested in challenging their credentials, and pointed them to the correct car with no argument. He seemed to have no compunctions about leaving Dream and Hob on their own to examine the car, dust it for prints or do whatever else they might wish to do.

Hob, initially excited, quickly became deflated when it became clear that there was not a single scrap of information or evidence to be gleaned from it. 

“The report says that the car was registered to a rental company in Harrow,” Dream said, having read the unfortunately short police report several times over. Hob’s physical search of the car was becoming increasingly frustrated, and Dream did not want to get in his way in the confined space. “It  was not under any rental agreement, however, so there is no name to go off of with regards to the suspect. They claim that they had no idea that the car was even missing. Hob, I think that we are wasting our time here.”

“I don’t even know what I’m supposed to find,” Hob grumbled, getting out of the driver’s seat of the Fiesta and closing the door forcefully.  He pulled out his own file of still images that had been taken from the crime scene, and shuffled through them again, looking for the ones that showed images of the car.  He walked slowly around to the front of the car, glancing from it to the blurry photos and then back again. Suddenly he froze.

“Dream, look at this,” Hob said, beckoning his partner over to stand in front of the vehicle. He handed Dream one of the pictures which showed most of the front windshield of the car. In the far bottom corner there was some kind of image, a circular vinyl decal or other adornment. Dream squinted at the picture and then to the car in front of them, which had no such sticker. Nor did it have any telltale residue or faint circle where one might have been removed.

“It is not the same car,” Dream breathed. “They switched it with one that is an exact match to the make and model somehow?”

“And found it a plate that almost matched but wouldn’t be traceable to anyone,” Hob said with a scowl. “But what’s the sticker on the car in the picture?”

“It looks like a caduceus,” Dream said, squinting at the picture alongside Hob. “The more or less adopted symbol of medical professionals.”

“So in theory, only a doctor would want to put that on his car,” Hob said, shoving the photos into his bag and pulling out his cell phone. “I have a friend who might be able to pull the plate even with just the last four characters, if we can narrow down that it was registered to a doctor, or at least used to be.”

“That would be useful,” agreed Dream.

“They took the time to switch cars and lied about it,” Hob muttered while scrolling through his contacts. “Why would they go to all that trouble?”

“Perhaps the owner of the real car has something to hide,” Dream said. 

*****

Hob’s contact had been able to narrow down the owner of the car by make, model and partial plate, and eliminate the matches that lived in areas which made them unlikely to have been the one involved. The scrap of paper upon which Hob had scribbled a name and address led them to a small company called the EmGen Corporation, where their badges had gotten them past the front desk and in to see the likely owner of the mysteriously mislaid car. 

Dream and Hob stepped into Dr. Berube's lab, startling a row of monkeys in cages. They shifted and squealed a little, restless, and Dream looked away, uneasy. 

"Doctor Berube?" Hob asked, walking over to the scientist. 

Dr. Berube was a short man in his late 50’s, severely balding and with grey  shot through what hair was left. He glanced only briefly towards Hob and Dream as they entered; he was pouring a reddish liquid from an Erlenmeyer flask into a container set inside a larger apparatus with gloved hands. He wasn't wearing safety goggles, Dream noted disapprovingly. Then again, he and Hob had simply been let in here, directly into the lab, without being asked to don clean coats or any specialised gear at all. So far this lab was not winning any safety awards.

"Yes?" Dr. Berube asked, once the container and flask were secure. The doctor seemed harried at the interruption, a balding man with perspiration on his head and wearing a white lab coat. 

"We're with the NCA," Hob said. "Can we have a minute of your time?"

"I am quite busy," the scientist said, frowning and heading over to a table to shuffle some papers around. 

"Yes, I'm sorry; I can see that. Are you aware that a car registered to you was involved in a high-speed chase in Dagenham yesterday?"

Dream drifted closer to the monkey cages, wondering what they were being used for. Perhaps he would do more research about EmGen after they left.

"Excuse me?" Dr. Berube asked.

"A silver Ford Fiesta," Hob said. "Do you own a silver Ford Fiesta?" 

"I… yes. It was used for what?" 

"A crime,” said Hob. “Were you even aware it was missing?" 

"Not until you mentioned it. I have a housekeeper and she often uses the car. It's a second car…"

Dream was inches away from the nearest monkey cage, and not even doing much of anything  – merely looking at them to gauge if they were being properly cared for in this rather slipshod laboratory – when the monkeys started squealing, shrieking, and howling, clamouring against the bars of their cage. The cacophony had Dream stumbling backwards, hands over his ears. 

"Please! They should not be excited or disturbed," Dr. Berube exclaimed, whirling around to face Dream and the wall of cages.

Dream headed farther away from the monkeys, frowning. "I apologise, I did not realise they would react that way to my presence." 

"They are part of an experiment," said Dr. Berube.

"What kind of experiment?" Hob asked.

"Am I under some kind of suspicion?" the doctor countered.

"No,” Hob admitted.

"Then I think I have answered all your questions. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have more work than time." The doctor looked pointedly toward the door.

"Thank you," Hob said, trying not to sound disappointed, as he and Dream exited the lab. 

"Did it bite you?" Hob asked, closing the door behind them. 

Dream shook his head. "I did not get close enough." 

"Well, that's good," Hob said, and scratched his head in frustration at how slender the leads on this case were. Still, they had to be pursued. "It's five o'clock, so there's time to stop and check with the housekeeper about the car while we're out here." 

"No," Dream said, face stony. 

"What? Why not?" 

"This is absurd, Hob. All we have is the car being switched. This entire thing is based on a cryptic phone call and half a hunch!" 

"But that's all we have," said Hob, unsure why Dream was digging in his heels now of all times ; they'd investigated on less before…

"No. That's all your Balfour character has given you. Who is he, Hob? We do not know anything about him, his name or what he does for work. How do we know this isn’t him trying to lead you into a trap?”

"He's in a delicate position. He has access to information; an indiscretion could expose him."

"And how is he getting that information? This could just be a game to him, rationing out the facts, toying with you."

"You think he does it because he gets off on it?" 

"No," Dream bit out. "I think he does it because you do." And then he stalked past Hob, toward the door. 

Dream had enough time to cool off before Hob found him in the office canteen, and offered him a ride home. Dream accepted, not only because he was in no mood to be around strangers on the tube, or even in a cab, but because he did not want Hob to think that his previous angry outburst had damaged the as-yet-undetermined relationship between them. Hob was important to him; it galled him to think of his partner being manipulated by some shadowy figure whose intentions they could not ever truly know. Yet Hob’s deep desire to learn the truth, to believe the most unbelievable things were part of what drew Dream to him.

They spoke of minor matters as Hob drove, the mood tense, with both of them trying to avoid saying anything incendiary.  It was after dark when Dream got out, and Hob insisted on walking him to his door. Dream thanked him, with a perfunctory promise to see Hob in the morning at the office. 

He unlocked his door, turning out of habit to make sure Hob had returned safely to the car and stiffened as he saw a figure step out of the shadow of the hedges that surrounded his building. He had no weapon, could do very little if Hob were in danger, but pulled a glamour around him to make himself unnoticed, and closed the door firmly so that the man approaching Hob would hear that it had closed, and assume he had gone inside.

Dream moved slowly down the stairs again, careful not to make any noise; and truly he did not need to be that much closer in order for his enhanced hearing to make out the conversation.

He could not see Hob’s face, but his body language was stiff; distrustful, but not afraid. Dream caught a glimpse of the man’s face as he stepped into the glow cast by the street lamp, and inhaled sharply as he recognised it.

