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alteon77 · 7 months

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That Familiar Feeling of Family (or how Hob Gadling ended up as an uncle to his stranger's oftentimes feral children): Chapter 1

It's a pretty universally known thing that families are just strange. As Hob is quickly figuring out, however, this little fact is magnified by AT LEAST a billion when the family in question is Endless.

(A lighthearted story in which Hob Gadling finds out his stranger has married, makes friends with a homicidal maniac/ruler, and manages to become an exemplary uncle to a pack of magically mischievous children. Really, now all he has to do is convince everyone to stop calling his and Dream's weekly meetups "playdates", and then his life would be practically perfect.)

AO3 here, Masterlist here

Hob is running.

Now, that isn't an unusual occurrence in and of itself. After all, the immortal has been forced to flee many many times in his centuries of existence, and he can say without a speck of arrogance that he's become rather adept at it. But this running is dramatically different for one very large reason.

A literally large reason.

In that it's the first occasion, at least as far as he's aware, that he's ever had to try and outsprint a gargantuan bloody dragon.

Try being the operative term here, because while he is indeed foolishly attempting it, he's also failing miserably if the puff of steamed breath that's tickling his neck is any indication. Which he guesses makes an inordinate amount of sense. Really, has he mentioned already how massive his pursuer is?

The beast behind him lets out a loud, guttural roar, its feet causing the ground to shake as it chases after him like it's just a giant dog and he's got a half opened packet of hot dogs in his coat pocket.

Hob idly wonders whether he'll actually die if (probably better to say when) that thing finally catches and devours him. He's never had the misfortune of being consumed before, so he's not quite sure how that will work out for him. What if there's just an arm left? Will it still be him? Will he spend his eternity as nothing more than a single discarded body part that has sentience but no way to speak?

"Archibald! No! Bad!"

The voice, when it calls out this rather ludicrous admonishment, is definitely that of a child. A little girl if he had to guess, and when he does a quick glance around to see where she might be at (so he can hopefully save her from being eaten) he's shocked to spot her standing near his would-be killer. For a minute, Hob can't make sense of what he's seeing. The girl is in front of the reptilian monster, uncomfortably close to one of its frankly enormous nostrils, and she's pointing a finger at it, wearing the sternest expression on her youthful features that he's ever seen in his life.

The dragon crouches down, hanging its head as if in shame while the child, his possible savior, roundly chastises it. "Archie! You know better. What would Dadda say?"

She softens her scolding, though, by running one of her tiny hands along the leathery snout over its mouth, the same mouth that Hob is completely certain is filled with rows and rows of razor sharp teeth, and he isn't quite sure how to handle this. What’s the protocol here? He feels frozen as he watches the scene unfold before him, not knowing whether he should intervene and usher the girl out of harm's way or whether she’s really in any danger at all, since she seems almost as if…. as if she commands this thing? Like a young Daenerys Targaryen, except for the facts that she looks to be about five and she's clothed in a ridiculously frilly pink dress paired with shiny, immaculately black combat boots.

He's honestly… so confused. But he finds himself moving closer anyway, driven by that curiosity he’s never lost in all of his hundreds of years of living.

The girl seems to gentle towards her… pet? Can a dragon even be called a pet? He's having difficulty thinking of this nightmarish creature as anything so mundane, but even he has to admit that it’s exactly what the hellbeast appears to be regardless.

"He won't let you… won't let you be a dragon if he… finds out about this."

The dragon, that he's just starting to process must be named Archibald or Archie, since he's heard her say it a couple times, lowers its massive head to nuzzle against the child, a puff of steam unfurling from its nostrils to ruffle her hair as it huffs like it's pouting. She soothes it then, stroking her fingers along its dark scales, the ones that seem shot through with a little sapphire when the brilliant sun from above hits them at just the right angle.

"I know," she goes on. "I won't tell him, Archie, but no chasing the dreamers. Dadda was ad… ada…" She frowns at this as if she's struggling over the word.

And Hob, having once had a precious son of his own who sometimes got caught up on pronouncing things, can't help but to offer a quiet, "Adamant?"

The little girl's face lights up, her ocean blue eyes widening at him in something like grateful glee. "Adamant," she repeats slowly. "That's… it."

He takes a minute to study her then, this too young dragon tamer. She's a small child, lovely in that same ethereal, unnatural way that he's always associated with his stranger. Her hair is a mess of riotous raven curls that seem to be coming loose from a single braid plaited at the back of her head, and her complexion is almost translucently pale save for the bright rosy flush on her cheeks.

"I'm… Hob," he supplies with only a mite of hesitation.

Her smile is almost overwhelming in its joy. "Hi, Hob! I'm Aurora!"

And he opens his mouth then to ask after her parents and where they might be, to question her about the ferocious looking mythological beast that she seems to be in control of, but he isn't afforded the opportunity to do any of those things. Another voice joins them before he can, a melodic, otherworldly one that Hob knows all too well.

It's his… stranger.

His coat is longer here, draping down to the ground like something Hob would have worn in his goth punk days back in the eighties, but other than that he seems to have on the same black shirt, black pants, and black boots combo that Hob last saw him in.

Hob takes a minute to gawk. He isn't ashamed to admit that his stranger is beautiful, all marble skin and high cut cheekbones, his hair a wild disarray of windblown black that sticks up at odd angles, almost as if it's the one part of his appearance that his magic can't seem to render as tame.

"Aurora, what have I relayed to you concerning Archibald? I was told that he was in dragon form and terrorizing the wolves yet again."

"Dadda," the girl in question starts, sounding very contrite. "He won't do it… anymore."

His stranger's face tightens in what Hob thinks is supposed to be a severe expression, though it's clear he's not quite getting there in his daughter's bubbly presence.

Wait.

Waaaaaait a minute.

What?

What did....

His… daughter? She'd said Dadda, hadn't she? Hadn’t she…. referred to his stranger by that title? His stranger? His stubborn, broody, took-a-century-to-admit-that-Hob-was-even-his-friend stranger? For a moment, Hob feels like he needs to sit, like he might pass out between the running for his life not ten minutes prior and the revelation that this child could belong…. to…. to Dream.

Not that Hob ever really calls him that. He’d only gotten the name a few years ago when they'd last met, and while it had been a nice piece of information to have (and long overdue in his humble and frustrated opinion) he’d spent over six hundred years referring to his stranger as just that. And he honestly doesn’t see this habit of his changing anytime soon.

