Chapter Text

1989

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Hob glanced at his watch for the tenth time in the last hour and saw the clock turn to two past midnight. 

The pub was still somewhat full, but people had slowly trickled off as time passed by.

He had spent the entire day watching people come and go. With plenty of time to kill, he took to people watching as he waited. He saw and noticed plenty, ranging from the ones that stuck to themselves to the overly social butterflies. People have walked in alone, with a well-put outfit, clearly looking for a good time, and have left with their much-wanted company, others have walked in with a sour and gloomy look to their faces, wanting nothing more than to drink and be left to their own devices. Some of them got their wish, others were struck with impromptu company of a friendly stranger, trying to check in.

Then, there were the ones who would show up in a group, all loud and boisterous, taking up space and attention, having a good time and not afraid to show it. Some of those groups left just like they came, others, Hob noticed, had trickled as the time passed, some of them finding new company for the night, bidding their friends a cheeky goodnight.

The pub brimmed with life and chatter surrounding him while he sat and waited.

Ah, the chaos and excitement of youth.

Hob didn’t care how all these people in the pub spanned from early twenties to around their late seventies, in his eyes they were all so young.

Hob had been there since noon, despite knowing his plans would not start until later. He made sure to arrive there extra early, as he did not want to miss his centennial appointment.

One drink had turned into two, then turned into seven. The waitress had tried to take the extra seat at his table twice already, and he had already crossed the threshold where the pity looks were getting harder and harder to ignore. He spent the entire time glancing between his clock, the door, and swirling his drink, willing the empty pit in his stomach to go away. 

But it was time to face the facts. His Stranger was not coming. 

He should have known, after their last meeting, that he would not come; but for the last a hundred years he had been holding on to the hope that he had been right, that despite having said too much, he had spoken the truth. 

He had been so sure they were friends. 

Hob had told his Stranger as such that night, exactly a century ago. He remembered vividly back when he had started speaking, the way his Stranger’s face scowled and became closed off. He should have stopped then; he should have apologized and cut his losses. Perhaps then, he would have been able to salvage his oldest connection, one that has kept him going for 600 years. 

He, not for the first time, cursed at his past self and the too vivid memory.

Perhaps, if he had held his tongue, he would not be sitting on his own at their pub a hundred years later. Perhaps, if he had waited to confront him about it, his Stranger would have accepted it someday. 

He was aware that he knew very little of his Stranger, but despite it, he still had gathered a few things from the things that he did not say nor do.

So, in a way, Hob knew quite a few things about him. 

His Stranger did not talk about himself. Not ever. Not with all the prying he had tried to do in all their meetings, and certainly not unprompted. He held himself with an air of importance, of regality, always immaculately dressed. He did not like to be rudely interrupted and did not care he was threatened, as seen with Lady Constantine two hundred years ago. He was sure enough, or even powerful enough, that a knife could not hurt him, yet came to his aid when Lady Constantine threatened him. 

Most importantly, he knew his Stranger cared. Despite him trying an awful lot to pretend otherwise. He had an inkling about it in 1689; the first time he saw his Stranger help him out. He had been at his lowest, starved and in nothing but old, stinky rags, suffering for 80 years, and yet, his Stranger did not see him differently, not once. He had gotten him food, water, and later on, a coat. He had not needed to do any of that, and he certainly had not done it out of pity. He just did.

They had continued their scheduled centenary conversation as every other afterwards, as if nothing was amiss. 

Hob smiled nostalgically as he remembered the way his Stranger had stared at him in confusion and amazement when he had told him that he still wanted to live. Hob thought that maybe he might be remembering wrong, but he swore that he had seen a flare of disappointment, or perhaps even fear in his eyes, when he had asked him if he still wished to live. He remembered how it turned to something akin to hope in his eyes when Hob had answered that he wanted to continue to live. 

Hob prided himself in being able to read his Stranger. For someone who barely twitched or moved a single muscle, and refused to reveal anything to his face, his eyes were always a complete giveaway. They were always full of emotion. 

He also knew that his Stranger valued life, and no matter how much he separated himself from humans— Hob was very sure that the man was not human—, he valued them. He felt a pang of regret and shame as he thought back to 1789; how he had been blinded by the times, by being complacent by what everyone did, when he delved into the trade business. That had been the only time he knew his Stranger had looked at him coldly and lowly. He had been right to. 

His Stranger had given him advice and made him see sense. Hob knew he had been trying to right his wrongs ever since then. 

He learned to read his Stranger, and he thought he had learned it well, perhaps that was where his false confidence had come from on their last meeting. 

He remembered the cold fury and shock. 

‘You dare?”

He had dared. He dared to call him a friend, dared to tell him he knew he was lonely. It was obvious really, he had seen the expression on his Stranger many times in the mirror on himself. That had been his fatal mistake. And even worse so, he simply could not leave well enough alone, could he? 

Hob fought the urge to smack his face against the table. He knew he looked pathetic enough without it. Why did he even do that? Why did he have to add fuel to the fire and go after him? Walking in the rain and loudly continuing his point, declaring that they were friends, that he would be back because of it and no other reason? His Stranger had been appalled by their conversation without other people overhearing, the fact he yelled from the streets must have been the final nail in the coffin. 

Hob downed the last bit of his whisky and stared at the bottom of the empty glass as if it somehow had the answers he was looking for, but of course, it did not. Seemed he had to face the music; his Stranger was not going to show up.

Something within him believed that there had to be a reason for his absence, that there was an alternate explanation. But logic told him otherwise. 

His Stranger did not consider them friends, or even close enough to even deem him a proper goodbye. Instead, he got stood up. The one he had considered his closest and oldest friend left him with no more half a thought than a footnote. 

Funny how he could love someone so much, while not being more than an unfortunate afterthought in his Stranger’s mind. 

As much as he hated it, it seemed it was time to move on. He could do this. He had to. If he braved the 1600’s, he could do anything, including continuing his immortal life without his one constant. It did not matter how during the worst times of his life, he had the hope of seeing his Stranger, the hope of knowing that there was that one thing for certain, no matter what. It did not matter that when his wife and son died, when he had never felt more grief and despair, he chose to continue to live and ignored the thoughts of how it was time to move on, to finally die. All because at least he had something, someone, to look forward to. 

It didn't matter, because now he was, perhaps for the first time in 600 years, actually and totally alone.

It did not matter. Hob would just have to keep telling himself that, and maybe one day, he would believe it.

And well, there was no point crying over spilt milk. Yet, no matter how much logic told him otherwise, he could not entirely squash the flicker of hope that continued burning inside him with the thought that perhaps, in a hundred year’s time, he would see his Stranger again. 

He would just have to live through the next century at his fullest, in case his Stranger showed up again. That way, he would have the best stories to tell. 

Mind made up, he stood up, waiting a few seconds for his surroundings to stop moving too much. He might have drunk more than he should, but not enough that he was too drunk. Some fresh air might be a good idea sooner than later though. But, not quite yet, so, he walked to the bar, ordered one more drink, and decided that it was his last one for the night. He watched dejectedly as the bartender poured the amber liquid into his cup. 

Then everything, if possible, took a turn for the worse. 

He and his big mouth just had to talk to the bartender, had to splutter his heart out and make a joke about being here in a hundred year’s time, and of course, he had to find out, on the worst day, that the bar he had been frequenting for 600 years was being shut down and demolished to make new apartments. 

Just was his luck.

Two constants in his life, the pub and his Stranger, both intertwined with the other, and both lost the same day. Or perhaps one had been lost for longer than that and he simply had not been aware. He had not wanted to be. 

There and then something within him snapped. 

The truth hit him at once. There was no guarantee his Stranger would be back, even if his Stranger returned in 100 years, there wouldn't be a pub to meet at, and it was not like there was another meeting point that they could go to. There was no way to contact him. 

He needed to do something about it. Standing there feeling sorry for himself wouldn’t fix anything. 

He needed to see his Stranger again. Even just so he could get answers, to know that he was alright. Once he found out the truth, he could, possibly, maybe, move on. 

He decided right there and then, he was going to track his Stranger down. If only for one last, proper goodbye.

Chapter Text

1990

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Finding him was easier said than done.

That did nothing to stop or derail him. 

So far, he had less than the bare minimum of what he needed to track him down. He did not even have a name to search for him, nor any idea of what his Stranger was, except for the fact that he was possibly, most certainly, not human. So, his search began by looking for anything that has to do with the supernatural or the occult.

He rolled his eyes at himself for even looking into it. More than half of what he saw were all bluffs, scams, and people who believed they saw something, yet their accounts were all over the place, going on about how they had been too high or drunk when they claimed they had seen ghosts or demons or whatever else. Basically, it was inconclusive and suspiciously fake at best.

Hob had known this was going to be difficult from the start, after all, he knew nothing of his Stranger and he had actually not hung out with him more than a few times, so the chances of him finding information out there from people who have not met him was a long stretch. That did not stop him from having expectations on having found something by now. 

It had been almost a year since he got stood up at the White Horse Pub, and since then, he had been researching, learning, and asking around for anything, any clue that could lead him to his Stranger, but found nothing of use.

Hob had previously, purposely, kept away from any social circles that talked about the supernatural. He feared for how it would look if he were to go asking around about the Devil, demons, and ghosts. It would surely be enough to shed suspicion on him, just like in the old days, and he did not want another repeat of being accused of being a witch again. Once was more than enough.

The feeling of his lungs constricting under the pressure and depths of the water while he gasped for non-existent air, or the instinctive flinch at a splash of water on his face, on the particular bad days, still haunted him to this day. Those bad days were far and in between, but the memories were still there, like a wound that refused to close entirely, no matter how much time and care had passed. 

Times have changed, he supposed. Now anyone could talk about these things, and sure, there has been a rise in satanic panic lately, but they're not actively burning or drowning people for it anymore, so that was a win in his book. At the end of the day, he wanted to find his Stranger more than he feared being drowned again, so it was not much of a choice to keep looking. 

His search has forced him to be more inconspicuous about his acquaintances. Difficult as it was, he knew that it was for the best to move onto another identity and fake his death. As a plus side, the timing worked nicely. He had already been thinking it was time to drop the identity he had been living with for the past 18 years, since he had already pushed his limits for how long he could stay in the same place without arousing suspicions that he did not age. Bits of grey hair dye only do so much after a while.

The eighties had been rough. Sure, there had been lots of new developments and technologies, but also, lots of loss as well. He had lost many friends over the past few years. It had hurt, but he had learned to carry that grief along with him. They wouldn't be the first nor the last friends he had lost before their time. It did make it easier to move to another identity, as there would not be many people who would mourn him when he faked his death again. Silver linings and all that, he supposed. 

Still, it was never easy. It was quite taxing mentally. However, it did give him a chance to think about the person he wanted to become. Before the missed meeting with his Stranger, he had thought of going to university again, perhaps he could’ve studied another career to complement his Mediaeval History degree that he got in the sixties. Or he could’ve tried teaching, something that he had given a lot of thought throughout the year. The profession seemed to call to him. Maybe when he finished his passion project of finding his Stranger, he could give teaching a try. 

But for now, he had to focus. He had no concrete idea where to start, so the only thing to do was start with everything. 

He already changed his name and moved elsewhere. Somewhere far enough from his previous life that he could escape their notice if he kept to himself, yet close enough to the old pub, in case his Stranger decided to show up. 

The White Horse was shut down for good five months ago, and the demolition for it started a few weeks ago. Not much was taken down, but enough that it was falling apart. The old wood planks that supported the structure were crooked and some were missing, nails were sticking out, and half the roof was gone. It looked utterly abandoned, and not like a place that had still been up and running a few months ago. It seemed that something as old as that place had been had not taken much to fall apart without proper care. It was fitting, he supposed, but he tried not to read too much into it. 

Going on a wild goose chase to find his Stranger was not the only thing that kept him busy the past few months. Hob had also been putting his contingency plan into work as well. He had figured that in the case that he did not find him, he needed to have another option, a way for his Stranger to find him if he ever wished to again. 

So, with his new identity, for those who asked, he was now someone that came from old money that he inherited from his deceased uncle. In reality, ever since he learned his lesson in the 1600’s, he had been storing away money and valuable artefacts that could get him out of sticky situations if he ever needed to. He had more than enough to do what he needed. 

As of now, it had been a week since Hob signed the papers to buy an empty lot not too far away from the White Horse, and if he played his cards right, he could have the necessary permits to start construction sooner than later. He could not save the White Horse, but he could create a new place for the two of them.

Chapter Text

1991

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One year turned into two, and Hob did not feel any closer to finding his Stranger. There were times in between the search where his resolve dwindled and the doubt crept back in and took hold. Was he truly doing the right thing? His Stranger had been so secretive for over 600 years and Hob coukd tell he was not one to share things about himself. It was not too much of a leap from that thought to realize his Stranger very well might not want to be found. That must have been the reason why there was no trace of him; his Stranger must purposely be covering his tracks, and it seemed like Hob could not take the hint. 

Hob refused to take the hint.

He refused to think about how he could not find his Stranger because he angered him that much at their last meeting. He refused to think how his Stranger went out of his way to disappear and make sure Hob, or anyone apparently, could not find him. 

He refused to let his thoughts wander as he read through papers and libraries that held information about the occult, myths, and possible historical accounts of his Stranger. He needed a clear mind if he wanted any chance of succeeding with his goal. 

However, his resolve to have a clear and hopeful mindset dwindled as the weeks passed, and as the books started to pile up in his already cluttered apartment. He tried to keep things somewhat organized, but he could only do so much before his research started to bleed into his normal life. Before he knew it, papers of the occult were mixed in with the construction permits and paperwork for the new pub. 

The moment he had accidentally grabbed the occult folder instead of the blueprints for the pub right before he had a meeting with the people overseeing its construction had surely been a wake-up call. The looks he got his way from everyone in the room made his skin crawl. Fortunately, he had managed to laugh it off, making a quick comment about how it had been a research project for one of the university classes he was taking and left it at that. They did not need to know how he had not been in university for years now, and even when he had been, this would not have been material for him to research.

The pub was progressing well. Hob managed to get all the necessary permits in the span of a few months, and only a few weeks after, the construction was able to begin. It was currently in the middle to late stages of being built, with an estimate of being completed in only two months from now.

The deadline for choosing a name for the new pub kept closing in, that was, if he wanted to have it open by the following year as on schedule. Yet he came up blank every time. 

If he did not find a name by the deadline, he would have to possibly wait even longer to open it. But he could not help it, he refused to just name it anything. He had to choose carefully; it had to be inconspicuous enough that it would not be too obvious for unwanted people to poke around at the bar of an immortal, yet it had to be obvious enough that if and when his Stranger ever visited again, he would know where to look. 

Hob’s worries grew the more he thought about the risks of drawing attention to himself, an immortal, even if only accidentally. That was something he’s learnt this past year; how much bigger the occult world was in comparison to what he had thought it had been. Sure, lots of people claimed false beliefs in their stories about dealing with the supernatural and cryptids. But if one knew where to look, the truth was there, in between the lines of history books and in the roots of the myths and legends. 

And oh, Hob Gadling knew where to look. He had been around the block one too many times not to have those skills. In the past two years alone he has honed those already impeccable skills to perfection. 

Thus, he found out about many accounts about the existence of demons. Actual, honest to God—or, well, honest to Satan? — demons. Hob had taken longer than he cared to admit processing the existence of these. He truly should not have been as surprised as he had been, after all he is an immortal, and his Stranger was possibly, very likely, not human, especially if he was the one who granted eternal life to him. These things do not just happen. Clearly other-worldly and occult things do exist. He knew that, but that did not mean it hadn't taken him way too long to acknowledge it. 

So, demons were real, and so were ghosts, possibly. Hob was still researching that aspect with a little too much scepticism that was probably starting to border on denial. If demons and ghosts were real, then, it followed that there was such a thing as the afterlife, or a version of it.

He had purposely not been thinking too hard on that ever since his second century as an immortal. Gotta love denial, it was Hob’s favourite skill.

Anyway, once he moved past that, he realized that it was not the demons or ghosts that were his main concern, at least not at the moment, but the people hunting and tracking them down. He had found evidence of people throughout the ages, dating back to the 1300’s—and possibly long before that, but he cared not to research it— that had been tasked with either taking them down or finding anything that was deemed unnatural and occult in order to see if they could gain something from it. It made him shudder uncomfortably at the thought. 

He could not help thinking back to 1789 and remembering Lady Constantine, who Hob was sure, knowing what he knew now, that she had been one of these people, judging by the way he and his Stranger were ambushed and tried to be killed off. He knew that if any other person hunting the occult were to know of him, he would be on the kill list for sure. Not that it would stick, but it would be horribly unpleasant and would set back his plans greatly, which would be both unfortunate and annoying. 

Hob’s worries would get the best of him sometimes, he had to admit. The times he was not doubting his Stranger leaving him, he was thinking of scenarios and alternatives to why he had not arrived. What his mind conjured up instead was always far worse than his Stranger abandoning him. So, he told himself it was all because of their fight. 

It was not until the middle of the second year after the missed meeting with the Stranger, that there came a point where he could not ignore the facts nor implications any longer. The more information he found out, the more of a horrid possibility got painted in his head. Especially when he remembered their conversation back from 1789.

It was then that his blood ran cold, despite the warm and humid summer air, as he began to truly fear for the worst. His fears only deepened as he realized his Stranger’s advice could go both ways. 

“I am perfectly safe. I can’t die, remember?” 

“Aye, but you can be hurt or captured. We must be cautious.”

“Always.”

Hob shivered as he remembered it. His Stranger had said ‘we’ in that warning. Memory was a tricky thing but he had taken to burning every conversation he had with him in his mind so he would not forget it. He had committed every gesture and word to memory of every meeting. So, thinking back, he was sure of what his Stranger had said. 

Having those thoughts in mind, he had to think carefully. His Stranger was not dead— he hoped with everything that he was that his Stranger was still alive—, but that did not mean he was exempt from something else happening to him. 

Once the thought anchored itself in his mind, Hob could do very little to think of anything else. The thoughts of his Stranger being captured plagued his mind during every waking moment, no matter if he was busy with work, with research, or with leisure time. All he could think was what if.

What if. What if. What if.

He knew he might be overreacting. For all he knew, his original conclusions were right, for all that mattered, his Stranger had left him after the fight and moved on, never to be found again by him. Simple as that. Yet, Hob knew that there was the smallest chance that his fears were not unfounded, and if anything else was going on with his Stranger, if he was hurt, then Hob needed to find out. 

He had already spent two years looking for him just for the hopes of having a proper goodbye, but now that he was fuelled by the need to make sure his Stranger was alright, by the need to quell his fears of the worst, well, two years was nothing to an immortal.

He was damn sure he would continue to look for him no matter what, even if it took years. 

Chapter Text

1992

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He was close to finding him. He could feel it. His hope grew the more he researched, and he let himself believe that for once, he had found something meaningful. An honest, actual lead towards his Stranger. 

Hob had spent the better part of the last year busy with the opening of his new pub, now officially known as The New Inn. On the side of his grand opening, he had reached out towards some of his old contacts, under the guise of a fake name and the story that he was a friend or a long lost relative of Roland, Robin, Ryan, Robbie, or whichever one of his identities he had taken in the past. Every interaction happened through mail, and no one saw his face when searching for information if he could help it. 

Now, it seemed that finally, at last, one of his many contacts had come back successful. 

It started when he was sitting at his pub, nursing his second drink of the day while he did inventory. The day was young and not many people were there yet. There were only one or two occupied tables, and the noise level was at a minimum. The afternoon light passed through the windows, giving the place a golden hue that made Hob smile every time. Due to the warm weather, the door and a few windows were opened, letting just the right amount of fresh air in, causing a pleasing breeze. It was the perfect ambience to focus on his day job without having to lock himself in his apartment to work, which now resembled less of an apartment and more of a clutter hole. 

He was on the third page into his rather large stack of papers when the mail arrived. He had previously decided to have all his mail directed at his pub instead of a home address. It was easier that way.

Hob looked at the thick folder that accompanied the letter sent to him and could not help but hope. Most of his contacts only sent letters with the bare minimum information, and at times, a thin folder or two with details but it's never enough. This one however, seemed promising. He started reading. 

Hello, Robbie 

You son of a bitch. Your request almost costs me my reputation. In all my time on this job, you know I haven’t once failed to get what was needed, whether it was information, missing people, objects that have not been seen in centuries, you name it. You know I find every single one. Then you decide to ask for a miracle based on jack shit of information. You really gave me a run for my money. 

Still, I found something that could be of help. Not exactly what you asked, but it seems the same area of weird you wanted. It might not seem like much at first, but something smells funky about this. The secrecy and the lengths these guys went to keep a secret was enough to draw my attention. Thought it might get your attention too. This is all kinds of weird in the aspect that it is not. Trust me though, you know I have my sixth sense for this shit. Some guy got lots of fame, a shit ton of good luck with his work, too eerily good, and is keeping secrets of how. Claims he has a secret source of infinite inspiration and luck. Sure, people say that all the time but if you dig enough, it tracks. You will find more about it in the folder. 

This better help, and if it does you should think about doubling my money. If you need anything like this again just ask, but know I’m tripling the rates. 

Take care, you bastard. 

Charlie

Hob chuckled as he finished reading the letter. Charlie was one of his contacts he had met years ago and somehow ended up becoming friends with the guy. Charlie ran in sketchy circles way before Hob met him, which proved helpful in more ways than he’d thought. Sure, he was great for information and acquiring old artefacts,— that was how he met him the first time, trying to buy a really expensive and off the market 16th century painting that he used to have in his house back then, when he lived with his Eleanor and Robin— but nothing had been as great and terrifying as when Charlie had accidentally found one of Hob’s past identities. Instead of asking questions, he had simply hummed knowingly, before throwing a line about “We all want to escape our pasts.” and then never mentioned it again. Charlie was great like that. 

It proved incredibly helpful when he changed identities and still managed to keep in touch with him a few extra years without arousing more suspicion. Probably. Hob was not going to lie, it was still a risk, He knew as much deep down, especially since everyone else who knew him currently thought him dead. Still, he got a possible lead, so he has never been more grateful that he took that risk. 

Without wasting another second, he opened the folder filled with newspaper articles and annotated papers his friend compiled. He quickly found out about a man called Erasmus Fry. At first glance, he seemed like some normal guy who became famous for his books a couple of years back. Yet, while reading through the newspaper clippings and the fine print, Hob had to agree with Charlie, something seemed odd indeed. 

Erasmus Fry seemed to have become famous out of nowhere. He had only one best seller before he went into a slump. He had been writing for years, yet barely published anything, and if he did, it was all bad. The reviews showed no mercy, pulling the awful plot and amateur, overall bad writing apart. Yet suddenly, after he disappeared for a few months his next couple of books were bestsellers. Every. Single. One. Of. Them. 

Fame and glory followed him for years, interviewers asked him where he got such inspiration, and all the man did was smile conspiratorially and said it was as if he had his own muse watching over him. That, added with a list of odd behaviours from the guy, plus the secrecy, and Hob suddenly felt like he had found something useful after all these years.

A guy who no one knew, suddenly being inspired out of nowhere, and rising to fame after saying a muse helped? It reminded Hob of someone. He still remembered, in pure distaste, the night Willem Shaxbert— the average wannabe guy, who stole his Stranger’s attention from him— met his Stranger, and it was as if after that night, everything changed, his writing improved, and his stories were almost otherworldly with how good everyone told him it was. 

Ever since that night, Hob has not had a single year of peace. Somehow always hearing tales of Shakespeare this, Shakespeare that, and ‘oh what a talented writer and wordsmith he is’. Hob scoffed at the mere thought of the guy. Sure, the man was probably talented, but it seemed Hob was not above petty jealousy, not that he would ever admit it to anyone ever. 

Anyway, a shit writer who suddenly became good and famous? That was worth investigating. He felt hopeful at the possibility that his Stranger might have something to do with that. After all, his Stranger made Hob immortal, he was sure he can make someone famous. He has seen it before. 

So perhaps that was also what happened with Erasmus Fry? Hob knew that he was grasping at straws, but it was the best clue and connection he had gotten in three years. He did briefly wonder why his Stranger would go help this man become famous, but then again, he still was not sure why he approached Shaxbert either.

Hob sighed, he did not know much about his Stranger, did he? 

It did not hurt to investigate; Hob decided in the end. His pub was working well, and he felt confident enough to have someone look after it while he went after his Stranger. Whoever this Fry guy might be, he might have seen his Stranger, and it was the first clue he’s had. A wave of hope filled him as he arranged everything to meet up with the man. 

He knew better than to just walk in and ask for answers, he knew that it rarely, if ever, worked. Same thing went for if he passed as a journalist or some other outsider. So, he took his time to think hard and play the role. Erasmus Fry seemed to be a self-centred, paranoid man, who’s fame got to his head and only cared about his books. So, that’s how he would get in. 

He pretended to be an aspiring author, and a desperate one at that. He contacted him, passing both as a fan and as someone in search for advice for his book, telling him he had questions, and wondering if Erasmus Fry could share some of his ‘secrets of inspiration’ with him. Of course, he would gladly pay anything for the information, he assured the man. 

Somehow, by some miracle, it seemed to work. So, only a week and a half after Charlie told him about Erasmus Fry, Hob made his way to this man’s house. Fry had only agreed to meet after the promise of money and one of Hob’s rare artefacts he had kept from his many centuries alive. This man liked rare objects and seemed to be more than willing to meet up to get them, which worked perfectly for Hob, who had plenty of them.

The man asked him to meet late into the night, at his house, and to come alone. 

It was difficult to ignore the dread and discomfort that settled in his stomach as he went to the man’s house. He made an extra effort to be more alert than he often was, because if there was anything he knew for sure, it was to trust his gut after living for so long.  His gut was telling him this man was bad news, he just knew it. All things considered, however, he still was the only possible link to his Stranger, so he would weather whatever situation arose. 

Hob thought this man would probably try to intimidate him for more money, or more artefacts, perhaps he would even try to make Hob tell him where he got a hold of the objects, or perhaps he would just be an asshole. Hob was prepared for it, and he did not care. As long as he got what he came for though, it did not matter. 

The moment of truth arrived as he knocked on the door, waiting no more than a minute before Erasmus opened the door, letting him in. He was led to a living room, yellow, dim lighting covering the place, cascading over the old, yet comfortable and simple-looking couches. Hob did not hesitate to take a seat and start rambling. It would not do for him to wane in his confidence, after all, he had a part to play.

And oh, a part did he play. Hob made sure to stroke this man’s ego, adding things about his wonderful and incredible books, contrasting it to his supposed lack of inspiration from his own books. It seemed to do the trick because the man listened, and did not seem to be closed off. Instead, Hob came to notice quite fast, there was a contemplative look on his face. Somehow, something unsettled within Hob. It was as if he was in the eye of a hurricane without even knowing he was amidst one, and the relative calmness of the moment was nothing more than a mirage, one that would be taken away abruptly and hazardously.  

Hob kept on going, despite something in the back of his mind bristling at the atmosphere of the room. He spun his tale of desperateness. At last, when his tale was done, Erasmus spoke at last and the pit in Hob’s stomach churned the more the other man talked.

“You know what, dear boy? I wasn't sure about you when you first contacted me. I got too many of those reporters vulturing around, or wannabe aspiring authors with no spark in them. But you have it, the spark. I can see you have the drive and the determination to do what was needed to be done to reach your dreams.” The way he said ‘needed’ made Hob’s arm hairs stick out, there was something he did not like about the old man’s tone. “Count yourself lucky. I will share my secrets with you, and you will be famous in no time. When you are, do this old man a favour and put in a good word for one of my books, as good as they are, people are starting to buy them less. It would be good for advertising if an aspiring, creative man like yourself gives me some spotlight.” Erasmus chuckled and took a sip of his drink, looking quite pleased with himself.

It was as if when talking, he was in his own world, only paying attention to his idea of grandiose and fantasies of returning to the spotlight. Hob noticed that even though Erasmus had been making eye contact with him throughout it, he had been looking past him as if he was but a stepping stone in his newly cooked plans. Hob didn’t mind that one bit, it gave him enough of a pause to get his thoughts in order and figure out what to do next. The man’s words ranged in his head and Hob could not help but have the sinking feeling he was stepping out of the eye of the hurricane and into the unforgiving storm.

Erasmus, none the wiser, stood up from the couch, hands on his knees to boost himself up, before dusting off his hands and clapping them, motioning for him to follow him.

Hob smiled, not wasting a beat to reply, thanking him and assuring him that he was grateful for this opportunity and for his generosity. The lies tasted odd in his mouth, but he gave no outward signs of it. He followed Erasmus, taking careful inventory of the place, the layout, and any other detail that he can. It did not take long until he was being led from the living room and up the stairs.

“Now, I will show you your path to greatness. It has a 100% success rate, and you will see the results after just one use.” Erasmus chuckled. Again with that chuckle. Hob kept feeling uneasy at the sound of it. After so many years alive, he had met all kinds of people and had picked up on the little mannerisms to tell them apart more easier, yet sometimes, he couldn’t quite place what was off. His gut was screaming at him to notice something, and Hob was trying his damnedest to figure it out. Erasmus spoke again. “She is just up the stairs and waiting.” 