“Calling it a night, Investigator Gadling?” Balfour asked.

“My mother worries if I’m out too late,” Hob said, his voice audibly sarcastic even from a distance.

Balfour stepped closer to Hob, who Dream was pleased to see had kept a firm grip on the car keys in his hand. “I’m surprised at you,” he said.

“Why?” asked Hob.

“Your level of commitment seems to have diminished.”

“My level of commitment ?” 

“I would have thought you’d be working through the night, trying to get to the bottom of this one,” Balfour said. “Trying to put the pieces together.”

“Well, maybe if you’d actually given me something to work with.”

“Under the circumstances,” said Balfour, “I’ve given you all I can.”

“A news report,” Hob said, clearly annoyed. “Thanks so much.”

“And where has it led you?”

“Not very far!”

Balfour chuckled a little. “It may be further than you realise.”

“You know, from day one, this has always been on your terms.” Hob stepped forward towards the other man, away from the car, and his voice was raised slightly louder in his anger. “I've gone along. Been the dutiful son. How about just this once we cut out the Obi-Wan Kenobi crap and you can save me the trouble.”

“I fear you’ve become too dependent on me.”

“Let me tell you something. I’ve got plenty of work to do without chasing down your vague, useless leads or trying to decode your circular logic. Maybe it’s you who’s become too dependent on me . On my willingness to play your games.”

Hob turned back toward the car and yanked open the driver’s side door, when Balfour’s voice caused him to pause again.

“Robert…”

“What?” Hob snapped, looking over his shoulder at the shadowed figure.

Balfour walked up to him and put a gentle hand on Hob’s shoulder. His voice was only just audible, even to Dream’s ears. “Don’t give up on this one. Trust me. You’ve never been closer.”

“Closer to what?” begged Hob.

“To answers that lie where you least expect them,” Balfour said, and looked up towards the stairs where Dream stood. “Very personal answers.”

Dream’s breath caught in his throat. Did Hob’s mysterious informant have the ability to see through his glamour? Was he implying that Dream had some of the answers to this particular case? He stood in the dark and watched Hob drive away, and the infuriatingly mysterious man slip back into the shadows and vanish.

*****

Dream stared at the report he had been handed, standing still even as Hob moved busily around the disordered remains of what had been the EmGen laboratory. Any furniture not bolted to the floor had been overturned, broken glass was everywhere, and the cages which had held the monkeys that had so unsettled him were now empty. Doctor Berube’s dead body had already been removed. 

“The Haringey police have already started an investigation, and the preliminary report has it listed as a suicide,” Dream said.

“Suicide?” Hob repeated dubiously.

“Yes,” Dream said, his voice betraying that he shared Hob’s doubt about the classification. “They believe that, for some reason, Doctor Berube destroyed his own laboratory and then killed himself.”

“How?”

“It says that he tied one end of a roll of medical gauze around his neck and the other around this gas outlet,” Dream said, gesturing with one gloved hand to the outlet which was, indeed, wrapped in medical gauze. “And then jumped out the window.”

“I don’t suppose there were any witnesses?” Hob asked.

“Unfortunately, no.”

“The man we met yesterday was driven, focused on his work. I would never have pegged him as someone to do something like this.”

“I agree that this is quite troubling,” Dream said. “Particularly the gauze.”

“It’s a bit too calculated for a fit of despair, huh?” Hob said, touching the gas outlet. “Almost as if someone wanted to make doubly sure he’d break his neck before he hit the ground.”

Dream looked from the table to the window and then back at Hob and frowned, but did not say anything.

Hob turned away from the window and began to pace again. “What else do we know about Doctor Berube?”

Dream referred back to the folder in his hands. “Terrence Alan Berube. Cambridge Medical. He worked as part of the Human Genome Project for a number of years with the Wellcome Institute. Left to start his own team five years ago and founded EmGen. Are you familiar with the Human Genome Project?”

“Yeah,” Hob said. “They wanted to map and study all human genes. Maybe the most ambitious scientific endeavour in the history of mankind.”

“There’s nothing extraordinary about that being part of his dossier, with his educational background; thousands of scientists worldwide have worked on that project since it started in 1990. It’s not as though one scientist could finish it alone.”

“Yeah,” said Hob. “But only one scientist owned a silver Ford Fiesta and went bungee-jumping with medical gauze wrapped around his neck.” He continued to poke and prod at items on the lab tables, possibly at random, for all that Dream could tell.

Dream sighed. “I do not understand what you are implying, Hob. I see the pieces but not the connection.”

“Well, maybe that’s just it. Maybe we’re not seeing it because it can’t be seen with the naked eye.” Hob picked up a stoppered Erlenmeyer flask that contained a few centimetres of red liquid at the bottom, and Dream recalled seeing Berube handling it on their first visit. “What do you think this is, Doctor Aeternum?”

“I have no idea.” Dream peered at the item, which was marked with a yellow sticker that simply said Purity Control. “According to the label it is Purity Control.” 

“Whatever that means,” said Hob. 

“I was not particularly impressed with the rigour of Doctor Berube’s scientific procedure when we visited before. But perhaps there is a file somewhere in the office that explains what it is,” Dream offered. 

“Police have confiscated all his records from what I could see. You think there’s something the police might have missed?” Hob said thoughtfully. “It’s worth a try.”

“What will you do with that, then?” Dream asked.

“I have a friend who might be able to get me in contact with a lab who can analyse it,” said Hob. “Maybe it’s a clue.”

“I will check Dr. Berube’s house and see if perhaps he had backups of his records, or if I can find out any other information that might help us,” Dream said. 

Dr. Berube's home was less than fifteen minutes on foot, which perhaps made it less surprising that he could pretend not to notice that his car had been “stolen.” Dream decided to go there immediately, while Hob was off getting the mysterious liquid in the flask analysed. He shouldn't have let Hob take the sample, he thought distantly. But the alternative was Hob ending up in Berube's home, free to find any research that might be located there. He wasn't sure which would yield more damning results. 

Besides, Dream was much better suited to slipping into houses unnoticed, he thought wryly, walking in between two heavy hedges, wrapping a glamour over himself, and emerging unseen to look for any unlocked windows to climb through. He was able to gain entry without incident and looked briefly around before settling on the home office as the most likely place that records would be kept.

If there were backups of Berube’s research here, they were not in a place that was evident to Dream, however. There was no laptop, and the computer contained nothing more interesting than electronic copies of his bills and tax records for EmGen. There was a well-worn pocket-sized address book with less than a dozen contacts written in it, half of which were things like a housekeeper and a dry cleaner. The book also looked like it had not been used or updated in years. The phone on the desk, however, was a high end set with an LCD display and an internal memory that showed the last twenty numbers dialled and received. Eighteen of those calls were to the same number.  

Dream scribbled the phone number down on a scrap of paper and called his contact at the agency who had access to the necessary government databases. He didn’t want to risk  being on the line if Hob needed something, however, so he gave Dr. Berube’s office phone as the number to call him back with results. 

Dream continued to sort through papers and folders, unable to decide if he was relieved or not by the lack of any incriminating information about what, precisely, Dr. Berube had been researching.

The desktop phone rang, and Dream answered it without looking at the caller ID, distracted. “That was extremely quick work,” he said, expecting his agency contact.

“Terry? Is that you?” a voice asked quaveringly. A man’s voice he had never heard before. 

“Yes,” Dream lied after only a moment’s hesitation. “Who is this?”