"I believe that is what I was promised when last he engaged in such unruliness," Dream goes on, seemingly oblivious to the panic attack that Hob is having. Truthfully, that shocks Hob not at all.

"He's still a… a baby, Dadda."

And yeah. Hob’s not wrong. She'd assuredly called him Dadda, had just said it again even.

"Be that as it may, he is not permitted to wreak havoc on the realm or its inhabitants. No matter his age, starshine."

At last, Hob seems to find his voice, and he uses it to let out a small, barely there, "Dadda?"

He flushes a little with embarrassment as soon as the word is out of his mouth, because it sounds… not great. It's definitely not what he imagined himself saying at his next meeting with his oldest friend. But his stranger only goes stock still, his shoulders tensing as he glances towards Hob, his eyes narrowing in something that Hob thinks might actually be confusion.

Which… is all too completely understandable. Although, Hob will confess that he's never thought that his mopey stranger would ever be capable of looking as thoroughly perplexed as he does right this moment.

"Hob Gadling?" Dream questions.

"Is that… Is that your daughter?"

"It is," he allows slowly. "This is Aurora."

And while he introduces them, albeit awkwardly, Hob thinks he detects a fair amount of fatherly pride in the way that Dream puts one elegant, long fingered hand on the girl's shoulder to pull her against his side, in the way that his rather harsh, angular features soften as he smiles down at her. Seeing this, he supposes, might make him happy in any other situation, and it's a nice thing that his rather… er, reserved (i.e. cold, distant, and emotionally repressed, though Hob would never say it aloud) stranger is obviously comfortable enough with him to show it.

But… this isn't any other situation. This is a rather… big piece of news that Hob's just been walloped over the head with.

“You have a child?” Hob blurts out, his brain processing this revelation so sporadically that it’s almost humiliating.

Dream's brow furrows. “I believe that I only just conveyed as much to you. Are you…. quite well?”

“I’m sorry. A daughter? I can’t…." Hob struggles to articulate his thoughts, an utterly unsurprising complication given that he's relatively certain that this has to all be some strange fever dream. "Why didn’t you tell me about her the last time we met?”

Dream narrows his eyes again before glancing down at the girl. “Starshine, go and assist Archibald in returning to his dog form.”

Dog form? Dog form? That fire-breathing beast becomes a dog? For some reason, he's picturing Cerberus, with its three terrifying heads and the blood of those unlucky dead who try to escape the Underworld dripping from each of their corresponding fang-toothed maws. Hob wonders idly if the aneurysm he's sure to have soon is going to kill him.

“But Dadda….”

“No. He is forbidden from being a dragon for at least a week. Especially since I now see that he has been chasing the dreamers despite my explicit directive not to do so.”

Pointedly, he looks towards Hob, who in turn swings his gaze to his young, temporarily forgotten, savior. Her eyes have gone wide and pleading, and Hob feels his stomach lurch in guilt.

"I was… just walking about, old friend."

And that wanker, that enigmatic tosspot (who hadn't even bothered to tell him he had a child) only raises an eyebrow in an expression of such incredulity that Hob knows he's trying to call bullshit without actually speaking the words. "Walking?"

"Yes. Briskly."

That eyebrow goes somehow higher up on Dream's forehead. "By which you mean you were running."

Hob shakes his head. He's done some shady things in his very long life, but even he's not heartless enough to separate a girl from her… er, pet. "No. Not at all. Just… strolling. Vigorously."

And for some reason, Dream seems amused by this, as if he is aware that Hob is lying and it's humorous to him. “Very well. Three days then, Aurora.”

She claps gleefully (like she's just won something grand) before wandering out of earshot to presumably tend to her dragon/dog, and Morpheus grants Hob a small smile when she's gone. "You need not have lied on that vile monstrosity's behalf, Hob Gadling."

"I didn't-"

"You indeed did. This is my realm. I know all that transpires within its borders."

There's a loud pop from where the girl and the dragon are, and when Hob swings his gaze over towards them, he sees a great quantity of smoke clearing rapidly away.

"Obviously not, or else you'd know it was on your daughter's behalf that I stretched the truth a bit," Hob snarks back.

Aurora steps out of the cloud before plopping down on the ground, followed immediately by a small, fluffy… thing that comes running out from behind her, yapping loudly. Hob winces, thinking that he almost prefers that menacing roar from earlier to the high-pitched noise it's making now.

"You utterly discarded the truth in this case, friend."

Hob crosses his arms over his chest in a defensive gesture. He can admit to feeling a little… well, hurt that Dream obviously hadn't bothered to inform him of his child, and despite that being referred to as a friend by this brooding pillock does make him slightly less upset, he's still angry.

"Pets are important to children. I didn't want to see her lose one to your temper."

Little Aurora pulls a sketchbook and a container of pencils from the bag that Hob is absolutely positive she hadn't had with her before. Humming, she munches happily on something that Hob thinks might be crackers, and he is suddenly aware of the fact that someone must have taken the time to pack these for her. Hob, to preserve what little bit of his sanity he has remaining, is going to assume that it was this child's mother who'd done so since he can't for the life of him imagine this eternal god-like entity before him puttering around a kitchen and preparing snacks like a normal bloke. That might be more unbelievable than the dragon as far as Hob's concerned.

"Ah. I see," Dream tells him, and it sounds almost as if he's trying to be… kind? "Let me set your mind at ease then, Hob Gadling. Even were I willing to hurt my daughter and do away with that ghastly creature, my wife would never allow such a thing. So, you need not worry over the matter."

Hob feels himself go rigid. Did he just say….. "Wait a minute? Wife?"

"You are soon to wake, Hob."

"Oh, no, no, no," Hob protests, putting his hands up, palm out, towards Dream. "You need to explain to me what you mean by wife."

It's no use, though. Between one blink and the next, Hob is lurching from his sleep, the image of his stranger smirking at him still fresh in his mind. His breathing is heavy, and he's soaked through with sweat, enough so that he knows he's going to have to change the sheets today. Wearily, he scrubs a tired hand over his face, and he tells himself that all of that must have been some strange fever dream, after all.

