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Chapter Text

“Boss needs to see you.” 

“Fuckssake!” The pen scores a deep green line over the heretofore pristine surface of the Christmas card Hob had been about to start writing in. He glares up at Matthew who has just alighted on his desk-  seemingly from nowhere- and, in doing so, scared the living daylights out of him.

“Matthew! What the hell?” Hob tosses the pen aside and sits back, smoothing a hand over his face, trying to calm his racing heart. “Don’t you know how to bloody knock?”

“Wings!” says the raven, spreading them in demonstration. “Great for flying; not so great for knocking. Anyway, I’m already inside.”

Which was undeniably true. Hob glances around, brow furrowed. Matthew had never just appeared in his flat before; usually he rapped on a windowpane with his beak, or swooped down to greet him whilst Hob was outside. “How’d you even get in? There’s no windows open!”

“Through your daydreams. I can do that sort of shit. Now,” Matthew clacks his beak impatiently, “Did you not just hear what I said? Dream needs to see you.”

“I’m not his bloody dog, you know, to come running when called.” Despite this snapped assertion, Hob is already on his feet and shrugging on the first coat that comes to hand and yanking a pair of trainers onto his feet. “I have a life.”

“Yeah, whatever. He’s just down the road.” Matthew flaps up onto Hob’s shoulder just as Hob reaches the door and together they descend the stairs and head off in the direction of the park.

“He actually said he needed to see me?” Hob says after a few moments, considering this to be highly unlikely. He feels the raven shift in consternation and knows he guessed right.

“Not in so many words, no.” Matthew admits.  “But he’s sitting sulking on a bench in that little park you two often go to on his jaunts into the Waking, so clearly he wants to see you. Even if he won’t just turn up and speak to you directly. Never known a guy so incapable of asking for what he wants. Still,” he adds brightly. “That’s why he’s got me, isn’t it? Best buddy raven looking out for him.”

“Right, okay. So, do you know the reason he’s here, or…?”

“He’s got a problem. In the Dreaming.”

“Shit, really?” Hob quickens his pace and Matthew’s talons dig more firmly into his jacket. Poor Dream cannot seem to catch a break; it’s been crisis after crisis since his return from his century of imprisonment , although the past few months have seemed more stable.  What could it be this time? Gods? Demi-Gods? More sorcery? Ancient Chthonic entities? Hob’s brain struggles to come up with more supernatural or eldritch problems that it could be: he’s not exactly au fait with that sort of thing…

“Wait,” he stops dead. “How the hell can I help with that?”

“Come on, man!” Matthew flares his wings to prevent himself losing his perch at the abrupt change of pace, smacking Hob full in the face. He does not apologise. “Don’t overthink it! Just do whatever you normally do. Whatever it is that makes Lord Morpheus come back to the Dreaming all soppy and sunshiney an’ shit.”

“Does he really?” Hob says, absurdly pleased at the notion. 

“Well, not really. I’m kinda exaggerating. But he’s marginally less morose, so we take it. But we gotta get a move on, man,” Matthew nudges the side of Hob’s head with his beak. Not quite a peck, but verging on it. “Or our guy’s gonna nope out and disappear on us.”

***

The park is pretty much deserted- which is no surprise given the current weather- so Dream is easy to spot, sitting alone on his bench. He does look morose, Hob thinks as he approaches, all hunched over and staring down at his hands which are lying limply in his lap, stark white against the black of his clothes.

Dream glances up at the crunch of shoes on the gravel path, and sits up straighter when he sees he has company. He does not brighten at the sight of Hob, but he doesn’t look flighty or angry either, so Hob will take that for a positive. 

“Hello Stranger,” he says. “ Fancy seeing you here.”

“Hob,” Dream tilts his head as if genuinely surprised to see him. “What brings you out here?”

“I had a visitor,” Hob says, inclining his head towards Matthew, who puffs up his feathers. “A little birdie who thinks  you might be looking for a friend.”

“Matthew, you overstep,” Dream says, casting the raven a glance. But there is no heat in his words; no censure in his gaze. Hob is inclined to agree with Matthew’s initial assessment- Dream is seeking him out, even if only subconsciously, and he is not angry at his subordinate for his interference. “But it is nice to see you, nonetheless, Hob. How are you? How have you been keeping?”

“Oh you know, same old, same old!” Now that he’s standing still, the fact that London is experiencing a ‘sudden cold snap’ is making itself fully evident. It’s absolutely bitter and windy to boot. Hob is regretting not grabbing a warmer coat (and a hat and gloves whilst he was at it) in his rush to leave his flat. He shoves his hands deep into his pockets and jiggles up and down on the spot to try and keep warm.  Matthew, irritated at the jostling, takes off with a caw and glides down to join Dream on the bench.

“And yourself? What, uh… what brings you out here on this fine winter’s day?”

“I am, “ Dream pauses, and looks down at his hands once more. “Being cold.”

“Oh? Right, yeah,” That was an… unexpected answer. The wind chooses that moment to gust particularly harshly and Hob decides that his current jacket isn’t worth the fabric it's made from. He may as well be naked for all the protection he is getting. “Any… uh, particular reason?”

“To. Experience it.”

“O…. kay. Well, human experiences are important, I suppose…” There are several moments of  silence between them before Hob can’t take it any more, so he continues brightly: “Now you’ve… experienced… it, how’d you feel about another- nicer!- human experience? Coming in out of the cold and warming up with a hot drink?”

“I do not require. Tea.”

“Hot chocolate, then?” Hob wheedles. “I’ve got oodles of flavours.”