“It’s Will. They shot me, Terry,” the man continued, without answering him. “Oh, god. I’ve been in the water for three days. I’m hurt.”

In the water for three days? Dream’s mind raced, and he blurted out, “Where are you now?”

“At…I’m at a payphone,” the man’s voice was strained, breathless.

“I’m going to pick you up,” Dream said. This could only be the suspect whose chase had started this entire debacle. “Where are you?”

“I… Terry-” the man groaned, clearly in pain and then there was a clatter as if the receiver had been dropped.

“Are you all right?” Dream called loudly into the phone. “Are you still there?”

There was a muffled sound of voices in the background, and then a new voice got on the line. “Hullo? This man’s been hurt; he needs medical attention.”

“What street are you on?” Dream practically shouted into the phone but the person on the other end paid him no mind. 

“I’m going to call 999!”

“What street? Sir!” Dream called, but there was no response other than the click of the phone being hung up.  He swore under his breath and hung up the receiver. He opened the desk drawers again and pawed through the contents one more time. A keyring in the side drawer had keys that did not match the ones in the police crime scene evidence photos; they were not keys to either this house or the EmGen laboratory, and only one of them was labelled with a single word - ‘Secare.” Dream placed them into his pocket to examine later.

The phone rang again almost immediately; this time it was his contact at the Agency, with the information on the phone number in Dr. Berube’s records.

“The phone number belongs to a company called Zeus Storage. I have the address.”

“Yes, of course,” Dream said, trying to focus on this sudden shift in his attention. “I’m taking it down.” He paused, the name jogging his memory for something he’d seen before, grabbing a receipt from his pocket to use as paper to write the address on, and caught a slow movement out of the corner of his eye, through the window of the office. As he absentmindedly wrote down the address his contact provided him, for Zeus Storage, he watched an unmarked white van slowly pull away, only just catching a glimpse of a large man with a crew cut through the window.

*****

Hob had gotten the referral to Doctor Anne Carpenter through a friend of one of his mates from the army. She was polite and didn’t act as though a random NCA investigator coming to her with a mysterious flask full of god-knew-what to be analysed ASAP was an imposition, which was all Hob could have hoped for.

“Well my immediate guess is some kind of blood sample, in a preservative medium,” Doctor Carpenter said, carefully unsealing the flask and removing a tiny amount with a pipette to prepare a slide for her microscope. “Can I ask where you got it?”

“It was recovered at a crime scene,” Hob said, which was true even if it didn’t begin to scratch the surface.

“Well I’m assuming if it was recovered like this , it wasn’t the kind of blood sample that normally comes from a crime scene,” she joked. “Colonel Mustard in the study with rope, and all that.”

Hob chuckled politely at her joke and waited while she looked through the microscope at whatever there was to see. “Not like that at all, no. I do appreciate your time. It could very well turn out to be nothing.”

“No…I think you might have something here.” Carpenter frowned at her microscope and toggled a switch, so that the view through the lens showed on the computer screen on the desk. A confusing diorama of shapes and colours were clearly cells, but meant nothing more to Hob. “Look at this.”

“What are they?” Hob asked.

“Well, they’re red blood cells. And by shape and size, they look on the surface mostly like human blood cells. But they can’t be.”

“Could they be from some kind of monkey?” Hob asked, remembering the screeching animals in the lab. “Those are close relatives of humans, right?”

“Not any kind of monkey I’m aware of. Here. Let me show you.” She turned the dial on the microscope to zoom in, working quickly to get the strange objects into focus. 

“What am I looking at?” Hob prompted.

“These are the cells. And that,” she pointed to a tinier object inside the cell, “is the cell nucleus.”

“Okay?”

“Human blood cells aren’t nucleated, Investigator Gadling. Most mammalian blood isn’t. Our blood cells shed the nucleus during cell growth in order to be able to process a greater amount of oxygen. Oh there are a few exceptions among mammals, like camels, and a few other extremophiles. But this cell structure should belong to some kind of lizard or amphibian, and it definitely shouldn’t look like this. ”

“Not human,” Hob murmured, mostly to himself.

“Definitely not. Except on the surface it very much looks like it should be. I can run this by the people in Zoology and find out what kind of animal it’s from but I’m not hopeful they’ll know either,” she said “It might be some kind of experimental hybrid, in which case it’s going to be proprietary and they won’t have seen anything like it. But there’s always the chance it’s just something exotic and rare I haven’t heard of. I watched a documentary last week about the Galapagos pink iguana, maybe it’s one of those.” She chuckled again.

“A dragon,” Hob murmured out loud, before he could catch himself.

Doctor Carpenter laughed. “Yeah, sure. Or maybe a unicorn. But I’ll need to send this to them to get more information; if you don’t mind waiting?”

“No,” said Hob. “No, I’ll wait.”

Hob stepped out of the room to take a seat in the small employee lounge, mostly to get out of Dr. Carpenter’s way and paused as his cell phone rang. It was Dream.“Dream?” Hob answered his phone. “Are you all right?”

“Hob, he’s alive – the fugitive. The driver of the missing car. He called the doctor’s house while I was there.”

“Where is he now?” Hob asked.

“I have no idea, unfortunately,” Dream said. “It was a very brief contact. Where are you?”

“I’m at UCL’s Microbiology department,” Hob said. “We may have something here.”

“Is it another name and address to chase down? Because that is all I have managed to get.”

“If we had a name and address to go with this sample we’d definitely be getting somewhere,” Hob said. “Some kind of blood sample, except the lab thinks it may be from something where the DNA may have been altered. Human on the surface, but genetically manipulated, possibly even some kind of hybrid.”

“The monkeys in Doctor Berube’s lab?” Dream offered.

“Not according to my new friends here,” Hob said. “But they’re going to run some primary cell cultures and a DNA sequence. No idea how long that will take.”  Hob waited for Dream to respond but there was only silence on the other end. “Dream? Are you still there?”

“Yes,” Dream’s voice came back, sounding distracted. “Keep up the good work. I will update you once I find something.”

"Dream?" 

"I will speak to you later." The line went dead.

*****

Dream had been torn about whether to follow Hob to the university, in case there would be any opportunity to stop him from finding out what Dream now strongly suspected they would find. That the blood sample from EmGen was from someone like him, or like one of his siblings. He racked his brains, trying to remember if he had seen the name EmGen on any of the papers from when Destiny had made him visit to help in settling his father’s estate. But no. Berube had founded his company only five or so years ago. Dream might never learn the name of the company which his father had invested in.

But a DNA sequence would take time, and if Dream checked out this Zeus Storage while Hob was safely out of the way, he could decide how much danger his secrets might be in first. In the cab ride there, he reviewed the address book he had grabbed from Berube’s home office. ‘Will,’ the man on the phone had said. One of the scant handful of names in the address book had been for Doctor William Secare, with a phone number that was no longer in service. But scribbled under his name in a different colour ink had been the name ‘Zeus.’ It would make sense that if Berube had helped him to escape some kind of capture that perhaps they had been friends for a long time.

Now, in front of the dimly lit storage facility, Dream was confronted with a simple chain link fence and a gate with a large padlock. Both the keys and the address book looked as though they had not been touched in years, and yet when Dream used the key marked ‘Secare’ on the padlock, it opened smoothly, and Dream slipped inside.