Reaching out for the bottle of water he keeps by his bed, Hob is alarmed to see a piece of paper folded and tucked there. He snatches it up, opening the thick parchment to reveal an array of hearts drawn and colored in what he thinks might be twenty different shades of crayon. The message at the bottom is done in a messy, childish scrawl, and it reads:

Deer Mr. Hob. It wuz nise to sea u. Visit agin turmeric, pleeze.

And Hob Gadling, who'd once won immortality just with the questionable skill of being able to run his mouth, finds that in this case, he can only stare blankly at the invitation in complete silence.

NEXT CHAPTER

#hob gadling #sandman fic #morpheus x original character #dad!morpheus #morpheus as a father #morpheus fic #sandman fanfiction #morpheus fanfiction #morpheus x oc #sandman oc #dragons as cute fluffy dogs #dream of the endless #morpheus hob gadling bromance #hob gadling as a reluctant life coach to an ornery endless #morpheus x reader

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alteon77 · 9 months

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The Bizarre Breeding Habits of Anthropomorphic Personifications: Chapter 7

It's a tale as old as time.

Two idiots fall in love. Two idiots fall out of love.

Neither one of them is expecting a baby to come along and derail their unhappily ever after.

Chapter One here, AO3 here, Masterlist here

Chapter Summary: Morpheus pretends to be human in the doctor's office. He's... um, surprisingly not great at it.

By the time Morpheus finally locates her, he's nearly incandescent with rage.

It is fair, he thinks, to be so angry, so wholly upset with her for this act of foolishness and for the panic that she's caused both him and her brother. It had been only forty minutes prior that Viego had summoned him, that the maker had called Morpheus to him and then belligerently accused him of stealing May to hide her away in the Dreaming. And while Morpheus had been furious at Viego for this, he'd been more fearful than anything else. The idea of May going outside of the very wards keeping her safe, the idea of her leaving that protection with no magic or defensive capabilities to speak of, had brought forth an overwhelming swell of terror that rose sickeningly up within him in a matter of mere seconds.

The relief he'd felt at finding her had given him only a moment of solace, a brief flicker of the sensation before the mess of emotional turmoil roiling in his mind had swiftly transformed into indignation. How. Dare. She. How dare she engage in such a foolish stunt. How dare she endanger herself and their child by way of such astounding recklessness. Makers are hunted regularly and mercilessly by witches and gods and all manner of supernatural creatures, and any who had happened upon her in her current weakened state would have surely made short work of capturing her.

In the underground area where he'd finally located her, Morpheus stalks to her vehicle as she gets out of it, her face wan and weary in fatigue, all of her as worn out as she herself has been these days past.

"No… I was driving. I don't answer when I'm driving. You know that….. No…. I just had some stuff to take care of…. I'm keeping a low profile. No…. Stop it. I wasn't followed…. Yes…. " she says into the phone held against her ear. "You did what? Why… Why would you do that?" She pauses, and he notices that there's a bottle of water in her hand that she takes a seemingly reluctant drink of, grimacing in disgust at the taste. "No, Viego. I don't know how to get a hold of him right this moment. He doesn't exactly carry a phone or-"

"There is no need to seek me out," he cuts in roughly. "I am here."

His sudden appearance startles her, and she recoils a little at the sight of him, the hand holding her water coming up to rest over her heart as if to soothe the too-rapid beat of that organ.

"Viego," she relays over the phone, her voice shaking slightly. "I'm going to have to call you back. Morpheus is… Yeah…. Don't worry about summoning him again. No, I'm looking at him right now."

He glowers her way, his hands clenched tight at his side as he works to calm himself. "You might inform him that I will be personally bringing you home this-"

"We'll be back in a bit. No…. I've got errands to run. Don't worry about it. Bye." She presses a button on her device and slides it into the small bag hanging from her shoulder, clearly careful in her attempt at ignoring him as he fumes before her.

"Not in a bit, as you say. We will be leaving immediately for-"

"Can't. Won't. Not gonna happen."

He seethes, his anger ratcheting up at her apparent nonchalance over the gravity of her folly. "Are you aware of the danger inherent in being outside of the warding protecting you?"

"Look, I left Viego a voicemail letting him know about all this. I'm sorry if he roped you into something that you shouldn't have even had to stress about."

"You cannot be oblivious enough to think that is why I am infuriated," he growls. "Both Viego and myself have been scouring this city for the better part of an hour, terrified you had been taken by some enemy that meant you harm. And your response to worrying us so dramatically is that you had errands you need attend? There is no excuse for removing yourself from the warding, especially in light of the fact that it is the only thing keeping you safe in your condition."

With great effort, he attempts to settle his raging temper, aware as he is that it would do this world no favors were he to lose control of his powers while in it.

"Worrying you so dramatically? I mean, dramatically is definitely a word I'd use with how you're acting," May snarks before taking another sip of her water.

"And what precisely is the meaning of that?"

"Just that this is ridiculous. I'm a grown woman. I'll go where I want and do what I want, and you are both welcome to take that suffocating overprotectiveness that you're holding over my face like a pillow and shove it up your-"

"Do not," he snaps. "Now, gather your things. I am returning you to your brother."

"I am not a package that you can just hand off back and forth. And I am absolutely not going anywhere with you until I'm done. I have something I have to take care of in about-" She checks her watch. "Thirty minutes. There's a diner near here if you want to get coffee while you wait for me to finish, but I am not leaving."

He clenches his jaw hard enough that he would break teeth were he human. "What aim could be so important that you would foolishly risk being captured to accomplish it?"

"It's none of your-"

"If you finish that sentence with the word business, I will grab hold of you this moment and shift you. I've no patience for your recalcitrance this day."

May scoffs derisively. "You not having patience? Wooow. Color me shocked."

"Tell me what you deemed so necessary that it justified this… imprudence," he hisses, ignoring her sarcastic remark as to his composure.

Oh, no no no no no. Don't throw up. Do not throw up. You've got to keep your water down for just another hour. You can do it, but not… not if you're going to keep fighting. So fuckin' de-escalate this mess and stop being stubborn. It's for the baby. You can absolutely swallow your pride for the baby's sake, damn it.

He frowns at her, thoroughly confused at these words of hers flitting across his awareness. She is not speaking them aloud, and yet he hears them clearly in his mind, a rather puzzling occurrence given that he's never really been able to read her thoughts, never been able to peek past her mental shields and figure out what's going on in her head. He wonders if the dwindling disappearance of her magic is the cause of this, the usual walls around her mind possibly fading as her powers are and allowing him the capability to read her as easily as she might peruse a book.