“She?” Hob’s blood ran cold, and he stumbled in a step. The bad feeling that had been simmering within him all this time was now boiling over, overcoming him completely. He hoped to God that the old man was gendering an object instead of talking about a person, somehow, Hob doubted it. 

Erasmus did not even seem to be phased by the question, even almost expecting it. “Oh, it is not what you think, she is not human.” He waved it off with his hand, face scrunching at it, before his expression smoothened as he reminisced. “I was twenty-seven, looking for inspiration in Greece, and researching a hefty lot about its myths. She’s a muse I got myself a few years ago, an actual, honest to God, Greek muse. She does wonders for inspiration.”

The sinking feeling doubled down, and Hob felt like the ground just opened up and he’s free falling down a ten-story building. He couldn’t help but blink and have an internal fight with his mind as it tried to deny the words he heard. There was no way he was hearing correctly, right? By this time, they were already up the stairs, and Erasmus had gone ahead and opened the door to one of the rooms. “Come on out, girl.” 

Hob stood there frozen, processing the nightmare of what he was seeing. His resolve to do something hardened the moment he saw a woman in a quite short, very revealing, white dress, walking out of the room, looking hopeless yet glaring daggers at both of them. 

“Who is this man, Erasmus? Another one of your friends to be entertained?” She bit out in distaste.  

“This is Ryan, he is a writer looking for inspiration. A writer with very heavy pockets.” He chuckled at her as if his words were funny, as if he was sharing a joke with her. Erasmus turned towards Hob. “Do not let her intimidate you. She is bound to me, and she cannot harm you or try to escape.” Erasmus told him. “And who knows, perhaps if you have more of those valuable artefacts of yours, I might be willing to give her to you instead of a once off. For the right price, of course.” 

Hob barely processed the immediate and intense reaction of the women as those words were spoken, recoiling as if she had been burned. He was too busy hearing the words echoing in his own mind like a high pitch ringing causing every thought to rattle.

“You promised you would free me before you died.” She glared at Erasmus, eyes now misty and full of betrayal, rage, and thinly veiled devastation. Her voice refused to waver as the anger visibly took hold in every syllable, in every word. 

“Writers lie.” Erasmus scoffed as if her words were simply a ridiculous remark of a petulant child. As if her words were laughable, something he did not have to concern himself about.

Hob witnessed all of this, still standing to the side, seeing it unfold as if he was a mere spectator. He snapped out of his shock right after, doubling down on his rage at what he was witnessing.

This has gone on enough.

Before he even realized what he was doing, his body was already moving, lunging at the old man, decking him straight in the face, and hearing a very satisfying crunch of a broken nose. 

Erasmus fell onto the ground with a surprised gasp of shock and pain. The surprise did not last much, as merely seconds after, he began scurrying off the ground, getting his bearings again and cursing Hob to hell and back.

Hob did not even react to the man’s words, to his broken and now bloody nose, nor to him trying to stand back up. Hob didn’t wait for the man to recover before he was punching him again, and again and again.

His knuckles scrapped and turned redder from both of their bloods as he continued, yet he barely noticed it. All he felt at the moment was anger. Anger and disgust.

It was only until a voice behind him commanded him to stop that he was able to snap out of his stupor.

As if in a haze, he turned around, one hand still locked onto the other man’s shirt, the other frozen in mid hit, hanging in the air. The woman stood there, looking at Hob with a look on her face that he cannot identify, eyes darting between him and the man that has kept her captured all this time.

“Do not kill him.” 

Hob did a double take, then threw her an incredulous look, which quickly turned into a questioning one. 

“I am bound to him.” She said solemnly, wasting no time to answer. “Killing him won’t change it. Unless he frees me, the ancient laws will not allow me to walk free.” 

Okay.

That makes things simple. 

So very, very simple.

“Okay.” Hob breathed out, nodding at her once, as if he was a man on a mission, just receiving orders to follow. He then turned his attention to the now bloody Erasmus. “Here is what is going to happen, you will free her right now.” Hob declared, eyes cold and dead as he stared down at him. 

“Or what? You will kill me?” The man coughed out, having the audacity to look sure of himself. “You heard the lady, me dying would not be advised.” 

Hob let out a single laugh, he could barely recognize the coldness in it as it rang in his ears. “I have seen men die of many things, disease, war, violence, hunger.” Hob began, whispering harshly in barely concealed disgust. “I have killed, both in the war and outside. I have lived a very long life, and I have paid attention to what makes people tick, of what their limits are. You cannot die? Fine, that is alright with me. I know exactly how long to push your limits before you break.” He levelled him with a look, towering above him, gripping the shirt he had fisted in his hand tighter, enough that his knuckles turned white, an interesting contrast with the blood that were coating them. “Tell me, do you want to find out how much hunger you can feel before it starts consuming your every thought? Do you want to become acquainted with how much blood loss you can endure without dying?” 

“You are bluffing.” Erasmus wheezed out, spitting out blood and glaring at him. 

“Am I?” Hob said calmly, his face now blank. A strand of hair falls on his face, but he made no move to push it back. His eyes were wide open in cold anger. His chest rose up and down in short, patterned intervals as he did his best to control his breathing, keeping the anger within him and in check, while also using it as fuel.  

A heavy silence falls upon them, only filled with the wheezing sounds of Erasmus and Hob’s breathing. 

Erasmus looked away after what felt like forever. “Fine.” He seethed, looking at the woman with pure disdain. “You are free. I free you; you can leave.” He bit out as if saying those words would make him sick at any moment, then he turned back at Hob. “There, happy? Now get the fuck off me before I call the police.” 

“You think you are going to walk away unpunished after what you have done?” He adjusted the grip on his shirt to punch him again.

“Do not kill him.” 

Hob turned to the woman again, confusion clear on his face, questions falling out the moment he opened his mouth. 

“It is best if you let the man go.” She told him and Hob could see she was no longer wearing the small, white dress she had been moments before, but now sported a long white Greek gown and an intricate hair style.

“You want him to go unpunished? After what he did?” Hob could not help but ask.

“I have to forgive the man, if only so I can move on from this. His death will be tied to me if he dies now, and I want nothing to do with him ever again.” 

Hob wanted nothing more than to end it right now, he knew that he would sleep soundly knowing there was one less disgusting scum of the earth around. He could end it right now; one carefully aimed punch to his windpipe to break it would certainly do the trick. Then again, this was not about him, and he knew it. With a short exhale, releasing the excess of anger that threatened to cloud his judgment, he softened his eyes, nodding at her solemnly, agreeing to her wishes. 

Hob stood up, leaving the man on the floor and promptly ignoring him as he turned to the woman, knowing the man was too incapacitated at the moment to try anything. “Are you truly free? Are you sure this man cannot capture you again with another spell or the rules you mentioned?” 

The woman stared at him with a calculated and guarded look. After a long pause, she shook her head. “No. There is nothing that can bind me here again. I have been freed.” 

Hob visible relaxed at that, raking a hand through his hair to get the wild locks out of his face, not realizing, or perhaps, not caring, when some of the blood from his hands stained his forehead. “Okay, good, no immediate danger then.” He gave a nod before he looked around, then back at her. “Are you alright?” He asked, before deciding that staying there was not the best move, wanting to put as much distance between both of them and Erasmus, he began moving towards the staircase, keeping an eye on the women, and keeping a moderate distance between them to make sure he was not crowding her.

She nodded to his question. “I have been freed thanks to you, I thank you, Ryan—” 

“It's Hob.” Hob interrupted with an awkward cough, twirling his fingers back and forth, waving. “Hob Gadling, I uh,” He scratched the back of his head for a second with a nervous chuckle. It seemed talking snapped him out of his daze of anger and left with nothing but panic, anger, and shock from everything that just happened. “I used a fake name, was trying to find someone and I thought he might know. I did not know—I was not expecting this. I am sorry for what that man did, you did not deserve any of that.” It was then that he heard a groan from Erasmus upstairs as he tried to stand up. Hob’s focus hardened, and he went back to the task at hand, this was not the time for small talk. “We should probably leave; I would not put it beneath him to find a way to call the police or something. Do you have somewhere to go? I have a car downstairs; I can drive you anywhere you need.”

“Thank you, Hob, but there is no need for extra assistance. I am not human, nor mortal and now that I am no longer bound, I have my ways of travel. I can find my way into the world on my own.”

“Should have known, huh.” Hob grinned at her. “Well, then, best we get out of here then. Wish you the best of travels wherever you might go.” He made an aborted movement to head out before he stopped and looked back. “May I know your name?” 

She tilted her head, almost imperceptible, taking her time to think on the question, staring into him. “The name is Calliope.” 

Hob’s eyes widened in realization. “The muse of eloquence and epic poetry.” He could not help but whisper in awe. “I am honoured to meet you, Calliope. Though I wish it was not under these circumstances.” He bowed, looking down as he did so before tilting his head up, meeting her eye, and straightening up.

Calliope though surprised, hid it well, bowing her head ever so slightly with a soft smile. “It was good meeting you, Hob Gadling. I thank you for freeing me.”

There was a thump upstairs followed by curses and someone making their way downstairs. 

“That’s definitely our cue to leave.”

Calliope’s face hardened as she nodded. Without another word, she walked out the house, followed shortly by Hob, and right before his eyes, she disappeared in a blink of an eye, fading away as she walked away, until there was nothing in the spot where she had been seconds before. Hob let out a surprised laugh, she sure had her ways of transportation alright.

Hob wasted no time getting in his car and bolting out of there, knowing very well he was ditching the car as soon as he could manage it, and taking the long way home in case that asshole decided to track him. 

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Back in his apartment, Hob served himself a glass of whisky, draining it in one go before refilling it. Sighing, he ran a hand through his hair, gripping it for a moment before loosening his hand, letting out a breath. Today was not at all how he imagined and certainly had not seen any of this coming. He had just wanted some answers, some clue or sign that he was on the right path, instead, he found the worst of humanity. Purely by accident. 

He slumped on his cluttered couch, face falling onto his hands, pressing them against his eyes. 

It was impossible not to think of the myriads of what-if scenarios spinning inside his head, like a whirlwind of the worst situations all clashing within one another, crashing together and merging to become even worse. Finding Calliope was purely done by chance, purely because of some self-imposed mission of finding his Stranger. His Stranger, who he had chucked his disappearing act to him not wanting to be found.

Hob thought back to Calliope, he had not been looking for her, he had not known she even existed, yet she had been there for decades at the mercy of the scum of the earth, alone, with no one to look for her by the looks of it. Surely, if she had any way of getting help, she would have. But no one came. 

If he had not decided to check it out, he anguished to think how long she would have been there, captured and bound. A random author and a gut feeling, that was all he based his plans on. He knew he had been reaching for facts to connect to his Stranger, it had been a leap at best, and yet, that had not stopped him.

Right now, he had never been more grateful for his on-a-whim decisions. 

The anger that sparked within him earlier that night had yet to be subdued, perhaps, it may never quiet, not entirely. He knew humanity could have the best to offer, yet unfortunately, it could also have the worst. He had lived through horrific times, but he had also seen the world change. He had to be hopeful that slowly, but surely, the world was moving away from such actions.

Especially in recent times, the last few decades have been such an immense shift in culture and in the future in his opinion. Humanity, it seemed, had decided to fight for what was right more than ever before. So many human rights movements have been created and grown, creating waves of change and hope. He has seen it and participated in it.

It seemed that he got lulled by a false sense of security that humanity was on the right path. It did not stop him from continuing to believe in humanity, however. He had to hope the majority of them were changing and it was just the scarce few that were the problem. 

Today’s situation was certainly a wake-up call to pay more attention. Humans could be dangerously cruel. They were cruel to each other all the time, and of course, there would be those who are brutal to those that they deem inhuman and not worthy of kindness. He had known this, deep down, it was the reason he had been extra careful hiding away his immortality. He knew what people did to him during the witch trials, and all he was was a mere human with immortality. It seemed non-humans got a worse treatment. 

It angered and pained him deeply at how easy humans dared to surpass the limits of the depraved and perverted. 

His thoughts switched without his permission to the one plaguing his mind for centuries. His Stranger. It was impossible not to think back to their last meeting, and the reason for their fight, once again. 

No matter how angry his Stranger was, and how much he regretted the words spilled out of his mouth, he knew they were the truth. No matter how magnificent and ethereal his Stranger was, he could see the loneliness within him.

Like recognizes like. 

Which led to beg the question, if his Stranger was as lonely as he seemed to be, and if humanity was so cruel and unforgiving, then, would there be anyone that would know if anything happened to him? Would anyone care, apart from himself?

Hob knew he was spiralling but he couldn't help it. His fears had been growing steadily the more he thought about it, and the more he discovered. Beings like him could be hurt or captured, and like Calliope, it might happen without many outward signs. Anyone could be holding him captured and chances were, Hob would not even know which signs to look for. 

His head feels heavier than usual as he moves it up. It didn’t stop him from taking another sip of his drink, feeling as the burn of it rushed down his throat and settled onto his stomach, along with the disquieting and discomforting feeling he has grown to know deeply. 

All his books were scattered and disorganized, some were half-opened, others had notes and pages sticking out of them, while some piled on the ground, gathering dust as their use of them came to an end. What was once his dinner table was now his research area, with enough paraphernalia that it was hard to distinguish the table’s original use. Pens were scattered around, used ones and new ones, and one too many piles of sticky notes accompanied them. 

The carpet was wrinkled, yet Hob could not seem to straighten it. He would have to move one too many books to manage it. There were glasses all over the place, despite the fact that he has tried to keep it as tidy as he could, but he never can fully succeed. It appeared he had chosen his research over cleaning most days. 

His apartment had become a reflection of his need to find his Stranger. What started as a thought and an excuse to say goodbye has snowballed into something he had not see coming, but thinking back, he probably should have. 

Now, after what happened with Calliope, after all he witnessed and discovered, after having his eyes opened at the reaches of cruelty of humanity, he no longer believed that the possibility that his Stranger was captured was but a mere fear created by his guilty conscience. Now, that idea has truly become a real possibility, a real threat. It was something more concrete than anything else he had found in his three years of search. 

Every doubt and fear that has grown and latched onto him in the past few years, in the last century, all the anxieties that have gnawed at him inside out, all of it suddenly burst, exploding within every inch of him. 

Yet the moment they did, the fears and doubt transformed and combine with a non-stop determination to find him. He felt something click into place. There was a fire inside his chest that was filled with the devotion, dedication, and devoutness to his Stranger, stronger than anything else he had ever felt. 

There was a newfound desire in him. A reverence and passion that strengthened him. 

He came to a conclusion, right there and then, sitting at three in the morning with a pile of books, papers and dust, on his second drink and unkempt clothes. 

His will to find his Stranger was perhaps bigger than his will to live forever. And if his will to live forever was so strong that he was granted immortality, then he knew with certainty that he would find his Stranger, even if it was the last thing he ever did.

Chapter Text

1992

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Lounging in their gallery that resided in their realm, Desire of the Endless was sprawled on their bright red love seat, enjoying their time, working, and being attuned to people’s desires, as they usually did. 

Despair had left their realm not too long ago, and now it was time to focus and do what they were created for: desire. Humans had such fun ones. It fuelled the Endless’ curiosity and intrigued them deeply. Most humans had typical desires: love, sex, money, or often, it was a combination of these. Yet that was not all it was. Desire was in every choice and drive of every single person. Desire to be happy, to stop or change a situation one was in, to escape the past, or find a better future. Desire to indulge, or for a search for something, anything.

Then, the moment the desire waned in someone was when they fell into their twin’s realm. Despair and Desire were two sides of the same coin, they were twins for a reason. 

Humans were extraordinary creatures, filled with want for so many things, for people, objects, ideas, dreams, they were all creatures of desire, and as such, the gold-eyed Endless could see into their hearts and into their deepest longings and wants, they could see what someone yearned for, what fuelled their passion, their greed, their hunger for more. It was quite enthralling and such a delight not only to witness, but to be the reason humans did things.

Sometimes, such desire could spark such a will and a conviction to create, which evolved into something addicting and beautiful, yet at the same time, it could turn into something vicious, monstrous, and ferocious. It was a want for something so strong, that it could corrupt; it could lead people to do unspeakable things that not even their older brother, Destruction, would dream of. 

They were not a simple being to be, to have so much raw power, not unlike their other siblings. They all had their good sides and undesirable sides. Yet, it seemed Desire was the only one they called out for when they acted the way that they were meant to be. But it did not matter, Desire had long since learned the way of things, the way their family functioned and would always function, so, they did as they forever would and kept on going with their life.

Desire’s realm expanded over so many things, and co-existed with many of their siblings’ realms—more than any of them are willing to admit, except Despair, of course. Desire’s and Dream’s realms co-existed the most, no matter how much Dream loved to take credit for most of it and ignore all the work Desire did with the dreams of people. After all, these realms were intertwined, the spark of desire stemmed from people’s ability to dream. People dream, and they want these dreams to happen, which then fuelled the desire for it. In doing so, it kept the dreams alive. They fuelled one another. 

They will not admit it, ever, but there were a few times in the last few decades that they wondered if it was worth it, and by it, they meant the whole plan to lock up their big brother. It had certainly made their job a little more trying than expected. After all, there were so many people unable to dream at night and thus, were in complete unrest. Without the proper nurturing of their dreams and nightmares, their levels of desires seemed to wither. The desires were still there, but less potent, less bright. At the same time, there was a single desire that seem to burn bright amongst the rest: the desire to dream again. It had been quite unfortunate. It still was.

But, oh well, it was not as if it was Desire’s fault. Desire had orchestrated their plan to get back at their brother and perhaps, make him step off the high horse he seemed to be in and ask his siblings for some help. It was only but a simple binding spell. They had made sure of it. The mechanism was not complicated at all, all there was to it were a few sigils keeping him in place, sigils that could be washed away at the call of any sibling.

Desire did not quench their urge to scoff at that. It seemed they had overestimated their big brother’s ego and pride. They had not and would not ever expect him to call them, specifically, for help. However, they had truly thought that after a few years, at the most, Dream would bite the proverbial bullet and would at least call on their eldest sister, who seemed to have a fondness for him and he for her. Yet here they were, seventy-six years later, waiting for Dream to see some sense. 

But enough about thinking about their older brother, they had already wasted enough time on that. They had other things to do. Right now, they were currently lounging on their love seat, working hard as they focused on feeling every spark of desire. Some sparks were strong enough that Desire could leave them to their own devices, it would work out on its own, they did not need Desire’s extra nudge. That was not the case for everyone though, there were some who had an unaccomplished want, waiting to be fulfilled yet unable to make it work on their own.

That was where Desire stepped in, all it took was a bit of a prod of push from them, and it would do the trick.

So, that was what they were busy with. It was all going as usual, right up until Desire felt it: a wave of pure, unfiltered, raw desire that nearly knocked them back and out of their seat. Their eyes widened, hands automatically clutching at their chest as they felt the sensation grow and fill them up.

It had been too long since they felt something of this magnitude in their realm.

Desire grinned deviously from ear to ear as they savour the power coursing through their veins. The power, the want, it was so delicious. It captivated them, leaving them no other choice but to know more. They needed to know more. 

Without another moment to waste, they pinpointed the epicentre of it. It barely took an afterthought to find it, as the connection was strong enough that it flared up like lighthouse in a foggy, stormy, night, guiding them to the person.

Desire could already begin to start piecing it together, instinctively getting flashes of information. This person desired someone. This was not something that was unheard of, it was quite common, but there was another element to it that made it unique. Desire could not pinpoint what it was, not yet. They had to zero in on the desire a little more in order to gauge it and to feel it to the fullest.

Ah, there it was. They could it see it now. They knew what was different now; the desire was selfless, devoted to a worship-like degree.

They had only experienced such intensity a couple of times in their eternal life, and the last time had been a long, long time ago.

They closed their eyes, extending their consciousness outside of his gallery and all over their realm, no longer confided only to the body they embodied. They were tracking it. Ah, yes, lovely, there it was. There he was.

It was a man living in London, in a small apartment, judging from the looks of it. He was too lost in thought to pay his new visitor any attention, and even if he had not been distracted, it was not like he would be able to see them. Desire was not seen by anyone unless they showed themselves to them.

Robert Gadling. 

Desire knew his name instinctively.

Interesting name. Gadling was not a name that was common in this day and age. Something about it felt different, old. It only intrigued them more. What could this middle-aged man crave so powerfully to captivate Desire of the Endless themselves? Who could possibly ache for someone in such a way that it surpassed even the utmost devoted religious worshippers?

Desire delved into Robert’s heart, mind, and soul. 

They needed answers and answers they would get. It did not take long for flashes of someone to appear. It was a man, from the looks of it, his face was blurred. Desire looked deeper into his mind, trying to pinpoint more. There were only brief glimpses of a place, of memories. Desire could see a pub, old, ancient even judging by the infrastructure, but it looked new in the memory.  They scanned his mind, seeing more flashes of memories. It was the same pub, ever-changing as the years passed. Quite many years, going on centuries.

That was… unlikely, bordering on impossible even. 

Desire could feel their own desire grow as their intrigue skyrocketed. This was deliciously interesting.

Robert’s memories spawned over the course of hundreds of years, yet the man in front of them looked no older than early forties at the most. Impossibly so, this man had just become more compelling. 

They were never one to leave well enough alone, they had more questions than answers and that simply could not do. Desire focused on the person Robert desired, pushing into his mind a little too much. The face unblurred and in a few blinks of an eye, they seemed to be staring at a crystal-clear image of no other than their big brother. It was unmistakably him.

Now that the memories were unlocked, it was quite obvious that Robert’s clearest memories were of Dream. There was nothing out of place and there was nothing misremembered; his messy hair, the regal aura he carried, the black clothes, the pinched, blank face, and the eyes that are too detailed. It was clearer than any memory had the right to be. 

Looking at their brother through this man’s memories was so vivid that for a moment Desire feared he was actually standing right there in front of them. They knew that was not the case. It was impossible. He had been imprisoned for seventy-six years, trapped due to his own doing for being so unwilling, thick-headed, and prideful, continuing to refuse any ask for help. 

Yet somehow, this immortal man cared for their big brother so much, in such an unwavering way, despite the decades of radio silence, that it called upon Desire themself. And it seemed Robert was set on finding him. That was what called them to him.

A desire to find Dream of all people.

Hmmm. This certainly was unaccounted for. It was quite a turn of events indeed. Desire chuckled as their mouth split into a manic grin, mind already filled with possibilities. 

“My, my, isn't this interesting? What does this mortal want with you, big brother? What a fascinating thing it will be to play with your little toy.” 

Chapter Text

1992

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It was on his second day of non-stop work that Hob realized that he should probably sleep. He was not sure how it happened, but shortly after his newfound resolve to find his Stranger, there had been a spark of immense energy within him, a sort of pull and a drive to see this through which had not been there before. He had never felt a desire, a need, so strong like this one, strong enough to somehow be able to work for two days straight without even noticing the time passing. He was too focused on his work, and too focused on the thought of making sure his Stranger was safe and sound. A thought that never did seem to leave his mind.

He managed to get a lot done during his work marathon. He figured it out. The way he had been trying to find his Stranger was all wrong. He had been banking onto the fact that his Stranger was just staying away from him, or perhaps just knew how to hide well. Thus, he had been trying to find information on people who might have crossed paths with him, or those who had seen him in passing. 

Yet, the way to find his Stranger was not to look for the people claiming to interact with supernatural beings, but to look for those who did not. Those people who claimed such things had nothing to hide, either they were outright telling tales of their encounters because they thought they had witnessed something despite it not being true, or they had indeed crossed paths with the occult and nothing came out of it, leading to them speaking about it, often bitterly. 

It reminded him of his encounter with Lady Constantine, who had heard about both he and his Stranger, and then thought it alright to claim immortality just because of it. When that backfired spectacularly, it did not stop her from recounting tales and rumours about who he was. Something which Hob had found out not too long ago in one of his old books that had mentioned her in passing.

Anyway, the people who openly talked about it were bound to know less than they claimed. It seemed Hob had been looking at it all wrong. He needed to look for those who have delved in the occult or are close enough to the occult circles to be noticed yet passed by unnoticed. If that did not work, there were always those who might have stumbled upon such things and got lucky, like he did. 

Hob raked a hand through his hair as he sighed. Such things were easier said than done. He had a new pool of suspects, or he would have one, now that he had different areas to look into. Underneath his newfound motivation, there was a growing sense of frustration and unease. It felt like he had to start anew, as if the last few years of research didn’t even matter. Such hard work that he did, was all but erased. He felt like Sisyphus pushing the boulder uphill, just for it to come crashing down. But it did not matter, because just like him, Hob would continue to push that rock, no matter how many times it rolled down. He would do it until he found his Stranger. Even if he had to start all over again time after time.  

He could do it, he could feel it inside his chest, a spark that went ablaze at the prospect of finding his Stranger.

First things first, he had to rest, and soon. It did not matter how motivated he was or how he felt he was full of energy at the moment; there was no way he would be at his best if he continued on without sleeping. Sleep deprivation could be an ugly thing. He had regrettably found that one out one too many times over the many centuries that he had been alive for.  

So, mind made up, he willed himself to stop, to take a break. The moment he paused the endless and fruitless work; it all came crashing down. It was as if the rest he had refused in the last few days came crashing in, forcing him to feel every drop of exhaustion that permeated his body. His arms and legs felt sluggish, and his mind seemed to be backwards as he fought to navigate through his apartment towards his bedroom. He stumbled through the wardrobe, barely managing to change into more comfortable clothes, before he crashed into his bed, on top of the covers, getting his much-needed sleep.

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The sun shone directly in his eyes, yanking him away from sleep. Hob squinted, rubbing his eyes a few times, making sure he got rid of any particles that accumulated while he slept. With a frown and a confused tilt of his head, he stared at his window, where the curtains were half-closed, letting the sun peek through them. His bedroom was facing west, hence, the sun never bothered him when it rose in the morning, allowing him to wake up at any time he pleased, or whenever his alarm blared and rudely woke him up. So why the hell was he being woken up by light shining directly into his eyes? 

The sun should not be bothering him, not until late afternoon when the sun set.

Ah, shit, Hob thought dejectedly.The realization that it was the sun setting instead of the sun rising did wonders to wake him quicker. Hob did not wake up this late. Sure, he loved a late and slow morning like any other human being that enjoyed life’s simple pleasures, but waking up late enough that the sun was setting? That did not usually happen. Ever.

With a groan, he stretched his arms and legs, hearing a few bones pop into place, before he turned towards his nightstand, glancing at his alarm clock. The neon red numbers seemed to taunt him as it registered that he slept for a good sixteen or seventeen hours, more than he had slept in a good while. It did not stop him from yawning nor feeling like he could sleep for another four more hours.

He stood up groggily with more effort than it should probably take to leave the bed, but he managed it, nevertheless. Dragging his socked feet across the floor, he managed to make it to the kitchen, automatically setting up a new pot of coffee, and standing to the side, leaning against the counter, where he eagerly waited for his morning coffee. Or well, afternoon coffee at this point.

Hob could not help but let his thoughts wander to coffee. He had come to enjoy that particular drink more and more as the centuries passed and it was easier to acquire. There was nothing better than a good, strong cup of coffee to jolt him awake.

He stared into space as he waited, taking in the state of his apartment in his periphery, enjoying how everything is tranquil and quiet. He should have known that peace would not last, because it was not even a full minute after that he noticed something move on the corner of his eyes. Hob’s reaction time has him snapping out of his haze and snap him awake. He turned his whole head and body towards the movement, fast enough it made his muscles complain, all while grabbing a fork he had left the day before on the sink as a weapon. His mind had yet to comprehend the possible threat, but his body had already taken action, pointing his makeshift weapon at the intruder. Well, it seemed that there were some perks to being a veteran in multiple wars.

His beating heart calmed ever so slightly the moment he saw the intruder clearly, and saw it was no other than Calliope, still with the same ethereal Greek gown as last time. The only thing that changed was that she had a different, intricate, braided hairstyle now. 

“Oh, ye gods— Jesus Christ, what the…” Hob all but jumped on his spot, one hand still holding the fork, arm stretched in front of him, while the other hand grabbed at his own chest from the fright. “Calliope?” He asked and blinked and yup, she was still there, he wasn’t imagining it. “What are you—How did you even find—” He cut himself when he looked down at his hand still holding the fork, lowering it down with a confused hum. “Sorry, I didn't know it was you. What are you doing here?” He questioned, before worry overcame his mind, which was rapidly being bombarded with possible explanations of why she was there in the first place. Why would an actual Greek muse be here of all places, unless something dire had happened? He frowned, staring at her, looking for any signs something was wrong. “Is everything alright? Are you alright?”