When he got his first clear look at what was inside of Zeus Storage, Dream nearly dropped his torch, backing away with one hand clapped over his mouth. Feeling sick. Enormous aquatic tanks surrounded him, lined up against each wall of the space, and inside were … his mind shied away from epithets and labels and settled on … people. He had to assume they were people, just as he was. He'd always known he was a genetic experiment. He'd always known some of his other siblings, like Del, were as well, though in a different way. He'd always known the scope went beyond just their family. Being confronted with the evidence, that it was still being done, well…

They were feathered and scaled on their limbs, clawed and taloned, and they seemed like an even less human version of what Dream himself was. Clouds of black hair floated around their heads. They were breathing underwater, despite not having gills. 

(He'd always known he was a failed model, too. Not at all what they had been hoping for. He hadn't been telepathic or psychic, not even to the level that his youngest sister was. He hadn't had superhuman endurance. He couldn’t even breathe under water. He'd always been too soft, physically and mentally, for his father's purposes.

"What use is a hybrid who governs dreams?" Time had spat. 

A hybridised, genetically engineered person who could walk in dreams and had developed a spectacularly anxious set of neuroses, to boot.)

The being in the nearest tank floated and rolled over, black eyes snapping open to stare directly at Dream, who should have been invisible to anyone looking. One by one, in a fluid motion, they all rolled to stare at him, and Dream – took a step backwards. A mounting pressure built in his skull, like a migraine. No. No, this was like a waking nightmare, an invasion that could only be psionic in nature, and he would never know what their intentions were – because he bolted out the door of the warehouse, and didn't stop until he was halfway down the block and gagging in an alley. 

Once he'd more or less recovered all his faculties, Dream began to put his thoughts in order. Hob couldn't find out about them. Hob couldn't find out about him. But he didn't have the first idea of what to divert Hob with. His investigative partner seemed to have an unfortunately well-honed read on Dream's mental state, and was also incredibly stubborn. He would know something was wrong and press Dream for answers.

He needed to find this Secare. If Secare were connected to this warehouse and had spent three days breathing underwater he must certainly be another genetically modified being . But Dream had no allies of his own in this, if he was trying to keep Hob away from it. Hob's allies were not his, here, either. And Dream's siblings either had their own agendas or were not equipped to aid in this particular investigation. The hybrids in the warehouse lab were likely superior versions to Dream. He thought of attempting to free them but he had no resources, no way to help them. All he could think, as the sky began darkening incrementally, was how utterly useless he was and always had been. 

*****

Hob had been shown into a faculty lounge and had only meant to lie down for a moment; but he woke up when Dr. Carpenter tapped gently on shoulder, and sat up, feeling guilty.

“Doctor Carpenter,” Hob said, sitting up. “Sorry, didn’t mean to fall asleep.”

“We got the preliminary karyotype results back, from the sample you brought in,” she said. She sat down next to Hob on the small couch and opened her laptop eagerly. She looked excited. “Do you know anything about molecular biology?”

“No, not at all, sorry,” Hob said.

“This report is for the genetic makeup of the cells in that sample. These are chromosome pairs,” she said, pointing to  the laptop screen. “The rest of the analysis reads as human; there are genes here that only exist in humans. A full report takes time, but since you mentioned this came from a lab where they were doing experiments on monkeys, I looked for some specific markers. We can pinpoint several genes that don’t exist in any other species besides humans, even our close relatives like the great apes.”

“Humans have twenty-three chromosome pairs,” Hob said, frowning. “I remember that much at least from secondary school. This looks like there are more than twenty-three on this report.”

“Exactly,” Dr. Carpenter said excitedly. “Just like the blood cells, there are certain things that mark them as human, but they can’t be.”

“But humans have extra chromosomes sometimes,” Hob said. “Genetic abnormalities.”

“You’re thinking of trisomy,” Dr. Carpenter said. “That still results in the correct number of sets, but with more than two chromosomes in the set. This is something else. Whoever this sample came from has more chromosomes than a human. Like a horse or a platypus.”

“But you’re still saying someone, ” Hob noted. “So you don’t think this is from some kind of genetically modified animal after all.”

“I mean, I wouldn’t be able to publish anything just based on this,” Dr. Carpenter laughed ruefully. “But I firmly believe this blood belongs to a person. A person who isn’t human.”

You could have heard a pin drop in the silence that followed, until Hob's mouth worked, a strangled sort of noise escaping. "Are you saying, Doctor Carpenter, that we have evidence of supernatural or cryptid life?"

"Yes," said Dr. Carpenter, hushed. 

"...I need tea about this," Hob said, faintly. 

"Go get us lunch from the cafeteria," Dr. Carpenter said, patting him on the shoulder. 

Hob returned holding a tray of tea, crisps, and sandwiches only to smell smoke. Hob froze, trying to figure out where the smoke was coming from. The hall was oddly empty. Then the fire alarm klaxons went off, ear-piercing. Hob winced. Down the hall he saw thick, discoloured smoke wisping out from the lab. He dumped the tray on the floor, clapped his hands over his ears, and bolted toward the lab where he had left Dr. Carpenter. 

He got close enough to tell that the lab… the lab was full of smoke, even though there was no visible fire. "Doctor Carpenter!" Hob yelled. "Doct-"

"Sir, you can't go in there!" a firefighter shouted, having rounded the corner in full protective gear. "Come with me out of the building."

"There's someone in the lab still!" Hob insisted as the firefighter pulled him away by the arm. "Doctor Anne Carpenter." 

"If she's alive in there we'll get her out!" the firefighter said, thrusting Hob toward the door leading to the outside. The man's radio squawked. "Hazmat en route," a garbled voice said through it, and then the firefighter let go of Hob when they reached the outside. Before he could ask more questions, figure out what had happened, the firefighter vanished.

This could be a coincidence, a horrible accident, in a lab full of chemicals and biological agents. Or it could be deliberate. The evidence of human hybrids had died along with Dr. Carpenter. 

He dialled Dream, heart still pounding with adrenaline, sweaty fingers fumbling for the right buttons. 

You have reached the voicemail of Doctor Morpheus Aeternum…

Hob cursed, staring up at the grey sky, and sat heavily on the grass. 

Dream had wasted the better part of an hour returning to his flat and trying to decide his next move. The keys were what drove Dream back to Dr. Berube’s house; if the scientist had not been in on the whole thing, wouldn’t his friend have changed the locks to the storage facility? He left them safely in one of his hiding places at home and set back out to return to the dead scientist’s residence. It was the middle of the night before he reached the residence, and no lights were on in the house that had not been on when he left it. He moved as quietly as he could this time, but without engaging his glamour. He strained his supernatural hearing for any sign that someone else was in the house.

The late hour meant he had only been able to gather the most preliminary information possible about one Doctor William Secare. There was no obituary for the man, but professionally he had ceased to exist approximately five years ago. Slowly, and oh so carefully, he made his way to the second floor, and to what had appeared to be an unused bedroom, repurposed for storage of random items. 

Dream heard a shuffle from the far side of the room, a quiet sound he did not know if another man would have heard. He thought he saw movement from the shadows.

“Doctor Secare?” Dream called out. A flurry of movement, a body running at him. Before Dream could react, the man was in front of him, holding the front of his jacket in both hands, and swung Dream around so that his back was pressed to the wall.

"Doctor Secare. I’m here to help. I'm – I'm like you, and like the others at the storage facility, I'll protect you," Dream hissed. "I haven't told anyone, not even my partner –"

Secare released him briefly, and Dream moved from the wall, trying to figure out his next action.

A shot rang out, and bright, overwhelming pain bloomed in his back and ribs. Dr. Secare gasped in pain, and fell backwards, just as Dream crumpled to the floor in agonised confusion. His face seared with acid-sharp pain, and waves of pain still radiated from points in his lower torso. 