The color drains from her complexion as what he assumes is nausea overcomes her, and she draws in a few deep breaths, seemingly steadying herself before she gestures vaguely towards a concrete wall of this strange, cavernous area they're both in, the one that smells of fossil fuels and is full of nothing but stationary vehicles. He thinks it's known as a parking garage, but he's never truly been in one before, so he is unsure as to whether or not that is precisely what this darkened, poorly lit monstrosity is. "I'm… going there. Okay? I'm… I'm visiting a doctor."

His eyes narrow as he glances first where she has indicated and then back at her. "That is naught but a wall."

She rolls her eyes at him as if what he's said is absurdly exasperating to her. "There's a building on the other side of the street from here with a doctor in it. I'm going there."

"You have found a suitable healer?"

She fidgets in front of him, playing with the label on the bottle still in her hand. "No. I'm… I'm going to a regular human doctor."

He's taken aback by this, wholly surprised as he moves closer to her. "A human doctor?"

Her fidgeting increases, the movements getting more pronounced. "Yeah… because I'm… well, pregnant. And Tammy was right."

"Tammy? Who is Tammy? And what use will a mortal physician be in your case? Need I remind you that you are no human."

She rolls her eyes again and scoffs as if he's the one who's said something nonsensical. "Whaaaat? Are you sure? Well damn, I guess that totally explains the being alive for thousands of years and not aging thing. I just thought it was my kick ass moisturizer keeping me all young looking."

"May-"

Her arms cross over her chest, and it makes her appear… smaller somehow, fragile. "A human doctor is kind of all there is," she admits with a heavy sigh, a thread of defeat woven into her confession.

His mouth turns down at her words, his brows knitting together as he considers this, grasping for some sort of understanding. "I fail to see-"

"I'm sure you do, but… please don't argue with me on this. Whatever opinions you might have about me getting checked out by this guy today, the fact remains that he's got a hell of a lot more answers than I do right now, and I… I need answers."

She looks away when she says this, avoiding his gaze as a barely there blush lights up what he can see of her face in its sideways profile. An unexpected shame curls in his stomach as he considers the situation before him. She's worried, obviously so, and yet she feels compelled to plead with him on this matter, to ask that he leave her be as she attempts to seek help for herself. The fact that part of this is his doing, that her current suffering is a direct result of the child he'd put inside of her, makes him feel… lowly, as if he should hate himself for adding to the burden of what she carries now when he knows he should be doing what he can to lighten it.

"Very well. If it will… assist you, then I've nothing to say except that I… should like to accompany you."

Shock takes over her expression as she at last turns back to him. "Wait. What?"

"I said that I should like to accompany you. If you will permit me, of course."

Her eyes narrow at him, scrutinizing his face as if searching for any sign that he is lying. "Are you… sure?"

No, he is assuredly not certain of this course, but telling her so would do neither of them any favors. "I would scarcely have offered were I not."

"But… why?" She seems perplexed that he should wish to be with her while doing this, uncomprehending of the possibility that he might desire to help her.

"I dislike the idea of you being unattended while you are so…" Weakened, he wants to say, powerless and fragile and ill. He does not speak those things, however, since he feels that to call her any of them might reignite the ever-present tension inherent in their new dynamic. "Indisposed."

She blows out a breath that's half laugh, half frustration. "I'm not a Victorian debutante. It's perfectly fine for me to be alone."

Alone. That word. It coils in his belly like a poisonous snake, sinking its venomous fangs into the vulnerable flesh of his insides. She had offered to raise their child alone. By herself. Without him even having knowledge of its existence. Not for the first time, he wishes he could reach back through the millennia and pluck that infernal grimoire from the very fabric of the universe, undoing all of its horrid history so that May would never have thought to lie to him about it. A child would have been a happy occurrence for them if not for the dark, thunderous cloud of her betrayal hanging over their tattered relationship.

Still, there is no place for his anger, for his sorrow in the reality of his… of May seeking medical attention for herself. "Nonetheless, I would prefer to escort you."

May studies him warily, clearly unsure of this seeming capitulation from him. "You… can tag along if you want. I mean… she's your kid too, so if you want to be there, I won't stop you."

"She?"

Her apprehension melts away in an instant, a loving smile blossoming on her face as one of her hands settles atop where their child grows, and the sight of this makes his heartbeat speed up, makes that manifested organ thud rapidly in his chest. Throughout his many eons of existence, she is the only one who has ever been able to affect it so, the only one who's ever caused such… mortal reactions within the boundaries of this flesh form of his.

"Yeah," she answers quietly, a joy in her tone that reminds him of the softest parts of the universe. The silken smoothness of her skin beneath his fingertips. The hazy twinkle of a galaxy above him. The muted shine of a sun in the wake of spring storms. The feel of a new babe in his arms, tender and trusting. "She. I've… got a feeling it's a girl."

A daughter. A little girl with May's lovely eyes and her beautiful smile. The dream of it is enchanting, captivating enough that he has to forcibly pull himself from its hold, but the want it causes within him lingers on the edges of his thoughts. If things weren't so strained between them, then he would tell her how greatly he wishes for such a thing, how now that the vision of it is in his mind, he can scarcely see their infant as anything except a daughter. But… he cannot give voice to these sentiments, not with his feelings so uncharacteristically flayed and raw, and that is assuredly what they are at this moment. "You cannot know the child's… gender at this stage."

May sighs and brushes past him, walking towards a door on their right marked Stairwell B. It is instinct for him to match his pace to hers, to keep by her side as she wearily begins the arduous trip up and out of the garage. She's been faint for weeks, and he's very aware that her collapses seem to have no set pattern, no real warning before they occur. It puts him on alert for the risk of another, especially given the fearsome nature of these stairs were she to fall unconscious and tumble down them. And so he means to stay close out of caution, ready to catch her should the need arise.

"Probably not," she tells him somewhat breathlessly, and he fights the urge to pick her up and carry her the rest of the way. He knows better, though. Whatever tentative peace they're trying to create between themselves would be utterly demolished if he were to engage in such an act. "But… it's just a feeling. I can't really explain it."