“I am perfectly fine, Hob.” Calliope said amusedly, glancing humorously at the fork that was now sitting back on the counter. “I do apologize for startling you. I was under the impression you would be awake at this time.”

“Usually am.” Hob chuckled and scratched the back of his neck, suddenly embarrassed for being caught in his pyjamas and half asleep in front of a goddess of all people. “I had a bit of a late night.” 

Calliope looked around the apartment, seeing all the books and the overall mess. She raised her eyebrows and bit back a smile, expression guarded yet amused. “I can see that.” 

“Yeah well...” Hob shrugged and chuckled nervously once again. “So, to what do I owe this pleasure? What can I do for you?”

Calliope’s amused smile became a little less real. “It is more of what I can do for you.” Hob frowned. “I am not one to be in favour of others without repaying them. I could not ask this before, since we both had to leave hurriedly but, you helped free me, so I am here to ask what do you wish for? I can grant you inspiration for any thing that you wish—”

Hob’s expression and thoughts went through quite a few shifts right there and then, in the matter of a few milliseconds. Before anything else, he had to put a stop to this. Extending his arm, he motioned for her to stop talking, shaking his head. Determined refusal shone clear on his face. “Okay, yeah, no. No. I am going to stop you right there. You do not owe me any favours, or any wishes or gifts or anything. I freed you because it was the right thing, because I would rather die than to walk away from a situation where I could help. So, let's make one thing clear, you owe me nothing.”

Calliope regarded him silently. “You would be willing to turn down a favour from a muse? Is there really nothing you want?” She asked. Once again, there was something in her voice that Hob could place. 

“Yes, of course I would turn it down, because unearned favours is not the way I do things. Sure, there are things I want. Everyone has things they want, but not for this. Never for this.” Hob stated firmly. There was no room for argument. “So please do not offend me by continuing to ask.” 

“Very well.” Calliope acquiesced and looked intriguingly at him. “You are unlike the other humans I have met. No one else would refuse an offering like this.” 

Hob smiled. “Yeah, well, I am not everyone else.”

“Clearly.” 

Hob grinned, at ease that that particular issue had been addressed. Darting his eyes through the place, checking around for any changes—something that he had gotten into the habit of ever since the wars, he never could quite get rid of the hypervigilance when he was with people—he quickly took notice of the pot of coffee still on the counter. Right, he was in the middle of brewing his coffee when he had been interrupted. He grabbed his empty cup and lift it in the air at eye level, making eye contact with Calliope. “Coffee?”

“What?”

“Well since the whole issue is out of the way, I am going to make coffee. You are welcome to stay. Do you want any coffee? I made a full pot.”

“Yes. Thank you.” Calliope said after a moment of pondering. 

“Great. One coffee coming up. Do you want any milk? Sugar? Cream?” 

“Black coffee is fine.” 

“Not a fan of sweet coffee?” 

“Not really.”

Hob’s eyes widened, shaking his head dramatically in faux disappointment, levelling her with a judgmental look. “You’re one of those, I see. I guess not even goddesses can have perfect taste all the time” He waited another three seconds before he dropped his expression into a grin, laughing as his own jokes and antics, feeling vindicated when Calliope reacted by rolling her eyes at him, yet he could spot a ghost of a smile at it, nonetheless. “But really, in all honesty, I get it. Somewhat. I will drink my coffee black first thing in the morning just so it can force me awake, but the rest of my coffee intake I make sure it is anything but black coffee. Once I was introduced to the magic of combining it with milk and sugar there was no going back.”

“You have a sweet tooth.” She observed. While he had been talking, she had moved from her original spot and was now closer to the kitchen and the counter where Hob was.

“Course I do! The moment humanity decided to have widely available sweet foods is the moment I found yet another reason to live. It is the little things, you know?” Hob snatched the pot once it finished brewing and poured a steaming cup before passing it to Calliope. 

She took the cup with one hand and took a sip, humming once into the cup, face relaxed. “This is great, thank you.” 

Hob grinned at her, nodding in response. “You know, I still remember when coffee was brought to England. It was a game changer. Of course, as anything popular, people had varied opinions. Some distrusted it, others oversold it. Personally, I did not agree with the taste at first, but being able to get a boost of extra energy? That was like magic. It became an acquired taste in no time.” Hob reminisced, smiling slightly at the memory, somehow being able to be lost in thought while simultaneously preparing his coffee. He added milk and a couple of sugars, grabbing a spoon to stir it. “It was not until later that they started the trend of adding milk and things to it. Of course, I was, as the people say these days, going through it, at the time. Didn’t taste it until quite some time later.” 

Calliope frowned staring into him as she scrutinised every aspect of him like he was some puzzle to be solved. “You are mortal, yet you speak of being acquainted with things way before your time.” 

“I am older than I look.”

“And how old are you, Hob Gadling?” 

“Not sure. Somewhere in the mid six hundreds.” Hob said without much thought. “I know, I look great for my age.” He chuckled with a grin. 

“You are mortal.” Calliope stated, clearly wanting to sound assured, but she could not help but making it sound like a question. “You seem mortal, at least, and there are not too many beings who could hide their true being from me. What are you?” She said, her calm and friendly tone gone, now turned completely guarded.

“I am mortal, full human, nothing more, nothing less.” Hob motioned to all of him before he shrugged. “I was granted immortality. Which I do not usually go around announcing it, mind you, but hey, you seem trustworthy, and I figured you can relate.” He said, then added. “To the immortality part, that is.”

“Granted immortality?” Calliope repeated, frowning. “How did you manage such a boon?” 

“To be honest with you, I am not sure. But somehow my Stranger decided to fulfil my drunken ramblings about refusing to die back in 1389 and now here we are.” 

“Mortals do not gain immortality easily. You must have impressed someone quite powerful for it. You spoke of a stranger?” 

“Yes. My Stranger and I meet every one-hundred years.” Hob answers wholeheartedly before wilting. “or at least, we did.” Hob cannot help but feel a pang in his chest at the reminder of his missed meeting. 

“You mentioned, back when we met, that you were looking for someone. Is he the one you are looking for?” 

More than you know. “Yeah. He refused to show up last time, my fault really. Pissed him off quite good last time, we uh, had a fight. I truly thought he would show up though, but it has been three years. So, actually, who knows if I am even still immortal. For all I know, he revoked it and I will start ageing, we shall see how this century goes.” He tried his best to keep a nonchalant tone to it all, but there was nothing he could do with the ache in his chest, even after three years, it still hurt the same when he had to speak or think about their fight.

Hob also did a double take at himself. What the hell was wrong with him? He’s not sure why he was being so open about this, about him. He had kept all of this close to his chest since forever. Ever since he met his Stranger in 1389 and realized he could not die, he had kept every meeting and every knowledge of it to himself. For all intents and purposes, he should not be telling anyone any of this. Hell, he should not be striking a conversation with another immortal, one who was more powerful than he, about this.

He could not help it though, perhaps it was because he had kept it quiet for so long, perhaps it was because there was something about her that he trusted, he was not sure. But well, it was a little too late at this point to backtrack, and his gut was not warning him about her. He has fared well trusting his gut so far, and after all he has been through, he liked to think of himself a good judge of character. Might as well at this point.

Mostly, even if he wanted to stop, he was not sure that he could. Once he opened his mouth and words started spilling, he could not help but take notice that there was a want in his chest, an ache to be understood. It was a need he had not felt in a while, not ever actually, not to this degree at least. He needed it, he wanted someone who might understand what it was like living for so long. Calliope seemed like someone who could connect with him like that, and he was unable to stop himself from taking comfort in being able to speak about it, about his life.

It was not something new, not exactly. He had noticed in the back of his mind that the last few days he has had more trouble keeping in check his wants and desires. Sure, he longed for his Stranger and wanted him safe and sound, as always, but that was not the only thing he craved for. Most of the times, he could ignore it, but not lately. It had been so long since he has had a prospect for a potential friendship or camaraderie where he did not have to edit out every single aspect of his life.

Despite what his gut told him, things did not seem to go as well as he had hoped or thought it would be. Calliope seemed to close off at his last statement, eyeing him with what he was fairly sure was judgement. “So, you fought with the being that granted you such a gift, badly enough he does not care to show his face to you, and yet you are trying to find him?” She said carefully. “For what? To make sure you continue to stay young? Are you searching for ways to make it happen with all these books?” Her voice revealed nothing but indifference now, but her eyes seemed to show disappointment, if Hob picked up on it right. She had thought he was different, but clearly, he just wanted power and immortality like any other mortal. 

Hob’s eyebrows raised halfway to his hairline at such accusation before his face scrunched, completely apalled. His face hardened, and when he spoke, so did his voice. “I would never. Do not presume to know things about me, Calliope.” The mere idea that he wanted to search for his Stranger for such reasons created an utter revulsion within him. The spark in his chest that had been keeping him ablaze as of late roared, causing his indignation to turn into anger at the accusation. 

“The thought of finding him for my immortality has never crossed my mind. Not once. I have not spent the last three years of my life wasting away, building him a pub in case he ever decides to come back, for a misguided concern for myself. I did not spend the last three years buried in books for any speck of information that could lead me to him just for a chance to ask him favours.” He bit out every word, heart thundering in his ears as all of his emotions that he has carefully kept in lock and key hit him like a tidal wave. 

The spark in his chest continued to rise, his chest aching deeply at the want that he could not have. The want twisted and shifted into a convoluted mass, growing and twisting into longing, piercing his very being until the underlying emotion that he had kept carefully hidden showed itself. The longing twisted into despair, despair at the thought that anyone could think that he would ever want to use his Stranger for his gifts, despair at the thought of all he had done in the last few years with no end in sight, despair at the thought that his Stranger had left him, and he was alone, grasping at straws. It was too much. It felt like it was consuming every part of him, like a forest fire gone ablaze, destroying everything in its path until the fire eventually went out and nothing remained.

“You want to know why I am looking for him?” He finally said, dejectedly, all his righteous anger and conviction leaving him completely. “This all started as a simple dream to have a chance to apologize for our last meeting, to at least gain a chance at a proper goodbye. If he does not want anything to do with me after that, then I will respect his wishes, if he wants to revoke my immortality, so be it. I just want some fucking closure.” Hob could not even find the energy in himself to care for the way his voice wavered, sounding raspy, broken, and pathetic.

He was everything and left him like he was nothing. Hob thought yet refused to say. 

“I just wanted a simple goodbye.” He repeated, his voice becoming infinitely hoarser and more defeated. He pressed his fingers onto his eyes, rubbing them for a moment to get rid of the moisture that kept building up. “That was until I remembered that he can be captured.” Hob exhaled shakily. It was becoming too much for him to handle, and he just wanted all of this to stop, he wanted to stop talking, to stop thinking about it, to just stop. Yet, whatever took a hold of him was not letting him go, the sinking, drowning feeling only grew.

He kept on talking, words spilling out of his mouth almost against his will. “Then I ran into you, and suddenly all the fears I have been trying to rationalize for years got confirmed. So, now all I want, all I am trying to do is find him to make sure he is alright.” His voice sounded tired even to his ears. “Once again, do not presume or accuse me of things you do not know.” His voice broke and it was only now that he realised that his hands were trembling. Somewhere along his monologue, his cup of coffee found its way onto the counter again, thankfully, it was not dropped. He found himself leaning over the counter. He moved his hands to his chest, hoping to somehow lessen the feeling, but the moment he removed his hand from the counter, he lost the minimal balance he had gained, so he brought his hands to the counter again, leaning on them, and let his head fall down, hair cascading over his face as he tried to get himself back together.

After what felt like an embarrassingly long time, but probably was only a few minutes, or at least he hoped it was a few minutes, he looked up, staring at Calliope through his hair. No matter how much he tried, he could not figure out a single expression on her face, not in the state he was in and preoccupied with whatever was going on with him. “I’m not… I don’t…” I don't know what is wrong with me. He did not say. “I’m sorry.” He said instead. 

He didn’t know why this was happening. He had spent the better part of the last three years successfully keeping it together, his head clear and above the water all this time, turning his fears and regrets into fuel to do something about it. Seemed it was foolish of him to pretend he could keep it up forever, he would have to feel his emotions sooner than later he supposed, and it seemed the dam had broken at the most inconvenient of times. 

Calliope passed a glass of water to him, standing beside him, and Hob could not figure out for the life of him when she had moved next him, nor when she had got him a new glass of water. Nevertheless, he took the glass with a thankful nod, not really trusting himself to speak yet.

The wrong, wrong, wrong, feeling in his chest that had been crushing him beyond reason suddenly disappeared in a matter of seconds after he grabbed the glass. He could not explain how, but somehow, he felt right again, as if there had never been a problem or an overreaction on his part.

What the fuck. Hob thought it was extremely weird and puzzling but as most things he has stumbled upon in his centuries-long life, he decided it was best to ignore that for now and go with the flow. He had to salvage whatever situation he just got himself into. He could properly freak out later.

They found themselves sitting on the couch, Hob was still holding to the now empty glass of water. “I do not know what that was. My apologies.” He finally broke the silence, trying to speak with a semblance of dignity he did not feel he had at the moment. 

Calliope regarded him for a few moments. “I think,” she paused, “perhaps it is I who needs to apologize, Hob Gadling. I did not mean to elicit such a strong reaction. I can see I was wrong in my assumptions.” 

“It’s fine.” Hob waved her off, half-shrugging. “I overreacted, and to be fair, you could not have known of my reasoning.” Maybe if he played it off, he could salvage the situation still.

“You truly care for him.” 

“Of course I do.” Hob said as if it was a simple fact of the universe, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

“Yet, you call him your Stranger. You do not know his name.” She framed it as a half-question. Neither of them tried to pretend she didn’t know the answer already.

“Six-hundred years and he has yet to tell me anything about himself.” Hob shrugged. “Doesn’t matter, I know him. Or I thought I did. Besides, none of that changes anything.” He said softly, smiling sadly and staring into his glass to avoid looking at her. 

“You love him.”

Hob opened his mouth, ready to contradict her, there were a million things he could say to argue that, but none would matter. He closed his mouth, knowing they would all be lies. “I do.” He exhaled sharply. It felt terrifying yet freeing to say the truth to someone other than himself. 

“Tell me about him.” Calliope requested softly. 

Hob could not help as a dry laugh escaped him, he scratched the back of his neck self consciously. “I’m sure you must have better things to do than to listen to an old man ramble about the most pathetic unrequited love of his lifetime.” He half-joked. 

“Not at all. But, if you wish to not talk about it, or that I take my leave—”

“No, no. You can stay as much as you please. I am not kicking you out, or trying to not talk about it, God knows I could talk about him forever.” He was just confused. He was about to say as much, and question why he was finding himself making small talk with an actual goddess when she could literally be doing anything else or hanging out with people much more important than he was, but the train of thought halted in its tracks as it hit him. 

There was something familiar about the entire situation that made him think both of his Stranger and the reason for their fight.

He had called him lonely, and despite his regret over how it ended, he stood by what he said. It was easy to be lonely, especially when one was immortal. 

He then thought back to Calliope, and how she was imprisoned for decades with no one to help. She must be lonely too. He does question, rather bitterly, why it seemed that all immortals ended up that way. It was kind of sad.

She seemed interested in the conversation, and he found that he might like talking to her. It did sound nice to have a listening ear, and if she ever wished, he would be a listening ear to her too. 

Hob cleared his throat before he continued speaking from his momentary pause. “I simply did not want to bore you, but if you are sure, I can tell you about him.” 

“You are an interesting man, Hob. I would like to hear it.” Calliope answered, pausing before adding. “It has been a while since I have had an interesting conversation with a mortal man that does not have a secret agenda. Most of them, if not all, are always too preoccupied to be in my good graces to be anything more than boring. This is a nice change from it.” 

Hob basically counted that as confirming his previous suspicions, outwardly, he didn’t let any of it show. With a smile, he leaned back comfortably on the couch, facing her. “Careful there, you underestimate how much I can talk, I can go on about anything.” He began saying with an amused tone. “Like the time I bore my Stranger when going off about chimneys, those things are a wonder, let me tell you that, one of the best inventions. It was such dark days before it, couldn't see a damned thing with all the smoke in my face all the time. I will tell you about them later for sure. But now, let me tell you about him, it all started in a stinky tavern in 1389….” 

Calliope listened attentively, happy to engage in conversation with a possible new friend, gods know how long it has been since she had one.

Hob went on to tell her some of the story, the highlights and good times, not really feeling like going into detail about other things, but that was okay, he had a feeling this would not be the last time they would chat like this.

Chapter Text

1993

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The air is chilly and the cold breeze seeps through him. Sparks of sand occasionally hit him in the face, when the wind is strong enough. Everything is empty. It is void of any landmarks or any people, it is all simply sand and sea, and perhaps, a broken gate, or perhaps it is a simple slab of stone. Hob is not quite sure of it yet. He has seen it, he knows he has, but even in front of the view, his memory fails to capture the whole image. 

Something's not quite right. He can feel it in the textured sand beneath his toes, it feels like only an approximation of it. The breeze brings in droplets of water, yet the consistency is off. He cannot quite pinpoint why yet. 

Hob is here again. Where exactly is ‘here’ exactly? He is not sure, but he has become more familiar with it in the last few months. Mostly, he does not remember any of it. It only comes back to him when he is there, but the moment he leaves, the memories are gone. Little by little the memories begin to remain, only in flashes and feelings, with the sense that he has been there before, feelings that become stronger with each visit. Until eventually, he retains enough information to know, with clarity, he has been there, many times. 

He looks back at the slabs of stone, or gates, or mountains. He does not know why, but he knows he has to get to them, he has to know. Know what exactly, he is unsure. 

He takes a step forward, ignoring the wrongness of the sand beneath him. Another step. The sand feels deeper. A third step, the sand is up to his knees now. Another step and— 

Hob woke up with a jolt, breathing heavily and sitting up on his bed. It must have been quite some dream he was having if he managed to snap himself awake and upright. His hand covered a yawn before he rubbed his eyes. With a groan, he managed to get out of bed and forced himself to go make coffee. Looking at the clock, he saw it was seven in the morning. It was earlier than usual, but not early enough to go back to sleep, he noticed, much to his heart’s discontent. 

He rubbed a hand through his face and sighed. His dreams lately had been making him more tired lately. Truth be told, he was surprised that he was even dreaming at all. After all, it had been a few decades since he remembered having any dreams at all. 

He remembered the time when he stopped dreaming, or well, at least when he stopped remembering his dreams. It had been somewhere between 1916 or 1917, he was never quite sure of the exact time since he had been deep in the trenches of the Great War, or World War One as people call it these days. He barely slept during those times, and if he did, he was plagued by living nightmares that, more than not, were just memories of the war and the horrors that he saw. Until one night, when he and his squad had finally found a relatively safe space for the time being, quiet enough and abandoned enough that they could catch a few hours of rest and sleep. 

He remembered waking up the next day and for the first time in a long time, it had not been due to him screaming himself hoarse of the memories that plagued him. He had remembered the day he stopped dreaming so clearly because of the shock. It had been a one-time thing, or so he had thought. A fluke. Except, the next night, there were no nightmares, nor the next night, nor the next. Hob could actually sleep in relative peace and escape into a world of darkness, momentarily taken away from the trenches. 

The war soldiered on, and so did he. He had his work cut out for him making sure his men survived long enough to see their family once more. The number of times he had taken all the suicide missions for himself and even got in the way of a few bullets, all just so his men did not get hit were one too many.

He could get back up again, they could not. 

Not everyone made it, in the end, no matter how much he tried, war was vicious, cruel, and unforgiving. It took and took, destroyed lives and hopes. Only eight of the fifteen men he was with got to go home, which was plenty more than the other units, which had considerably more losses. 

Through it all, Hob did not dream again. He was thankful for the absence of nightmares, but when he realized that he did not have dreams either, he could not help but feel disillusioned. He figured it was due to shell shock, or PTSD as it was later dubbed. 

He had been in many battles through the centuries. Many had been vicious, bloody and gruesome, yet there had been something more brutal from the Great War that stuck with him for the worse. The technology that had been introduced was no longer making men fight with old guns, knives or swords, but machine guns, heavy artillery, and weaponry. The way humanity had created such things of destruction, creating such carnage. It stuck with him, it still did. 

So, he chucked it to the shell shock, and hoped that eventually, he might heal enough to start dreaming. It had not worked of course. Not that he even managed to get much healing afterwards. As soon as he had gotten out of the trenches in 1918, he had essentially shut out from the world for a couple of years, his mind and body not quite realizing he had left the war yet. 

Then, just when he thought he was moving past that, World War Two had struck, and it was so much worse than the first one. Hob fought in it, of course he did, he would do his duty and would do his best to save people. It was the first time in quite a while, perhaps ever, that he lost faith in humanity so quickly and so much of it was due to the horrors they were willing to commit to each other, and to the devastating and terrifying reality that they had created a weapon that could destroy all of humanity. 

So, when Hob continued to not dream at all, he shrugged it off, and thought it was due to even more shell shock.

He remembered asking around too. The people he served with had not dreamt either. It made sense of course; they saw the horrors too. He did not left it at that, so after looking around, he had also found some texts from some last century big-name psychologist that theorised on the way dreams worked, which did not seem to bring any new answers.

So now, almost fifty years after the war, it seemed he was starting to dream again. The problem was that he did not remember dreaming being something so exhausting or confusing. He was so sure there had been many richly, picturesque, and simply magnificent dreams before the wars. Filled with joyful memories of his family, still alive and well within his dreams, making it possible to relive the good times. The times he had a family, the times he was not alone or unloved. It always hurt so much to wake up from those, he would feel the pang in his heart and the ache of the memories of centuries past fading, but he cherished them, nonetheless. 

Sometimes, his dreams would not be of memories, but of surreal, out-of-this-world places and things, like heavenly gardens and castles full of sun, flowers, and love. Those dreams would make him wake up with a smile while the images of it still danced behind his eyelids before fading gradually throughout the day. That had been before the war, now he only vaguely recalled those dreams, mostly remembering the feeling of peace, safety, and harmony that those elicited. 

The dreams now were not like anything he remembered them being like before, yet for the past few months, he had been having more and more of them. At first, it was only one dream, he was not even sure it had even been a dream. He did not remember it, but he did remember waking up with the feeling that he had been dreaming. He knew that his mind had conjured up something before his alarm had rudely awakened him. 

The dream turned into two, and the next thing he knew, every other week he would be dreaming again, always without remembering anything. All he knew was just that whatever it was, it was familiar. He was pretty sure it may have been the same dream every time. 

Now, the consistency of dreams had evolved to one almost every night, and he was becoming restless. It seemed his dream-deprived mind was trying to catch up on seventy years of no dreams and it was exhausting. 

Having already dragged himself to the kitchen, still in his pyjamas and robe, and he stared sleepily at his coffee, humming when the hot liquid poured down his throat. He would have energy soon enough, yet it did not seem like enough. Thankfully, the schedule for the day was a relaxed one for once, after having had a few busy days recently. 

It had now been around four years since his Stranger failed to show up and had taken in the mission to find him. Despite wanting nothing else but to dedicate every hour of the day to finding him, despite knowing it was futile to do so, he knew there was only so much he could do before it drained him completely. As much as he wanted to believe otherwise, he did in fact, have a life he needed to maintain.

The pub was the main thing. It had now been open for about a year and a half, and making sure it didn’t run aground was a full-time job on its own. Sure, he had managers to oversee it, but that did not feel like enough, so he has made sure to check in on it at least once every week, if not more. 

It was a system that has functioned well, his months are now broken into three main elements, one of them being the pub, the other being his search for his Stranger, and the third varied depending on if Calliope wanted to pay him a visit or not. 

Calliope, as Hob had guessed, had not become a one-time visitor, but a somewhat frequent person in his life, every few months, she would show up, asking how his search had been doing, and then, she would proceed to talk about nothing and everything. They would catch up on their lives, talk about new developments, or debate the functionality of the better inventions through the years. Every time, there was always something to talk about, and more than plenty of welcomed company. 

At first, Calliope tried to help him narrow the identity of his Stranger, but it led nowhere. 

Hob told her about his Stranger. He explained how he was someone who could grant him immortality, did not age, and referred to humans as other, yet seemed fascinated by humans behind his neatly constructed facade. He described him to her as pale, regal, deep blue-eyes, and always dressed up in the most impeccable attire of the time, always making sure his dark clothes and hair were neatly styled. 

Hob’s description continued, and Calliope could not think of any of her acquaintances, or beings that she knew of, that could fit into such categories. There were not many who could grant immortality, especially not as easily as it seemed to have been for Hob, and there were even less of those that cared for humanity more than it being an entertainment or a simple lower species they could trick. She could not come up with any satisfactory answer and told him as much.

Unbeknownst to Hob, for a moment, the mention of dark clothes and dark hair reminded Calliope of her ex-husband, who fancied that type of style. But if there was one thing she knew, it was that he did not care, nor delved into humanity’s affairs beyond the realm of the dreaming.

Certainly, it could not be him, given his signature messy hair and eyes filled with stars, unlike Hob’s stranger. Besides, he certainly could not grant immortality. His sister could, but Calliope knew how proud he was, and having his sister grant immortality would have taken a big favour, one he would never ask for. 

Calliope had quickly dismissed the thoughts of her ex-husband, not wanting to think of the tragedies that surrounded that. Last time she saw him neither of them had wanted anything to do with the other, and to add to it, the grief of her son was still too raw, despite how much time had passed. She moved on from those thoughts, not wanting to think or know anything else about that particular Endless. 

She had still wanted to help, but Hob refused, to a certain degree, after finding out that in order for her to find such information, she would have had to call in favours to dangerous or powerful entities, he made it quite certain that he appreciated the effort, but he could not allow that. He did not want to abuse their friendship like that or put her at risk. 

As much as Hob wanted to find his Stranger, he didn’t want to resort to that. He would find him, that was for sure. It would take longer yes, but well, he never did things easy or in halves, did he? 

So, during the last few months, when she would show up, Hob would update her on his search to a degree, but he did mainly focused on catching her up on the other parts of his life, which were slim to none, but it was a system that worked. In turn she would do the same. It was a nice, albeit repetitive schedule, and Hob found out he really quite liked it. 

Then, there was the search for his Stranger, which had led him running around England and its neighbouring countries, tracking down any possible beings that could be his Stranger. None of them were him. He had stumbled onto a few demons, an actual witch, and what he is pretty sure were two young ghosts, but he had not stuck around to find out more. The  ghosts had needed some help, he provided information since he was already there and knew the answers and then moved on. 

Most of the time, though, he hit dead ends leading him nowhere. 

The last few days had been busy, he attended the bar for two days, needing to fix something with the inventory. An easy fix, but slow. Then he had to oversee the paperwork for the pub, making sure all the documents were up to date and there was nothing left to change. To add to the pile of work, there had been a problem with the pub’s bathroom after a broken pipe that needed repairing which took most of his focus and time as of late. Luckily, that had been officially fixed and finished as of this morning. 

Now that it was done, and it was the weekend, Hob could finally take his much-needed rest from his outside responsibilities and spend it alternating between more research, which at this point it was dragging him on, and rest. 

Hob served himself another cup of coffee, now taking the time to prepare it as he liked it—with extra cream—and sipped it as he prepared breakfast. He turned on the stove and threw some bread in the toaster. Today was a simple day: eggs and toast, with a side of bacon. The combined aromas of it, mixed with his coffee, fill the air. He smiled as he took a whiff of it. The small joys in life never fail to put him in a good mood, it was like a constant reminder of why he loved living.

Grabbing his plate, he took it to the coffee table in front of his couch, before sitting down and turning on the TV. Normally, he would check the newspaper in the morning while he had his breakfast every day, except Saturdays, where he let himself channel surf. 

Luckily for him. It was a Saturday.

Putting on an early-morning rerun of some crime-drama show, he sat back to watch and enjoy his breakfast. 

After the episode was done and the dishes were washed, he plopped himself down on the chair, ignoring its slight creaking. He made a quick mental note of possibly looking into more comfortable chairs in the future before dismissing the thought in favour of his latest book. It was a hard copy, old and dusty, found at the back of an antique shop not too long ago, where it had been abandoned and used as a stand for more interesting things. 

It had intrigued him when he had first seen it, despite it mostly being covered in dust. He had spotted it when pawning one of his antiques he had collected a few centuries ago, when it was brand new. It was nothing too special, nothing he would miss too much, and it brought him a good sum of cash for his passion project. 

He used some of it to attain the book he found, which he got at half-price since the owner of the shop had not cared for it, muttering how it had been there too long, and no one wanted that rusty old thing. The book got cleaned and dusted off the moment Hob returned to his apartment. Without all the grime and dust, the book had a dark green-ish colour, with golden metallic decorations in detailed designs adorning the front. Some of the golden metals were twisting into two birds at the top, while the rest was lined with swirls around the borders, and with a sort of a rectangular jewel shaped middle. 

Hob knew his relics, and he knew that this book was old. Given the care and materials put into decorating it, he could tell how it was deemed powerful and important, almost sacred to whoever crafted it. This was certainly going to his collection. 