"You should have been more careful, Doctor Aeternum," a silky voice whispered.

Chapter Text

Dream lay on the floor and clutched his face with one hand, stomach with the other, gasping in pain and choking. He'd meant to protect the other man, and now – 

It was too late for that now. They must have shot right through Secare and into Dream's body. Someone grabbed his hands, viciously binding them behind him, and roughly blindfolded and stuffed a gag in his mouth. There had been a voice; a voice he recognized, but now there was nothing, no barked orders or threats, only pain. The agony radiated through him in a sickening wave with every rough movement. A needle sank into his skin before he remembered he could use his powers, cutting him off from the Dreamscape. His shirt was steadily becoming wetter with something warm and sticky. 

Foggily, he spotted a man in black with a crew cut, before his watery, burning eyes slid away like they were on oiled ball bearings. He was bleeding out, and choking on something, he thought dimly. Why were they bothering? He was so cold. Why was it cold…?

The pain receded as darkness expanded around him. 

*****

Where the hell was Dream? 

Hob bit his lip, sitting on a bench to think. Dream had not been reachable since last night, ever since they'd split up to follow their respective leads. His gut was screaming at him that something was very, very wrong, that Dream’s behaviour had been off. He had never ruled out that Dream was possibly a spy, one who had stolen an X-File from the office, but he was also responsive and otherwise competent. It was unlike him. 

He'd called, and checked the office, and located Dream's flat to find it locked, empty, and dark. 

Someone sat next to him on the bench. He hadn't heard them approaching, lost in thought, and he jerked his head up.

"Investigator Gadling?" the dark-skinned woman next to him asked. 

"Hello," he said, turning to study her. "May I help you, Ms…?"

"You may call me Tee, Investigator," she said, and smiled, radiant. Then her smile fell. "I'm worried about my little brother. We were supposed to have dinner last night, and he never showed up and hasn't contacted me."

"Have you filed an official report?" he asked, before his brain caught up abruptly to the fact that she'd known exactly who he was when she approached. "I'm sorry, Tee, but I don't think I can help you," he said, rising from the bench.

"On the contrary, Hob Gadling. My brother works with you. His name is Morpheus, and I think you're looking for him, too."

Tee let Hob into Dream's flat to search for clues. Honestly, he wasn't sure what he was expecting from his partner's flat. For it to be prim, goth, and orderly, perhaps. It was full of black furniture and a minimalist colour scheme. It otherwise looked like a windstorm had hit it. Books littered almost every available surface, along with spiral notebooks and several stray tea mugs; there was no TV in the main area. Art prints on the wall contained most of the non-black colour, vivid art styles that clashed with the rest of the decor. 

Tee sighed. "It always looks like this," she said, when he turned to her with wide eyes, reassuring Hob that the state of Dream's flat wasn't from some hostile search.

The other time Dream had been off doing his own thing without telling Hob, in Birmingham and deeply shaken by Liuter Bondar, he'd been visibly falling apart. His recent strangeness held none of that, just a disturbing evasiveness. "He never told me where he was going," Hob complained. "He's normally a little weird but he just…" 

"Sometimes he gets something in his head and has to follow it through," Tee offered. 

Hob didn't really know what he was looking for, either, which didn't help. Maybe the missing X-File? A convenient day planner with "I went here to investigate the case" written in it? He rummaged through the loose papers, and the spiral notebooks, finding nothing; the receipts in Dream's trash told him that Dream shopped at Tesco's, and really liked one particular tea shop, but not anything unusual. 

If the main living area was a disaster, Dream's bedroom with the attached bath was worse. His bed was high off the floor and virtually a nest of blankets and clothes. Hob spotted his own green jumper in the pile, and felt impossibly fond, and also like he shouldn't be in here. He opened the drawer to Dream's wooden bedside table – were those scratches next to the alarm? maybe Dream had owned a cat some time ago – and found no day planner, but confusingly, a spray bottle that was for washing bird feathers. Maybe Dream had once owned a bird?

He turned to Dream's bedroom bookcase – Dream's furniture seemed to consist mostly of bookcases, frankly, Hob had counted five in the main living area compared to a tiny sofa and a coffee table and a desk jammed in one corner – and let his gaze sweep over them.

Most of the books were piled haphazardly, not really sorted in a meaningful fashion – but a massive one was perfectly upright, and comparatively pristine. Corvids of Eurasia: An Encyclopaedia. 

"Gotcha," Hob muttered, and tugged the book off the shelf, still not really sure what he'd find.

It fell open to reveal a hollowed centre with a tumbler lock embedded within it. Hob closed his eyes, trying to think of if Dream had any numbers he was particularly fond of. 

Hob had catalogued the missing X-File: #1389. He moved the tumblers, to 1-3-8-9, and a click sounded, a spring mechanism popping up the top so he could open it. He was greeted by a memo pad with shorthand writing within it, laid atop X-File #1389, and when he lifted both out, a stack of photos caught his attention. 

"Oh," he said softly, looking at a much, much younger child who could only be Dream, face much softer and more open, eyes still a vivid blue and hair black as jet. Next to him was a girl, black hair falling past her shoulders, a streak of white near the top. Her brown eyes sparkled, even in the photograph. Jessamy, then. 

He turned the photograph over. Oddly, there was nothing written on the back. He supposed there didn't need to be. This collection was in part a shrine to Dream's lost friend. 

"He never got over her death," Tee said, standing nearby. Hob jumped. He had not heard her coming at all. A trait she and Dream shared, apparently, sneaking up on people. But there was more than just the X-File in this hiding place.

"I guess not. But I found a receipt dated from this week,” Hob said. “And it has an address in his handwriting.”

*****

Hob approached the storage facility at the address from Dream’s hastily scribbled note; it had taken some deciphering of Dream's nearly illegible shorthand, but he'd figured it out. Dream’s sister had given him her phone number, but insisted on staying at Dream’s flat in case he returned there, somehow. Hob wasn’t sure he completely believed her reasons, but he also didn’t want to risk bringing a civilian with him to what might be a dangerous confrontation. The keys he’d found at Dream’s place with the address opened the padlock. The warehouse, when he stepped inside, was empty. 

"What the hell?" Hob muttered. 

"Hell has little to do with this, Mr. Gadling." Balfour's voice echoed eerily, as he stood in the doorway. "This is where you needed to be about a day and a half ago. Your partner found it instead.."

"He was here, and now he's missing," Hob said blankly. "What was in here? Why wouldn’t he have told me? Is he working for someone else?”

"Not for outside interests, in this case," Balfour said. "His motive was personal. He's not here anymore. And hybrids, to answer your first question, Mr. Gadling. Genetically engineered human hybrids. They have likely all been destroyed."

Answers that lie where you least expect them… and a personal motive. Hob felt like he had the dots, but he couldn't quite connect them.

"Hybrids," Hob repeated, a bit stupidly, and then: "Yeah, I gathered he's not here. He’s not anywhere else either. Where is he? His sister's worried. I'm worried. I don't care if he's spying, or lied about his motives," Hob said, and was surprised to find it was completely true. He would burn down anything that tried to hurt Dream. Anything that tried to keep him from Dream if Dream needed help. Dream had come for him before when Hob needed it. Regardless of motive, their paths were entwined now. If Dream was an X-File thief, if Dream was lying, if Dream was a spy – Dream was Hob's liar and thief. And no one else got to do anything to him. 