As they emerge from the garage, the sun is blindingly bright, and he glances at May where she's wincing from the shine of it. There's a nervousness radiating from her, an anxiety so great that it almost seems like he's experiencing it as his own.

"Will you be disappointed if it is not a girl?" he questions in an effort to take her mind off her disquiet.

At the crosswalk where they're waiting for the light to change, she looks towards him, a thoughtful expression on her face. "I just… want her to be healthy. Everything else is kinda… secondary to that."

He mulls over this while they continue walking. Is she fearful that the child might not be well? Does she think that her sickness is affecting it in some way? He would ask, but he knows that she will not grant him the truth of the matter, not now. In their new relationship, she seems unwilling to show any sort of vulnerability before him, unwilling to do anything that might be indicative of a need where he's concerned.

It makes him think of those decades before their union had ended, of those years when they'd depended on one another, when she'd never hesitated to show him the most fragile parts of herself, when he'd never hesitated to reveal his own shortcomings. Together, they had each closed the gaps in the other, had strengthened their varying frailties and softened their harsh angles by dint of their love and respect and hope. But now… that is no longer the case. Now, things are shattered between them, the pieces of what they once shared set aflame by her betrayal and allowed to burn until only ashes remain of their once-great love.

On arriving at the building she had pointed at earlier, he steps forward to pull open the door for her, and she pauses, seemingly stunned by this meager consideration from him. Something vicious inside of him twists, and that sorrow he'd sworn to ignore earlier comes rearing back with a vengeance.

Calm down, you actual idiot, she thinks, and it's louder in his mind this time than it was the last. He doesn't mean anything by it, doesn't care about you or what you're going through. It's just a habit for him. Stop reminiscing on how he used to do this. Stop thinking about how things used to be. Just smile and walk in before he notices you freaking out, for fuck's sake.

And then she does. A threadbare smile tugs her lips up before she steps inside the cool air of the medical facility, a chill taking over her that almost has him stripping off his jacket to drape about her shoulders. Given her mental diatribe regarding his merely opening the door for her, however, he doesn't think that covering her with his coat would be well received.

Across the rather large room they find themselves in, there's a counter set at the opposite corner, its front marked with a sign that reads Check In. The receptionist sitting behind it is an older woman who raises an eyebrow at May and Morpheus when they approach.

"Can I help you?" she questions in a way that makes him think she'd rather not actually help them at all.

May gives a gracious smile. "Yes. I'm Doctor Martin's eleven o'clock."

The woman, whom Morpheus is growing to dislike more and more with every second they stand there, gives May an unimpressed once-over before turning her attention to a computer in front of her. "Michaela Westin?"

Morpheus glances down at May. It's a new name for her, one of a dozen he's heard her take over the century he's truly known her for, but it surprises him still. That she has assumed another false identity is not strange, a necessary evil she'd once called it, but that she should choose to do so even with those she might trust with her health is jarring. Was it simply Viego's paranoia that drove her to do such a thing? Or something else? Something more to do with their quick escape from their previous home? Matthew had told him that their journey to the new location had been an unpleasant one, that May had been sickly for the entirety of it and that Viego had apologized for being unable to stop and allow her rest. Granted, the older maker has always been meticulous when it came to his sister's safety, even during those many years that she had resided in the Dreaming, but... today had been different. Viego had been off. Not for the first time, Morpheus wonders if there is some specific danger that he is not being told of, if May and her brother are purposely keeping yet another secret from him.

After all, it is not as if she's never done it before.

"I found you. You're here for an appointment and an eight week scan. Is that right?"

"Yeah. I drank all the water I needed to, and I'm… good to go."

"It says here that you're… self pay. We'll need to verify your payment information."

"Of course." May rummages around in her purse, bringing her wallet out and sliding a black card emblazoned with the words American Express towards the receptionist, who picks it up and eyes it doubtfully.

"This is yours? No offense, hun, but I'm going to need your ID."

May's all politeness, all sweetness despite the woman's obvious rudeness. "No problem," she says as she hands another card over, this one with her picture on the front of it.

And the woman, whom he can glean is named Karen Talbot, seems just as unimpressed by this as she had by May's appearance. Morpheus feels anger swell up inside of him for this foul creature's disrespect. He very rarely cares for what mortals think of him, but he can see from Karen's thoughts that her opinion of May is a low thing, one full of prejudice and assumption. Unwed and with child, a morally unacceptable state by her small-minded reckoning. Never mind that May is kind and loving and his… Well, his nothing now, he supposes. She does not belong to him any longer, can be called nothing else in regards to him save for being referred to as the mother of his child.

He'd like to pretend he doesn't understand why that realization drives a spike of pain through his heart, but he cannot. It would be too large of a lie for him to swallow.

The receptionist casts a discourteous, dubious look at him. "And are you a… party to this?" She gestures towards May. "Maybe an… acquaintance of hers?"

May seeks to intercede, clearly trying to save him from having to interact with this loathsome female. "Oh, no. He's-"

"Her husband," Morpheus supplies before he can stop himself. He's not given to lying usually, not one to truly waste his time with falsehoods, and yet in these circumstances he almost feels it necessary.

"She indicated she was single on the intake forms," Karen argues, and in that instant he begins crafting his most terrifying punishment for her, begins envisioning what horror he will visit on her when he dooms her to an eternity of never ending sleep with his most savage Nightmares.

"An oversight clearly excused by her condition, I assure you," he practically growls in response. It is a petty thing, perhaps, to allow some of his power into the words, to touch this woman's mind with a hint of the nightmarish hell he's capable of inflicting upon her, but he relishes it all the same. The receptionist pales, and he takes a sort of perverse pleasure in that as well.

"Sorry for that. I'm his wife. Pregnancy brain is absolutely real and absolutely horrible," May interjects, her voice an octave higher than usual in something that Morpheus would call panic. "Should we just wait over here then? That would… probably be best."

The receptionist is staring at Morpheus with wide, terrified eyes as she shakily holds out a clipboard with a stack of papers atop it. "I… um… I need him to fill out the… the forms."

"Right. The forms," May answers, far too quickly as she snatches a pen from the cup of them on the desk. "We'll get those taken care of and back to you in a jiffy."

And then she's grabbing hold of Morpheus' sleeve and tugging him impatiently to a set of chairs at the farthest end of the room.

"Don't do that," she hisses when they've sat down. "The poor woman looked like she was going to have a heart attack."