Dream stares up at him and this time Hob makes himself wait him out. They’ve played this little game before. Dream wanted the company, but he didn’t think he deserved it. Now the invitation had been made-initiated from Hob’s side- he just had to wait for Dream to give himself permission to accept it. 

Finally, Dream nods once and rises. Hob notices how he flexes his fingers as he does so, seemingly unconsciously. Truly, they must be cold.

“Wonderful!” he says. “Shall we?”

***

Back in the blessed warmth of the flat, Hob wastes no time in heading to the kitchen. 

“Whittard’s ok, yeah? Sort of fancy brand. Looks fancy, anyway. I got a whole selection of flavours from a mate last year, so you can take your pick. There’s… lesee” he rummages through the cabinet, lifting down several decorative tins as he speaks. “...orange, peppermint, or… salted caramel, white chocolate, mince pie, apple strudel… oooh, rocky road- forgot I had that. Aaand.. Hazelnut! Right, yeah, that’s your lot. “ He puts the last of the tins down, wipes his hands on his trousers and looks to Dream. “Go on then: pick your poison.”

Dream gives him a long look. 

“Which am I supposed to choose?”

“Well, that’s up to you. Whatever tickles your fancy?”

“What if none of them do?”

“Aaww, comon, boss! You gotta like the sound of at least one of ‘em!” Matthew says, flapping up onto the counter.  “You don’t want me to pick for you. Trust me.”

The look Dream levels on his raven is long-suffering, but he does step up to the counter and give the selection of cocoas his due consideration. Finally, he tilts the tin nearest to him with one finger, inspecting the jaunty decorations from a different angle, then steps back and nods. “This one.”

“Salted caramel, eh? Good choice. Great choice, actually. Think I’ll have the same!” Hob rubs his hands together. “Matthew, do you want a cup? Er… can you even have a cup? I guess hot chocolate isn’t really a raven thing…”

“Dude, I’m a dream, I can eat whatever the hell I like, ” Matthew says. “But I’ll pass on the cocoa thanks. Got any chips or anything?”

“Umm…” Hob sticks his head into another cupboard, rifling through the general detritus within. “I’ve got some Flamin’ Hot Doritos? Think they’ve been open a while so they might be a bit stale, though.”

“Sure man, hit me up!”

From Matthew’s enthusiasm, the prospect of stale chips did not daunt him in the slightest. Hob pours the half-eaten pack of Doritos into a bowl and glances over at Dream, who is still standing rigidly next to the counter. He still looks cold and he is still flexing his fingers. 

“Why don’t you guys make yourselves comfortable and I’ll get these made!” Hob gestures vaguely to the tiny kitchen table, notices the stack of marking adorning it, and hurriedly sweeps it all into his messenger bag to be dealt with later before placing the bowl in the centre. “Please, sit down.”

He bustles about, heating milk and decanting chocolate powder into mugs whilst Matthew perches on the table and attacks the chips with abandon. One happy customer tonight, at least, Hob thinks. Now to get the other one to settle down and relax, because despite the offer of a  seat, Dream stands and waits in silence, and it is not until Hob places a steaming mug of sweet-scented cocoa onto a coaster in front of his empty place that he condescends to sit at the table. 

“So,” Hob says, sliding into the seat opposite, own mug in hand. “Matthew says there’s some sort of problem in the Dreaming?” It doesn’t seem like Dream can be drawn into small talk this evening: best to get straight on with it.

Dream sighs.

“Matthew is entirely too free with his words. And I would not call it a ‘problem’”

“I would,” Matthew chirrups, spraying a beakful of orange Doritos crumbs across the table.

“Yes. I believe we have established that. Nonetheless, the phrasing is incorrect.”

“Well, what would you call it then?” Matthew shuffles round to fix Dream with a beady-eyed stare.

“An… issue, perhaps.” Dream says, carefully neutral. “A slight one.”

Matthew makes a sound that Hob can only interpret as the raven equivalent of a scoff and Hob raises an eyebrow. 

“Right. Ok,” he takes a sip of his own drink, appreciating both the warmth and the velvety sweetness of the chocolate- yes, caramel had been an excellent choice. He considers his friend for a moment, and rather hopes Dream will actually try his drink today; it would do him some good, even if it was just to warm him up a bit. “Well, you know what they say: an… issue shared, is an issue halved. Wanna talk about it?”

 He fully expects Dream to say no and is ready for the entire back and forth of persuading and demurring that has often been a hallmark of their conversations. Hob has quite the collection of coaxing and cajoling in his arsenal, so he is a little surprised when his friend at first chooses silence instead.

Dream wraps his hands around the mug and stares down into the gently steaming liquid for a moment, as if trying to divine the secrets of the universe within it. Then he looks back up at Hob.

“Very well,” he says. 

Chapter Text

The Dreaming, the previous day.

As he moves to turn the page of his book, a snowflake lands on Dream’s outstretched hand. He pauses, considering it, and as he watches, it is joined by one… two… half a dozen more.  He can see more, landing on the pages of his book and flecking the sleeves of his coat with white.

So.

It appears to be snowing in his throne room.

It had decidedly not been snowing in his throne room a moment ago, and Dream is not so out of control with his emotions that he is making it snow without thought. Which means…

“You should not be here,” he says without looking up.

There is no real answer. Just the soft, soft sound of falling snow and then a delighted giggle.

Giving in to the inevitable, Dream raises his eyes.  

And stares. Taken aback, despite himself.