The book had been attained about two weeks ago, but it was only now that he could properly sit down and inspect it as he wished. Putting on his reading glasses—which he did not particularly need, but it had been recommended to help his tired sight—, he opened the book. 

The front page released the smell of old ink the second the book was opened, Hob knew the smell quite well, he quite enjoyed the smell of old ink and paper. It always reminded him of his days with the printing press, yet there was something peculiar about it, it was not exactly like the old smell he remembered. The ink smelled older, it reminded him of his days from his first lifetime, back when he was still mortal. The ink smell took him back and he knew this book must be older than it looked. It appeared well preserved, the pages containing a mild yellowish tint at best. 

“The Magdalene Grimoire.” Hob read aloud, tasting the words as he spoke them. Curiosity got the best of him. He carefully turned to the next page, and the next. It did not take him long to comprehend the idea of what the book held. It was definitely an obscure and occult sort of text, containing accounts of mythological and terrifying entities, as well as one too many rituals for his liking. 

There is something about the details and the specificity of it, as well as the ingredients and materials listed that seem too far fetched and random, yet entirely too fitting, that immediate made Hob get the sense that this was not some rubbish book nor a fake. Obviously, these books never contain information that are entirely and fully accurate, but he knew that he did not want to find out exactly how accurate this one was. 

He flipped through the pages. There were too many names, some familiar, many unfamiliar, and his head spun. There were rituals on the capturing of angels and demons, step by step instructions on how to exchange favours with beings named Choronzon, Cluracan and Bast. There were even a few pages on beings like Beelzebub and the Devil himself. Hob shuddered involuntarily at that, the fear of messing with the Devil was too ingrained in him from his peasant days. 

What called his attention the most, however, was when he noticed a particular page, one he could tell had been opened on more occasions than any of the others had. He could tell even when the book was closed, since there was a slightly bigger gap between the pages around that area. When he opened it again, the book pages cascaded open, falling into place to reveal that page. The more one had a book open on a specific page, the easier it was to tell. It was easier to spot on older and used books; it always left an imprint.   

So, of course he flipped to that page, curious to see what it was. The words took longer than a moment to become clear. He squinted his eyes, blinking for a moment. It seemed he had been reading much longer than he had originally thought. He promised himself he would take a break after reading this page.

He quickly came to realise it might have been a mistake. Reading it did not make him feel better about any of his worries that had been building up during the last few years, in fact, he felt worse. 

Right before his eyes, there were handwritten step-by-step instructions on how to summon an Angel of Death. He quickly skimmed through the adjacent pages and saw all sorts of complicated symbols. One of the main ones, judging by its size in comparison to the other symbols, was a circle with inscriptions on it, with sharp corners sticking out. While the other symbol seemed to be some sort of triangle. 

He closed the book, letting out a puff of air, making dust that was still on the page disperse in the air, then pressed his mouth into a line. He hated that he stumbled upon such a thing, but at the same time, he was also relieved that he had. This way, he could put it away before any occult-truther psycho decided to test such things out. With that in mind, he walked towards his bookshelves. They were two floor-to-ceiling wooden shelves that were brimming with books. Most were organised, yet there were books that stuck out and shelved on top of the carefully placed ones. He took notice of how the piles of the unorganised books were becoming more and more prominent and abundant. He should probably buy another one to manage the mess. 

He made his way to the bookshelf closer to the wall and away from the door, finding a spot in the upper corner, and stashed the book, all with the help of a small stool to reach up there. He hid it with the other books that he had not opened in a while, perfectly happy to let it gather dust with them for the time being. Reading it just for one day had already made him feel off kilter and nothing there seemed like something he could use. Sticking it on his shelf to be forgotten seemed like the best choice of action. 

He made his way to his book-free desk, it was small, in the corner of the living room opposite to the bookshelves where he kept his brand-new computer. He had caved with the modern era and bought one earlier this year. He remembered not too long ago, back in late spring, when the World Wide Web became available to the public. He was in awe at how technology had come so far to the point that people could have a little box in their houses where one could talk to people from anywhere in a matter of minutes. It was surreal and he loved it. 

So, he had a computer now, and he was amazed at it. All he had to do was type something and wait a few minutes before, like magic, the information appeared before him on the screen. Of course, he still preferred an old fashion book, as he has grown accustomed to doing that for the past couple hundreds of years. That did not mean he couldn’t get used to it if it continued to evolve on this path. His main research was still done with the help of his books, but now he had also begun to delve into something called chat rooms, where he could talk to people from all over the globe.  

He figured it would not hurt to ask around in these areas for information. He did not expect anything to come up, but it was worth a try. So, ignoring his last thought-out plan of taking a break, he logged into his computer, waiting a few minutes so it could properly start up. The screen loads, and he moves the mouse to the newly opened window of the chat rooms, checking if there had been anyone that had replied to him. After being met with a blank inbox, he logged out. 

Glancing at his watch and realizing the sun has gone down dramatically, he noted how late it had gotten, late enough to get dinner and call it a day. He spent the entire day reading. Time flew past in the blink of an eye, something which seemed to be happening all too often now. Mainly, every time he started his research, the burning need and the aching drive to find his Stranger got him motivated and full of energy to the point of being able to focus for hours on end without stopping, or without realizing it had even been that long since he started.

Grabbing some leftovers from the night before, he ate his dinner while watching another rerun episode on cable, before he headed up to take a shower, plopping down on his bed with barely half a thought to spare to get under the covers before he was falling fast asleep. 

The sand is beneath his feet, the cold seeps through his bones again. Squinting his eyes, his vision is impaired by the blowing hair on his face and the sand swirling in front of him. It doesn't matter, he walks forward the gates, or mountains, he is not sure, they call to him, he needs to reach them. 

He takes a step, another, the sand starts devouring him again, warning him to not go forward, as if it is forbidden. That does not stop him. He takes another step. 

He wakes. It’s a new day, and he goes through the same motions that he always did. Get his coffee. Long for his Stranger. Search for his Stranger. Dinner. Shower. Sleep.

The sand is beneath his feet and up his ankles. He seems closer than before to the stones, or gates, or mountains. They seem far away, but he knows he is closer. Not by his vision. No. His vision lies to him, making them seem far, but he knows he is near. He does not know why, or how does he know that, nor does he ask himself such. 

One step, two steps, five steps. He makes his way. The wind howls in his ear and he can hear the waves crashing angrily behind him. He does not turn back. He takes another step. The sand is up his knees. He waddles by, slowly but surely. Another step. 

He blinks rapidly, moving his hair out his face and ignoring the sting of sand burning his eyes. The gates, or mountains, or stones in the distance seem closer and thus clearer. If he could just take a good look at them— 

He wakes. It’s a new day and once more, he went through the same motions. Get his coffee. Ache for his Stranger. Work at the pub. Search for his Stranger. Dinner. Shower. Sleep.

The sand is up his ankles again, perhaps higher up. Every bone in his body is telling him he is unwelcomed; he should not be here. He considers listening to it, but something else is urging him to continue. He takes another step and another. The mountains, gates, or stones seem closer now, he opens his eyes widely now, no longer squinting at them. 

He can see now. The gates. 

His eyes burn and he goes back to squinting, impairing his vision once again. He takes another step. 

He wakes. It’s a new day and once more, he went through the same motions. Get his coffee. Yearn for his Stranger. Search for his Stranger. Dinner. Shower. Sleep. 

The sand is trying to stop him, he continues on, he has to know.

Know what? Somewhere in his mind, something supplies the question. He does not know.

Another step.

He wakes. It’s a new day and once more, he went through the same motions. Get his coffee. Pine for his Stranger. Fix the problems at the pub. Search for his Stranger. Dinner. Shower. Sleep.

The sand covers up to his knees now. The waves roar angrily in the background. The wind picks up. 

Another step. 

He wakes. It’s a new day and once more, he went through the same motions. Get his coffee. Want for his Stranger. Talk to Calliope. Search for his Stranger. Dinner. Shower. Sleep.

The sand is slowing him down. Yet the gates tower above him, their shadows covering him completely. He is close. 

He grins. 

Another step. 

He wakes. It’s a new day and once more, he went through the same motions. Get his coffee. Desire for his Stranger. Search for his Stranger. Dinner. Shower. Sleep.

There are markings in the gates, they seem ancient, broken, in ruins. It does not stop him from intrinsically knowing it belonged to someone great, to someone powerful. 

He manages a few more steps before the sand drowns him. 

He wakes. It’s a new day and once more, he went through the same motions. Get his coffee. Dream for his Stranger. Search for his Stranger. Dinner. Shower. Sleep.

The sand cannot hurt him, the wind howls but does not disorientate him. The gates are in front of him, closed and falling apart, yet still guarding. He feels a pull and reaches out.

The stone feels cold to the touch, the dust latches onto his hand, feeling rough and irritating, yet it does not bother him. He smiles in awe at it. 

There is a grumbling sound, shaking the ground and the walls around him. He does not move. The gates crumble some more at the movement, yet they open, nonetheless. 

A light shines bright as he tries to look inside, he cannot see anything for a moment, just the blinding light and the shaking beneath him. 

He is in a room. It looks more like a ruin than a room, but Hob can still see it for what it once was. He frowns, even in his dreams he recognises something is different. He has never been here before, and something primal within him warns him he should not be here at all, ever. He has stopped listening to that centuries ago though. He stays.

Confusion fills him but shifts to intrigue just as easily. Even in ruins, this place is beautiful. The roof is gone, but in its stead, it leaves a considerable gap that allows him to stare at the sky, the most unearthly, otherworldly, sky he has ever seen. It looks like the galaxy and the night, filled with darkness and stars and dimmer colourful lights that Hob gets the sense they are supposed to be brighter, more vivid. He never wants to stop staring at it. 

He has to after a few moments, when footsteps are heard closely behind him, and are followed by a sharp and commanding voice. 

“You are not supposed to be here.” 

Hob looks away from the sky and turns to the voice. A woman in a fancy yet antiquated suit is standing there, she wears glasses, and Hob, belatedly notices, has pointy ears. She stares at him guardedly, standing tall and tense. 

“Hello.” Hob greets curtly with a formal smile. It is better to be overly respectful and nice until he finds out more. “I did not mean to intrude. I will be honest; I have not a single clue of how I got here. One second I was….” Hob frowns. Where was he? There was a light? The sand? Right! The gates. “I was at the gates, they are truly wonderful, no question about it. Then I was here.”

“You opened the gates.” The woman’s face is carefully devoid of many expressions, yet he can see the slight widening of her eyes and the twitch of her eyebrows wanting to go up. “You, a mortal, a human, not only opened the gates but found yourself in the heart of the Dreaming.” She eyes him sceptically, Hob cannot help but detect a trace of fear, at least he thinks it is that.

“I did not open them, they opened after I touched them, I barely even pushed through them.” Hob feels he has to explain himself, unsure as to why. 

“Only a few could do that.” She seems to mutter to herself, so quietly Hob is not sure if he even hears her correctly. Seconds later she seems to stare into him, even more than before. “Who are you? Do you know my Lord? Did he send you here?” 

Hob shakes his head, expression scrunching up as his confusion gets the best of him. “I do not know any Lord.” He rakes a hand through his hair before scratching the back of his neck. “I do not know where I am, or how I got here. What is this place? Who are you?” 

“You need to leave.” She stands up taller, if possible, her voice becoming steelier and commanding. “Unknown presences are a threat and unwelcomed.” 

“Woah, hold up, I am not a threat.” Hob raises his hands in a motion to de-escalate the situation.

“You need to leave. Now.”

Hob woke up with a jolt, feeling as if he had just been pushed and pulled in all directions. His heartbeat was beating rapidly, and he had to take a few breaths to calm and stabilize himself. This was the first dream he could remember that had been different from the others. He wonders if it meant something, or it would mean something for the next time he dreamt of the place.

Despite the odd and slightly eery dream, he found himself looking forward to visiting it again. 

Hob did not dream of that place again. In fact, from then on, he did not dream at all. 

Chapter Text

1994

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Desire hummed, rather pleased with themselves with their little project. For the last year and a half, they had spent it periodically pushing Robert’s desires to the limit. They had been incredibly curious to see what would happen to someone who already had such intense desires if they were pushed to the edge. Would he break? Would he run aground? Would the fire inside his chest, pulsing with every heartbeat get to a point where it became too much to handle? Would he lose it then? Or would his desire be corrupted into a greedier and darker one? 

All were fun questions that Desire had asked themselves throughout the last year, and up until now, they had not had any of them answered. So far, Robert still had not cracked, not exactly, and his desire continued to be as selfless and pure as always.

Well, except of course, for that time his desire had burnt too bright and too fast that it led him to momentarily think it was a good idea to tear the whole world down after he had gotten too frustrated with his search. Unfortunately, much to Desire’s boredom, Robert had only considered it for the briefest moments before he stopped taking the thought seriously. So that avenue did not lead to much.

They had to admit though, they had gotten greedy at the start. As soon as they had found him, their curiosity and thrill had gotten the best of them, causing them to push Robert’s desires up a nudge or five. That lapse of judgement had led to causing Robert to work non-stop for a few days before he was sent spiralling into a crisis.

Desire had been quite curious by that development. It had been fun, seeing him react like that, burning through all of his energy. Like a candle, he was burning too bright, too quickly, which would undoubtedly lead him to an early end. Desire could only see it unfold, much like a cat who had too much fun playing with his food. The fun had not lasted long, not when the entertainment had turned to rapid concern, albeit momentarily, when they spotted no other than their ex-sister-in-law talking to Robert. 

Desire had not been concerned for Robert, but for themselves. It would not do for them to go poking around when their ex-sister-in-law could end their fun if she caught onto what he had been doing.

Yet, said concern for themselves morphed into delight for the sweet possibilities of the situation they had stumbled upon. Desire smirked at the delectable prospects that could entail. It would definitely be so pleasantly disastrous if their big brother ever found out those two knew each other.

They made a mental note to keep that in mind for later. If their little scheme with the dream vortex did not work out, this could do nicely for a replacement plan.

Back to Robert’s situation though, the entertainment they had created at his expense would only be amusing if it was not cut short before the fun began. Calliope being there at first had been an unexpected surprise, and the timing had not been the best, not with the way he had gone off the rails as the various desires in him had been dialled up to eleven all at once and ran rampant within him. Once had been risky enough. So, Desire had no choice but to tone it down as fast as they could and make sure they toned it down, especially while Calliope was nearby.

That did not stop Desire from following through, though. They were simply more careful. 

They could not help themselves. It had been so interesting to see how Robert responded. Most of the motivation to find Dream came from within the mortal himself, which was quite impressive. All that desire did not stop Desire from nudging their influence into him. Unlike their past hypothesis, it had not corrupted him, in turn, it made him almost manic, working dawn to dusk without problem despite his needs for other things. 

Of course, they did not keep that going all of the time. They had to make sure not to run him aground and avoid detection of their ex-sister-in-law. Which was a curiosity all of its own. Desire was impressed and mildly surprised at the ridiculous irony of Calliope trying to help Robert find Dream, while very much not realising that both of them knew about, and were quite close to, Robert’s mysterious stranger.

Currently, it had been a year and a half since their project began. It was practically a blink of an eye, barely a blip in an immortal’s existence. Desire still held high hopes that this would lead somewhere. They would just have to toy with him a little longer, and possibly, try a more hands-on approach. 

For that to work, they knew they had to be careful about how much information they were withholding from the man. The amount of times Robert had come close to hearing about Burgess were one too many, but Desire had quietly and swiftly put him onto a path of another dead end.

Now, it seemed it was time to put him onto another wild goose chase. 

Desire grinned and their devilish laughter echoed through their empty gallery, reverberating on the walls. This new approach was bound to set something ablaze that might either spiral into chaos, madness, or genius. It would either crash or burn, sure, but if it worked, this would cause Robert to burn to the ground in a far more entertaining way than they could ever hope to accomplish otherwise. 

Desire was very much looking forward to this plan, and what made this so wonderful was that when it was all said and done, Dream would have no option but to blame himself. 

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Hob sat at a table in his pub, rhythmically tapping his fingers on the side of his half-full glass as he tried to act as nonchalant and not nervous as possible while he waited. He glanced at his watch for the eighth time in the last five minutes and mentally demanding himself to relax unless he wanted to embarrass himself with the new potential lead. 

He had tried the Chat Rooms in the World Wide Web in a state of desperation a while back and had made peace with himself that it would lead nowhere, but he still kept it up as entertainment and a farfetched hope. The types of people answering him, claiming wild things that were clearly untrue were sort of funny, he wouldn’t lie. It was not until a few nights ago when something changed. He received a new message and for the first time, it looked promising. 

The one who messaged him claimed they knew about what he had been asking about. They claimed that they had answers they could gracefully share, but not over the web, as they did not trust the newest technology over such sensitive information. Hob had agreed to meet, and luckily for them both, it turned out that the person who contacted him also lived in London, which made life easier for Hob for once. It was nice knowing he would not have to travel far at all for this. It was then agreed upon that they would meet at The New Inn. 

The mystery person had wanted to meet him in the first week of June, since it was only two weeks away from when they had sent their first message, but Hob had refused, and asked if it would be too much to ask to push the meeting to earlier, perhaps in mid May, or to push it later until July instead. It had been easy to come up with a fake business trip excuse, saying he was awfully sorry, but he was going to be out of town the entire month. 

Truth was, it felt awfully wrong to meet anyone in his pub that was not his Stranger during the month of June. That month was special, meant for his Stranger, as was the new pub, so if he had to delay the possible meeting, he would. 

It was not until after he had asked for a rescheduling of the meeting, that he had realized he could have simply asked for it to be someplace else. Hob did not seem to be on his A-game lately. But to be fair, it had caused him quite some confusion when the mystery person— who refused to give him a name and wasn’t that just his luck— had offered to meet at the New Inn. They had proposed the place as a meeting spot after mentioning its history, about how it was a new pub that opened a few years back and the ambience was perfect for a meeting. 

Hob had chuckled at the coincidence of this person knowing about the pub he owned, causing him to wonder if he had possibly crossed paths with them without any of them knowing. He agreed to the meeting and decided to withhold the fact that he owned the pub from them for the time being. 

The doors of the pub opened again, welcoming a group of people who barged in laughing, clearly in their own bubble of the world, not really paying attention to everyone else except for the few moments where they scanned a place for a table, and thanked one of the waiters for pointing a free table in the other corner. Hob looked away, staring back at his watch before taking a sip of his drink. 

The chair in front of him slid through the floor, the loud grating sound of wood against the floor snatching his attention. Hob looked up, away from his glass, mouth already open in mid complaint, ready to tell off whoever it was for taking a chair when he was waiting for someone. The words in his mouth abruptly cut as someone sat in front of him. Hob closed his mouth at the action, choosing to stare instead.

As he stared ahead, the bright reflection from the stained glass of the open door caused a gleam that caught his eye, and for a moment, he could swear that the person in front of him looked just like his Stranger. An unmistakable hint of pitch-black hair and dark clothes bombarded his vision before he blinked. It must have been a trick of the light, as what he had thought he had seen was now gone, in its stead, he was staring at a blonde person, who was staring back at him, their eyes must have been caught in an odd lighting as they shine for a moment and Hob could swear that they were almost golden. Perhaps they were golden. 

He blinked a few times, trying to calm his beating heart from the shock and frenzy at the mere thought of thinking he had seen who he thought had been his Stranger. Even with the blinking, he could not help but stare into those golden eyes, utterly gobsmacked. There was something alluring about them, something so captivating that made it hard for him to do anything else but stare. 

He spared a brief moment to ponder on how the hell his brain thought he saw pitch, black hair on someone who looked nothing like him, but the thoughts were cut short before he could process anything else the moment the person decided to speak.

“Hello.” They smiled, their bright red lipstick accentuating their shark-like grin. Somehow, they managed to make a simple hello sound more lascivious than it had any right to be. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Robert.”

Hob blinked, trying his damndest to get his brain wired up again. Their voice sent shivers down his spine. There was something so appetizingly enticing about them. Hob felt like his mind was underwater, making everything hazy except for the person in front of him. He could feel how his skin got warmer, and his limbs felt heavy. Golden eyes bored into his own and Hob was well aware he was making an idiot out of himself by not saying anything, all while the one in front of him looked so thoroughly amused by it. 

“Cat got your tongue?” Voice low and teasing, they looked more amused than anything, their tongue pressing against their teeth as they break into a lazy grin. 

With a herculean effort, Hob forced his mind to focus. Whatever was going on was definitely not normal. He was mildly aware of it as his thoughts flowed through him in a daze as if they were locked and far away. He had half a mind to get an inkling that whatever or whoever this was, they were not human, or at the very least, not a normal human. He had done enough research he could connect the dots instinctively.

That said too much about how much research he had devoted himself into. It was sad really, all of that hard work and yet he had yet to find his Stranger. 

His Stranger.

Hob’s mind zeroed in on him. That thought resonated in a way that made his turbulent thoughts smooth out like the water in an unperturbed lake. The rest of his thoughts followed, starting to become clearer as the fog in his mind dissipated.

He remembered now. He was here for his Stranger, and he was meeting someone that could potentially help him. He could not screw this up and let himself be toyed with for whatever reason. He had a mission that he would see through. The fire within him that had kept his motivation going for the past five years soared with this resolve.

Hob’s mind becomes sharp again, as sharp as it could be under the circumstances at least. He stared right into the golden eyes, this time with a purpose. “Robert Gardner,” Hob introduced himself, stretching out his hand for a handshake. “I do not believe I caught your name when we messaged.” 

They tilted their head ever so slightly, almost imperceptibly so, and narrowed their eyes, eyebrows raising minutely in well hidden surprise, it lasted less than a second before their expression smoothed and their grin stretched. They did not take his hand, leaving it to hang awkwardly. “That would be because I never gave one.” 

Hob was unimpressed. “Fair enough.” He should push on the subject, but honestly, he did not care as much as he cared for the actual purpose of this meeting. “You said you had information?”

“Plenty.” They do not elaborate. 

Great. Hob thought with a sigh. So, this was how it was going to be. “I’ve heard that before. It is surprising to see just how many people claim they know more than they do.” Hob mentally reminded himself to not antagonise the person in front of him, but the words had already left his mouth.

“You would know all about it, wouldn’t you?” They grinned at him with a sharp glint in their eyes. Their stare tearing into him in a way that made it feel like he was being pulled in all directions.  

“Excuse me?” Hob got a sinking feeling in his chest at the wording, causing him to feel even more wrongfooted than he already was.

“You and I both know you claim to know more about your Stranger than you do.”

Hob’s blood froze, his entire body running cold as the words rushed over him and he could feel his heart stop in fear. They were not supposed to know anything about his Stranger.

Hob had passed himself as some conspiracy theorist on the web, delving into chat rooms and asking about a mysterious figure with pale skin, dressed in black. He claimed he was searching into cryptids, and this one specifically was said to grant wishes, immortality or fame. He had not mentioned he even knew him or his existence, it had been all theoretical in order to not raise any suspicions. 

Hob tried to feign indifference and confusion, not that he had much hope that it would work. “Stranger? You must have confused me with someone else.”

“Have I?” They raised an eyebrow, smirking. “Tell me, Robert, how much can you really know someone you have only spent but a few hours every century with, and who does not even grant a name to call him as.”

“Who are you?” Hob said maybe a little too forcefully as he tensed up. He forced himself to avoid gritting his teeth, aiming to act more collected than he currently was. He tried to temper the anger that was starting to rise in heaps and waves in order to cover his fear. “What do you want?” 

“Such an open question,” They let out an airily chuckle and Hob hated how melodiously it sounded. “I want many things.” 

“What do you want with me?” Hob reiterated, his hand hidden under the table was gripped tight enough into a fist that he could feel the circulation cut off his fingers. 

“I am interested.” 

“In me?” He questioned with suspicion. Hob suddenly got a horrible deja-vu to having a similar conversation with his Stranger centuries ago. He shoved the feeling that elicited deep down. 

“Something like that.” They said, cheeks becoming more accentuated as they smile.

“Why are you telling me this? Why me? What do you get out of this?” He was close to losing his patience. His thoughts were running wild, somehow going at a million miles per hour and frozen all at once. There were so many questions rattling in his brain. What had he walked into? How had this entity found him? How much of a threat were they? How would he get himself out of this one?

They rolled their eyes, tutting disappointedly, dramatically sighing and looking down as if defeated, then looked back at him with a scrunched expression, totally condescending. “You are not that bright, are you?”

They closed their distance with Hob, leaning forward enough that their upper body was towering onto the table, close enough that they could reach out and twirled a strand of stray hair away from Hob’s face. Hob simply glared back, leaning backwards against the headrest until the chair was sticking into his back. He moved in a smooth and assured way into his chair and away from the person in front of him, holding onto some dignity.

Slowly and salaciously, they retreated back into their own seat, looking more amused than before. They hummed for a moment, eyes sharpening as they zeroed into Hob’s eyes. It reminded him of a cat stalking their prey.

“Or perhaps there may be some hope for you yet…” They tapped their chin twice.  “How about this, you put that brain of yours to use, you tell me the answers to the questions you asked, and I will tell you something that will help you find your Stranger. Show me I am not wasting my precious, valuable, time with a half-brained human.” 

Hob wanted nothing more than to punch the slimy grin off their face. Self-preservation stopped him. Huh, apparently, he still had some of that left, good to know, who would have thought?

The last thing he wanted was to stay here and be ridiculed and laughed at. He had half a thought to tell them to fuck off and leave him alone, or to simply stand up and walk away without another word. He did not have the time nor the patience for such things. 

However, no matter what he wanted to do, he knew that this was not what he needed to do. The person in front of him clearly knew way too much about him and his Stranger for him to not follow up. He needed to even the playing ground and know who he was up against. It seemed he only had one choice. He squared up his shoulders, and raised a defiant eyebrow at them, picking up his glass to have another drink as a stall tactic, giving himself time to figure out how to react. 

Fine. If they want him to take them up on their challenge, he would.

He stayed silent. Even after he had a few sips of his drink. He did not say a single word for some time; he simply stared and pondered about the situation. This person expected him to know things he simply did not know and could not know. He did not know who they were, nor what they wanted. He had never encountered something like them in all his very long life. 

He thought back to the last few minutes, ever since they had walked in. Every movement, every word, every detail that could give away any of the answers he was looking for. Why would this person contact him just to tell him that they know too much about him and leave it at that? Were they an enemy? Were they someone he needed to be wary of? They were not friendly, that was for sure. There was no question about it. No one with good intentions and goodness in their heart would act like that. 

Trusting his gut instincts, he narrowed it down. Whoever they were, they were dangerous. He needed to be on the lookout. What he did not know yet was whether he was an enemy or not. That had yet to be determined. Signs pointed to yes. 

Another thing he was sure of was the non-human status of the person in front of him. Now that he could focus slightly better, he was even more sure that those eerily golden eyes were too mystical to be simple contacts or tricks of the light. That paired with their aura, and the way Hob’s hindbrain was shooting off warning signals like they were a predator, and he was a measly prey, seconds away from being devoured, painted a pretty clear picture he was dealing with something otherworldly. 

And that wasn’t even counting the way he called him a half-brained human like they were not a human themself, which was a dead giveaway, really. 

It was bound to happen, Hob supposed. He had spent the better part of the last five years dipping himself in all kinds of shady supernatural circles, it was a matter of time before he stumbled upon a non-friendly, and frankly terrifying being. He was briefly hit with a wave of gratefulness at having met Calliope as one of his first mystic and otherworldly beings, at least he had his first introduction to such beings—apart from his Stranger of course— being a friendly face. 

That still did not answer any of his questions. Why him? What was their endgame? He saw they were still staring at him across the table, eyes flickering with a teasing glint. There was a shine in their eyes of pure mischief, as if they could see him struggling under their gaze and they were openly enjoying it. Hob still had his stoic mask on, indifferent and unperturbed to it all in hopes that they could not gauge how much this was riling him up. 

Judging by the way their eyes crinkled in silent laughter, he knew he was not fooling anyone. It did not stop him from trying. He would do his utmost to avoid being used as a jester and free entertainment.

Then it hit him, the answer had been there all along. All this had just been him being toyed with, the person in front of him had done nothing but wind him up and watch him go for no reason. That was the point. That had been the whole point this entire time. 

Hob snorted as he held in a victorious laughter, feeling giddy that he figured it out. “It is simple, really.” At their raised eyebrow, he continued. “You want me to answer why you are doing all this, to me of all people, like it is some big puzzle that is impossible to solve. You make it seem like it is a divine question only available to beings like you, unable to be perceived by humans like me. But it is not.”

“Beings like me?” They questioned, tilting their head, again with the condescending smile targeted at him. 

“Please,” he scoffed, “not only are you making a fool out of me, which I am sure is your point, but you are making a fool out of yourself if you think you come off as anything other than non-human.” Hob stated, then paused, eyebrows creasing in fake confusion. “Do not tell me you really believed I thought you were human? Not with the way you keep flaunting your weird hypnosis skills like that.” 