"Poor woman? She should consider herself fortunate that you intervened, else she would have been thrust into the most abhorrent, cruel fate I was capable of rendering unto a mortal. Do you know what she was thinking of you? Do you have any idea how grievously she was judging you?" he hisses right back.

"Even without my magic, I was picking up on it. Okay? But you don't need to worry about that. I'm a big girl. I can handle someone not approving of my life choices."

He doesn't care. He doesn't care. He doesn't care, her thoughts ring out in his mind. He's just got a vested interest in the baby, and you're housing the baby, so get a hold of yourself.

"I could not stand idly by while she spoke to you so disrespectfully."

The sound she makes is one of immense irritation. "Well, you defended my honor and now there's a stack of paperwork for me to fill out, so thanks for that."

He doesn't know what she expects him to say to that, as he's certainly not going to apologize. But… then he remembers that he had been trying to lighten the load of her stress, and a sense of misgiving washes over him.

"You need not manage this on my behalf." He reaches out decisively to pluck the clipboard from her lap. "I am more than capable of this task."

"Hey!" she whisper-protests. "Don't… Just let me do it. It's-"

"I will see to this. It is not up for discussion."

May purses her lips and then puts her hands up, palm out, in a gesture of surrender. "Okay. Fine. Have it your way."

Christ on a potato, he's really rocking that surly, toddler temper tantrum energy now, she thinks.

Morpheus gives her a side-eyed glare for that comment, despite that she had not actually spoken it aloud, before he starts on the forms. It only takes him a few minutes to realize that he might… be on unsteady footing regarding this specific undertaking. Of course, he refuses to accept her assistance or admit anything resembling defeat, so he forges ahead with what he'd set out to do.

She tries several more times to help him in poring over the frankly obscene number of redundant questions he's required to answer, but he only waves her attempts away. And for a time she seems to settle, though he knows that she is merely taking a different approach as he can feel her eyes on him still, watching while he ticks away at the multitude of boxes. She says nothing, staying silent until he comes to the form titled Medical History.

May chokes out a muted laugh and reaches over to tap the page where he'd just written I am no more tense than usual, certainly not enough to warrant use of the word hyper beside one of the boxes.

"Yeah. Cross that out," May instructs him blithely. "Hypertension is a condition where mortals have high blood pressure, which… you don't even have blood if you don't want to."

As he strikes an angry line through the sentence, he cannot help his scowl. "This is irritatingly tedious."

She shrugs as if his ire is of no real concern to her. "I offered to do it for you."

"This entire outing is an exercise in futility, wholly pointless considering that this mortal doctor will likely be unable to assist you in any meaningful way."

Her face falls, a sudden melancholy coming over her that brings him up short. "Just… don't start that."

Her thoughts this time are very loud, and he ponders over the curious phenomenon anew. Typically, he has to actively seek the mental workings of another out. He's not used to having such things projected into his awareness, and hers seem to be growing in intensity and volume with every occurrence. I'm such an idiot. Of fucking course he couldn't just stow his crap and let me get help. Never mind that I think I'm actually dying or something. Even that isn't important enough to get him to cool it.

Dying? Is she truly fearful that her… her illness is so dire?

His shoulders drop from where they'd been unconsciously tensed, and he blinks several times as he scrutinizes her more closely. She's a gaunt thing, he realizes then, from the dark smudges under her eyes to the unnatural pallor of her skin. Her lips are dry and cracked in places, one particular spot on the lower one especially red as if she is so dehydrated that the skin there is breaking apart and bleeding.

In that moment, he feels vile, loathsome, like nothing less than the most revolting sort of pond scum, like his treatment of her in this instance is even more contemptible than the receptionist's had been. Despite their past and his upset over it, May is currently grappling with something he cannot understand, rendered weak and weary from the weight of his seed growing inside of her. She is uncharacteristically afraid, he can see now, drained of her magic and suffering from what he'd unintentionally done to her by getting her with child in the first place.

And all he has offered her in return for this burden she's carrying is his petulant sullenness, his mean-spirited pessimism.

"I… apologize," he murmurs before he can even stop to consider what he's saying, "if I've given you cause to feel you must argue with me on this matter. It… was not my intention."

Her expression gentles, and her eyes well with tears that she hastily wipes at. "It's… I get it. This… isn't what you're used to."

"Nonetheless, it is… no excuse for my churlishness."

She nods, and his heart wrenches uncomfortably with how very bereft she seems as she does so. "It's… okay."

His eyes narrow as he considers this acceptance from her. How very easily she forgives him. How quickly she dismisses his faults in having behaved so abhorrently towards her.

How different things might have been between them if only he were capable of doing the same.

He must not think of that, must not imagine what could have been. That part of their relationship is done, the path of it obliterated and lost so that only mere echoes of it remain, but he knows that they can learn to do better by one another going forward. With the both of them preparing to parent a child together, they truly have no other choice in the matter.

"And how shall I answer this?" he asks as he points randomly at a word on the checklist of mortal maladies before him. It is an olive branch of sorts, a gesture meant to demonstrate to her that he is willing to listen.

Suspiciously, her eyes flick up at him before she turns them down to where he's indicated.

"Heart disease? I'm pretty sure you know you don't have that." A barely there smile tugs her lips up, and it is a sad thing to behold, like the drooping petals of a wilting flower trying to bloom. "You could probably just answer no to everything. It's… what I did."

"Very well."

"And… whatever you do, don't put down how many actual glasses of wine you can consume in a day when it gets to that part."

He frowns at her, his mind working to make sense of what she's just told him. "I assume… it would be a tell that I am not… normal then," he guesses.

Her eyes sparkle faintly with an unexpected mirth, a sort of teasing shine to them that is still dulled somehow. "Big yes. Biggest yes ever."

"I see."

When he's finished, May cautiously takes the forms from his hand to look over everything, and he surrenders the papers to her without dissent. A month ago, such an act on her part would have infuriated him, but he's… regretful. The self-hatred he feels in the wake of his actions is churning inside of him violently, forcing him to an apologetic tentativeness. And May has always had a far better sense of the norms in this realm than he, a truth he had recognized very early in their relationship when they made their occasional trips into the Waking. He supposes that she would be the best to ensure his answers are satisfactory.

After she's scanned it all twice, she goes to stand, and he stays her with a hand on her arm.