As expected, little Daniel Hall is standing- on somewhat wobbly legs-  in the middle of the throne room. He is the cause of the snow. But he has not just made it snow. In the few moments in which he has been truly present in the Dreaming, he has already created a child’s dream of a winter wonderland- complete with reindeer with glowing noses, the requisite brightly decorated Christmas tree, and the sound of sleigh bells in the distance.  As Dream watches, a gingerbread house assembles itself, roof dripping with frosting icicles and gumdrops lining the windowsills.  He would be impressed if he weren’t so worried. 

“Hello, Daniel,” he says.

Daniel… ignores him in favour of the gaggle of ice skating ducks that have just appeared before him complete with their own perfectly round frozen-over pond.  “Blup, blup, blup,” he burbles, pointing to the ducks, who begin quacking a surprisingly tuneful version of Stille Nacht in the original German.

Dream closes his eyes and attempts to gather his thoughts.

The events of six months past - Hell, Orpheus, the Fates…events which should have rent his realm apart and cost him his life if not for Calliope’s intervention- have left him wearied and worn. He has expended a lot of energy in rebuilding; in creating new dreams and nightmares to better serve this current age that he is still getting to know… and yes: in trying to keep the current intruder out of his realm.

But it is not working. The walls he has built around the child’s mind- walls to keep his consciousness fully human, and the weight of Endlessness at bay- keep cracking and crumbling, and every time Dream remakes them, they crumble more quickly. 

It is appearing more and more likely that Daniel Hall cannot be kept out. 

It had been more of a hope than anything else. Dream had wanted to give Daniel time to grow up naturally in the mortal world. That Daniel would, eventually, find a place in the Dreaming was beyond all doubt. Dream had known as much from the instant he’d sensed Daniel’s existence. A child conceived and carried within the Dreaming… he would have power here. He would belong to this realm, even more than to the Waking.  He was, in the strictest ontological sense, as much a part of Dream as he was of Lyta and Hector Hall. 

Dream tried not to think of that last bit.

He had instead given much thought to how an adult Daniel would integrate into the Dreaming; how they would work together- the master and the apprentice.  But Dream had wanted that to be many years hence, where Daniel had had the chance to mature and grow (preferably far away from the Dreaming). He had wanted a relationship with Daniel Hall, the man, not Daniel Hall the infant. Dream did not want a child in the Dreaming. Not a child in need of protection  and… and affection more than instruction.  He was not prepared to do that again. 

He rubs a hand over his face and sighs.

Summoned no doubt by a feeling of disturbance in the Dreaming, Matthew wings down from the sky and lands with a clatter of claws on the step next to Dream’s head.

“Kid’s back, then?”

Dream considers whether this unnecessary announcement is worthy of a reply and ultimately decides that is not, electing instead to rest his chin on his hand and watch Daniel take careful steps in a circle around the pond. He is clearly enjoying the squeaking crunch of his be-wellied feet in the snow, if the happy babbling is anything to go by. What is he to do about the boy?  Matthew is completely unperturbed by this lack of response. He hops down a couple of steps until he is level with Dream’s knee and makes a pleased noise at the sight before them. 

“You made the little guy a snow scene? Aww. That’s pretty neat, actually. Love the gingerbread house. It’s properly crooked and everything, just like a kid’s made it. Nice touch.” 

“I did not create a snow scene,” Dream says, the refutation quick and certain. He had created many things for a child. Once. But not this. Not this. Matthew snorts in disbelief, a sound that should not be possible for the vocal chords of a raven but Matthew is still so very human in his thoughts, and here where form and thought shape each other, anything is possible.

“I can clearly see that you have: no need to play coy,” he says cheerfully. “I think it’s great! Let him in!”

“Matthew-”

“Let him have fun! Have fun yourself!  Y’know it would be more fun for him if you joined him-”

“Matthew-” Dream tries again. 

“You could have a snowball fight! A gentle one, obviously ‘cause he’s, like, tiny, but-”

“Matthew. This is. Not. My doing.” 

Matthew looks from Dream to Daniel and back again and clacks his beak once. Dream can almost see the cogs aligning in his brain.

“Wait, are you saying he did this? The kiddo?”

“Yes.”

“Huh.” 

A snowman pops into existence, complete with corn cob pipe and a jauntily placed felt hat. Daniel slaps his hands against it and tries, unsuccessfully, to pry loose a coal button.

“Seems… seems a bit intricate for a baby,” Matthew observes, eyes following a conga line of merrily dancing bunnies in matching pink scarves.

“He is accessing the collective unconsciousness.”

“Right. Right… ‘course he is.” Matthew hops closer, shaking his feathers to try and dislodge the rapidly falling flakes. “Thought you’d… uh, put some sort of stop to that?”

“As did I.”

Dream does not want to think about how much of a problem this could be. Matthew’s thoughts seem to be somewhat aligned. 

“At least it’s kid-friendly. Could be accessing all kinda scary stuff in the old collective unconsciousness. Or are you protecting him from that?”

“I am trying,” Dream says, though his ability to do so is proving questionable. “Proximity makes a difference. And age. As a child himself, Daniel will be drawn to children’s dreams; and there are many children in his part of the world who are dreaming of snow right now.” 

A gust of wind blows through the room, bringing with it strains of a melody from a  distant choir and a distinct chill to the air.  Matthew shivers. Dream does not. 

“Poor little guy must be freezing,” the raven says.

Dream looks over at Matthew, eyebrows drawn down in confusion. “Why would he be cold?”

Matthew stares up at him.

“Beeecause he’s a kid? And it’s snow?”