The taunting gleam in their eyes dimmed and turned colder, sharper. Hob could not help but feel pride at himself for striking a nerve. He was not sure if it was for speaking to them like that or because his words struck a nerve, but nevertheless, he got an honest reaction out of them. He was not backing down now.

Two could play this game. 

“Look at the puppy being all bark and no bite.” They cooed, rhythmically tapping their long, red nails against their cheek. Their voice turned sharper and somehow, more condescending than before. “You talk big yet not a single word you have uttered has actually mattered. I asked you a simple question, with a hefty reward if you managed to answer, and yet here you are hoping that if you talk long enough you will guess something.” They rolled their eyes, blowing out a puff of air. “Your Stranger is usually better at picking his little projects. I guess I cannot be surprised, he is really set to disappoint, really.” They tutted, the tone of complete disdain for it was palpable in the air. 

Hob very much ignored his heart going off kilter at the mention of his Stranger. He cannot let himself be distracted by that, even though he very much wanted to know what the hell they mean about his Stranger, and about calling Hob a project. He inwardly told himself it was only a taunt and pushed on through. “You say you are disappointed, and yet.”

“Yet, what?” They asked, tilting their head ever so slightly to the side, it made their earrings dangle with the movement, catching the over light in just the right angle to make them shine for a second. 

“Yet you are still here.” Hob said simply, leaning closer, resting his crossed arms on top of the table. “You pretend like you are a higher-than-thou being, like the act of simply being here should be treated like you are doing a great hardship you need to be thanked for. But the truth is simple, you are here talking to me because you are bored, and I am simply an easy entertainment. At the end of the day, you are not that difficult to understand.” 

They looked to the side momentarily before they scoffed, radiating an air of nonchalance. “You presume one such as I need your presence for something as trivial as entertainment?” They let out a dry laugh.

Hob refused to dwell on the wording that painfully reminded him of 1889. His Stranger had said something similar before he stormed out, never to be seen again. Seemed he was repeating that pattern again. Well, you can’t teach an old dog new tricks and all that, he guessed. Besides, he was not one to ever run from a confrontation. “I do presume, because I am right.”

They scoffed, looking down on him, a dangerous, lowly tone to their voice. “I would be careful with how you speak to me if I were you.” 

“Or what?” Hob raised an eyebrow, looking pointedly at them. He inwardly cursed himself and his big mouth because, really, he was six hundred plus years old and not once had he learned to keep his mouth shut. 

“You're a feisty little one, aren’t you?” They mocked and unlike before, they did not chuckle or said it playfully. If Hob had thought that they were dangerous before, he was sorely mistaken, he knew now they had been simply having fun, but now that was gone and he really, really needed to shut the fuck up. 

“I simply know how to call out bullshit.” Hob shrugged and forced himself to keep his muscles relaxed as he saw them bristle, while their eyes revealed another emotion he couldn’t exactly pinpoint. He was playing a very big gamble right now, and he needed to see it through or else he just knew that he would not be walking out of this pub unscathed. He hoped with all of his soul that he could bullshit his way out of this. 

“Watch your tone.” They said lowly, and for a second, Hob swore their eyes lit up before they were back to their normal golden hue. “I can kill you if I so please.” 

“Exactly.” Hob nodded, as if they had just proven Hob’s point. It only infuriated them more. Hob did not let that deter him. “I told you; I knew that you were not human the moment you walked in, I have met some occult and immortal beings in my day, and unlike popular belief, I am not daft. You are dangerous if you want to be, I have no doubt you could probably find a way to make my life hell in every way, short of killing me, if you so pleased. Yet, you haven’t. Which just further proves my point that you are here for your own amusement, and possibly a verbal sparring partner. So, tell me, dear golden-eyed stranger, have I been entertainment enough?” Hob said that last part with a pleasantly sweet voice that could not be interpreted as anything but fake. He paired that with a crooked smile.

Even in a crowded restaurant, Hob felt cut and defeaned from the outside world, his heart beating in his chest as he waited for their reaction. They simply just stared at him for a moment, whatever mask they had been sporting all this time dropped completely as their eyes froze in mid widening, their mouth parted minutely. It was not, by far, an exaggerated expression. Anyone who glanced at their table would not be able to detect the shift in their demeanour, but Hob could. 

They recovered from their shock soon enough, only a few seconds after and Hob had the passing thought that this was it, he finally crossed a line and made them mad and somehow would be killed tonight. It did not matter he had been immortal for six hundred years and had cheated death all this time, he felt a chill run down his spine that jolted him enough and in such a way for him to consider dying was not only a possibility but an eventuality.

That resolved quickly when he reminded himself that he had not gotten this far from clinging to what ifs and second guessed, but through sheer stubbornness and facts.

He had said once, a long, long time ago, that he was simply not going to die. Now, he was doing it again. 

He was broken from his quiet dilemma when the person in front of him goes from expressionless and cold, to grinning up at him again. Somehow it did not make him feel any better. 

“I suppose you have been somewhat adequate and interesting, Robert.” They answered with a chuckle. They twirled an earring with their hand while they put the other in front, using it as support to lean in closer. “More entertainment than I believed you capable of.” They said, and Hob knew they were being truthful. “However, I do believe that this is not the end of the entertainment you can provide.”

“Is that so?” Hob said, voice levelled and careful. “How.” He voices it less as a question and more of a demand.

“That is for me to know. Where would the fun be if I simply told you?” They answered and after a brief pause, they stood up, dusting off their white blazer, getting rid of any creases. “New York.” 

“Excuse me?” Hob couldn’t help but say. 

“You wanted information pertaining to your Stranger.” They said in lieu of an actual answer. Hob absently felt a pat on his back as they start walking past him, while his mind is screaming at him with the new information. 

“So, are you saying he is in New York? Will I find him there?” Hob sputtered and turned around to face the golden eyed stranger, but it was too late, they were gone, nowhere to be seen. The door of the restaurant is closed, and there was no sign that anyone had walked in or out the door during the last minute. 

They disappeared, leaving Hob with a spinning head full of a million unanswered questions and a sense of his world being torn upside down once again. He was fairly certain that this person might have sent him on a wild goose chase. It was clear now that the only reason he got an answer was because the person believed that somehow, Hob could cause them some solid entertainment with whatever he would be facing if he went. He knew it was a long shot and most definitely a trap. 

However, it was also the first actually direct, or somewhat direct answer he had gotten since he started this search.  So, he squared his shoulders, called a waiter to settle the bill, and started mentally planning his itinerary.

He needed to pack, because he was going to America. 

Chapter Text

1995

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For someone who had lived on this Earth for centuries, Hob would like to think he knew the ins and outs of how to travel abroad much better than this. He was a bit embarrassed by the fact that it took him far too long to get the appropriate paperwork that he needed in order to travel, not to mention how long it took to get everything in order with his business and his social life before he could take his leave. 

After the surreal, and honestly, slightly terrifying, meetup at the New Inn, he had been a tad conflicted to say the least. He had been, and still was, tore about it all. Immediately after his meeting with the golden-eyed stranger—no, he would not call them that, dubbing anyone stranger like that felt too close to his Stranger and they were nothing alike, so Golden Eyes? Goldie? Yeah, he was definitely calling him Goldie. Especially since he was pretty sure that Goldie seemed like the type of person who would hate being called that. His mood immediately improved at the mental image of Goldie’s reaction to being called as such.

Anyway, after his meeting with Goldie he had been so sure that he would go to New York, no matter what, that even though there were clear risks, they would all be worth it if he found anything to sustain and further his search, right? However, after a night or two of reconsideration, he had to begrudgingly admit that he could not just jump in headfirst with no backups or plans. Despite how much he desired to buy a plane ticket right there and then after the meeting and go with nothing but the clothes on his back so to not waste any more time, he let logic win the argument that time. He had to be smart about it.

It was more certainly a trap, or a lie. After all, he knew that he did not get the information that was given out of the goodness of Goldie's heart, but out of a twisted sense of entertainment. Hob was not quite sure what to do. He could go to New York and give Goldie the satisfaction of running around like a headless chicken following possibly fake clues, or he could stand his ground, and not go to New York, giving himself the satisfaction of proving them wrong. He would not be pranced around like a puppet whose strings were being pulled.

However, that last option had its own set of clear-cut consequences. Firstly, if he abstained from travelling overseas, thinking it was clearly a dead end so there was no point to it, and then by some off chance his Stranger was truly there, he would miss the opportunity of finding him over such a stupid oversight. If that happened, he knew he would never forgive himself. Secondly, he was not so sure he would come out unscathed if he purposely decided to anger Goldie.

All in all, it only took him about four days of uncertainty after the meeting to decide that he would, in fact, go on a wild goose chase to the other side of the world. Somehow, that became the easiest part of the following few months.

When he’d had to change identities in the past, it had been tricky enough, but doable. Yet throughout the last century, it had progressively become undoubtedly trickier and overall worse to do so with how society got stricter and stricter about keeping records and paperwork of everything. He managed to discard his old identity and get a new one easily enough a few years back. It had been tricky enough getting a new identity during the height of the Cold War, the paranoia of spies was rampant and the wrong person knowing about his identity could be catastrophic, but he managed. Thankfully, it had not been as bad in England as it had been overseas, but the sense of unease still reached the area. He just had foolishly thought that now that the Cold War ended a few years back, he would be jumping through less hoops when trying to acquire the paperwork. He would have never thought that he would need a little more than the usual paperwork to travel abroad. He was quickly proven wrong. 

Back then, if he had needed to travel, it had was easy enough to create some fake papers. No one checked twice about it if he threw enough money at them. That, or he would simply just sneak into a ship and hitch a ride overseas or wherever he needed to go.

Then planes got invented. Hob remembered how the new century had barely started when planes got invented. And only a decade later, planes were carrying people across the continent, then only a few years later, society had made transatlantic flights possible. Oh, how he had loved to see the progression of that invention. It had given him hope right after the Great War—or well, people now referred to it as World War One, he still had troubles calling it by its new name— and after the utmost catastrophe in the forties. Hob shook his head as to rid the memories of that specific time frame away. 

Anyway, aeroplanes. What a wonderful invention, making it so easy to travel anywhere in less than half the time it would take by ship. It was wonderful and Hob loved to see society continue to come up with the impossible. A part of him would always be the peasant man from the 1300’s. Back then, the idea of humankind flying was thought impossible, and one would probably have gotten run out of town for saying such ideas were even within the realm of possibility. 

Still, travelling by plane required paperwork. Mainly, he had to triple check that his documents looked legitimate enough so that people would not look twice at it. He had more than enough money to get it done by non-legal means, given his fake identity, that was practically a must, but it was time consuming. Lots of waiting, and lots of throwing money at people to turn a blind eye. 

He knew that he should be fine. After all, flying was not that big of a problem. Last time he flew was around a decade or so ago, and everything had gone by smoothly. He had gone to Italy with a couple of his friends. It had been a sight to behold, he saw so many wonderful things that he still remembered fondly, walking through the streets Florence, visiting the Uffizi Gallery, seeing the Pantheon and Colosseum with his own two eyes, before travelling to Venice for a few days. The trip had been great and getting to the plane had been so easy, they barely glanced at their papers, only making sure the plane ticket was correct, and off they went.

He did not know why he was so jittery about it this time, it was not like much had changed since then.  

Anyway, in the meantime, while the paperwork got sorted, he tried his best to keep busy, throwing himself into his other job, making sure the pub was running smoothly as it could be. That did not stop him from continuing his project of looking for his Stranger. Now that he had a location to look through, he delved into his research, trying to find anything unusual in America that could point to his Stranger. He had never been so thankful for the World Wide Web and to being able to search things from across the world with minimum search time. He did not find much, but he did find enough to know that something weird could be going on there. Probably.

He wrote it all down in his notebook. He knew he could not take his books along with him, so he attempted to condense his books to travel lightly. 

About a month and a half before he was set to leave, Calliope paid him a visit. She had been quite busy recently, so the visits were not as recurrent lately. Hob always loved when his friend showed up, even if the visits were only once or so a year. To any other person, once a year or perhaps longer, would be a long time, but for him, once a year was practically no time at all. Time still passed as normal, and there was certainly some wait time involved, but it was fine. After all, that was nothing compared to the one hundred years he was used to waiting for his Stranger. 

During the visit, he caught her up to speed with his progress, telling her about upcoming trip to the Americas. He briefly mentioned his meeting with Goldie too, but after seeing her distrust and worry for him from trying to stick his nose in the occult, knowing what dangerous creatures were out there, he chose to keep the details to a minimum. Something squirmed in his chest at keeping the information to himself, he felt bad for not telling her everything. She was the first friend he could actually tell these things to, yet he found out he couldn’t. Years of keeping information to himself to not raise suspicion didn’t seem to wear off just because he made a friend.

So, he had skipped past the details, simply mentioning that he met someone who had a potential lead, and despite them being shady with information, it seemed as good as anything else he’d found. He proceeded to show her his progress, waving off concerns about his work time and carefully avoiding answering things about his well-being. He was fine, it was not like he would die from overworking, he was immortal after all. Needless to say, she was not happy about the state of his well-being at all.

“Hob, I think perhaps it would be best if you took a break. This is not good for you.” Calliope said after a heavy pause, seeing all the progress, all the papers sprawled out, his desk looking like a clutter that he swore was organised. After taking it all in, she had sat in the couch, near his desk where he sat, and broached the subject.

“Take a break? Why would I do such a thing? Not when I am so close to finding him.” Hob tried his best to be as least defensive as possible, but he could feel his frustration rise, nonetheless. He stared at her, his forehead creasing as his mind tried to process the hurt and confusion caused by his friend, the one who knew the whole story, the only one who knew the situation best apart from him, was telling him to stop.

“My friend, I am afraid you have an obsession. You have been looking for him for almost six years now. You have secluded yourself, cut ties with people, something which I know you have told me is one of your reasons to keep going, to keep living, the whole human connection thing, and now you have no life outside of him.” Calliope murmured, she spoke as softly as she could muster, without taking away the seriousness of her statement. She held her hands together, resting them on her lap, keeping her posture poise, yet radiating as much calm as she could, knowing conversing with Hob about this was going to be a hassle. It still needed to happen.

“I do have a life, you know? Need I remind you I run a very successful pub?” Hob said after a moment of silence, trying to sound light-hearted. 

“That you built for him.” She said, reaching out for his arm, holding it gently and looking at him kindly, trying to make her point as delicately as she could. “You are becoming a hermit. When was the last time you hanged out with friends? Have you made any friends since you began searching for him? And I do not mean acquaintances you make small talk with while doing errands or the regulars you occasionally talk to when helping out in the pub.” 

“I have you as a friend, don’t I?” He grinned, a little too tense. He pulled back his arm back from Calliope, feeling cornered and wanting nothing else but to drop the conversation. “I appreciate you caring, but I am aces. Totally fine.”

“You are not.” She sighed and stared at Hob with a doleful look on her face. Hob’s expression was mostly closed off, just as the rest of his body, completely tense. It looked as if an animal was calculating an escape route before they could try to run off. Yet she could still read him through his eyes, full of pain, and uncertainty. “You cannot spend your life like this. It has already been six years, how many more before you find him? If you find him. How many years till you slowly destroy yourself until the point of no return?”

“Callie, I am immortal. You should know that six years is nothing compared to what I have lived, to what I will live. People throw themselves into lifelong projects all the time, why shouldn’t I? Goldie told me my Stranger viewed me as a project, well why can’t I return the favour? Make him my project.” As he talked, Hob stood up from the couch and started pacing, moving his arms as he spoke for emphasis. 

“Goldie?” 

“The one I met at the meeting a few weeks back. They didn’t give a name, and I am not calling them a stranger.” Hob shrugged it off, not giving it too much importance. “Point is, I know what I am doing. I have spent centuries waiting a hundred years every time just to see him for a night, you don't think I wouldn't spend a hundred years searching for him?” 

“I know you would. That is the problem.” Calliope pursed her lips, debating whether to say what was on her mind or not. She knew Hob would not take it kindly, but she couldn’t keep her mouth shut about this. “I know you would give him the world if he asked, but Hob, from what you have told me, don’t you think perhaps, that he is not worth it?”

The silence was deafening; Hob could have heard a pin drop and rattle on the floor as the silence extended. He blinked once and stared into the table with a far-off look. After everything, after all he had told her, and she said something like that?

“He is worth it to me.” Hob said after a moment, voice rough with emotion “I will not give up on finding him.”

“I have already had to live through watching my ex-husband going down a self-destructive path, and I have seen what it did to him, to us. I cannot live through watching it again, not to the one close and dear friend I have had in centuries.” 

“It is not a self-destructive path. I know what I am doing.” 

“The state of your apartment says otherwise.” She motioned around her as to prove her point. Slowly, through the years, the stacks of books had grown, as well as the amount of dust and general state of unkempt. She could also see it in Hob himself, who now had a shaggy stubble more times than not, just because he kept forgetting to shave. There had even been one time he grew a full beard without noticing, which he then shaved off when he noticed, since he did not have the time to keep it tidy.  

“So what? It is not like I am the only one out there who doesn’t have a perfect, organised flat, that does not mean it is self-destructive.” 

“In your case it is, and I think you do not want to admit it.” 

Hob had always said he was fine, that he was handling it, but every time she had seen him in the past, she saw how it was very much not the case. It worried her. Staring at him now, looking like he was about to collapse, both mentally and physically, acting defensive, well, she did not have any idea of what to do. 

“I am fine.”

Calliope took a moment to decide on her next course of action. The weight on her chest pushing down as the unsettling feeling rushed over her. She closed her eyes for a moment too long to keep her composure, before opening them again and walking towards Hob, who was standing a few feet away from the couch, having moved there while their conversation progressed.

Having made her decision, she spoke, voice coated in resigned grief. She placed a hand on his cheek, looking into his eyes. “I care about you, my friend, which is why I cannot stay here and enable this madness.” After a moment, she withdrew her hand, taking a step back. “When you are willing to listen to reason, or if you need my help, call for me, I will not hesitate to come. Until then, I am afraid I will take my leave.”

Hob paused, gulped, and tensed his jaw, not looking at her but at the floor while the words pass through him. He could say he had not been expecting this, but when the words were said and done, despite the rush of emotions that flowed through him, he could not say he blamed her. This was not her cross to bear.

He nodded absentmindedly, arms crossed against his chest tightly, in a last ditched attempt to comfort himself. He looked up at her. “I guess this is goodbye then, for now.” Hob cleared his throat, keeping his voice as stable as he could, yet his eyes betrayed how affected he was. Yeah, this hurt, and he had not been expecting to lose, even temporarily, a friend, but he knew he must go on, he knew he only had one choice. 

“Take care, my friend. Farewell.” Calliope said her parting words before she disappeared from the room. 

Hob did nothing else but stand there for the next couple of minutes, completely unmoving. He could do nothing but take in the lonely, empty silence of his apartment, not even trying to fight or stop the feeling of dejection and emptiness that started to creep over him. Taste of regret bitter in his mouth.

For the first time in a long time, he genuinely questioned if he was doing the right thing. 

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The next few weeks passed in a blur. Between Calliope leaving, and his travelling date coming closer and closer, his mind was beyond scattered. It was as if that meeting with her had been the catalyst for a major slump. Ever since he started his search, he had been riding on a high, fuelled by motivation and desire to find his Stranger, which had only grown throughout the years. Which was exactly what made his slump feel extra utterly crap. It was as if all the bad days he had avoided in the last few years all came crashing down to give him the worst of the worst couple of weeks. It had been nothing but despair and second guessing himself since then. 

What if Calliope had been right? What if he was doing this for nothing? What if his fears from back at the start were actually correct, and his Stranger was perfectly fine, but he just did not want to see him. What if he had been creating a fake narrative all this time, wanting to be a knight in shining armour to help his Stranger? What if he had gone too far off from logic and reason? What if he had crossed the point of no return, and it was all just his delirious hopes and dreams?

What if. 

What if. 

What if. 

Hob shut his eyes forcefully at the thoughts and burrowed himself deeper into his blanket.

He had not left his apartment in weeks. He looked up at the calendar and his clock and absently realised he only had less than a day to pack before he was due to go on his flight. It hit him then; he was not sure he wanted to continue the journey. Why should he? He could just stay here, tend to his broken heart, and tend to his pub, without chasing mindless hopes and dreams linked to his Stranger.

But then again, a thought passed through the back of his mind, he probably should go, he had already put in so much work and time. He might as well see it through.  Another hour passed and he made no move to pack, or to stand up from where he was. The blankets he was being surrounded and toppled with were too comfortable, and it would take too much energy to shift them around. He could always pack in the morning. If he decided to go.

He stayed like that for a little while longer, until he shifted in his bed, and he felt the sudden unease of his bladder complaining. He was only now realizing that he had been in the same spot for too long, excessively so, to the point he was starting to neglect his bare necessities, like a much-needed trip to the loo. Hob groaned defeatedly as he came to terms with needing to move, but he did anyway, so he stood up, and abandoned his hoard of blankets in favour of getting to the washroom. 

He made it in time and was now washing his hands in the sink. It was then when he finally took in his appearance in the mirror. He could not quite remember when the last time was that he did so, it had to be at least a few days at minimum, perhaps a week or more. He could not help but stare at his reflection, looking at the weary and battered man in front of him. His dishevelled, greasy hair was getting long and frizzle, and the too old and tired, empty eyes surrounded by darkened eye bags made him look rather sickly. He had a beard now, if the mess of scruffy and unkempt nest of hair on his cheeks and chin could be called a beard. 

As he took in his appearance he could not help but come to the conclusion that this state of his was not something that happened over the last few weeks, there was no way he could have fallen this far down in such a short time, so, it had probably been this bad, to an extent, for much longer. Perhaps, he thought distantly, he could begin to understand where Calliope was coming from if this was the situation she had to deal with.

He really could not blame her for leaving. He was pathetic, wasn’t he? He groaned in defeat and pressed his fingers onto his eyes, rubbing them tiredly after a few moments. 

How had he even gotten like this in the first place? He had a purpose, he had a reason to continue on this path, he still did, even if that motivation was currently tainted with guilt and second guessing. He knew at this point there was no going back, but he was starting to think he needed to find a different way forwards. Problem was, he might be in too deep to get himself out of this. 

He continued to stare at his reflection, now in a state of haze, feeling as his limbs tingled in disconnect. He could not find it in him to gather enough energy to move or look away, so he simply stayed there, zoning out into his thoughts, absentmindedly wondering what to do about the beard. He should definitely shave it off, soon, hopefully before he left for his trip. He could try to do that now, but, after that fleeting thought, he figured, perhaps it was not the best idea to handle a razor when his mind was so scattered, and his hands held a slight tremor.

That thought abandoned, he spared half a thought to getting something to eat soon, but then thought better of it, not really feeling he like he could hold down food right now and opted to brew himself a cup of tea. He still did not move from there. He stared at his appearance again, glancing up and down at the mirror, and figured that perhaps, a shower was first in order. 

He was too lost in his own world, in his own thoughts, and barely paying attention to his surroundings, that he almost missed the slight movement in his frame of vision. 

It took a moment, but Hob’s body tensed before his brain caught up to the fact there was a second face in the mirror, looking at him. He was staring directly at her, yet her reflection seemed faded, as if it was a trick of the light. He squinted his eyes, then blinked. The woman was there, with her long hair and large, round face, staring at him intensely.

He whipped his head around, snapping him out of his self-wallowing and pity party to deal with the intruder. His heart beat faster when he saw there was no one behind him. Turning back, he glanced at the mirror just to see the woman had vanished, if she had even been there at all.

What the fuck? What the ever-loving fuck just happened? Hob felt his heart beating out of his chest rapidly and heard the flow of his blood roaring through his ears as the world became deafening for a moment. The hairs on his arms and on the back of his neck straightened and stiffened, adrenaline skyrocketing. He was frozen in place staring at the mirror, now only containing a pitiful reflection of himself. 

His whole body was on flight or flight response. It was as if he was a prey being hunted by something much bigger than he could ever imagined. Last time he felt like this, it had been when he met up with Goldie a few months ago. Suddenly, a thought became crystal clear in his mind. Whatever just happened could very well likely be connected to them. After all, the inexplicable things that put him on edge like nothing else had? That seemed right up Goldie’s alley. 

That or he had finally lost it. 

At this point both options seemed as plausible as anything. 

“C’mon, Hob, you gotta get it together.” He told himself aloud and didn’t even bother to think about the fact that now he was speaking to himself like a totally sane person would do. 

He stared at the bathroom mirror for an entirely normal five minutes, staring at the spot where he thought he saw another face in it, before he decided that whatever happened, whether his mind was playing tricks or it was something else entirely, would not happen again. Still on edge, he made his way out of the bathroom to get some proper food in him, figuring that perhaps his crazy induced hallucination could be due to running on fumes. 

Trying and failing to keep his mind off what just happened, he prepared himself some lunch. He had to admit, food was definitely a good choice on his part, he did feel marginally better after he ate. He had a clearer head, and now, an hour after the mirror incident, everything appeared normal. 

He was cautiously optimistic, and perhaps a tad delusional, that he shouldn't need to worry about it again. So, out of sight, out of mind, he began packing. Nothing was more motivating than doing some light, easy work in order to ignore every other problem in his life. If he was thinking about what to pack, he could avoid thinking of anything else that was wrong with his life. 

He finished packing in record time. 

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All in all, Hob thought that all the work and paperwork and time put into getting the appropriate papers to get on a plane was over doing it. He felt a slight pang of healthy envy towards every non-immortal who could just get on a plane with minimum problems without even having to forge their ID and birth certificates. 

Despite it all, he managed to make it through, with his luggage on one hand and a bag on the other, he endured his multiple day-long travels—with one too many layovers in his opinion—and finally made it to America. 

Not even the bone-chill tiredness and exhaustion was enough to keep him from wandering in awe at the new place. He had never been to New York, and seeing Times Square live, instead of just hearing about it from his pals back in the day, was an experience for sure. The smell could be better but hey, he lived through the 1300’s, he was not one to complain about the smell being a little off now when he knew how bad it had been back then. So, he chucked it to another facet of the area, it was a part of the New York smell and carried on admiring the view. 

He could’ve called for a cab to take him to his hotel, but like the damn fool he was, he decided that walking and taking the subway would be good enough. He did forget to account for the fact that carrying luggage with him across the city was annoying at best, a hassle and a half at worse. Not to mention he had failed to account to check the weather. Point was, carrying luggage through the rain was not the best way to get across new cities, and in the end, he ended up calling a cab halfway there. 

Thankfully, he made it to his hotel room in no time and with no further setbacks, and he was able to crash into his bed after a quick shower and sleep like the damn dead. 

Hob woke up slightly groggy and with a numb arm from sleeping in the same position for too long, the signifiers of a great sleep, might he say. He smiled as he realised he was in the hotel room, in New York. God! He was in America! Hob could not quite believe he made it this far after so much planning and waiting. 

Now, he would give himself a few days to acquaint himself with the area, and then he could begin his search. Goldie had told him he could find his Stranger here and the thought of it reignited the hope in his chest. He was feeling lucky. 

With a yawn, he made it out of bed and started to make himself a very shitty cup of coffee with the even more shitty complementary coffee machine from the hotel room. After he had his first caffeine intake of the day, he got dressed and ready to get some breakfast outside and perhaps some decent coffee while he was at it. 

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Walking through the busy New York streets with his, thankfully decent, coffee in hand, he took in the fresh August morning air, and the sweet background noises of the crowds and people going on about their day. He passed by a newspaper stand, barely giving it a second thought, he was more preoccupied with navigating through the crowd. He stopped in his tracks, causing someone behind him to bump into him. He barely paid attention to the half-hearted apologies spluttering from his mouth, nor the angry muttering from the random person as he backtracked, he made a beeline towards the stand. 

On the front page, in big, bold letters, the words ‘Doctor Destiny Finally Behind Bars!’ filled the top of the page, accompanied with a small excerpt detailing the man’s arrest. What Hob could not take his eyes away from, was the picture that accompanied it, taking up the entirety of the top-left side of the page. A middle-aged man was being restrained by the police, he seemed to be trying to fight them but they have his arms held behind his back, he seemed to be mid-shouting at something not in the frame.

In his chest, however, was a big, red ruby. 

Hob knew that ruby. 

Despite only seeing his Stranger a handful of times through the centuries, and despite the multiple outfit changes throughout the years, there was one thing that never changed, and that was the beautiful, impossibly big, red ruby that always hung from his Stranger’s neck, adding to the ever so lordly appearance of his. 

Just as everything else with his Stranger, he had spent too much of his time committing that ruby to memory. He knew it, apparently, well enough to recognise it from a crappy photograph in the newspaper. 

Throwing a couple of dollars at the newspaper guy, who more than gladly kept the excessive change, he grabbed a newspaper for himself and began reading.

Doctor Destiny Finally Behind Bars!