"What is it? I'm just heading over there to hand this to the receptionist."

"Sit," he orders roughly before gentling his tone. "I shall do so in your stead."

May hesitates. "You're not going to do anything else to… anyone, are you?"

It takes him a minute before he understands her meaning. The receptionist. She's worried for the receptionist. It is only with great control that he keeps his expression from darkening in remembrance. That woman had been abysmally rude to May, had treated her as if she were less than, as if she were something low and offensive, and all May is concerned with is making sure he doesn't exact retribution on the human. He struggles to reconcile her kindness, her goodness, with the fact that she had assuredly composed spells for that infernal grimoire, had written the very one that ensnared him even.

"I will… merely deliver these documents and then return to you. No… further defense of your honor, as you call it."

"Morpheus-"

"You have my word."

That seems to assuage her fear as she huffs out a resigned sigh before passing him the clipboard, and he rises to his feet, stalking to where Karen is still watching him with wide eyes, her whole demeanor like that of a rat with a hungry hawk swooping overhead.

Good.

"The… n-nurse should… should take her back in a… in a minute," Karen informs him as she holds out May's cards for him between her trembling fingers.

Morpheus glares as he bites his tongue on saying what he wishes to, which is that she is a poor example of humanity given to ignorance and the most foolish of the moral mires inherent in her society. But he… refuses to speak such truths given that by doing so he would only serve to further distress his… to further distress May, and he does not wish to see any more troubled than she already is.

"Very well," he grants instead, even as he idly wonders if it would be a violation of his oath to May were he to send this woman a particularly foul nightmare when next she slept. Something, perhaps, that might assist her in loosening her hold on her hateful prejudices.

"Thank you, Karen." May says, startling him as she appears at his side, taking her cards from the woman to slide them back inside her bag. "Did I hear you say the nurse would come get me soon?"

Karen, however, won't look away from Morpheus, and any other time he might take a sense of pride in her obvious fear. Now, however, he's too busy peering down at May in confusion. Had she not trusted him to do this? Had she believed that he would disregard his vow to her on leaving the mortal woman be?

Why does the thought of her so thoroughly doubting him… hurt?

He has no time to question her on any of this, though, as the door closest to him opens and another human steps out of it, a clipboard held in her hand as well.

"Michaela Westin?"

"That's me. I'm here. Hi." May smiles brightly, a veneer of polite cheer on her features that Morpheus thinks is but a mask. He's noticed her doing that often in the past few weeks, smiling as if she means it despite the air of hopelessness around her most of the time.

"Hello there! I'm Annabeth. Let's get you back into a room, sweetheart, and then I'll get some more information from you before we get started."

As May steps past him, it's instinct for him to rest his hand on the small of her back, to guide her so that she's walking slightly in front of him as they both cross this threshold.

He follows her into the inner sanctum of the physician's office, trailing after the nurse as she leads them through the labyrinthine mess of hallways and doors before ushering them into a room, a sterile, clinically white space with a large window and a rather tall bed pushed up against the farthest wall. There's a chair off to one corner and May directs him to it, shoving her bag into his stomach as she demurely asks, "Will you hold this for me, love muffin?"

Love… muffin? Love muffin? What a preposterous way to refer to him. The unmitigated cheek of this foolhardy female. It is only with a herculean effort that he manages to bite back his waspish response as he settles into the seat, glowering at her while he adjusts her bag in his hold.

But then… the nurse has her step on a scale, writing down May's weight with a worried frown that makes Morpheus instantly forget his annoyance at her insolent epithet for him.

"Why don't you hop up on the table for me, and I'll get some more vitals."

A strange panic is overwhelming him, but May seems calm, so he tries to placate himself as well, using her reactions a a guidepost for his own. When May's sitting on the bed, the nurse puts an odd device around the uppermost part of her arm, a cuff of some sort with a tube and a humming machine attached to it.

And May remains relaxed.

"It'll get tight, sugar," the nurse warns, and Morpheus tries to distract himself as she presses a button on the device. He studies this nurse, this Annabeth. She is… kinder than the receptionist had been, her mind drastically more pleasant, and he can read from it that she thinks May appears… sickly, more sickly than she should perhaps be. It's not quite fear she has, though, but more pity, a genuine compassionate urge to tend to May which Morpheus finds that he wholeheartedly approves.

May winces, and suddenly Morpheus can take no more. He moves to rise, to go to her, to put an immediate end to this madness where she is being poked and prodded before him, but she stops him with a pointed glare. "I'm fine, dear. They're just checking my blood pressure."

Annabeth looks between May and Morpheus, her eyebrows raising in puzzlement before she seems to comprehend something that makes her laugh. "Oh, I get it. Protective husband is an overprotective daddy."

It's the wrong thing to say.

The blood visibly drains from May's face, and Morpheus feels himself stiffen in shock. Their eyes meet, his and hers, and he can see the sadness there, the clear pain of what could have been. "He's… um… definitely going to be an overprotective dad," May replies, all of her quiet. Broken.

Annabeth, seemingly oblivious to this exchange, goes on with her task of scribbling things down on her clipboard. "Aw, don't fret about it, sweetie. The good ones get that way sometimes. I've had four myself, and my husband wouldn't even let me have my mornin' coffee because he was afraid the babies would come out with three heads or somethin'. It was frustratin' at the time, but in hindsight it was kinda darlin' of him."

Morpheus tears his eyes away from the woman he had once sought to marry, gathers himself as best as he can, and asks hoarsely, "I have read that women in such a state should not partake of caffeine."

Annabeth grins and wags a finger in his direction. "Now you don't start on her if she wants a cup or two. A little won't hurt anybody, even that tiny one of yours. And she sure looks like she could use a pick me up. Don't make it so she's gotta start keepin' a coffee machine and all the necessary fixins in her car like I had to."

May's unexpected laugh is beautiful, wholly melodic. "Your husband caused you to have to stealth brew coffee in your car?"

"Well, I'm fairly certain I'm eighty-seven percent caffeine, so I needed it like most people gotta have oxygen."

The smile May gives is genuine, her usual expression of enjoyment at having someone to converse with, and it strikes Morpheus that perhaps she is… lonely. "You're kind of making me want some coffee now, Annabeth."

"Good luck gettin' it past Mr. Overprotective over there."