“This is a dream, Matthew. Daniel Hall has no need to be cold.”

“I mean… I’m cold, boss? Aren’t you cold? It’s Baltic in here and I don’t think Danny knows that snow doesn’t have to be cold.”

“I did not invite him to be here.” Dream says stiffly. He is feeling judged and he does not like it. 

“He’s just a baby, boss.”

“He is in fact 15 months, two weeks and four days old.”

“Right. Good. Nice to know you’re so precise with the old dates, there. But you know that’s still basically a baby, right? And babies can’t look out for themselves- look at what he’s wearing. That’s not snow gear.”

Dream tilts his head, considering. He had not paid much attention to Daniel’s actual appearance, but now he truly looks he can see that Matthew may have a point. Daniel is wearing a simple pair of orange corduroy dungarees over a blue top patterned with stylised rainbows and clouds. The top is long-sleeved, but currently pushed up to Daniel’s elbows and thus offering little protection from the elements. He has no coat, and the garments appear made for the summer.

He remembers the delicate skin of another little boy, and the care he had always taken to protect it from harsh mortal weather…. Perhaps this child is not suitably attired, after all. 

Even so…

“He arrived attired just so,”

“Kid’s not even two!”

“No. As I said, he is fifteen months-”

“And two weeks and five days, right-”

“Four.”

“Four!  Yeah, I get it, boss. Point is- my point is: parents don’t generally let their toddlers attire themselves- else most of ‘em would be running around butt naked- an’ especially not for the cold! Come on, man! He needs a hat and gloves and a coat on, at least. He’s gonna get frostbite!”

“He will not,” Dream says, still unmoving, eyes still fixed on Daniel. He pointedly ignores Matthew’s wording. Parents. It was just a generalisation after all, Matthew was not referring to him. And he was not a parent. Not anymore. And not to Daniel Hall. “This is a dream.”

He starts, gaze jerking away from Daniel and down to Matthew who has just had the audacity to peck him. Hard

Matthew stares back, beady black eyes unrepentant.

“Matthew,” Dream starts, intending to have a firm- and overdue- word about respect and boundaries, but his raven interrupts him. Again.

“It’s cold. I’m cold and I’m a dream bird! He’s just a baby…. Leave it much longer and he’s gonna be crying.”

With a sigh, Dream pushes himself to his feet and pads barefoot through the snow towards Daniel. He does not let the temperature touch or affect him, but… he can concede that it is inescapably cold and Daniel, as naturally gifted as he is at manipulating the Dreaming, does not yet possess sufficient skills nor the mental capacity to remain unaffected himself.

He is mostly a baby, after all. 

“You should not be here, little one,” Dream says softly as he comes to crouch down beside the boy. Daniel looks up from where he had been sitting mushing the snow into a ball and his face splits into a delighted toothy grin. He extends a handful of the rapidly melting snow to Dream with an imperious “Buh!” and Dream accepts the offering with all the gravitas of his station.

“Thank you,” he says and, because Daniel continues to stare up at him with rapt expectation, he closes his fist briefly around the slush before opening his fingers to allow glittering and jingling snowflakes to jump off his palm to swirl and dance around Daniel’s head.

“Wow! ‘Noh’!” he shrieks, and heaves himself to his feet, hands flailing in a futile attempt to catch the flakes. Up close, Dream can see that they are pale and pink, the fingers slightly puffy and glistening with moisture. Daniel takes an uncoordinated step, distracted by the snow, and begins to topple forwards.  Automatically, Dream reaches out to stop him falling, one hand steady on the little boy’s tummy, the other clasping his elbow.

He carefully adjusts his grip until he has a proper hold on Daniel’s hand, and deliberately does not think on the fact that this is the first time he has touched the boy. His hand is tiny in Dream’s and it has been a long time, but the gentle pressure of small fingers clutching at his palm evokes so vivid and painful a memory that it makes an unnecessary breath catch in his throat. Daniel’s hand is wet from the snowmelt and yes: freezing. Dream refuses to acknowledge a pang of guilt as he smoothes his thumb over the cold fingers, drying and warming them with a thought. As he releases the boy’s hands, he leaves them encased in warm and supple gloves pulled from the dream of a Millavois glover, bright red and-

No.

No, not red… He blinks and Daniel is fully outfitted in a cosy forest green snowsuit embroidered with silver deer, and bushy-tailed foxes, and all the creatures of the wood. Daniel holds the matching mittens up to his face, entranced by the creatures chasing and gamboling across the fabric.

“Wow!” he exclaims, again- clearly a favourite word- patting his own face then raising his hands towards Dream. “Wow, owl! Look, owl!”

“Yes. owl. Well done.” He allows Daniel to thrust the mittens into his face then carefully directs the child’s attention back to the snow swirls. With a flick of his power, snowballs begin to stack up in an improbable tower and Daniel wobbles over towards them, arms outstretched. There. Children enjoyed knocking things down; perhaps Daniel would amuse himself with that. 

A flutter of wings and a ‘flump!’ announces Matthew’s arrival, and the raven quickly hops into view, feathers fluffed up against the chill. 

“Good job, boss,” he says with approval. “That’s much  better.”

Dream has no need of approbation. He shakes his head slightly and dusts the snow off of his robes. Matthew flaps up to perch on his thigh.

“That stuff is cold on my feet. How the hell are you barefoot?” he fixes Dream with a hopeful look. “Don’t suppose you’ve got any warming spells for your old pal, Matthew?”

“Bird! It’sa bird bwack!”