"They apprehended him at Berube's house, after they captured Doctor Secare – the fugitive from the car chase," Balfour said. "If you want to go after him… They will not give him up easily. But evidence still exists, even with this place gone." 

"Where?"

"The former Human Genome research division in the UK, now under Army jurisdiction. With your military background, I should be able to get you inside. They might make a deal with you: Doctor Aeternum for the evidence." 

Hob swallowed, hard. "What's in there?" 

"The wellspring, Investigator Gadling. The source of all of this.”

*****

The former research division was in Hinxton, South Cambridgeshire. The drive would be approximately an hour, giving Balfour time to set up the necessary forged paperwork. Hob was painfully aware that if Balfour chose to betray him, there would be nothing he could do. Dream would not be able to come for him this time. No, this time, he needed to save Dream. He didn't know who Dream truly was, but Hob still thought he knew enough. This was the right decision. It was the only decision. 

They could be torturing Dream. Removing his memories, like they'd done with Hob at RAF Waddington. Hob gritted his teeth, and kept driving. 

After meeting with Balfour's man just outside of camera range of the facility, who then slipped away like he'd never been there at all, Hob pinned the new ID badge to his chest. His hair was tucked under a hat to hide the fact it was no longer military style, and he assumed his best air of confidence and military discipline and strode into the facility. It was cold and sterile, plasticky and glassy and full of cheap linoleum – likely a cover. How could anything so shoddy and unremarkable contain a secret project? And yet. 

He encountered no problems with keycard access, or in showing his ID to the first guard, but then he encountered the second guard station near the lifts. The man scrutinised Hob. "Name?" he asked.

"Colonel Robert Gadling," Hob said, handing over the ID for inspection. 

After a moment, the guard handed it back. "Company or institution?" he asked. 

"The Army," Hob said, choosing not to elaborate unless pressed. 

"Project password?"

Hob forced himself to stay outwardly relaxed as he cursed Balfour for not giving him this information. Then a memory of the Erlenmeyer Flask from Berube's lab – the one they'd killed Dr. Carpenter for – came back to him.

"Purity control," he answered, and then held his breath. 

"Thank you. Please sign in," said the guard, producing a clipboard and pen. 

Hob stared, not believing his eyes, despite always wanting to believe, despite his desperate searches for the truth. The crystalline egg in front of him, contained within a cryogenic chamber, was like something out of a fantasy novel. A faint pink-orange core glowed within its ice-blue exterior. Even frozen, and layered with tiny frost crystals, it pulsated with light and energy. Colourless crystals and grey rock sprouted from the bottom. 

The main shade of blue was inexplicably the same colour as Dream's eyes. How had he ever appreciated Dream's eyes properly before? 

Dream. This was for Dream. He could not dawdle; any moment, someone could realise he was here on false business and sound the alarm. He donned thick leather gloves over the heavy rubber gloves, and removed the egg from its container. He set it in the briefcase, whose inside had been converted into an ice cooler of sorts. He closed the briefcase with a click that sounded horribly loud in the otherwise empty room, locked it, and straightened. No alarms sounded; if any had been tripped, they were utterly silent. 

He walked as calmly as he could the way he came, the briefcase feeling like the heaviest thing he'd ever carried. 

*****

Dream opened his eyes to soft light, arms and legs strapped down. He ached, and catching hold of thoughts hurt his head. A mask was strapped over his face.

"You were not supposed to be there," a velvet voice said above Dream, slick Queen's English. "My men got a little overenthusiastic. Consider the gunshot treatment a freebie." 

The word freebie in that accent briefly brought the possibility that this was some sort of drug-induced dream. He blinked, muzzy, mouth dry, muscles cramped, skin bruised and side throbbing. 

"The rest, not so much," the voice continued, and everything dipped and weaved. 

Moving. They were moving him. A blonde devil smoking a cigar leaned down over him and said something else, voice now distorted, but enough to hear the words your partner. Exchange. The light wreathed them in a broken, smoke-stained halo. Hob? What had Hob done? 

The ceiling floated and spun around him. His eyes were once again rolling loose in his head. His body disconnected. Smeared imprints of light and sound, fluorescent bulbs and the scent of Cuban cigars wafted through. He struggled to observe his surroundings, but couldn't remember what for. A needle sank into his arm, again, and he jerked, the ceiling dissolving in his vision, into spreading black spots. 

*****

It had started to rain on the drive back from Hinxton. As much as he had wanted to drive fast, cover the distance, it would have been all too convenient for those operating against him and Dream if he had skidded off the road. So he had driven, steadily but carefully, until he reached the area Balfour had designated, on the outskirts of Greater London. 

There, he awaited Balfour anxiously, who was due to arrive first. The car was still running; if he and Dream needed to make a hasty exit, starting the car would lose valuable time. If they even gave him Dream to begin with. 

Another car pulled up, a similar dark sedan, and Balfour got out. Hob opened his car door.

"Do you have it?" 

"Yes," Hob said. 

"Good. They're willing to make the exchange." Balfour reached out through the car window. “The package, Investigator Gadling.”

“I don’t think so. I’ll make the exchange.”

“I arranged the deal; they’re expecting me. If we deviate from what they expect, all our lives could be in danger.”

“Why should I trust you, after all this? After you let Dream get taken in the first place? If you’d told me what was going on from the start we wouldn’t be in this situation.”

“You have no choice but to trust me, if you want your partner back,” Balfour snapped.

“All this time I’ve trusted you and yet you somehow still have told me nothing I can hold on to. Your name, what your part is in all this,” Hob said. He couldn’t help but hear Dream’s words coming out of his own mouth, when he had told Hob to stop letting himself be baited by this man. “I don’t even know who you really are!”

“Pull yourself together,” Balfour snapped. “Let me tell you something, Investigator Gadling. In 1987 a group of children from Tower Hamlets were given what their parents thought were their normal, routine inoculations. What they were injected with was clone DNA from the contents of that package you’re holding. As a test . That’s the kind of people we’re dealing with.”

“So why give it back to them?” Hob asked.

“To save Doctor Aeternum’s life.”

“At the risk of so many other lives?”

“It’s only the tip of the iceberg,” Balfour sighed. “And I believe that you and your partner are the only ones who have a chance to bring the truth to light. All of it. But Doctor Aeternum’s … special circumstances, and his family connections, won’t be enough to save them if we don’t follow through on this exchange. Now. Give it to me.” He reached out his hand for the parcel.

Hob hesitated for just a moment longer, jaw clenched against the fury and fear that he felt. As he stood there, a white unmarked van pulled up in front of where he had parked his own car. Both he and Balfour watched it carefully.

“Now, Gadling.”

With a sigh, Hob handed him the package and then jogged back to his vehicle so that if the worst happened he would not be in the line of fire. The van pulled up next to Balfour’s car, and Hob watched the informant get out of his car to be met by a tall, wide-shouldered stranger who emerged from the van’s passenger side.  He wore no kind of uniform or other government identification, and Hob stiffened in alarm when he saw that the stranger was carrying a gun. The two men approached each other carefully. Balfour handed the package to the tall man, who turned to place it inside the white van.

Then several things happened almost simultaneously. 

The doors to the back of the van were thrown open and Dream was shoved out, falling to the street, impacting the pavers hard. A shot rang out, and Balfour crumpled to the ground; the van drove away, tires squealing.

Hob stumbled over to Balfour, who lay prone on the ground, lights and shadows glancing off his body like sparks. "Trust no one," Balfour rasped, and then his body shimmered, as if it had been a mirage, and vanished. What the fuck? 