To hear May laugh again loosens something in his chest, something that's had a ruthless hold of him since he'd feared she had been taken earlier. He tries to speak, to say anything, but his words are stuck in his throat as emotion swells within him. He loathes that he loves her, that he cares for her still despite that he should not.

"All righty. Any other symptoms you want me to put in your chart for the doctor, sweetie?" Annabeth questions, and the sound of the nurse's voice snaps him out of his thoughts. "It says on your form that you've been gettin' sick."

May's easy contentment falters, her face falling. "I… Yes."

"How often, would you say?

May casts a hesitant glance at Morpheus before turning her attention back to Annabeth. "Almost… every hour."

"You been keepin' anything down at all?" the nurse asks with a frown, her brows furrowed in concern as she scrutinizes May anew.

May begins fidgeting again, something that she only engages in when she's especially nervous, and he feels his heart sink with dread. "Um… no. I don't think so."

Nothing at all? He had known that she was suffering from morning sickness, but to be retaining no nourishment cannot be safe for her or their child. Alarm floods him as the nurse moves to a cabinet and begins rummaging around in it.

"Lord Mercy, that sounds horrid," she says as she pulls her hand free with a large rectangle of fabric clutched between her fingers. "I'm gonna need you to get undressed from the waist down and put this over your lap. We'll try to do the ultrasound abdominally at first, but if we can't get a good picture we'll switch to the transvaginal." She points to two buttons on the wall. "Press this green one when you're ready, and Dr. Martin will have a look at you and the baby, see if he can't figure out something to help you with that nausea."

Help. Yes… May needs help. For the first time since he'd began this little excursion with her, Morpheus thinks he finally understands why she'd felt desperate enough to seek any healer out, even one mortal and ill-suited to treat her.

"That sounds great," May breathes out, a relief in her tone that cuts at Morpheus. He'd been ready to stop her today, had been so aggravated at what he perceived to be a ridiculous folly that he'd threatened to forcibly shift her home.

Annabeth grabs her papers and exits the room, leaving a heavy silence in her wake.

May undoes the top button of her pants before she at last spares him a glance. "Can you… look away? Maybe turn around or…"

He wants to remind her that he's seen her naked body more times than this planet they're on has had stars crash into its surface, but she seems unnerved again, altogether stressed by how he might respond to this request of hers.

"If you wish, I could wait outside."

May shakes her head. "No, that's fine. Just turn around. If I send you out of the room, they'll assume we're fighting or something."

Dutifully, he faces away from her. "Ah, yes. It is important they do not see through the lie."

"Hey, that's not on me," she tells him over the shuffling sounds she's making. "You told them we were married. I was perfectly fine with them thinking I liked to sleep around or that we'd just gotten blackout drunk one night in Vegas and knocked boots without a condom."

He hadn't been fine with it, however. No matter her apparent acceptance of such a thing, the thought of her being viewed, being treated as less than had grated on him. "It doesn't… bother you? That they might… judge you so harshly for something they know nothing of?"

"Nope. Believe it or not, humans are pretty cool about that stuff these days. Well, most of them. The bitchy receptionist was a fluke."

"May-"

She huffs out a short laugh. "Sorry. Sorry. I know. You don't like that word."

His forehead creases."No, that is not… what I was intending to speak to you of. Please feel free to apply whatever colorful language you would like concerning that foul creature who greeted us upon entering."

"Wow. She really did piss you off, huh?"

He can hear the noise of paper crinkling behind him, and he wonders what exactly she's doing back there. "She angered me greatly. Her… attitude towards you was… unacceptable."

The sounds stop as she responds, "There are always going to be people who think badly of you here. You… get used to it after a while."

He can't help his scoff. "Is that meant to convince me that her behavior wasn't insulting?"

"Nope. It's just… It is what it is. There's no point in letting it upset you… Also, you can turn around now if you want."

She's sitting on the table, that mask of false cheer back on her face, the rectangle of fabric spread out over her bare lap, and without the benefit of a thick sweater on her, he can see exactly why the nurse had seemed uneasy when she'd taken May's weight. She's assuredly gotten thinner, likely a side effect of being unable to properly partake of any nourishment. Panic twists his stomach into a knot.

"Why… did you not inform me of how ill you were?" His voice is ragged with emotion, with the great well of battling sentiments inside of him.

The mask slides off of her features, and she glances down guiltily at the floor, twiddling her fingers in a restlessness that speaks to her trepidation. "It just… wasn't something that I really could work into a conversation, you know? Or something I even thought you'd care about. Like, what was I supposed to say? Oh I know you hate me and all but by the way, I'm really sick."

It's the second time she's mentioned him hating her, and despite the fact that he wishes he did, he's all too aware that he seems incapable of such a feeling where she's concerned. "Regardless of what you might assume, I do not… hate you."

Her thoughts, when they filter through his mind, are devastating, wrenching his heart with all the vengeful viciousness of their separation. But you do. I can see it in your eyes, hear it in your voice. You might not want to admit it out loud, but you… you hate me. And I… hate me a little too. If only I could…. If only…. Never mind. It doesn't matter.

He opens his mouth to address this, to deny it, but he falters, his words stuck on the tip of his tongue. After all, what might he say to correct this belief of hers? What could he honestly give her that would change her mind? How can he adequately explain his feelings when he doesn't even understand them himself?

"You wanna press the button for me? So… I don't have to get up and all."

Dejectedly, he reaches out to do just that, but... something gives him pause. There's an odd smell in the air, an acrid hint of ozone and burning leaves, all melded with the iron tang of blood. His power flares at the scent, a warning shooting through his awareness like a bolt of lightning striking a tree.

Outside the room they're in, it's gone eerily silent. Deathly so, he would almost say, and when he expands his perception to get a read on who or what is near them, he's met with a disturbing blankness, one he's only ever known during the time he was trapped in that binding circle at Fawney Rig, the time all those decades ago that he was made powerless by Roderick Burgess.

And in that moment, Morpheus knows two things with utter surety. The first is that he was indeed correct when he'd surmised earlier that May was in danger outside Viego's wards, that she had been reckless to leave them on her own. Obviously, something or someone has been tracking her, lying in wait for the opportunity they might have were she to be free of the ward's protections. The second thing he knows, and perhaps the part that most worries him, is that whatever or whomever has been on her trail is in this building with them. Right now.

NEXT CHAPTER

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