Daniel has stomped back, attracted by the sound of Matthew’s voice. He points his mittened hand at them both. A tiny pink and blue scarf wraps its way around Matthew’s neck.

“Bird! Wow!”

“Thanks, kid.”

Daniel laughs.

Chapter Text

Talking with Hob had been a welcome distraction for Dream; he’d even enjoyed some sips of the cocoa, made more than tolerable by being infused with Hob’s affection. Hob had listened with undisguised interest and no little relief when he’d learned that the source of Dream’s issue was a child barely old enough to toddle.

I cannot keep him out, Dream had said but had been unable to articulate why this was an issue. The knowing look in Hob’s eyes told him that his friend understood anyway.

 If he’s gonna come, why keep trying to keep him out? Maybe you could embrace it? Hob had gently suggested… and Dream had said nothing in response because he is not sure that is even possible. To welcome in another child? After the mess he made with the first? No.

He wishes he could rest here longer, basking in the warmth of Hob’s company, drinking his hot drinks and not having to think of children and loss. The temptation is strong; he needs to tear himself away before it becomes too hard to resist. “I must return to the Dreaming,” he says abruptly.  “There are matters requiring my attention. Thank you. For listening… I  am sorry to have intruded on your day.”

“Don’t apologise,” Hob waves a dismissive hand. “It’s always a pleasure to see you.”

“Nevertheless…-“

“Seriously, mate. If anything, I should be thanking you- you’ve saved me from having to listen to Australia annihilate us in the cricket.”

“You need to find a better sport to follow,” Matthew removes his head from the depths of Dream’s mug where he had been trying to slurp up the dregs of his long-cooled drink. “One that doesn’t embarrass you annually.”

“Ah, it’s an Englishman’s cross to bear,” Standing to take the mugs to the sink, Hob shrugs then glances shyly at Dream.

“Hey- d’you… do you think I could meet him?”

Dream pauses midway through standing. 

“You wish to meet the child?” He says, perplexed.

“Yeah? The little boy who’s running rings around my fearsome all-powerful friend? How could I not want to?” Hob winks and Dream huffs, slightly bemused that Hob has the temerity to tease him. “Seriously, I’d love to. I love kids, me. Especially little ‘uns…. Unless you wanna keep him all to yourself?”

“He is not mine to keep to myself,” Dream says, and finishes rising. “But I cannot bring him here in the Waking. His mother and I are…” He pauses, considering his words.

“They’ve got beef,” Matthew interjects and Dream does not dispute this accurate if somewhat crude statement. He and Lyta Hall had unfinished business and he has yet to decide how best to handle her.

“Certainly things with Hippolyta Hall remain complicated,” he says. “But if you are asleep when Daniel visits the Dreaming then…” he smiles softly and Hob beams back. “Perhaps.”

****

Dream knows his little visitor has returned the moment he sets foot back in the Dreaming. Sending Matthew away-for once, the raven goes without protest- he retreats to his quarters for solitude and casts his awareness outwards, seeking…

There…

The kitchens.

Dream hesitates. He should go. He should remove Daniel and send him back to his own dreams where he belongs, but something– Hob’s words, maybe– makes him hesitate.

Through the Dreaming, he watches.

Taramis is busy. His chef de cuisine is always busy. She does not always have a toddler acting as her sous chef, but it doesn’t appear to be fazing her. Daniel has been set upon the countertop next to where she is working, little legs swinging and bumping against the cupboard doors below. He has in his possession a wooden spoon in one hand and a Christmas tree cookie cutter in the other, both of which he is eying with fascination. 

“You mustn’t mind Himself,” Taramis is saying as she sifts flour over a large Mason Cash mixing bowl. Dream recognises the design from the dreams of many bakers. It is sturdy and solid and fits perfectly in the current kitchen design, which has shifted from expansive to homely and cosy with oaken Shaker-style cabinets, a large red range and a Belfast sink. “How he keeps sending you away, that is. He puts on this front, you see. Cold. Distant. He’s a rather forbidding figure… for outsiders, I mean. Thinks he’s got to be those things, but you and I know better, don’t we, hm?” She glances at Daniel, who makes no comment on this, instead choosing to more closely inspect the cookie cutter. With his mouth. It is quickly whisked away, and disappears from view, along with a pile of others. Taramis continues. “Anyway, you’re not an outsider, are you, little lord? You’re one of us and you’re going to learn to know him properly. He’s a kind master. Caring, in his own way.” She shrugs. “Cares too much, really. Always has.”

Daniel raps the wooden spoon hard against the counter top and reaches out his other hand to try and plunge it into the cookie dough. With a seemingly well-practised ease, Taramis intercepts his arm and swaps the spoon out for a bag of chocolate chips. 

“He was not made to be alone… few of us are. Now,” she dusts her hands on her apron, and motions towards the bowl. ”Could you tip a few into the bowl for me, dear? We can’t have cookies without some chocolate chips now, can we? Just a few shakes should do.”

The entire packet is upended in the bowl.

Taramis shrugs equably.

“Ah well, nevermind. One can never have too many chocolate chips, I suppose.”

Dream watches as the bowl is turned out and the dough rolled efficiently by Taramis’s experienced hands. The cookie cutters reappear and one is regifted to Daniel. The boy bangs it a few times against the dough, leaving small impressions but in no way cutting any shapes. Taramis gives him a solemn nod of approval anyway and Daniel giggles, before quickly trying to shove the cutter back into his mouth. Once again, it is whisked away without fanfare.