Dream groaned, nearby, and Hob’s head whipped around to see him struggling to sit up. "Dream!" he yelled.

*****

The two dark-clothed men had shoved Dream out the back of the van with no warning. His hands and feet were bound; he couldn't have landed properly even if he'd tried through all the foggy drugged haze. Dream crashed into the pavement, head impacting it hard, just as he heard a gunshot, unmistakable even through the pain and haze. Tires squealed. Hob, he tried to say, mouth opening, but only croaking in response. 

"Dream!" 

Hob. Hob's voice. Hob, alive.

He pushed his eyes open, somehow struggling upright into a sitting position. The world spun around him, a blurry, rain-soaked street with dazzling lights scattered by the water into mirages. Hob rushed toward him. Hob's visage briefly split in two, the lights becoming refracted asterisms. 

"Dream, Jesus Christ. You're hurt, we gotta get out of here, get you medical help."

"I do not… require a hospital," Dream mumbled. "I will… be well enough soon."

Hob Gadling was good at seeing through his bluffs, apparently. Though he hadn't pieced together the biggest bluff of all; that Dream wasn't human. "I am all for medical autonomy, Dream, but you're about to collapse, and there's blood all over you."

Dream opened his mouth to ask how he knew that, how he could presume to know, rather, and then the world went kaleidoscopic, with high pitched ringing in his ears. Hob's hands on his shoulders kept him upright. His head lolled onto Hob's shoulder, and Hob grasped his hands, cutting the zip ties away.

"Revised," Dream mumbled. "You cannot take me to a hospital." The patches of blood on his shirt were shadowed enough on his dark clothes to hide it. But on his face… Blood trickled down his face from his hairline, and he knew what it would look like. He didn't have the ability to change it now.

"You've always bled red before," Hob said, dazedly. "Why are you bleeding black?"

"I..." Dream mumbled, trying to force anything out through the fog, the ringing, the pain. "Not... 'm not... human. Can't... hospital. Hob...

"Dream!" 

The world went dark and spotty, then swirled back. Hob's arms came around him, lifting him, and the sudden motion sent everything careening into the dark.

Dream seemed too light for a man his size, slack in Hob's arms. Then again, he wasn't human. He couldn't be, not with that admission and plea, the black blood streaked across his body – and were his ears feathered? He remembered the feather spray in Dream's bedside drawer and laughed a little hysterically. He felt for a pulse; it was fast and erratic. But if Dream wasn't human, how would he know whether that meant anything was wrong? 

The black blood was all over Hob's shirt by the time Hob lifted Dream into the passenger seat of the car, buckled them both in, and then floored it away from the aftermath. "We are so going to be talking about this when you're awake," Hob snapped, trying to put distance behind them. He was going to have to torch these clothes and maybe even the car as well, wasn't he? Not a hospital, then. There were precious few places that Hob could go and trust that Dream’s secret would remain secret.

Dream, unconscious in the seat over, did not respond. 

*****

"Hob," Johanna said, raising one eyebrow. "Why are you dragging a barely-conscious entity onto our couch?"

"This is Dream, and he's hurt," Hob said. "Also, I have good news and bad news. I've got proof of non-human sapient life. Bad news, you can't tell anyone about it." 

Dream moaned softly in pain, and Matthew darted to his side immediately. "Hob, do you know what kind of non-human he is? He'd be easier to treat if we knew."

"No," Hob muttered. "I only found out when he was slightly more conscious earlier and begging to avoid the hospital. He's either used shapeshifting or a glamour to look perfectly human until now, I think."

Now that he looked more closely, he could see some of Dream's hair strands were feathers, his fingers lengthened into black talons, like a bird's, and his pointed ears trailed into scaly, feathered pinnea. They were sleek, dark, and glossy; mostly black, but with some blue-purple iridescence. And his skin, except where it broke out in patches of burn-like dermatitis, was now a porcelain shade of white. He was beautiful. He was also hurt. It almost hurt to look at him. 

"I am going to call his sister," Hob said. "Let's patch him up the best we can."

"You can tell her this address. It's only one of our safehouses," Matthew said absently. 

Dream's eyes fluttered open, black from side-to-side, completing the somewhat corvid appearance – though given the irritation on his skin, Hob couldn't be sure that wasn't some weird drug side-effect. 

After calling Tee to both update her and ask if she knew any cryptid-safe doctors, and receiving assurances that she was on the way and also yes, she herself had medical experience particularly with Dream, and also, yes, common antiseptics did work on Dream – Hob hung up and turned back to Dream, where Matthew was scrupulously cleaning some of the wounds to figure out where he was bleeding from. 

His shirt was torn and bloody and Hob cut the rest of it away, finding a ragged and puckered hole, the skin healing over, in Dream's stomach. "Jesus, was he shot?" Matthew exclaimed. 

"Fucking hell," Hob hissed, as they cleaned up what wounds they could, and bandaged them. "That's –"

"Something else," Matthew muttered. 

*****

Dream opened his eyes to darkness, and coughed. A hand pressed against his chest. He couldn't see because something cool and wet lay draped over his eyes. "Hob?" he croaked. The last thing he remembered was Hob, picking him up. 

"I'm here, you utter arse. Your sister will be here soon as well. We're trying to put you to rights in the meantime. Are your eyes normally black, or is that from whatever irritant they were exposed to?" 

"Normally black," he croaked, and then coughed, painfully this time. 

"Okay. How's your memory doing? You took a knock to the head." 

"They had me… and then you carried me into the car. Hob. There was a gunshot. Are you. Injured?" 

"I am unharmed but a little unhappy about this being how I find out you've been pretending to be a sceptic the whole time. You were the one who got shot, you idiot!" 

"I still don't believe in aliens," Dream said. "And. They fixed the gunshot. Said it was. A… freebie?"

Seeming a little hysterical, Hob burst out laughing. 

"You know … my sister?" Dream asked, suddenly alarmed. "How –" 

"She came to me trying to find you," Hob said. "She… Dream? Do not get up." Hob's hand pressed into his shoulder, preventing him from trying to roll upright. "I don't know how much blood you've lost or how that drug is impacting you." 

"Hob?" Dream said, emotions wildly bouncing around in his chest. "I never wanted to spy on you. I wanted to tell you," His mind blurred, and his mouth grew dry, and he swallowed. He'd been drugged. His mouth wouldn't form words for several more seconds, and Dream needed to see Hob's face. He fumbled the wet cloth off. "Hob –"

"I know," Hob said. He was holding an X-File in one hand. "At least, I think I do."

Not just any X-File, but Jessamy's X-File. Dream swallowed again. They were in the Lone Gunmen's … lair, for lack of better phrasing. Dream tensed, nervous at other people knowing, even though he remembered how kind Matthew in particular had been to him on a previous case. EMP devices mixed poorly with Dream's physiology. To say the least. Matthew had guarded Dream's semi-conscious form before. They could probably be trusted. 

Before Dream could speak again, Teleute burst in like a woman possessed. "Dream!" she scolded. 

"Teleute," Dream said, dazed. It seemed too important to keep telling Hob, though. "Hob. They blackmailed me. With what I am. With what my family members are. Into reporting back. I never…" 

Teleute's hands drifted over his belly, lying flat; an uncomfortable prickling sensation went through him as her magic looked for internal wounds. 

"Shut up," Teleute interrupted. "I need to run a bloodwork panel on you to see how fucked up you are, you idiot. Also, if anything happened to any of us in the family, Desire and I both have enough blackmail to sink them. If you'd bothered to tell me." 