John Dee, who dubbed himself Doctor Destiny, has been finally captured after eluding a continuous police chase for the better part of the year. He first appeared on the police’s radar last March, where he was a viable suspect for multiple homicides and arson. After walking free from it, he began to appear more and more at crime scenes of horrendous murders, all which left the police stunted as to how they were staged. Despite originally having alibis, he was revealed to be the man who has been terrorising the city all this time. 

The man claimed he was acting on a higher power with the main goal of revealing the secrets and lies of the world. Upon further questioning, he claimed that he didn't intend for them to die, he simply wishes to dispel them from the lies. All ramblings from an unwell man. People who survived him were interviewed, all who claimed that he can turn terrors and nightmares into reality, causing fear and panic amongst them. The victims have been taken to the hospital and treated. Sources state that the most likely conclusion to the crazy ramblings can be linked with a powerful hallucinogenic that he seemed to douse them with before killing them. Thankfully, the authorities caught him on time before he could continue his reign of destruction and death.

The victims were saved this time, and he was apprehended and restrained outside of the Plaza, where the picture was taken. He did not go down easy, he managed to escape police custody for two hours before he was apprehended again. He was taken in and now resides in a mental institute, which will not be named for privacy reasons. 

Now New York can rest safely and without worries, as the plague of terror and fear has finally ended. 

Hob felt chills go down his spine. How the hell did the ruby end up in the hands of a psychotic serial killer? He knew in his heart and soul that his Stranger would not part ways with it amicably, or at all. Millions of scenarios rushed into his head at once. Did this man capture him? Did he hurt him to get to the ruby? Did his stranger bargain for his freedom with it? Did something else happen and a serial killer of all people just came across it?

Well, one thing was for certain. Goldie was right, New York was definitely the right place to look. And now that he had his sights on the ruby, he would stop at nothing to get it. If he followed the ruby’s trail, he would find his Stranger. 

He folded the newspaper in two and put it inside his coat, before turning back the way he came from, making his way to the nearest library, and then perhaps, he would find his way to a specific mental institute. He needed to have a chat with this John Dee.

Chapter Text

1996

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He really should know by now that nothing would be as easy and clear cut as he thought it would be. How hard could it be to break into a facility to talk to one guy? Apparently, the answer was: very hard. 

Months had passed since he arrived in New York. The new year had come and gone, and though the days were still cold and grey, they were slowly getting longer, gaining more light in between the gloomy days as March approached. 

He had been trying his best in keeping to himself, planning to only be social when needed, and all for the specific purpose of finding information. Despite his stay in a new place, he was not here to make friends just because. He was too busy for that. He still had some acquaintances, of course, it would be foolish to not network and build himself a circle of connections. Information could go a long way, who knew what they might have heard around after living here all this time, and if he was friendly with enough people, they might vouch for him if needed. He would certainly look less suspicious while he dug around for occult information if he was a social butterfly. And it would look less suspicious if he was caught in his continued attempts to break into the mental institute to talk to John Dee. 

So despite Hob’s plans, he ended up being more of a social butterfly than originally planned. Which was how he had found himself being dragged to end-of-the-year parties, celebrating Christmas Eve with a few of his drinking buddies that were on the same boat as him, not having any family plans to go to, and spending Christmas day with his neighbours who had taken him in into their little ragtag group. Once they had learnt that Hob was planning on keeping low and just working and keeping to himself during the holidays, they took matters into their own hands. 

Hob liked these people, a mismatched and small group of friends that were their own makeshift family, chaotic, friendly, and caring, and they had welcomed him with open arms and taken him in like one of their own. He felt a little bad that his heart wasn't fully in it, with the whole making friends and lasting bonds. Perhaps when he found his Stranger, he could give that a try again. If it wasn't too late. 

The holidays had made him more pensive than usual, dwelling on the little things that suddenly seemed overbearing. Especially during the New Year’s party, where everyone had been celebrating, rejoicing in the festivities as they created new memories with their loved ones, while Hob could not help but feel like a downer, thinking of how alone he felt, and how tired he was. 

It got him thinking. A little too much perhaps.

Hob could not believe he was starting his seventh year since the missed meeting, since he had decided to look for his Stranger at no matter the cost. Seven years. That was almost a decade. Despite his immortal status, Hob felt the passage of time like anyone else, the days were slow and the years even slower. 

On a normal occasion, he would have been thrilled, as that would help him feel that he was making the most out of his never ending life. Because of how he had lived through so many centuries already, he had come to see how quickly times could change, how trends would rise and fall, how new things would get invented and forgotten, and how rapidly the ideas and cultures could morph into something entirely different. 

So, he had always tried to make the most out of every year, out of every decade, and out of every century. To live in the moment, and embrace the future while dwelling on the past the least amount possible. 

He felt time pass just like everyone else, but by always keeping busy and trying new things, he had often felt time was rushing past him in a way he could barely keep up. Of course, when he had his moments, time felt agonisingly slow, such as the seventeenth century. Those eighty years that he spent at the bottom of the social food chain, starving, grieving, and barely surviving, were excruciatingly slow. The same thing happened during the Great War and World War Two, where those handful of years felt like a decade on their own. Yet, even then, time passed, slow and painful, but it still passed, things still changed . 

Now, however, he could not help but notice that time passed at a snail’s pace, or at least, that was what it felt like. The path that he had chosen to walk on seven years ago seemed to have no end in sight. Seven years of the same thing, of the same monotonous motions of researching, keeping the pub upright, and barely managing everything else. 

He would not change it for the world, not when the end goal was something so important to him. He would not complain, nor would he lessen his resolve to see it through. Still, he could not help but acknowledge how much it seemed to be chipping down on him. Which was something that took him more than he should have to acknowledge. He had spent the last couple of years blissfully blind to it for the most part, focusing on using the never-ending energy and motivation that he seemed to always have. However, he could only run on fumes and delusion for so long. He had felt that it had waned gradually ever since last year. After his complicated couple of weeks before he moved to New York, where he really hit rock bottom for a minute there, he found he could not entirely shake that feeling off, it was still there, lurking. 

He had not realized how much it had affected him, this way of life, not until he moved to the States and cut himself from the life he had grown so used to knowing without even noticing. At least back home he had his pub, the couple of regulars that showed up when he was around, and before he had royally screwed up, he had Calliope. Not to mention how he had spent the last couple of decades in England, that was quite a few identities that he had lived through there, a few lifetimes. He had grown used to a certain way of life, a certain climate, a certain change of pace, despite it always changing. He still recognised the horizons, the landmarks, and the architecture that still held up amongst the more modern constructions. Everything changed with time, but at least he still had the echoes of his past to hold onto like a security blanket he had not even realised he had. 

In America, however, everything was different. He loved different, don’t get him wrong, different was good, when he was visiting, when he knew how long he would stay there for. What he did not love was the uncertainty of everything. He did not recognise the people, the culture, the climate, the horizons, not even the newer architecture styles. Perhaps, in any other situation, he would love this. It was a chance to explore something new, to throw himself into a new life, completely rewriting who was and sculpting himself into someone he wanted to be for the next few decades. After all, every other time he had done exactly that, he enjoyed it to the fullest. 

Yet, there was a big difference. Every other time in the past, he had not been on a deadline, he had not had a specific timeline he needed to focus on, or a goal that seemed to encroach on him the more that time passed. Now, it all seemed to topple him, like a giant wave submerging him into the dark depths. 

That did not stop Hob though, in his typical manner, he rose above it all and kept on going. He had his work cut out for him, especially now that he had a solid lead. 

So, after his little pity party during New Years, he dived right back into research again. He had been there for long enough and though he made progress, he was not happy with how slow it was going.

After he found the ruby on the newspaper, he had tried to get his hands on everything that was known about this John Dee guy, about the persona he called himself as, and about his whereabouts during the past year. Given the recent events that happened at the time, it was difficult to pry for information without people thinking he was a journalist trying to get a new scoop for his newspaper. It really did not help when he told them he was just doing independent research for university. People did not want to talk. Some did, with a little incentive. Money could do wonders after all, but it was never useful information. 

He found out some things, all dead ends. The silly name he was called in the newspaper had been nothing else but John Dee calling himself by a name he had invented himself and did not mean anything except to a connection of the crimes he committed. He asked around for people he was close with and came up with less than ideal answers, and when he tried to look up his past, he found out that someone had gone to great lengths to hide information of him.

So, if he could not get information by asking around, and the news covered only so much, he had to up his game. If he had a hard time getting secondary sources, going directly to the source was next, but that was proving to be more of a pain than one would think. 

The mental institute John Dee was in was weirdly well guarded with security. Someone had paid the place to have John in a secluded, guarded, and comfortable cell. Well, as comfortable as a cell could even get. So just trying to break in was out of the question, and claiming to be a journalist did not work. Apparently, John was under strict orders to not talk to any outsiders, no press, no friends, no nothing. The only ones that could talk to him were some of the staff, his psychiatrist, and apparently, his mother. Who, Hob found out after spending a few hundred dollars bribing the staff, had not visited him since. If it was because he did not want to, or the mother refused to show up, he did not know. 

So that's how the last couple of months went down the drain, chasing dead ends and fortified paths. 

No one knew much about John, and if they did, they knew nothing about the ruby. He interviewed some people, all who claimed to have seen John’s unstable psyche from way back. Going on about ‘he was always an odd one, that one’ and ‘he always rubbed me the wrong way, he was always bad news’, some would even go on about how ‘it was all that mother of his, it was her fault for raising such a problem’. Hob sighed at his notebooks with the written accounts. 

Neither of these accounts could help him. No one liked to admit they were clueless, therefore, under false bravado and accusations, they changed their narrative, using hindsight to make themselves believe they always thought something they didn't and telling lies to comfort themselves that they could tell when someone was bad news.  

The moment he inquired about the ruby, they would frown, going on about how he either never did have a ruby, or how he must have stole it from one of his murders, and there were that one old woman that said he always had it with him, ever since he moved towns as a young kid with his mother. Both accounts were completely contradictory, and none had enough evidence for him to be swayed by it. 

If witness accounts were not leading him anywhere, then he had to find other paths. Right now, he was not getting anywhere. 

He sighed, and checked his watch. Nine-fourteen at night. Great, he had holed up inside for a solid five more hours than he had wished to do so.

Today was supposed to be a day he would go out, see people, make small talk, so he could say he was not becoming a hermit. That, and if he spent too long without going outside—apart from when he left to follow leads that was— his neighbours would come by knocking. 

Julie and her twin, Max, lived on the floor below him in the apartment complex. They had met him when they had locked themselves out and were worried about getting inside in time to feed their cat, but they also could not afford a locksmith to come in the same day. Hob had overheard when he had been going up the stairs to his own floor, and offered to help, as long as they did not snitch on the fact that he could break into locks— he had been bored one summer during the seventies once and decided he should learn how to pick locks, he was glad it came in handy. The two twenty-something year olds had latched onto him after, greeting him in the hallways and even inviting him for food a few times. 

Of course, when Martha, her old neighbour from the same floor as the twins, had heard he helped Julie and Max, she had taken him under her wing, especially when she heard he had moved in from England all by his lonesome. ‘Honey, no one can live on their own, survive maybe, but that ain’t no way of living. We all need a place to belong’. Hob could not really argue with her, and he didn’t want her to feel bad, so he had taken to accepting their company at times. Next thing he knew, he had been dragged to holidays with them and their friends. 

Despite his efforts in keeping to himself, life seemed to have other plans. 

So, seeing how he had spent all day inside again, he debated if he should call it a night and accept he was not seeing the outside at all today, or if he should bite the bullet and go outside, even for a drink or two. 

With a sigh, and more effort than it should have warranted, he stood up and grabbed his coat by the door, pocketing his keys and his wallet, putting his shoes on, and headed out. He did not feel like cooking tonight, and he figured he could grab a bite out of the food cart around the block that seemed to be available until midnight. Maybe, after, he could swing by to get some drinks if he felt like it, or walk around the city if not. 

Plans made up, he walked down the flight of stairs, bumping into no other than Julie at the door, coming into the building, coat still wet from the rain earlier, and carrying a box big enough that she seemed to have troubles getting the door open. 

Hob helped her out, opening the door for her. With a grateful smile, Julie ushered inside. 

“Thanks, Rob, the door was really a pain to open with all this.” She lifted the box a few inches to gesture to it. “Salmon broke his scratching pole, somehow, so I had to go get one before he destroyed our couch. His claws were made for destruction and mayhem, I swear.” She laughed, grimacing at the thought of possible destruction that her cat could cause. 

“That I’d believe. He did try to use my arm as a scratching pole that first time.” Hob chuckled. “Need any help with the box?” 

“Nah, I got it. It's not that heavy, just, bulky.” She shook her head. “You heading out?”

Hob nodded, putting his hands in his coat pockets. “Yeah. Going for a little late evening stroll.” 

“Careful out there, it was raining earlier and it looks like it might rain later tonight again.” She scrunched her nose at the bad weather, and then bid him goodbye as she continued her way into the building, readjusting her grip on the box before she made her way to her apartment. 

Hob left without any further interruptions, walking calmly through the block, and after a few minutes, made it to the food cart. He ordered his usual, before paying, and with his hands full, holding the styrofoam container with his tamales, he made his way to a small park a few blocks from there. 

He liked his nighttime walks, it allowed him to get some fresh air, and be alone with his thoughts. During these times, he found it quite helpful to think about his progress, and take a moment to rethink the day. The change of scenery often gave him new insights. 

Currently, he was thinking about how he would get in to talk to John Dee. As he had come to notice for a while now, managing a few minutes uninterrupted to ask him about the ruby was proving to be more complicated than he thought. He would make it happen, he was nothing if not stubborn. Where there was a will, there was a way. Hob was patient, less so than when he first started his search, but he was patient nonetheless. So, he already had a few plans that were cooking. 

He already tried bribing some of the guards with some minor things, nothing that would get him in trouble if he got caught. Simple information on small facts, such as the work style inside the facility, or a few names of the people inside it that were not important to his search. That way, it was easy to gauge who would be prone to be willing to give out more risky information or even look the other way if Hob needed it. 

So far, he had already gauged which guards and personnel were definitely not material to bribe for anything. There were a few sticklers for rules with sticks up their asses when he had only barely tried to inquire about information. It was clear that even the mere idea of paying them off was off the table. Others were all too happy to get easy money in exchange for information that they deemed unimportant, thinking Hob an idiot for paying that much for it. Yet, the moment he pried for more sensitive information, they clammed up. 

Then, there were the three guards, one receptionist, and a very morally questionable psychiatrist working there that seemed to pass all his tests with flying colours, all too happy to keep swindling his money for every random thing he asked of them. Hob felt secure in his decision to use them for his mission. 

If asking around and breaking in were out of the question, the next best thing was infiltration. 

So the last couple of months he had been testing the waters, seeing what avenues he could work with and which he could not. He had started with multiple possible plans for it, but most of them had hit a wall and he had to drop them. The one that seemed to be going strong was his infiltration plan. 

He still had some things he had to smooth out, but at least his plan was progressing. 

A five minute walk later, he finally made it to the park, cutting his thoughts short as he looked around for the best place to sit. After a minute of strolling by, he found a nice park bench by some tall trees that were starting to regain their leaves after winter. He did not waste a moment before he began digging into his food, enjoying the cool air against his face and against his skin when it managed to seep through his clothes. He did not mind the cold as much as he should, he found it refreshing. 

While he ate, he tried his best to not think about his work, trying to cut some time into his day to think about anything else. It was easier said than done, but he managed. So instead, he focused on the taste of his food, on the warmth of it and how it contrasted with the cold around him. He took the time to take in his surroundings, to see the trees slowly growing out their leaves, and their sounds as the wind passed through them, rattling the branches. It was nice to turn off his mind for the time being.

His thoughts then changed, having a passing thought of his earlier interaction with Julie. Perhaps it would be nice if he were to get her cat another toy sometime soon. 

He was still trying to gain Salmon’s trust, since the cat alternated wildly between liking him enough to purr, and hating him to hell and back, trying to scratch him till he was bloody or dead. Max swore that the cat was not usually like that. There was not much either of them could do. Either way, a gift for the cat might be good, and he could be paying them back for the meals they would often like to share with him. 

He filed those plans for later, and after finishing his food, he stood up to look for the nearest trash can to dispose of the container. Once that was done, he considered going back to his apartment, but ultimately decided to pass by the bar that was nearby. As he walked past it, he saw it was extremely crowded and that there was a line going all the way to the street. So, that was not happening. 

Well, he thought, there was always the one two blocks further away. It was flashier and bigger than the bar he liked to frequent, and to be honest, was closer to a nightclub than a bar, but he felt like having a drink that was not poured by him tonight, and who knew, perhaps he could find some company if he felt like it.

Upon arrival, he could not help but take in how crowded it was. The music was playing loudly, colourful lights changing wildly. He, once again, debated if a drink was really worth it. Someone bumped into him, clearly intoxicated and dancing freely to the incessantly loud music without a care in the world. The man eyed Hob for a moment from head to toe, giving Hob a sly smile, before someone bumped into him, making him lose interest in him, and continuing to dance. Yeah, no. He was not up for partying today. Perhaps another time, he would be more open to it, but today he was tired. 

Well, he came, he saw, he conquered, as the saying goes, and now he was making an early retreat. He turned to the entrance, which was right there, since he only walked in a couple of feet before he decided to call it a day. He barely got a step in when fingers tapped his shoulder, much like dominoes falling, before a hand snaked through his back until their entire arm was around on his shoulder. 

“Leaving already?” A raspy, low voice said. Their voice was close enough to him that he could feel the air tickling in his ear. 

Hob turned to the side, inches away from Goldie’s face. He looked at them unimpressed. “I should have stayed inside tonight.” He said, voice dripping in dramatic exhaustion.  Taking their arm from around him and dropping it without breaking eye contact. “What do you want this time?”

Goldie cackled, tilting their head back, the sound loud and clear despite how loud the music and crowd were. “Who said I want anything?” 

“Don’t you always?” Hob took a step back to put some distance from them so he could at least have a few inches of personal space, not that it did much with the people dancing way too close around him. “You said as much the first time we met.”

“I did, didn’t I?” Goldie’s head tilted forward ever so slightly in agreement. They hummed loudly. “Alright. Right now, what I want is a drink.”

“Well I am not stopping you.” Hob said with a shrug, turning around to leave until an arm wrapped around his own. 

“You are drinking with me tonight, Robert.” They told him in a smooth voice, walking through the crowd effortlessly, nudging Hob alongside them with their linked arms. The crowd seemed to perfectly move around them, creating a clear path to a booth in the back, and their sparkling one-piece corset seemed to stand out as the changing lights reflected on it. “You cannot show up to a place like this and not have a drink. Can’t have you hurt my feelings like that.” Their tone did not convey they were particularly torn about it in the slightest. 

Hob only let out his most put upon sigh that he could muster but did not particularly try to get out of that situation. “You are paying.” Was all he said. He had wanted a drink after all, and, if he had to stay, might as well. 

They looked at him like he had just said the most absurd and humorous thing ever and raised a challenging eyebrow. Then, they nudged Hob to sit down at the booth, it was rounded and against the wall so that when they sat down, they were facing the crowd in the dance floor as well as having a particularly good view of the bar. Hob took off his coat, if he was to stay there, might as well be comfortable. It was too warm for a coat in this place packed full of people. 

Two drinks were placed at the table, the waiter did not even stay for a moment to check that the drinks were correct or for them at all before he had left. Hob stared at his drink, a small glass with amber liquid with a cherry in it. He looked at the drink that had been placed in front of Goldie, who had already grabbed the martini glass and taken a sip. Hob smelled the drink, the strong aroma of whisky mixed with vermouth filled his nostrils. He tentatively took a sip and was surprised to find that Goldie had ordered him a Brooklyn cocktail, one he had come to find a liking to after he moved to America. Apparently, the old drink had become re-popularised in the early nineties again after prohibition had put a stop on it years back. 

He had to admit he’d had a passing thought or two this past week on getting one of these. His surprise must have shown on his face because Goldie laughed, grin stretching wide while their eyes shone with mischief. “Is the drink not to your liking?” They asked, knowing damn well it was not the case. 

“You know, it is creepy when you do that.” 

“I did not hear you complaining the last few times.” They said, taking a sip of their drink, leaning back on their seat, putting one leg on top of the other, their red fishnets standing out and matching with their drink. 

“You did, you just chose to ignore it.” Hob pointed out, drinking a long sip out of their glass, downing half of it in one go. 

Goldie did not bother to give him a response, simply stared at him as they drank from their glass again, golden eyes shining for a moment in the fluorescent lights. 

Something that Hob had not expected at all once he moved to America was the sporadic apparitions of Goldie popping in at random bars that he was in. He had thought that they would have still resided back in London where they had first met, but it seemed Goldie had followed him overseas too. It was only about three months into his trip when he had first encountered them. 

Hob had been drinking out on a crowded bar in the middle of the city, it had not been a popular bar, so it wasn’t brimming with people, but as with anything in the most populated areas, it had its fair amount of people. Goldie had shown up, placing a drink that Hob had not ordered in front of him, before they sat in the chair next to him as if it was the most natural thing in the world. 

Hob had, understandably so, been on edge, immediately jumping to the logical conclusion that he was in danger again and had to play it careful if he wanted to leave unscathed. In a surprising turn of events, Goldie did not put up much of a problem, apparently satisfied enough with seeing him squirm. They also found it highly entertaining to say the most ominous and offhanded comments about his Stranger that had Hob gripping his seat tight to avoid lashing out. All in all, similar to their first meeting and just what Hob had expected, minus the threats.  

After a quick, yet stressful conversation, at least stressful for Hob, they stood up and disappeared into the crowd with a simple farewell on their side. 

Hob had foolishly thought that had been the end of it, but then it kept happening. Not much, not always, not often, but it did. 

There was no rhyme nor reason to the places or times of the visits. Hob had tried every bar, going as far as the outskirts of town, in the shadiest roadhouse bar he could find, to an actual nightclub, one that had been entirely too expensive for his taste, but it was supposed to be on list only, and somehow, Goldie had found him there too. 

Conversations would span from a quick seemingly harmless conversation, to Goldie mocking him for his errors, to being teased about his Stranger, or to being asked random questions about his stay in the city. Hob gave up after the third time it kept happening and accepted it as his new normal. He could not quite escape them but he was no longer that worried about his own safety to try and do much about it. He didn't exactly like it, but he had come to realise he did not exactly hate it either. Besides, Hob kept using the meetings as possible opportunities to try and squeeze information out of them. Goldie clearly knew things about his Stranger, and Hob delusionally believed he could make them mess up and divulge information. 

Every time, Goldie had a drink for Hob, and every time, it was the perfect choice of whatever he was craving. 

Goldie refused to answer any of his questions about it, telling him that it’d be too boring if he figured out things too quickly, then chided him for not being patient or fun. 

Still, he had not expected to meet Goldie tonight. Goldie had found him in bars only seven times now after their first meeting back in London. So, they did tend to show up as much, and the last time they had chosen to insert themselves into Hob’s plans for a night out had been two months ago. He figured Goldie had enough and was leaving him alone. Clearly, it had been wrong of him to assume that. 

He really should have learned by now. 

Hob finished his drink in another big gulp and put the empty glass down on the table at arm’s length. “Well, you wanted a drink with me, I drank it. Gonna go home now.” 

“I have yet to finish mine.” Goldie took an obviously obnoxious slow sip of their drink after raising the glass in the air to make it obvious there was still more than half a drink left. “It is good to have manners, Robert .”

“Good to have manners, says the stalker.” Hob scoffed in dry amusement. 

They raised an eyebrow, turning their mouth to the side. “Well, aren't you in a cheerful mood today.” They looked at Hob in disappointment. “I have better things to do than stalk you . You aren’t that important.” 

“Not that important? So, I am somewhat important then? That is nice of you, you care about lil’ old me.” Hob replied cheekily, enjoying the bitter and hostile glare they sent his way, which was the only reason he said what he said. He was starting to get better at pushing their buttons on command. 

“Care?” They laughed, moving their hand around as they spoke. “You could be bloodied and dying at my feet and I'd care more about the damage the blood could make to my clothes.” 

Hob dramatically put his hands to his chest in faux hurt. “And here I thought stalkers were supposed to care a little at least.”

Hob could see Goldie’s jaw twitch. Check mate. It was so easy to mess with them Hob could not help himself. He was not even trying hard. He had decided four meetings ago that if Goldie was subjecting him to the horrors of having to hang out with them, then Hob would return the favour tenfold. Hob could be marvelously annoying when he put his mind into it, and he had six hundred years of experience to his advantage. 

“I was already in the area.” 

Hob raised an eyebrow at that. They never answered things in a straightforward way at all, this was the closest they had come to direct. “In the area?” He repeated. “So, you were here for a night out.” He paused then shook his head. “The waiters brought you what you wanted and you did not even speak with them before, they know you already.” He voiced his thoughts aloud, being extra aware of the eyes that tracked his every word. Despite how nonchalant Goldie was acting, lounging in his seat, and pretending there was not a care in the world, their eyes betrayed them. 

It reminded Hob slightly of his Stranger; their body language would reveal so little of what they actually felt but it was always the eyes that revealed some of the truth that was hidden within. 

Hob pretended not to notice and continued talking. “The people know you. So, not a casual night out, you come here often for it to be just that.” He made a grab for his drink but stopped soon after when he realized he had drunk it all. “Then again, you could have done that weird hypnosis thing you like to do, which would also explain it.”

“Hmm.” They hummed and raised their eyebrows in consideration at the words. Their eyes left Hob’s and tracked the dancing crowd. “Well, I do take my job seriously, unlike others.” They said as if they were letting Hob in a joke, despite him being confused as hell. Goldie’s eyes locked back to his and their lips twitched into a side-way smile. 

“Your job? You have a job? Here?” Hob did not try to keep the incredulous tone out of his voice. He snorted, sure, that was a good one. Goldie at a place like this? That was not too far-fetched, the atmosphere seemed to fit them well. Goldie having a job and a function that did not include making Hob’s life a chaotic mess? Now that was hard to believe.

“Something of the sort.” And there they went again with their cryptic responses. Hob really needed to stop being frustrated at this, it was the norm. “And I am doing amazingly .” They leaned back and extended their arms so they were leaning on the headrest of the booth, reclining their head against it and smiling admirably at the crowd. They looked at him as if they were looking down at a particular unfavourable bug, twisting their mouth into a grimace. “You, on the other hand, seem to be doing a poor job on yours.”

“I beg your pardon?” Hob said in disbelief. What right did this person have to tell him how he is doing his job? He is doing adequately, and even if he wasn't, it would not be Goldie’s goddamn business. 

“Then beg.” Goldie’s expression split in a sharp smile, white teeth contrasting with their bright red lipstick. “How’s the search for your Stranger? Finding a way into the institution seems so unproductive.” They tsked and looked at the ceiling, long suffering. “I do not understand why your Stranger kept you around so long.” Goldie said to the ceiling, before staring slowly back at him. “Then again, he did leave you so I guess he did get some sense drilled into him in the end.” They looked positively amused, clearly seeing Hob’s jaw twitch as he grinded his teeth in response. 

Hob knew how to push their buttons, but unfortunately for him, Goldie knew how to push his buttons just as much. 

“You can always follow his example.” Hob said and very pointedly, motioned to the door, smile too wide and too fake to be remotely real. 

Goldie did not even look at the door, simply stared at Hob looking like a cat playing with his food. They did not move from their spot nor did they answer. 

Well, it was a long shot and Hob knew it wouldn't work. Still, he had to try. “Well since you are not letting me leave, and you are not nice enough to fuck off, how about you tell me how do you always find me in bars? Is it the bars? You have people working there to tell you? What with your job and all? Actually no, how did you know about the institution? It’s not like I have mentioned it to anyone.” Hob asked without hoping for an answer, but well, sometimes if he bombarded them with enough questions, their non answers and trick responses would give him about a fifth of an actual response, which would be something. It would be nice to know if he was being tracked and how so that he could stop it. 

“Oh, Robert , I can find you anywhere.” 

Hob did not care he was in public, or that he had to keep appearances or whatever. He was so close to just giving in to his urges to let his head fall onto the table without any care in the world. Unfortunately for him, he still had some sense in the back of his head that stopped him from doing just that. Instead, he chose to scrub a hand through his face as he took a moment to deal with the mess that was this whole conversation. That answered nothing and just made everything sound extra unsettling. This is why he should just become a hermit and not be social at all. Martha could give him hell for all he cared. Being a hermit seemed better than this. 

But well, now he was here so might as well continue the conversation. So removing his hand from his face he stared, deadpan, at Goldie. “Moving past that.” Hob said because he was not dealing with that. Sure, a supernatural being could now find him anywhere, cause that was his life now. Might as well move on from that before his mind decided to take a small vacation from conscious thought. “How did you know about the institution?” 

“I have my ways.” They said. “I have to admit. It is less entertaining than I thought it would be to see you run around like a fool trying to find the ruby, especially when you are not even trying.” Their mouth pursed to the side. “And I had almost believed you had some degree of intelligence back in our first meeting.”