“Right,” Taramis says, lifting Daniel down from the counter and balancing him on her hip. “Is this your way of telling me you’re hungry, little master? Well, the cookies can finish themselves, I daresay. I think we can find something better to eat than a bit of metal.” As she speaks, the cookies cut themselves and float off through the air to line themselves up neatly upon a large baking sheet. Daniel watches them with interest, the hand not grasping tight to Taramis’s apron, shooting out to grab one and squish it between his fingers. 

“Tum tee tum…,” he mutters to himself and takes a big mouthful of the mangled dough. The face he makes is of surprise and disgust, nose wrinkling and tongue working to try and dislodge the offending substance. He is an expressive boy  and from his quarters, Dream finds the corners of his mouth quirking up entirely of their own volition.

Daniel’s head whips around, his gaze sharpening. Cookies forgotten, he stares intently at a corner of the kitchens where the shadows are deeper. Dream is no more present there than he is anywhere else in the room, and yet…

“Deem.” Daniel says, and it feels like a summons. Without further thought, Dream finds himself stepping through the shadows and materialising in the kitchen. Daniel’s face lights up. “Deem!” he repeats again, tugging on Taramis’s apron.

“Ah. Good evening, Lord Morpheus,” Taramis turns, unbothered by the sudden presence of her lord in her kitchen. “We have been baking.”

Dream glances around. The air is warm and fragrant with seasonal spices- of cinnamon, ginger, and  nutmeg; and the cookies- a seemingly endless stream of Christmas trees, angels and gingerbread men- continue to float sedately from one side of the kitchen to the other.  There is flour coating the countertops, butter smeared in unlikely places, and rogue chocolate chips decorating the floor. Though he has only had rare occasion to visit Taramis’s domain, he imagines the current disorder is quite unusual.

“So I see.”

“Mm, yes. And Daniel has helped,” she jiggles the boy and he waves his sticky, doughy hand in Dream’s direction. “Extensively.”

“Indeed?” Dream steps forward, drawn inexorably to the child. He doesn’t touch him-not again- but he does clean Daniel’s hand with a thought. “I hope he has not been a bother.”

“What bother could your little one cause me, sir?”

“He is not mine,” Dream stiffens, stepping back slightly.

“Of course not, Sire,” Taramis says smoothly. “Either way, he’s just about to have his dinner.” Dream finds his arms suddenly filled with the solid weight of a toddler as Taramis deftly hands Daniel over, before sauntering back over to the counter. “You’ll stay, won’t you?”

“I…”

“Wonderful. If you’d be so good as to put him in the high chair, my lord? I’ll bring the plates right over.”

Dream blinks. He does not think he’s been quite so blatantly ordered around by his chef before but he is distracted from making any comment on it by the sheer closeness of Daniel. The boy stares up at him with solemn brown eyes, then pokes him in the cheek.

“Eat, Deem,” he says, and that, too, is more an order than a question. Dream gives in, turning to where a scrubbed wooden table has popped into existence and carefully puts the boy into the waiting high chair. The straps do themselves up and leave Dream free to pull out the seat next to him and sit down.

This is Daniel’s chair from the Waking, he realises. All clean lines and modern Scandinavian design. Daniel must have manifested it himself. He can sense Lyta Hall in it, her worry over choking and her anxiety over emulating insta-perfect mothers with their home grown produce and home made meals.

“I’m glad you’re here, my lord,” Taramis says from where she is busy ladling food into bowls. “Shared meals are important, and it’s good for children to eat with their parents.”

“I am not the boy’s father,” Dream says sharply.

“As you say, Sire,” Taramis says with really quite infuriating mildness, turning back to him with a bowl in hand. She bustles over, sliding the food in front of Daniel. It is a simple beef stew: tender meat chunks and colourful root vegetables in a thick gravy, accompanied by crispy roasted potatoes, ready cut for Daniel’s benefit. The aroma is rich and comforting and even Dream feels like he might be tempted to take a bite.

Daniel, however, doesn’t seem overly keen. He mutters quietly to himself as he digs his spoon in and  pushes it around, slopping gravy and carrots onto the table . A potato is picked up, tasted and discarded. He looks up at Dream and frowns. 

“Well?” Dream says. 

Daniel carefully retrieves his spoon from his bowl. Eyes fixed firmly on Dream, he holds it out to the side and very deliberately drops it to the floor.

“Geh,” he says and Dream tilts his head, curious.

“How do you expect to eat your stew with no spoon?”

Daniel blows a raspberry in response, then proceeds to upend his entire bowl. Stew and potatoes splatter all over the table and down onto the floor. Dream follows the movement with his eyes, then looks up to meet the boy’s mischievous gaze. Seeing Dream looking, Daniel shoves a gravy-covered hand into his mouth, giggling around his fingers.

“These are very poor table manners, Daniel,” Dream observes, with absolutely no censure in his voice. Daniel smacks his hand back down into the mess, smearing food around in apparent delight.

A plate is slid in front of Dream and he glances up to meet Taramis’s eyes, an enquiring eyebrow raised.

“Then perhaps you can show him how it is done, Sire?” she says, giving him a bland smile and Daniel a conspiratorial wink. The baby doesn’t understand but he giggles nonetheless. He leans as far forward as his restraints will allow, reaching with a grasping, grubby hand for Dream’s plate. 

“You wish to have mine? But you had the same and it is now decorating my floor.”

“Food, Deem. Plee?”

“How am I to know that this dish won’t meet the same fate? We are creating quite the mess for Taramis.” Which mattered not a jot in the Dreaming, of course. But it didn’t hurt to reinforce the idea that dumping entire meals on the floor was not ideal.