"Would have been nice to know about five years ago," Dream said, wincing as she tightened a strip of latex around his arm, swabbing at it. 

"I didn't want you swanning off and getting yourself killed over Jessamy," Teleute said, voice softening, and he looked resolutely at Hob as she drew some blood. "If you knew that –"

Dream stayed silent. He knew what she thought; and perhaps it was true, years ago, that he would have quite willingly died in pursuit of the truth about Jessamy. He was still not without his moments of ideation – you'd think someone with his designer genetics would be prone to less depressive and anxious tendencies – but now there were other factors at play, too. He stared at Hob again, willing him to say something. Anything. 

"Dream," Hob said,  crouching back down. "I know what it's like to have secrets you don't share with anyone. I'm… I’m immortal. I can’t die. And those three already know about it – which is why I felt safe bringing you here." 

Immortal. Dream's sluggish brain worked to catch up.  

"Hob," he said, trying to reach for him, but his one arm was being handled by Teleute and the other had gone to sleep, pins and needles, a thought that amused him far more than it should have. 

Johanna said, "I'd tell you two to get a room, but Birdman over there can't move, so…"

Beside him, Teleute was staring at the vials of blood like they were speaking to her, mouth moving in silent incantations. They glowed different colours; they probably were. Above him, Hob protested, "Jo –"

"She is right, you know, you can probably see how in love you two are from the ISS," Teleute said distractedly, making a gesture with her hands. "Hmm. Okay. I have something that should be enough for the worst of this. It'll restore the blood loss and clear that drug out of your system." 

"Hob," Dream said again, as Teleute dug a glass vial out of her bag – 

– and Hob kissed him, a chaste kiss that carried the promise of more to come. He withdrew long enough for Teleute to uncork the vial and press it to Dream's lips. He swallowed, tasting the intent of magic behind it. 

" – needs to sleep now," Teleute's voice said, echoing above him. "And then I can set up the IV drip and stitch him up."

Someone else lifted his head and the weight on the couch shifted; his head, heavy and cumbersome, floated back down onto someone's well-cushioned thighs. He blinked, and saw Hob's face above him. Hob's lap, then. He smiled. "Perhaps I should need a dramatic rescue more often?" he said, trying for humour, voice coming out far away. 

A blanket draped over his legs and chest. 

"No, you idiot," Hob whispered. "Definitely not." 

His eyes closed. Hob brushed hair out his face, the motion soft and soothing, and every press of his fingers seemed fainter until he slid into sleep. 

*****

Dream woke next in his own flat, in his own bed, groggy and disoriented, especially when he saw Hob slumped in the armchair next to it. He lifted his hand and found an IV connected to it, and his mouth tasted medicinal. His sister's work. He lifted his other hand, found neat sutures in his skull; he tried to sit up and groaned in pain, ribs and head flaring angrily. Hob jerked upright at once. "Dream," he said in a low voice. "How are you feeling?"

Dream blinked stupidly at him for a few seconds, wondering why Hob was still here, why he still wanted anything to do with him. "I feel… like I got hit by a car," he managed. "Hob, I –"

"I understand, Dream, it's not like I told you I was immortal," Hob said. He fetched a cup of water, handing it to Dream.

He drank deeply, soothing his throat and washing away the bitter taste, before setting it down. "How did you obtain my release?"  

"Balfour… Balfour helped me get into a place where there was more evidence," Hob answered. "It… was amazing, Dream. It was some kind of crystalline egg. Part of their genetic experiments base. It became collateral for you. But they shot Balfour.”

"You gave up… the evidence you had always wanted. For me," Dream whispered. "Even after you suspected… I had betrayed you?" 

"Yeah," Hob said, swallowing. "Yeah, I did." 

"Why?"

"We do stupider shit for people we love. You held military officers at gunpoint when you'd barely met me." 

This was, of course, true. But. For people we love. 

"You kissed me," Dream said, dazed. "And you said love. That means. You mean it?"  

"I – yeah, I mean it."

"Will you kiss me again?" Dream's voice trembled, pulse jumping. 

Hob leaned in, and Dream grabbed him by both shoulders, dragging him into the bed, wincing a little at the pain from his ribs. It was not an elegant manoeuvre but it got Hob closer to him. Hob let out a little noise of surprise but then moved with the tug, sprawling next to Dream instead of on top of him. 

"You're shaking," Hob said, and Dream stared, lips trembling, shuddering under how gently Hob cupped his chin, and then kissed him. Softly at first, and then more firmly as Dream clung. 

"I promised your sister I'd keep you resting," Hob said, when they broke apart, and Dream didn't want to rest. He wanted to explore this fragile new thing held between their hands and soft touches. He wanted to climb into Hob's lap and cuddle, or explore each other, or even talk more about it. Yet his eyes were tired, limbs heavy. 

"Stay, then," Dream said. "Like this. I'm glad… I'm glad it's you. I'm glad you were the one… who. Who I – Hob." 

Hob didn't comment on his scrambled sentence, eyes crinkling with fondness instead. He pulled a loose blanket over them, and adjusted Dream so that his head rested against Hob's chest. "This good, love?"

"Yes," Dream said, and Hob's hand touched his feathered ears, tentatively at first, and then stroking like one would a cat's ears. He sighed, squirming closer. Dream's whole body vibrated with the sensation, all tension melting and unspooling from his body, until he drifted into sleep. 

Dream safely asleep, Hob dialled his mother. Look, he had promised to keep her apprised on his complicated crush on his partner, in addition to his general wellbeing. His sister Edwina wasn't the only one who got to know these things. 

"Hullo, Hob," she said, answering on the third ring. "How are you?" 

Hob blew out a few breaths before he could answer. It was a relief to hear her voice. "Hi, Mum. It's been a long few days, honestly. Work has been a lot." His hand was still buried in Dream's hair, fingers brushing feathered ears. "But I wanted to tell you we finally kissed." 

"Aww," his mother said. "I can't believe I still haven't met him." 

"I'll have to introduce you soon, but he's a bit socially awkward and anxious, so it might take a bit of coaxing," Hob said, looking closely at Dream’s face, his ears.

Dream's feathered ears. Hob couldn't quite believe he was taking this so calmly. He supposed having a few years to mentally adjust to the idea of being immortal helped. Yet another secret he wasn't going to tell his mother anytime soon, if only so his sanity wouldn't be further questioned. But it slotted so much of Dream's behaviour into a more recognisable context. They both had been trying to protect their own secrets. 

"I'm sure my cottage pie can win him over," she said. 

"God, please feed him. He's thin as a rail," Hob laughed. "That was mostly it. I just. Wanted to tell you that. Say hi to Dad for me?"

"Of course, son." 

Margaret Gadling placed the mobile phone back in her blazer pocket and glanced at the seraphic figure in the corner beside her, and winced. "Well, it’s no surprise. Hob always did fall in love so easily."

"It's charming that they think the exchange is why I released the good doctor back into his custody," said the blonde, smoke rising from their cigar. 

Margaret knew why they had done it. One reason was the risks posed by the other Aeternum siblings, with their blackmail. Another was Hob. She loved Hob, and all this was in service for a world Hob could still live in. But even she wouldn't be able to protect him if Hob went too far. Keep Dr. Aeternum alive, keep Hob from opening the throttle. It was partially on her urging they had agreed to the exchange, after all. 

Because if they had killed Morpheus Aeternum, they risked her son's quest becoming an outright crusade.