“I’m working on it.” Hob did not take the bait nor did he let his anger get to him. “I will find my way into that place to talk to John Dee, regardless of what you think of it.” 

Goldie tsked again. “So much time spent trying to get into the place and none on what to do once you get inside.” Their expression turned into a thoughtful one. “I suppose running on fumes will lower whatever ounce of sense that is running inside that little mind of yours.” They grinned again. “It seems something must be done about that. Perhaps, indulging in a little carnal desire for a night or two will get your head on right. Or at the least, make you less boring.” Their eyes flickered towards the dance floor, tracking it like a prey would track its next meal. “People here come for a good time, I can sure point you in the right direction.” Goldie chuckled, richly and lowly, in a similar tone much alike the one that had him mesmerised during their first meeting. “That man in the back, the one with the leather pants and crop top could surely give you a night to remember, you would be in for a fantastic time. He has been eyeing you for some time now.”

Hob spared a glance to the dance floor, curious but not remotely considering the offer. He was not here for that. His gaze returned back to Goldie’s in less than a second, looking remotely unimpressed and conveying as such to them. 

Goldie did not seem phased, they motioned their hand with a wave. “Not what you are looking for tonight? The woman in the blue dress and jacket would work too, she is not looking for anything serious either.”

Hob ignored them, now mostly focusing on the echoes of the words that were spoken earlier, reverberating in his mind. He had spent so much time planning on how to get to John Dee and to find the whereabouts of the ruby, that he failed to account, for the most part, how exactly he was going to get that information. 

He had given it some thought of course, he doubted asking point blank about it would work. So, he would probably try different approaches, he could make people talk if needed. Yet, Goldie was right, most of his efforts have been spent on trying to get inside but not about what happens after. Now that he thought about it more, more questions and issues arose. How much time would he get with him before someone important noticed he was not where he was supposed to be? How much time before he got kicked out? Would John Dee react more violently than expected? Hob could only do so much in those cases. He needed to have something that would guarantee something going right instead of pure luck. 

When he talked to John, he would need to ask direct questions, go straight for the jugular. It was obvious really, but he had been staring at this issue for so long on his own that it was clear an outside perspective was needed, even if it was done mockingly. 

Hob’s eyes brightened the more he thought about it. He suddenly thought of a few different avenues he could try before he talked to the man. He grinned at Goldie, who was eyeing him carefully. “You’re right, my friend.” He stood up, grabbing his coat from his seat, putting it on. “My ideas might have been missing some things and you just helped me with them.” 

Goldie arched an eyebrow, looking doubtful, displeased, and a little confused at his happiness. Hob wanted to laugh at how out of place that expression looked on their face. “An accident, I can assure you.” They drawled, smoothing out their features. 

Hob laughed and patted them on the shoulder, earning a dramatically affronted glare as they side eyed his hand. “You still gave me new ideas. Thanks Goldie, see you around.” 

‘Goldie?’ They mouthed incredulously, momentarily stunned at the appalling nickname that Hob had been quite careful to keep to himself during these meetings, well, until now, he supposed. 

It was enough for Hob to sneak past out to the door, feeling triumphant that not only did he have new ideas, but he was the one who had the last word with Goldie for once. Now it was him walking out for a change and it made him feel giddy. 

He made his way to the apartment, having a thought about the newspaper he read about John Dee all those months ago, if his memory served him right, he might be able to figure out some leverage on him with it. But first, he was going to need some maps.

Chapter Text

1996

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Hob was a genius, he really was. Things were finally starting to look up after so long. It only took him God knows how long to figure it out, but he got there in the end, and now, it was time to act. He was finally going to put the final step of his plan in motion; he was going to infiltrate the mental institute and talk to John Dee. Today, he was finally going to find the ruby. 

It had taken him some time to schedule and plan for it, especially after Goldie gave him new ideas, but he finally felt confident with himself that things were going to go according to plan. After his impromptu meeting at the nightclub, he wasted no time getting to his apartment, spending who knows how long digging up maps of the city. Then spent the next few weeks chasing paperwork leads. 

He could not show up empty handed to talk to the guy, he realised that now. John was a serial killer and an insane man, he would most certainly not be getting any straight answers, and there was a good chance he would not get any answers at all. Hob knew how to make people talk if needed. His time as a mercenary, thief, and soldier made sure of it. However, there were always limits, and he knew that crazy men were wildcards at best and he’d be a fool if he simply expected things to just work out.

So, he tilted the odds in his favour to make sure it would work out. 

Smiling, he grabbed his shoulder bag that had his wallet, keys, and extra clothes, before grabbing his coat. He stared at himself in the mirror that was placed on the wall near the door. It was weird seeing himself in this uniform. Even though he had been working at the psychiatric institution for a solid month now, he never quite got used to it. He was a t-shirt and blazer type of guy, at least, he had been for the last couple of years. Fashion changed a lot through the years and he had dabbled in many trends and clothing styles. He had favourite styles that he wished he could wear again without people thinking him weird or thinking he was working at a ren faire, and there were some fashion styles that he was happy to never think of again. The point was, he was one to adapt to many clothing choices without a problem, and yet, this uniform did not seem to work for him. 

White pants and a white shirt with grey borders on the sleeves, neck, and pants was what he had to wear, accompanied with a lanyard with his ID on it. It made him look like an evil goon in a crappy horror film in his opinion, but that might just be his bias talking. White did not suit him and wearing scratchy clothes that matched half the staff made it worse. Needless to say, he was not happy about this part of the job. 

With a hefty pay to one of the administrators, he was able to score a low entry job at the place, working as staff and helping out with the cleaning and the low-profile patients. He was supposed to be someone that had good qualifications, but not too good to stand out, enough to do his job without a problem. He lied about it in the appropriate paperwork, and then made sure to brush up on twentieth century medical care knowledge. He helped out as a doctor back in the day, well, an apprentice to one, but at that point they still thought that putting flowers in plague masks to stop the smell would keep diseases away. And it had only been for a little while, about three weeks. So, it wasn't like his experience would help. Sure, he knew much better now, he learned as the times changed, and he knew as much as the average person nowadays when it came to basic medical care. Which wasn't much. It's not like he could learn that much from experience, given his ability to brush off a lot of injuries and diseases that would be fatal for others. No matter how much he did actually try to keep himself healthy, he had a skewed perspective of how to do that. 

He learnt it nonetheless, and now he had a decent understanding of how society approached medical issues in this century. He learned the skills for his job fast and on the go. The first day at the job he shadowed one of the workers, and then he was thrown onto the wolves to figure it out on his own. Not the best way to run an institution like this, in his opinion, but he was not there to judge the ethical standards of the place, so he let it slide and moved on.  

So, for a month now he worked there, kept his head low, made the right acquaintances, and made sure that he stumbled through various areas that he did not work at with enough consistency that people stopped batting an eye at seeing him where he was not wanted. That way, he was only but a familiar face that people would ignore as he blended into the background. After all, if people got used to him like that, they would not think twice about him going to places where he was not supposed to be later on. 

He had paid off some of the staff to look the other way of course, and when the time came, help out with some minor details, but this course of action would ensure that the other staff, especially the suck ups, would not be suspicious of him or give him too much trouble. He had not inquired much about the patients there, enough that it would seem normal, but never pried more than the bare minimum. People there were total gossips, and if he had no questions about the people who got themselves locked up there, he would stand out.  

He only inquired about the patient in room 106 once, after he offered to help with the patient and got told to stay away, since he was off limits unless it was the approved staff. Hob had pretended to look incredulous and bored at the exaggerated treatment of the patient, which gained him points with the staff that was not hired to tend to him, yet he also did not pry further or made it a big deal, which helped greatly to be ignored by the staff that took their job seriously with John. 

The staff welcomed him with open arms despite him only being there a month. He had thought it would take longer, but it seems his luck was looking up.

All in all, it was a success. 

So, the infiltration part was done.

Now, came the tricky part. The main event. 

Today, he was talking to John. 

And for that he needed things to go to plan. 

So, after making sure he had everything ready and a go bag for if things went dicey. He put on his overcoat before leaving his apartment and heading to work. He had his big coat on, given how the weather was cold and almost freezing again. It was feeling more like winter than fall lately. Anyway, the coat covered his uniform, which he liked. He did not like wearing it but it was easier to go there in uniform. That way, the staff got used to seeing him in a specific way, and the chances of being recognised in normal clothes lessened considerably. 

Hob had come to realise through the years that people tended to pay less attention to faces if one was in uniform. 

Anyway, once he reached work, an entire forty minutes before his shift, he beelined directly to the receptionist to chat with her about her day and bring her coffee— a routine he had established since his fifth day at the job when he had offered to help out with coffee orders for the general staff. 

“Heya, Betty,” He raised the coffee cup in the air as he approached her. “Vanilla and three sugars.” He placed it on her desk and leaned in, resting his elbow on the counter and propping his hand up to rest his head on it. “Anything new going on?” 

Betty took the coffee and grabbed a pale yellow folder from her desk. “You forgot to sign a few things from the last time you were stuck with paperwork. You are lucky I caught it before the boss saw it and threw a fit. Fix it.” 

Hob took a step back, no longer leaning on the desk, and did a two finger salute before grabbing the folder. “Thanks, owe you one.” He grinned and took the folder, walking towards his locker in the break room. He checked that there was no one there, and opened the folder, grinning when he saw the lanyard with his face on it next to the words ‘special access’. This would work nicely when he went to meet John Dee. He was relieved that Betty had pulled through with her part. 

Hob had figured out the receptionist was the perfect choice to pay off since the very start, as she passed all his tests. She did not know any details, but she was paid enough to not only look the other way, but also to get him the lanyard needed to go to the restricted area. She was also paid to slowly adjust her schedule to work specific days of the week so that it aligned with the rest of his plans. After all, he only managed to get two guards in on it in the end, and he needed to make sure all the people he could trust to get the job done would be available the same day. 

He switched his lanyard to the new one, putting the old one and the folder in his go back, before putting it on his locker. Taking a moment to compose himself, he steeled himself and went out towards John’s cell— despite the staff calling it a room, Hob could see it for what it was— only stopping once to grab a lunch tray on the way. 

He strolled into the area as if he always belonged, not drawing attention to himself. It worked, because the guards stationed there did not blink twice as he passed by, and before he knew it, he was standing outside John’s room. Two guards were stationed there, the only recognition between them was a spared glance and a nod. 

He did not speak with them, the simple nod and tray of food he was holding was enough for it to be obvious that he was there to bring him his food, and to an outsider, there would be nothing amiss. 

“Ten minutes.” Said one of the guards. 

Hob nodded, going inside the room. The clock was ticking, and the show had begun. 

Despite having worked at the facility for a while now, the sterile and barren atmosphere to the rooms always made him feel on edge. The bright overhead lights made the empty white walls and ceiling stand out more. John’s room seemed to make him feel more out of sorts than usual, but then again, it made sense, he supposed, he was there on a mission and the stakes were high after all. 

The door closed behind him once he got inside, he could hear the click and the locks shift as the guards secured the door. Hob took a quick glance around the room, seeing an empty spot on the table next to some books. He glanced at the cover of the book in mild curiosity as he put the tray down. The History of Ritual Magic in England . The red cover of the book at the top of the stack made for a stark contrast with the furniture in the room; the table, the chair, and the bed frame were all plain white, a grey duvet covering the bed. The only other thing with colour in the room was a sad looking plant that had definitely seen better days right next to the books. 

“Hello, John.” Hob was still facing the table, standing up straight after putting the food tray down, yet he still had a good view through his periphery on John, extremely aware of his every move and reaction. He was not stupid enough to let his guard down. 

John looked up from the book he was reading the moment Hob started speaking. His body language immediately shifting to look more on edge. “Who are you? You are not one of my guards.” He sat up from where he had been leaning back against his bedframe while he had been reading. He hunched over, looking at him. 

Hob raised his hands in a placating motion. “We were a little more understaffed today than expected, I think one of your usual guards called in sick.” He shrugged and twisted his mouth to the side. “I got the short end of the stick to do the extra shifts.” He looked at him and rolled his eyes. “Between you and I, I think they sent me here cause I am the newest one working here.” He chuckled at his own comment, hoping the carefree attitude would work to keep John from lashing out or seeing through his act. He would try to get information by being nice first. He had learned it was always good to keep his tricks up his sleeves until the last possible moment.

“You are not supposed to be here. The doctor only lets me speak to a select few.” He stood up from the bed and Hob did his very best to keep calm and not react. “He worries I am going to get inside their heads or harm them, no matter how much I tell him that as long as they do not lie to me, I do not wish them any harm.” He eyed him warily. “The doctor did not send you.”

Well then, there goes plan A. He was not expecting to get away with it if he was honest, but he was really hoping he could have gotten away with the interrogation the easy way. 

“I just want to talk, is that alright, John?” He kept his distance, staying where he was at, and trying to put a non threatening aura out, so John did not react excessively nor dramatically. 

“Why should I believe you? You have not said a single truthful thing yet.” John tilted his head. “I do not take kindly to liars.”

Yeah sure, the psychotic serial killer and arsonist draws the line at lying, that makes sense. Hob smartly did not point out how incredulous that ideology was. He was cool, calm, and collected, he was not going to be sassy on a job, he reminded himself. 

“I am not lying about that, I promise.” Hob said, already moving to plan B and trying a different approach. “Look, I had to lie to get here to talk to you. You said it yourself, you are not allowed visitors.”

“And what is it that you want with me?” John narrowed his eyes, not moving from his spot. 

Hob felt a smidge of relief at the fact that John was not reacting violently or closing off yet . Pulling out a wrinkled piece of newspaper from his back pocket, he kept on talking. “Can you tell me where you came into possession of this ruby?” He flattened the piece of paper and passed it to him. He had kept the picture of John’s arrest all this time, the one where he had the ruby on his chest. 

John’s entire posture changed in the blink of an eye, rage oozing through his entire self. “You want to take my ruby from me?” His voice was low and if looks could kill, Hob would be dead, immortality be damned. 

Hob felt rage and indignation at the man calling it his ruby. That was his Stranger’s ruby and no one else's. He did not let any of it show on his face as his expression was calm and serious. “I just want to know where you got it from.” That was a lie. A big fat lie. He was getting that ruby one way or another, but if he had to compromise for the time being to find information he could do that. John was not convinced in the slightest. “Look, I care about the ruby because I am looking for information on one of its previous owners. If I can find the previous owner, I won’t have a need for it.”

John shook his head, taking another step towards him. “If you have met others with the ruby, then you know what it does, you know what it is capable of.” He took another step forward and Hob began moving back. “You want the power for yourself, but the ruby is mine. It only answers to me. You are nothing but a liar that will get what's coming to you when I get out of here.”

Yeah okay, so plan A and plan B were not working and Hob was getting tired of this. Time to pull out the big guns. He tried to be nice, he always tries to be nice, but he was not above throwing niceties out the window when needed. 

“Right, okay.” Hob said quietly, mostly for himself, before he spoke up. “You hate liars, don’t you, John Dee? Or should I say John Cripps? Williams? Allen?”

John did a double take, voice low in warning. “You are not supposed to find out about those.” 

“For someone who hates lying, you certainly go through a lot of fake identities.” It had taken him forever to find the paperwork on that. The first few months led to dead ends and no information about him, but it only takes one mistake for Hob to unravel the thread of lies. So, that was exactly what he did after he found a discrepancy in one of John’s school papers from a few decades ago. From then on it was a lot of midnight break ins to government facilities in various places to where they kept old records. He almost got caught twice and he was looking forward to not doing this again, ever. “And you know what is interesting? Most of these identities seem to all be connected to criminal offences, ranging from theft and parking tickets, to arson. You really like arson don’t you?” Hob raised an eyebrow, challenging him to say otherwise. 

“That is old news, even if you could prove the identities were me, you can't do anything else. I am already locked up, remember?” 

“Your cell is comfortable isn't it? You get your own room, your choice of books, I even saw there are options you can choose for food. It would be a shame if that were taken away if new information got to light.” Hob stared him down. “So, you tell me in which one of your storage units you hid the ruby and we can be done here.” 

“I do not know what you mean.” John said but Hob could still hear the way his voice wavered just the slightest and his eyes widened, giving Hob first row seats to his insecurities and fear, clear as day. 

Hob bit back a grin. He had gambled, but he was correct, if his reaction was anything to go by. 

He figured it out after a lot of work and checking the newspaper again. It had mentioned he had escaped for a few hours before he was caught again. The picture of his first arrest had the ruby, but he did not have it with him after. So, it led to believe that in those hours that he had made a run for it, he hid the ruby. 

Now, he had gambled with the fact that he was working alone, which proved to be correct now that he was interacting with him. If the way he was excessively possessive of the ruby was anything to go by. There was no way he was a team player. 

So, he could not have given it to anyone for safekeeping, nor could he have sold it. He hid it on his own, and what better place to hide them than in warehouses? Hob had spent hours looking at maps of the city, trying to gauge the distance he could have gone in those hours, looked for warehouses, abandoned and not, as well as storage units in the area, and then tried to see if there were any to the name of any of John’s aliases. He found some.

“No? So you don't have any storages in Rochester? Mayhew? Brockport?” He had a few others, but it was best to not tell them all. It was easier to gauge John’s reactions if he split them up. He mentioned the ones he thought were the most plausible ones, if John did not react, then he would try others.

“How do you know that?” John’s voice wavered again and Hob could pinpoint the slight intake of breath and tensed shoulders from him the second he mentioned Mayhew. He would have missed it had he not been staring at him like a hawk, looking for anything that would give him away. He had spent six hundred years on this earth, and one thing he was good at was reading people. He had not realised how much he had picked up as a skill until the eighteenth century, when that saved his ass more than once. 

“I am only asking once more, John. Tell me what you know of the ruby’s previous owner and I can leave it alone.” He wouldn't, but John had already let the location of it slip without him knowing and Hob would like to keep him in the dark about it. If he seemed like he really was not interested in the ruby, he might still get more information. 

“If I tell you, will you leave the ruby alone?”

“Yes. Promise.” Hob had become desensitized to feeling guilty about lying for a long time now. Lying was what he had to do to survive and keep his identity and immortality a secret. So this was child’s play. He did not like it, but he had no qualms about it.

“And you will stop looking for the ruby?” 

“Yes. Think of it this way, had I mainly wanted the ruby, don’t you think I have enough information to check the storage units on my own and find it? I am more interested in the information on how you got it.” Technically, that was true. He could have checked out the warehouses first but there were too many of them and too spread out, he would waste too much time and resources looking for them. Best to have a clearer idea of which area to look for first.   

“Why do you want to know about the previous owners?” 

“I have unfinished business with him.” It was not exactly a lie. Hob should get some credit for not lying completely to this guy, he was nice like that. 

John regarded him carefully, clearly disliking him to hell and back but smart enough to realise it was in his best interest. “My mother gave me the ruby. She never said much about anything, not anything that was true, anyway.” John turned his back on him, walking to the table before he grabbed the red book on top of the stack. He turned back and handed the book to Hob. “This might get the answers you need.” 

Hob took the book. 

“Now, if you would, kindly, fuck off.” John said in a low and calm voice, almost bordering on polite. “And stay away from my ruby, or I will make you pay when I get out of this place.” Hob was making damn sure he never got out already, but he was making extra sure now. 

“Got it. Thanks.” Hob said dryly and held the book under his arm, between his side and his upper arm. He went to the door and knocked twice, signalling to the guards he was done. He checked his watch. Eight minutes and forty seven seconds. He was surprised with himself that it took him less than the allotted ten minutes to get the information. Hell, he was surprised he managed to get information without resorting to violence. Blackmail really worked wonders. 

The guards opened the door, and he slipped out, letting out a sigh of relief the second he stepped through the threshold. A relief that was short lived when he heard John’s voice call out to the guards, snitching on him and yelling accusations that Hob had threatened him. His voice was loud enough he could hear it through the hallway and with the door closed. 

He hesitated, halting his steps, wondering if he should stop, but that would only cause problems, so he kept walking, pointedly ignoring it, and hoped that his contingency plans would take effect sooner than later. Not a few moments later, Hob passed Doctor Bloom, the head psychiatrist in charge of tending to John. His beating heart calmed as he shared a passing glance with him as they crossed paths. Doctor Bloom was the other player in his plan, the psychiatrist that he would be worried about his loose ethics if it did not serve him and his agenda. Hob had known better than to think John would take kindly to being blackmailed and interrogated, so he made arrangements. Between the guards looking the other way and not reacting to his little visit, and the psychiatrist being paid a whole lot to do damage control, it should be fine. 

“Oh dear, it seems John is not having a good day.” Hob could distantly hear Doctor Bloom mention to the guards, and was probably on his way to sedate John for the time being. Hob did not like how easy it was to convince him to do that and chuck whatever John said as mad ramblings, but he had to remind himself that it was for the greater good, and the other man was not getting harmed. 

Finally, he made it out of the hallway and out of that section of the building reserved for special patients, and went directly to the break room. He checked the time and noticed he still had an entire fifteen minutes before his actual shift started. Everything was still on schedule. 

So, he opened his locker, took out his shoulder bag, and put the book that John gave him inside, along with the special access ID that was given to him earlier. Grabbing his coat and the rest of his things, he went back to the receptionist desk. “Hey, Betty. I have a family emergency, I’ll be out the entire day.” And every day after, but she did not need to know that yet. 

“Oh, no, is everything alright?” She asked. 

Hob gave her a reassuring smile. “Nothing to worry about, I’m sure.” He answered without telling her anything. With that, he left the building, glad that none of his other coworkers had arrived yet. It would be better for them to think that he did not show up at all today. 

He walked about a block from there, before he entered a diner that was known to be open twenty four-seven, and made a beeline to the washrooms. There, he changed out of his uniform into normal clothes, some brown pants and a soft dark green and grey cardigan on top of his black shirt. Feeling more like himself now that he was not wearing the stupid white uniform, he left the dinner and proceeded to go back to his apartment. He passed by one of his coworkers, but thankfully, the other man did not spare a glance in his direction, not recognising him out of uniform and in those clothes. 

Upon arriving at his apartment, he closed the door and just stood there for a moment, before bursting into laughter. He made it. He had successfully seen this plan through and he actually came out successful. Not only had he found out about where the ruby was hidden, but he had gotten information on who held the ruby before John had. 

He was so close, the path he had been waddling through in the dark for years seemed to finally have some light in it, lighting up a path to follow. He knew what he had to do now, and honestly, he could not wait a moment longer for it. 

He had hoped with everything he had that today would work out like he wanted, he had hoped that his conversation with John would prove to be fruitful, but he wouldn't lie, he had been scared about it too. Too many things could have gone wrong, some almost did, but it worked out. Suddenly, he felt vindicated at his meticulous efforts in planning for the break in. It gave him enough security to make it work. There had been a few moments that he had thought it might be too much, that perhaps he should just have tried to break in, knock out some guards, and talk to John whether he wanted to or not. It could have probably worked, but it could also have ended tragically and getting another chance to talk to him might have proven impossible for the foreseeable future. 

He was so happy he had played it safe. 

So after a good laugh, enjoying the giddiness of his success, he got moving. 

He grabbed some food from his fridge, a container of smashed potatoes and fish that Martha had given him the day before, and while he ate straight from the container, he went through his apartment to grab his other bag, a few tools of his to lockpick, and the notebooks he had annotated the locations of John’s warehouses. 

He found the page where the Mayhew storage address was written in, ink smudged from when he had written it in a hurry. He grinned. If he left now he could make it there before the day ended.

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His chest was brimming with energy and he felt lighter and happy. So many years passed and finally things were actually moving forward, no more working at a snail’s pace for bread crumbs of information. Now it was real, now he had solid information on abundance.

Not only did he have information now, but he had something even better. He had the ruby. 

Hob looked at the red gemstone in his hand in awe, he could not even make himself blink, irrationally thinking that if he did, it would disappear. It felt unreal to have it in his gloved hand, almost like a dream. 

It had taken him a bit to find. As luck would have it, there had been quite some traffic accidents on the road that made his trip all the while longer. He had to take multiple alternate routes so by the time he arrived at Mayhew, he was exhausted. His eyes had been burning from keeping them open and focused on the road for so long, following the stack of maps he had beside him in order to avoid getting lost. His arms had felt too heavy, and his mind muddy. 

It had not certainly helped a single bit that his day had been so productive and stressful. The drive on its own was harrowing, but paired with the fact he conducted his infiltration to talk to John that same day just made everything feel so much more exhausting. 

All he had wanted to do was power through and get to the storage unit, needing to get to the ruby as soon as possible. But well, he also still had a good modicum of logic that told him it was not the right time. He needed to be at his best for his quick thinking and skills to work. He needed to break into the storage, which involved being stealthy, and quick at lock picking before anyone saw him and got curious, and he needed to be awake enough that he could talk himself out of situations, should he be found. 

So he had found the first motel in the city, and stopped for the day. He had to wait until the next day to continue his search, which he was not happy about it at all. 

But none of it mattered now. He had the ruby now, he had found it hidden amidst dusty boxes and questionable artefacts, but it had been there. Even in the darkness of the place, only lit by the flickery flashlight Hob had brought with him, the ruby seemed to almost glow from how shiny it was. It truly was the most beautiful gemstone he had ever seen, and he had seen quite a few of them over the times, especially during his knighthood and meetings with the queen back in the day. None of them compared to this. 

It felt otherworldly, and knowing his Stranger, it probably was. 

Yet, he could not help but think that the ruby looked better when it was hanging from his Stranger’s neck. Right now, in his hand, it felt like it did not belong. It did not feel right. 

Hob would make damn sure it got back to him. 

The hope that he had been trying to keep in check the last couple of years burst out of him and he revelled in it as he held the stone in his hand, closing it in a fist to keep the ruby safe. Now that he had this, now that he had some connection to his Stranger, he knew it was only a matter of time. 

The ruby would lead him to his Stranger. He knew it. 

Chapter Text

1997

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There was a man in front of him, he realised maybe a little too late. He looked like he had been there for a while, despite Hob’s brand new awareness of him. That probably was not great. Something was not quite right, but his mind was too scrambled at the moment to figure out more than that. He blinked wearily, trying his best to unblur the man who was crouched down in front of him to meet him at his level. 

What? Hob looked around and only just noticed that he was on the ground, sitting against something, with his legs sprawled out on the floor of what looked to be stone. Or maybe it was cobble. It was an outside type of stone he was sure of that at least. Hob felt like he was drifting away, everything felt like a dream that was slowly dissipating as the edges of reality seemed to tether to him once again. His mind seemed woozy, and no matter how much he tried to recall where the hell he was supposed to be or how the hell he got here, he had no clue about any of it. 

The man was still talking to him, his voice was deep, Hob noticed, yet not as deep as the voice he longed to hear. His Stranger did always have such a deep timbre that enchanted his ears every time he heard it. It was a shame he had not heard it in so long. He wished that his Stranger was there instead of whoever was talking to him now. 

Somewhere within Hob’s mind, there was a lone thought that still contained some logic, one that advised him to focus on the matter at hand instead of on his stray thoughts. Right. He needed to figure out what the hell was happening. He blinked a few times, his ears were still not quite taking in all the sounds just right yet, but at least he could see the figure in front of him better than he had a few moments ago. 

He could see the man now, mouth still moving, eyes boring into him with concern. He was blonde, but not like the type of blonde like Goldie’s hair was, but a few shades darker. He had short hair, combed, and seemed to be wearing a long beige trenchcoat that cascaded around him as he crouched. Hob’s eyes trailed down and around him, he noticed the man holding a box. That looked weird, and weird probably meant important. It looked old, fancy, and ancient. 

His hand closed, making a fist, trying to hold something. Hob frowned when there was nothing there. There should have been something there. Hob knew he was missing something. He frowned deeper, looking down at his hand that was sprawled against his side. What was he missing? Hob felt something tap his cheek, so he looked up, seeing the man holding a hand to his face. 

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Hob opened his eyes before he truly registered he was awake. His head felt like someone had squeezed it and then twisted it like a wet rag. His mind felt clearer though, which was a small mercy at least. Now that he was more aware, he noticed voices coming from outside his room which immediately put him on edge. He had already moved into a sitting position before he could even think about it, all while taking note of everything around him. 

This was not his room. This was nothing like the flat he had in London, and nothing like the apartment he had in New York. None of it was familiar, not the grey carpeted floors, not the twin-sized bed, not the barren walls with no decorations, and certainly not the artefacts lining the back of the small desk in the corner. How the hell did he get here? Where even was here ? Hadn’t he been on the street? Somewhere? 

He stood up and grabbed a small wooden statue from the desk, holding it as a weapon. It wasn't sharp or anything, but if he had to, he could hit it strong enough it could work to his advantage. As he stepped to the door, it dawned on him that he was barefoot, with his socks on. That seemed to be the only change in his clothes, as he was still wearing his clothes that he knew were his, and he was pretty sure he was wearing them last he remembered. At least there was that. 