“Could have been worse; he could have thrown it at you…” Taramis says cheerfully.  “And Papa’s plate always holds more appeal, doesn’t it?”

“I am not his father, Taramis.”  

“Just so, my lord.”

Dream draws in a breath, and mines deep for patience. He cannot fault his chef. Not really. He created her to be this way, to be a care-giver even towards him. This maternal, nurturing, grounding figure with a certain… irreverence for his station. That did not mean that it wasn’t somewhat trying. At times. 

“Deem. Deem! Food!” Daniel’s own well of patience is also running dry and Dream has no wish for this to descend into more chaos. With a greatly put upon sigh, he dips his spoon in his stew and holds it out to Daniel, who opens his mouth and accepts it like an angel. 

“Mmm muh muh,” he says. "More?”

Taramis crouches down next to him, arms folded on the table. “I quite agree,” she says. “But I think his lordship should try some, first. A bite for Daniel, a bite for his majesty. A bite for Daniel, a bite for his majesty...” She gives Dream an encouraging nod, amusement glittering in her dark eyes. Dream stares right back and only does not roll his eyes because it is too far beneath his dignity at this moment, though it is a response Taramis often elicits from him. Perhaps it would do no harm to entertain her and the child in this. 

He takes a bite. It is as he thought it would be, the taste bursting across his palate and making his eyes drift closed. The superficial flavouring of beef and potatoes gives way to something deeper- the feel of home, comfort, love. 

“I hope it meets expectations, Sire?” Taramis is pleased, he can tell, knowing what her expression will be even before he opens his eyes.  She already knows. Beside her, Daniel is reaching out for his next bite. 

“Exceeds them,” Dream gifts them both a small smile. “Thank you, Taramis.”

“You are very welcome, my lord.”

***

Chapter Text

“Where’s the Boss?”

Lucienne looks up from her ledger to be greeted by the sight of Mervyn striding towards her, Daniel held out at arms’ length in front of him. He has the boy gripped tightly under the armpits; Daniel’s legs are kicking in the air and although he is not yet crying, he looks decidedly unhappy.

“What on Earth…?-” Lucienne hurries out from behind her desk and relieves Mervyn of the boy, scooping Daniel into her arms and gathering him securely to her chest. Daniel huffs grumpily, knocking his head against her shoulder and chuntering incomprehensibly. Acting quickly, Lucienne slips her free hand into her breast pocket and removes a brass pocket watch on a fine golden chain. Flicking it open, she hands it to the boy, who takes it with an interrogative grunt, pudgy fingers curling round to press inquisitively at the watch face, where a pod of winged orcas glide serenely through a teal green ocean. Clearly intrigued with this new toy, Daniel twists the hands around the dial and giggles in pleasure when they dance back and forth upon release, jumping from number to number erratically and chiming softly. Lucienne is happy to let him experiment: he cannot break the clock and time is, after all, just a suggestion here- and she is far more concerned with averting the outburst of temper that had been brewing. They have all experienced Daniel’s tantrums now and she has no wish for her library to get a soaking. Daniel possesses Dream’s flare for the dramatic coupled with a toddler’s lack of self-restraint and that unfortunate combination produced intense-though thankfully short-lived results.

“What? Kid’s terrorising me,” Mervyn grouses in response to Lucienne’s accusing stare. “Everything I fix, he messes up again! Made it hail golf balls on my roses when I mopped up that sludge swamp in the courtyard he’d made! Everyone was falling in it an’ sprouting tentacles! So I got rid of it, and next thing I know- bam! Kid’s screaming and my roses are dust. It’d taken me weeks to get the bouncing ramblers growing just right!”

“You don’t get roses in the winter, Merv,”  Matthew- drawn as he always is by the presence of the little dreamer- swoops in through a suddenly pane-less window and lands on a carefully stacked pile of dream journals. “Hey Loosh; Danny-boy. Nice watch”

“Yeah? Well I got news for you, bird,” Mervyn points an aggressive finger at Matthew. “This is the Dreaming. We don’t have a winter time!”

“You seen the weather recently? It’s been like Lapland ‘round here for the past month.” As if to prove Matthew’s point, a flurry of snowflakes blow in through the open window, accompanied by a snatch of Deck The Halls. Lucienne glances up sternly at the window and the glass reappears with an embarrassed sounding pop- along with a bough of holly. Lucienne sighs but lets it go without comment; after all, it was hardly intrusive and she is not completely averse to a bit of festive festooning,  even if she did like her library Just So, normally.

“Ha! That’s nothin’,” Mervyn had followed her gaze and  noted the sigh. “You’re lucky, Loosh! I reckon he don’t dare do anything in here. Kid’s got some sense, even if he is a baby. Knows who’s in charge-! But the rest of this place!” Mervyn takes a deep pull on his cigar and shifts his posture, clearly setting up for a big rant. “I reckon he thinks it’s one big playground. Found him smearing nightmarish goo on the walls of the Long Gallery, the other day. It smells like I dunno what but it’s bad and every time I walk past it, it sings. Sings! Baby Shark one minute, Old MacDonald the next-!”

“At least you’re getting some variety!” Matthew chips in, only to be casually flipped off.

“Mervyn,” Lucienne says warningly.