Carefully he opened the door knob, doing his absolute best not to make noise. He could hear voices, one seemed to belong to a man, and the other one was a woman, no, that wasn’t right, it sounded younger. Was that a child? Door opened, he stood there taking in his surroundings. 

“You are doing it wrong, that has to be tied around its arm or else it will fall off and then it won’t be able to play with the others.” The kid said, crossing her arms and looking at the other man in deep judgement. She could not have been older than nine, long, brown hair in a very loose braid, and wearing an Addams Family themed shirt. 

“The knot is not going to come off, give me some credit, Jo.” The blonde man told the kid with an amused smile and a tone that implied he had said that multiple times already. He was tying something, it looked like a toy? Hob did a double take, was the man holding a voodoo doll? Sure, why not. The man continued talking to the kid, but his eyes found him the second he was in his sights. He didn’t say a word to him, he simply held the doll out to the kid. With a simple glare that was enough of a warning for him to not do anything, he looked back to the kid, face softening just a bit. “Here, all fixed. Why don’t you go play with that in your room, will you?” 

The girl took it and made her way to her room, but stopped when she spotted Hob. “I thought you were dead.” She said matter-of-factly to him before she continued her way to her room. Hob could only stand there, feeling completely out of sorts. He felt even more scrutinised when the man stood up and walked up to him. 

“She did think you were dead alright, even went to the point of poking you with a stick, so if you feel a sore spot in your arm, that’s her doing.”

“What.” Hob really couldn't say anything else for a moment. He had so many questions and he really needed some answers like yesterday, desperately so. Who are you? Why am I here? What is going on? Despite the burning questions, what he said instead was. “Who— how did I get here? What is— who are you?”

“That stone really did a number on you.” The man pointed out, briefly glancing at him with a frown before his expression went back to neutral and laidback. “Like I told you earlier, name’s John Constantine, I am the one who saved your arse back there.” He put his hands in his pockets. “You seemed really out of it, which makes sense; that ruby is nothing to scoff at. At the state it was in I am surprised you are even alive.” 

“Rob. I’m Rob Gadling.” Hob said absentmindedly as he tried to process what the man had told him.

The ruby. Right, Hob was starting to remember now. He had the ruby, and had it with him from the moment he had found it and refused to let it go since.

Once he had acquired the ruby from the storage unit, he had not wasted any time before he had packed his things up and moved back to London. He had told his neighbours that something had come up and he had to return home. They had been quite sad to see him go and Julie had even asked him if it was too much to get him to stay until the holidays. Hob declined, wanting to get things going now that he had found a new lead to follow. He figured that Goldie had sent him to America for the ruby, since that was the one thing that stood out from his entire stay there, and he gambled with the fact that he would be more productive back home. Especially after starting the book John Dee gave him, which centered around the occult in England. So, he took a flight there once he started reading its contents, despite only getting through the first chapter.

So, Hob had moved back to London just in time to spend the holidays all by himself, drinking alone at a bar. Or well, he would have, if not for his usual golden-eyed visitor that seemed to have followed him back to London. 

Goldie had seemed mildly impressed he was back, which for them meant they had been very surprised if Hob could tell at all. Though, they did feign ignorance when Hob inquired about the ruby and pretended it was no big deal. Not that it stopped Hob from asking about it and trying to get information, but all they did was simply grin sharply and tell him that they knew nothing else about it or his Stranger. Something which Hob was certain both of them knew was utter bullshit. Hob realized quickly enough that he was not getting anything more out of them for the time being, so he stopped asking. He knew when to stop fighting a losing battle. Well, sometimes.

He hadn’t even cared he got nowhere with his questioning, since he had the ruby and that had been his priority. Hob had not parted with the ruby from the moment he found it, always keeping it in a ring box in his pocket. He had not wanted the ruby to get damaged or dusty as he travelled, so the first thing he did after he left the storage unit was to find a sturdy ring box. He also thought about getting a bigger box for it, but that would have been too difficult to carry comfortably. He noticed very quickly that if he did not have it with him then it was only a short matter of time before he felt like something was going to happen to the ruby, that it would disappear or that someone would take it. 

So, he took it everywhere. 

He had spent the first few weeks back in London unpacking things up and dusting his flat, since he found it unable to work in his flat without his eyes getting red and itchy or his nose getting runny. Leaving for over a year really turned his flat into a mess. So, as much as he wanted to continue his search, he had to prioritise.

He kept the box with the ruby in his pocket during the day and by his nightstand when he slept, and after a few… days? Weeks? Now that Hob was trying to recall it, he was not quite sure on those details, the more he tried to remember, the more his head seemed to ache. That probably was not good. Anyway, he might not have remembered that, but what he did remember was that there came a point where keeping the ruby there did not seem like enough. He found himself almost obsessively checking the box open to make sure it was still there. So, from then on, he took to carrying it around in his pocket without the box, to be able to feel it easier whenever he needed to check that it was still there. It definitely would have been easier to carry it around his neck so he could feel its weight all the time, but it felt blasphemous to do as such. After all, his Stranger was the one who carried it like that, and it was not his to do the same.

After that… things were becoming fragmented the more that he tried to recall it. Hob frowned, scrunching his face as he tried to remember more. He mainly remembered the ruby, red, shining, and taking up most of his focus. He remembered researching something, but right now, he was coming up blank. Someone had the ruby before John and after his Stranger, he was fairly sure he had figured that out, he just could not remember who.

Then things became more fragmented. He mainly remembered feelings for most part, feeling like he was floating and flowing, going through life as if in a dream. Something might have exploded? Or maybe it hadn’t? He remembered feeling like nothing could stop him, there were glasses, then fear. Then there was something else, memories like blurred pictures taken from a shaky camera. Sand, a clash of colours, a castle, which now that he was thinking about it, felt familiar. His mind felt like someone had poked a needle through his head but he did not stop trying to grasp at the faint memories that were eluding him. Pointy ears. Mismatched eyes. The colour orange. Wings.

Next thing he remembered somewhat clearly was Constantine talking to him on the sidewalk. Then he was here. So all in all, remembering the ruby did not seem to help him much with the situation at hand.  

Well that was just great, just lovely, Hob thought bitterly, nothing he could recall cleared anything up. He massaged his temples to relieve the pressure building in them. He took a much needed pause before he spoke, moving his hands as he spoke. “Right, well, Constantine,” That name sounded awfully familiar and he couldn't help but frown as he tried desperately to recall from where. “Thank you for saving me.” Though he was not sure exactly how he did that. Hob wanted to grimace at the uncertainty in his voice, he did not mean to sound sarcastic. “How exactly did you do that though? Not that I am not grateful. I am just confused.” So, very, very confused.

Constantine scrutinized him for a moment, debating something that Hob was not exactly sure what, then spoke. “How much do you believe in the occult?”

“The occult?” Hob parroted back as he gave himself some time to come up with something to say. He knew about the occult, of course, but the question was if he should tell this man anything. Was this a trick question? No. He was overthinking it. He needed to get his mind in order.

“That stone you had there was no ordinary ruby.” Constantine began explaining. “It makes you go mad, that one. Been chasing after it for a while now.”

“You have?” This man knew about the ruby? Did he know his Stranger too?

Constantine nodded. “That’s my job.”

“So the ruby is part of the occult.” Hob needed to know how much this man knew, without giving himself away.

Constantine nodded again. ”You would be surprised with how many occult artefacts are out there, and how much people will pay to get their hands off them, or get their hands on them.” One side of his lips turned upright. “I should bill you. I do not work for free and you did survive after all.” Hob could not tell if he was joking or not. 

As soon as he opened his mouth to respond to that, a thought hit him. Hob frowned for a moment before his expression smoothened out into one of revelation as it dawned on him just exactly where he had learned the name. “Your name, any connection to Lady Johanna, from the eighteenth century, give or take?” 

Constantine raised his eyebrows slightly, tilting his head. “How do you know of her?” 

She tried to kill me and interrupted my centennial meeting, Hob thought bitterly. Then, he cursed himself for opening his big mouth about it in the first place. But well, the name Constantine was not one that was all that common, and his mind was still reeling from everything and from the fact he had forgotten about her in the first place. It was a testament to how out of his game he was that it took him this long to connect the dots. “Her name popped up in a history book or two.” Hob explained nonchalantly. “I am a huge history nerd.” He shrugged, hoping that explanation was enough. 

Privately, he thought about her, how she knew about their meetings, how she knew about the occult enough to demand it be shared with her. Now this Constantine delved in the occult too. Did it run in the family? Were there records of his ancestors? Did any of them mention him or his Stranger? He should be careful with what he revealed from now on. The last thing he wanted was to deal with another Constantine knowing about his immortality. 

“Right.” Constantine drawled. “Beer?” 

What?  

“What?” 

“Well, I was going to kick you out once you were awake. I am not running a bed and breakfast here.” He scrunched his nose. “But, I have to admit, I am a tad curious about your knowledge of my ancestor. So, thought I might offer a drink while I ask about that”

Hob did not want to be interrogated about it. But he dug himself into this hole and if he left now he was so sure it would look more suspicious. “Yeah, a beer would be great. Thanks.” He said, trying to not sound as lost as he felt. 

He was offered a beer and a place to sit on the couch. It also gave him a chance to put down the wooden statue he had grabbed earlier to use as a weapon, which for the most part, just stood out awkwardly in his hand through the previous conversation.

Just as Hob predicted, this so-called friendly chat was a badly disguised interrogation. Apparently, it was not often that the name Constantine appeared in normal history books, so knowing of her was suspicious at best. Who knew? Hob internally grimaced. Thankfully, he got away with his explanation. He was helping out a friend with a project, coincidentally, it dealt with the occult, and the name had popped up in two books, so he had thought it interesting, trying to dig into it to see if there was a connection, but ultimately it led nowhere. It was a nice story, none of it true except for the fact that he did find her name in two books. But Constantine believed it and that was what mattered. 

After enough questions had passed, which felt like an eternity but it probably had not been more than ten minutes, he tried to change the subject. Anything to get him to stop inquiring about it. 

“You said earlier that you were planning on kicking me out, not a fan of having the people you save stay long?” He said, mostly as a joke, trying to dissipate the tense ambience. 

Constantine scrunched his nose as if he smelled something bad and took a sip of his beer. “I’m not the good samaritan type. I do my job, I get paid, and I make sure the people I get paid to save are intact and in one piece. That’s about it.” He shook his head. “You’re lucky Jo decided to follow me today against my warnings.” Constantine briefly glanced at the door where the kid had gone earlier, and Hob was pretty sure he had called the kid Jo earlier, so it was not much of a leap to figure out who he was talking about. That still did not explain much though. At Hob’s questioning glance, he continued. “She insisted we helped you. She is quite stubborn when she wants to be.” He took a sip of his beer. “She is too much like me on that account.” He said tiredly and grimaced.

“She sounds like a good kid. Do tell her I am grateful for the help then.” Hob said warmly. 

“A bleeding heart that one.” He huffed, slight disapprovement clear in his voice. “That child will get herself killed if she keeps trying to follow me on my job. She is lucky it was a low-level problem.” The frustration in his voice was palpable enough, but Hob could still detect the hidden worry.

“Kid’s will make you go grey with worry.” Hob said.

 “You have any kids, Rob?” 

Hob thought back to his sweet Robyn, to his sweet baby girl he never got to meet before she was taken from his world, alongside his Eleanor. “I did.” Hob could see his answer took him off guard, momentarily stunned into subtly revealing his surprise. Constantine schooled his expression into his usual one quickly after. Hob thought it best to reel back the conversation. “How old is she?” Hob nudged his head to the side to signal the direction where the kid had been. 

“Eight.” 

Hob hummed knowingly. “That explains it, kids do tend to be more inquisitive at that age, no wonder she’s so curious about your job. My son used to be the same.” Robyn always loved following him around when he was not busy, and wanted to see everything he did. He was not too worried back then, not when he had his wealth and his knighthood. People respected him enough that he was not in that much danger in his day to day— at least, not in comparison to his other lifetimes that he had lived through— which was ideal for an over-energetic kid to trail along. “They will just get bolder as they grow.” He said with a faint smile on his face, despite the pang on his heart as he remembered those times. 

Constantine’s face fell, Hob’s words were not reassuring in the slightest. “She is going to be the death of me. Don’t know how her mother did it.” 

“She is not in the picture anymore, I take it?” 

Constantine shook his head. “She was a one night stand, a phenomenal one, lovely person from what I recall.” He took another sip of his beer. “She passed away two years ago. Johanna stayed with her until then.” Constantine had to deal with a child on his own after her mother passed? Hob could relate. Constantine finished his beer and he looked at the bottle disappointedly. “Well, there’s that. I’d say this has been lovely, but well, I do not care much for heart-to-hearts so…” He chuckled, standing up, placing the bottle on a table nearby. “Are you well enough to leave without keeling over on the sidewalk again?”

Hob nodded, standing up from the couch to take his leave. “I should be fine.” He doubted he would end like that again. To be honest, he still had no idea how he ended up like that in the first place. The ruby had done something to him, that much he knew, but how that connected to him being passed out on the street, he hadn’t had the faintest clue. “Thanks for the help once again.” He said politely, then slipped his hand in his pocket, muscle memory working its wonders as he went to hold the ruby that he always kept safe, just to find it empty. “Where’s the ruby?” He couldn't quite mask the panic in his voice. He had spent all this time talking and he had not thought to check on the ruby? What was wrong with him? He usually had his head on straight.

“Not to worry, it's been stored for safekeeping.” 

“Where is it?” Hob asked out a little too forcefully. “I need that ruby.” 

Constantine raised his hands in a condescendingly placating motion before stuffing his hands in his pockets casually. “Look, mate, believe me, it's for your own good if you don’t see that ruby again. It makes my job easier if people don’t get killed by the same thing I just saved them from.”

Hob went through a list of possible options in his head. This was not great at all. He had finally found the ruby, and he was not letting some random guy with an affinity for the occult take it away from him. He had been through enough for it to get taken away. He could knock him out right now and try to find the ruby himself, but he had no idea if the ruby was even in the apartment. If it wasn't, then knocking him out would not work. He could always try getting the information out of him, make him give it to him one way or another, but this man had helped him out, and despite kind of giving asshole vibes, to a degree at least, he was not in the business of torturing people that didn't truly deserve it. There was also the variable of the kid involved. He was not going to chance the kid seeing her father hurt and traumatise her like that.

The problem still stands. He needed that ruby. Violence might not solve this specific situation, and this man did not seem like the guy who would fall for some sob story or something of the sorts. So, the next step would be to negotiate. A lightbulb lit up in his mind. That was it. 

“How much?” Hob said, dead serious. 

Constantine tilted his head ever so slightly. “Pardon?”

“How much do you want for it?” Hob repeated again. “You said you don’t do anything for free. So, how much do you want?”

“You would be willing to buy and barter for the thing that almost killed you?” Constantine looked impressed, like he was not expecting to meet the dumbest man alive yet here he was. 

“How much?” 

“How much are you willing to give?” He replied back just as quickly. 

Anything. Though, Hob could not exactly say that because despite being completely out of sorts at the moment, he still had enough clarity to know that this man would probably bleed him dry of every asset he had if he even thought it was a possibility. “Twenty k.” It was pricey, but doable. Starting off at a reasonable price so that if he wanted to up the price, Hob would be able to without losing his funds, which had been considerably depleting over the last eight years. 

He would need to start amassing wealth and artefacts to sell if things got dire again. There was only so much money that he had or could get. He was fine for the time being, but he knew that if he continued like this, by the first decade of the new century, he would need to find a job and save up for the next couple of decades. Maybe invest in the stock market and hope for the best. 

“I do not get out of bed for that much.” Constantine said, leaning against the pillar that separated the kitchen from the living room. He crossed his arms, waiting patiently to see what he would do next. 

“Okay, what is reasonable to you then?” Hob was not going to up the prize until he knew an estimate of how much he was working with. “Thirty? Fifty?” 

“You’d be willing to pay fifty thousand for that stone?” Constantine furrowed his brows in thought. “Is there something about that stone I don’t know? Maybe it is worth more than I have given credit for. I could sell it for a higher price.” 

Fuck, he should have figured that Constantine would be intrigued at his desperation. He closed his eyes and huffed out a breath, already cringing at the amount he was going to say. “A hundred and you stop inquiring about the ruby.”

“I am listening.” Constantine’s eyebrows raised to his forehead, letting out a high whistle. “Do you even have that kind of money?” He questioned. “You do not seem…. like my usual clientele.” He ended the sentence by choosing to go for the nicer wording. 

“I have a 15th century painting that is valued at around that price. Give or take ten thousand from it.” Hob really liked that painting, and he had gone through great lengths to acquire it again a century ago. He had it back when he owned a large house by the countryside, one which he would go with Eleanor and Robyn during the summers. He had not liked it at first, but his wife had, so he bought it for her as a gift for their anniversary the year Robyn had turned two. 

When he had been kicked out of town after his son died for having stayed too long, he lost everything. There were things that were lost forever, and there were others that Hob had found in museums or private collections later on. He had spent some of his time tracking down items he held dearly in his heart. Others, though attached to good memories, Hob had thought best to let go. He could not exactly hoard all the things he had acquired through the ages. 

That painting, though important to Hob, was a reasonable sacrifice in the name of finding his Stranger. He had learned he had to move on, whether he wanted to or not, he had to, to endure his long life while everything and everyone passed on. So, he would let the painting go, perhaps it would come to him in the future, he could buy it again when the time was right. 

There were other things he wouldn’t part from unless it was done forcefully, such as a portrait he had commissioned of him and his family. It had been so expensive to commission an artist all the way in Venice. However, Hob quite liked the art he had seen, and if he threw enough money at things back in the day, he could make it happen. Not much had changed now, he supposed. That painting was Hob’s most cherished, and he knew that now that painting would make rounds if it was discovered by the general public, after all, the painter was quite known nowadays. Tintoretto had truly made a name for himself and for good reason, his paintings were something else. Hob admired the expressive brushwork of his. Point was, that there were some things that despite Hob’s reservations, he could ultimately be parted from them, and there were some that he could not.  

“Is that so?” Constantine was in half measures, suspicious and intrigued. 

“Show me that you have the ruby right now, and I will go get it. I can have it by—” It was only then that Hob realized he had no bloody clue where he was. “Where are we? Are we still in London?” Because if they weren’t, then getting that painting would take longer. 

“We are a few blocks from Central London.”

“I can get you the painting in,” Hob paused, doing some quick mental math to figure out how long it would take him to get to the warehouse he had that painting and come back. “Three hours at the most.” 

“How do I know it's not a fake?” 

This man was sure quite distrustful, huh? Hob couldn't exactly blame him, he was right to be distrustful of these things. Still. He could not help but be a tad annoyed. “I can bring it and we can go find someone to value it so you're happy. Deal?” 

“Very well.”

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“It was a pleasure doing business with you.” Constantine grinned, carefully holding the framed painting with his gloved hand. He put the painting in the back of his car, then retrieved a shoe-sized wooden box with strange carvings on it. “The box keeps the effects of it in check, I would not advise taking it out of there.”

That was convenient. Hob grabbed the box and opened it, despite Constantine’s reservations. He had to make sure the ruby was there, he did not go through all the ordeal of stealing it from John Dee just for him to have it stolen. He saw the ruby was there. The moment the lid was opened, he started to feel his mind begin to feel different. He closed the box. “Thank you, Constantine.” At least he gained a safety measure from this, so he was not going to complain much. It was good to know he was not going to lose his mind again while he found a way to find his Stranger and give the ruby back to him. 

Despite it all, he found out he didn't dislike doing business with this Constantine as much, not when compared to the meeting with his predecessor. It was not great, but it worked out, so he would call it a win. 

With that, he left, box carefully held under his arm as he strolled past the busy streets to go to his flat. Though, before he made it there, he made a few random turns to make sure that Constantine was really gone. That man was practically a professional in the occult, and Hob probably sparked his interest with his interest in the ruby, he would not put it past him to try and find information. In the end, it seemed it was only his paranoia about it that seemed to be a problem. Hob could not find anything that led him to believe he was being followed.  

He made it home and quickly made a beeline to his bookshelves, barely taking a moment to grab a handful of mail from his door. Things were a little dustier than he would have liked, but it was not that bad in his opinion. He needed to put the box somewhere safe yet easy to get to. Taking out a small step-stool he had for this exact reason, he placed it in the upper shelf, moving around books so it was in the far back, then he put the rest of the books back in front of it. It was covered well enough that if anyone ever tried to snoop around, they wouldn't immediately see it, but Hob would be able to get it when needed. 

Satisfied with that, he went to the kitchen. He needed some damn coffee after the day he had, and it was only three pm. He sighed, and went to turn on his electric kettle, only to find out that it would not turn on. He frowned and tried again. Nothing. He tried the other appliances, and once again, nothing. The power was completely gone. With a groan, he walked to the table where he had left the mail he had previously ignored and upon picking up a few envelopes he noticed that his bills had not been paid.

He stared at the envelopes in his hand with a growing sense of dread, specifically, he stared at the dates each were issued. February, March, April, May, June…. He continued looking up until the last one where it was dated for August. He was suddenly aware of his heart beating through his chest. It was August? Hob knew he had trouble remembering some things lately, apparently, all thanks to his Stranger’s ruby. But… he thought he had lost a few days, maybe weeks at most, not months.

The things he did remember were fuzzy at best. He remembered some things, but he found out he could not remember the timeline of it nor the order. What the hell had happened? What did he do all this time? Because clearly, he had not spent it at his apartment given the state of his overdue bills.

Hob could feel himself spiralling. He was lost, so utterly lost and not entirely sure what to do from here. He had lived through so many things in his life. Six hundred years helped to have new experiences whether one wanted to or not. Because of it, he had gotten pretty good at dealing with the curveballs life threw at him. It seemed this specific curveball was a little more than he could easily handle. Not remembering all that lost time unsettled him more than he cared to admit. 

What should he do now? Could he find out what happened? Would that even work? Should he stop his project for the time being to deal with this? Should he soldier on and continue? He pressed his fingers to his eyes in frustration and exhaustion. He needed a break, he needed a moment to think things through. 

He also needed a drink. 

A drink really sounded good at the moment and so he latched onto that thought with both hands and focused on that instead of his crumbling life, something that kept happening too often. 

He opened the cabinet where he stored his liquor, he stared at it with a rising pang of disappointment as he saw it empty. The bottles were still there, all empty except for the tiniest amount of liquor in two of them, not enough for a drink. Did he drink it on his missing time? Did someone break in and steal it? Hob looked around and saw everything was in place, mostly, nothing obvious seemed missing, so a break in was not probably it. 

It didn't matter. He was out of liquor and in the midst of a crisis. Just when he thought he was having a bad time, life proved him wrong to show it could get worse. But well, at this point nothing could get worse than a missed year, or well, a better part of the year. And he could not even drown his sorrows in alcohol. 

He needed to get out of here, at least for a bit, that was for certain. He would continue spiraling, he was sure of it. At least if he went outside he would have to keep his crisis in check because of the people and crowds. He wished he could talk to someone. Mainly, he wished he could talk to his Stranger. He missed him, and he knew that seeing him would make everything alright even when it wasn’t. 

His Stranger had made everything alright back in 1689, even if only for a night. He was miserable and at his lowest. However, the unforgiving storm that threatened to pull him under and drown him for the better half of that century seemed to calm and become but a slight drizzle at the sight of him. He had been a constant where he felt wrongfooted and at his lowest. He felt a pang on his chest remembering it and longed to see him again, longed to see his deep blue eyes that seemed to always hold a sparkle of something that Hob was forever intrigued with, or his not-smile smiles that lit up his days. 

Hob physically shook his head to rid of the thoughts, he was getting off track, again. He could feel his focus dwindle to an extreme, way more than usual. Constantine did say he would still be experiencing the after-effects of the ruby for a while longer still. He hated it. 

Anyway, he wished he could have someone with him, if not his Stranger, then a friend. Right now, all he wanted to do was call Calliope back and hope that she would greet him with open arms despite how their last meeting had gone. She would help him just by being there and perhaps, helping him make sense of things would be more than enough. He would not have to be alone in that case. Calliope had told him two years ago that she needed distance from him, and he respected that, he understood why. So he was not one to cross that boundary of his friend. But, she had told him to call if he needed help. Losing half a year of memories would probably count as something that he could call her for. He could give it a try. In any case, if she still needed space, at least Hob would know. 

Mind made up, he went to grab his mobile phone only to realize he had no idea where it was. He checked around the house and there was no sign of it. God knows where he had put it or what Hob had done with it. He couldn't even call through his landline, given he did not remember her number. All that work to convince Calliope to get a more human-friendly and easy way of communication to contact him with and now he couldn't even contact her.

Hob tried really hard to not be put out by that fact. He could deal with this. He would figure it out. He did not get to be this old by giving up or wallowing in his sadness. All in all, it could have been worse. Sure, a few months being suddenly gone did cause a few issues, but at least he was still in good health, he was not being chased out of a town, and he had enough funds so that what happened in the 1600s would not happen again. It sucked, but it was not rock bottom. 

He weighed his options. He could push on through this day and once the morning came he could see if he could locate his mobile phone, hopefully finding Calliope’s number, he could cut his losses and figure out his next gameplan without hoping to lean on his friend, or he could figure out something else for the day and go from there. So much of the last few years had been so meticulously planned to the point that it was getting to him. Maybe it was time to stop thinking too much. 

With that sorted out, he still did not want to deal with his mountain of problems he had suddenly found himself with, and he still desperately wanted a drink. So, with an idea already half formed, he grabbed his coat and headed out to a pub. He purposely did not go to the New Inn, so the next best one was a few blocks from where he was. His pub would have been a good choice, given the staff knew him somewhat and his drinks were guaranteed to be on the house. However, it did not feel right for the occasion, not if his plans worked. Besides, if he wanted to drink his crisis away, they would probably judge, or god forbid they became worried. He was fine after all, or he would be after today. Today was to wallow in his issues, hopefully with company, and then he would be good. 

The pub he arrived at looked like a ghost town with only three customers there, two which seemed to have been there since the day before, which made sense, given it was only like three in the afternoon. People who had their life together did not tend to drink this early. So, Hob sat down at a table and ordered two drinks at first. 

He drank one in one go, then ordered another one along with an order of chips and waited. 

Hob did not have to wait for long. Only around fifteen minutes after, a chair was pulled across from him and Goldie sat down, dressed to the nines as they always did. They sat down without invitation, feigning nonchalance as they always did, and sporting a look in their eye that could only mean mischief. 

“You’ve been quite busy.” They hummed, smile stretching as they leaned their arm on the table to rest their hand on their chin. 

“There’s your drink.” He said wryly. He motioned at the martini glass in front of him with his own drink. He almost asked what they meant by that, he was tempted, however, he could not be bothered to indulge Goldie’s conversations at the moment. Not with the day he was having, and not with how nine out of ten conversations with them ended with him being the source of entertainment for them. “Thought it would be a nice change of pace to choose the drinks for once.” 

Goldie’s eyebrow twitched minutely, slightly caught off guard. “Hmm. Picking my drinks? Was my choice of drinks in the past not to your liking?” They eyed the drink and after the slightest of pauses, they grabbed the drink, twirling it in the glass, and gracefully took a slight whiff of the drink as if they were wine-tasting. They took a drink. “I suppose there are worse choices out there.” They said, going for an apathetic and detached tone, yet they did not put the drink back on the table, keeping it on their hold instead. Hob’s eyes twinkled in amusement, that was as good sign as any that they didn't dislike the drink. 

“Almost thought you wouldn’t show.” Hob grabbed a chip from the plate.

“I debated it.” Goldie replied, taking a sip of their drink. “Yet, there are still two drinks on the table.” They tilted their head, staring at Hob like he was a puzzle piece that did not seem to fit in the puzzle they had envisioned.

“Figured that out of my friends, you would be the most likely to show up.” Hob shrugged. That made him pause. He just called Goldie a friend. Were they? They certainly were more than an acquaintance at this point; he had met up with them enough times that he had grown to enjoy their little mind games and witty and cryptic conversations. Don’t get him wrong, the conversations infuriated him still, but he did not hate it. Perhaps they were not a friend in the sense that he could trust them or count on them, but well, he did actively look for them today when he needed it, so that counted for something. 

Hob almost did not catch the slight crease forming in their forehead before they had smoothen it out of their expression. It seemed he was not the only one caught off guard by his wording. He would have been more amused by it if it had been any other time.

When Goldie stayed quiet after a simple hum and simply took another sip of his drink, Hob did not do much to break the rather odd, but comfortable silence that they stumbled into. Despite not wanting to wallow in his problems alone today, he was not feeling up for a verbal spar with them either, so Goldie’s unusual silence worked in his favour today. He did not mind it one bit. He pushed the plate of chips to the middle, wordlessly offering some to them. 

They stared at the plate of chips, torn between being offended and confused, until ultimately, with a downturn of their lips and raised eyebrows they bobbed their head, settling on grabbing a chip.

They stayed at the table longer than any of the previous times.