“Sorry, Loosh,” Mervyn does not sound sorry. “But it ain’t even singing well! Like fu-flippin’ nails on a chalk board. I ain’t even gotta brain an’ I’ve got a headache. And you think I can get it off? Can I heck! Scrubbed it; painted over it; tried placing the Joseph Ducreux portraits over it- nothing works. An’ you think the Boss has done a single thing about it? Course he hasn’t! He’s just drifting around paying no attention at all to any of the chaos. ‘Daniel is entering a time of experimentation and discovery within the Dreaming, Mervyn,’” the scarecrow does a surprisingly good job of imitating their Lord’s deep and assured tone and Lucienne is rather impressed despite herself. “It is important we do not discourage his learning but continue to make every effort to ensure the comfort and safety of all the dreamfolk’.’The comfort and safety!’ So if I remove any of the dangerous stuff, kid pitches a fit and brings hurricane Daniel down on all of us an’ if I leave it, I’m compromising comfort and safety. Well where’s that leave me, eh? Eh? Up sh-shizzle creek without a paddle, that’s where.”

“None of it is actually dangerous, though, Mervyn. Just… mildly inconvenient.” Daniel wiggles in Lucienne’s arms, growing bored, and she taps the pocket watch smartly with her finger. At once, it lights up, casting coloured light and shadows over the boy’s face. Daniel settles, resting his head on Lucienne’s shoulder, placated once more by this new wonder.

“Mildly inconvenient! Mildly inconvenient! Right, I’ll tell all the other dreamfolk to bring their complaints to you instead of me from now on, and you can deal with the mildly inconvenient bullsh—ahem,” He coughs and rubs the back of his head. “I’ve had sugar plums tap dancing after me all day, y’know. Sugar plums! I didn’t even know what a sugar plum was yesterday but now I do! Tap, tap, fu—darn tap! Everywhere I went! Couldn’t get rid of the things!”

“Well they’re not here now,” Matthew observes, craning his neck to gaze showily around the room.  “Guess you lost ‘em.”

“That's because I had to lock them in the broom closet! And now I can’t get back in to get my broom so as to sweep up the piles of bl– blithering sand they left trailing in their wake. Why even sugar plums, eh??”

“I bet his mom’s been reading him the Night Before Christmas! Ha! I think it’s cute.”

“I’ll give you cute. And if he turns my cigar into a corn cob again, I’ll…” he trails off, chewing angrily on said cigar as if to make some kind of point.

“Aww, comon. He’s only a baby, Merv.”

“Well, he ain’t my baby!” Merv puts his hands on his hips and jerks his head at Lucienne. “So where’s Dream? His kid, his problem.”

“Deem?” Daniel perks up, lifting his head from Lucienne’s shoulder and dropping the pocket watch.

“Lord Morpheus is not currently present in the Dreaming.”

“Course he ain’t!” Merv growls, throwing up his hands. “Don’t tell me, he’s off cavorting an’ canoodling with his pet human again?”

“Cawk!” Matthew lets out a loud, undignified honk and both Lucienne and Mervyn look at him in surprise. He shuffles, head ducking with embarrassment. “Sorry! Sorry… just tryna imagine Dream canoodling.”

“Hah!” Mervyn goes to spit, catches Lucienne’s eye and thinks better of it. “You won’t have to imagine anythin’ if he gets his act together with lover boy. You’ll be sick of the- the heckin’ sight of it!”

“Deem,” Daniel says again, more insistent now. He reaches up to grasp at Lucienne’s spectacles and she tilts her head away in a futile attempt to avoid him whilst patting his back consolingly.

“Dream will return soon,” she assures him. “He has gone carol singing with Robert.”

“Carol singing! What the fudge for?!”

“Mervyn, please,” Lucienne sighs, gently trying to disentangle Daniel’s fingers from the arm of her spectacles. “I believe Mr Gadling said it was a favourite Christmas tradition.”

“Hob will do anything to try and get Dream to spend time with him,” Matthew says. “I bet he doesn’t even like carol singing and just thought of something traditionally festive to entice the boss out of the Dreaming. ‘Course, we all know he doesn’t need to bother with ‘special stuff’ but he’s down so bad for him. I mean, you think Dream’s making eyes at him, Merv? Hob’s worse but he won’t do anything about it until Dream does and like Lord Morpheus is gonna let himself take that chance? Nah, can’t see it….” He rearranges his wings with a sharp laugh. “Someone seriously needs to get those two under some mistletoe.”

“‘Ob?” Daniel mutters, thankfully releasing his grip on Lucienne’s spectacles. “‘Ob?” 

“Robert Gadling is Lord Morpheus’s very dear friend,” she informs him.  There are no baby voices from Lucienne, no speaking down or over simplifications. Over her long tenure as the Dreaming’s librarian, Lucienne had conversed with countless different kinds of beings. She has always approached each as if they were capable of thought, understanding, and intelligent conversation and she is not about to stop now just because her current interlocutor happens to be a toddler “He is a human who lives in the Waking world just as you do, most of the time.” 

“Hm,” Daniel hums and leans back from her, placing his fingers into his mouth. Lucienne watches his eyes unfocus. He blinks slowly, and when he reopens them, his eyes have morphed from their usual brown to the familiar starry black of Dream’s.  A sandstorm flares up in front of them, making both Lucienne and Mervyn step hastily back. It coalesces into a familiar figure- Robert Gadling as he is now, before flickering through his many guises throughout the centuries- the peasant, the pauper, the profiteer- and then dissolving back into sand.

“‘Ob,” Daniel states, eyes returning to normal. “‘Ob Gadly’” he repeats with a note of satisfaction in his little voice. 

And then he disappears.

“Well,” Matthew says, after a moment of silence. “That was new.”