Author's Note: Story has some language.
"Good afternoon, Hob."
The voice was strangely comforting. Like a memory hidden in the back of your head, like the smell of a book you read over and over as a kid. Smelling didn't just bring back the book, but your entire childhood. Feelings, emotions, places. Stuff I hadn't remembered in a long time. Well, that voice was a crackling fire and clinking glasses and loud voices. That voice was high tittering, clicking of shoes, an out-of-tune violin. That voice was the joy of life and the disappointment of it as well.
It could only be him.
"Jesus," I whispered softly.
"Not quite."
I turned around. And it wasn't. It wasn't him. He had the same face, the same weird eyes, but no more of those goofy funeral clothes. It was a bizarre version of him… if it was him at all…
"No, I meant 'Jesus.' Like as in 'Holy shit, you're alive...'"
"Alive?"
"Well, you… well… sort of you… died. If you ever lived. I guess that's what you're talking about. Shit."
"Yes, Hob. Shit, however, escapes me."
"Shit. It's crap."
"Mm."
The kid didn't get it. I dunno why I pushed it, but I did.
"Poop."
"I understood the first time."
All right. Error on my part. It happens sometimes.
"You act just like him. I mean your voices…"
"I am him."
"All right. You're going to pull some fucking crazy theory out of your arse and you're going to act like it makes sense. Well, it doesn't."
"Not 'crazy.' It's simple. I am him, Hob."
"That's what I'm talking about. Crazy, stupid shit. I knew you were going to do that."
"From what little I know of your people, you are one of the more vulgar sort."
"Only you could make me talk like a sewer. You and your crazy—"
"Shit?"
"See, you're getting the hang of it."
Pause.
"So are you really him?"
"Yes."
"You look different."
"Better."
"Better?"
"I look… better."
I let out a hoarse laugh. "At least you've got a better sense of humor. Jeez."
"I'm glad you found that humorous, Hob."
Pause.
"Why did he have to die?"
"Must I say it again?"
"You know what I mean. Yeah, yeah, you're him, you're Mr. Dream King, blah, blah, blah. But you're not. He died. Why?"
Pause.
"You've known him longer than almost anyone."
"Yeah." I kind of sniffed. Great, now I was sniffing in front of this gangly teenage kiddie version of… of… I don't even know what to call him.
"Then you know."
"Can you just tell me? I'm in a dream; I don't actually want to think."
"It was time for… a change."
"Jesus Christ, you sound like fucking Barack Obama. You needed a change just because he needed to lighten up a little? Just because he wanted dark mead every time we met? Just because…" Tears. Was it possible to taste tears in a dream? Well, I think I did. Just a little. It tasted like that bottle of wine… it tasted like the snow falling on my face as he gave his little smug smile and said adios. Just like that.
"We are Dream," he said simply.
"Dream," I repeated. "Is that your name? You guys', I mean. Dream?"
"If that is what you wish to call me, yes."
"Dream." I smiled. Just a bit. "That bastard never told me his name."
"He was called many things."
"Dream's fine." I waved my hand. "It helps, you know? Names."
"I think you are tired."
"Yeah. Probably. I'm pretty sure you're screwing up my REM right now."
"Yes."
He looked away into the distance of the blank space, or at least I assumed he was looking away. His head was turned. But his eyes— you couldn't tell. You couldn't tell anything about his eyes. When you looked straight into them, I got this weird feeling you wouldn't come out. After a few centuries, I figured the forehead was always a good place to aim for when looking at him. His nose was too funny. Kinda crooked, sorta long. Aww, Christ.
"You're a funny kid." Said without choking up. Damn, I'm good.
"Kid?"
"Yeah."
"I suppose so." He turned back towards me, and I got this sudden vibe of hesitance. For every trait the previous Dream had had, hesitance had not been one of them. He knew his job… whatever the hell it was, exactly. This guy just looked confused. Lost.
"Hey, you all right?" Me. Me, a little mortal who happened to get lucky and live a few extra years. Me, asking after the well-being of a freakishly supernatural god, or whatever he was.
"This is…" He gestured around. "…new to me."
"I can kinda tell. No offense or anything. And… you're doing just fine."
No half, ironic little smile here like daddy dearest used to do. We've got both sides of the mouth moving. Hell, he almost even showed his teeth. "Thank you."
"No problem."
"I apologize for coming."
"Don't. It's good to see you. Well, sorta you."
His long fingers laid themselves elegantly on his face. It was like a sculpture straight from ancient Greece, the veins carefully rising from underneath his paper skin, the light depression of his cheek against his fingers. "His memories of you were fond," he said ponderingly.
Oh God. Now I was choking up.
"Few were as close to him as you. All I received from my predecessor were feelings… not exactly memories, but emotions, opinions. Of you, they are positive.
"Do you mind?" he asked suddenly.
"Mind what?" Oh, I sounded so miserable.
"Me."
"No, no. It's… it's nice. Your voices are the same."
"Might I come and speak with you from time to time?"
"Um."
"I'm sorry. I should not have…" The lost, confused look came onto his ethereal features once more.
"No, it's…"
"I know I am not him, but if I still might impose on you, I promise it would not be often…" He was stuttering. Rambling. He was a kid. A little kid, swamped in his daddy's clothes that puddled onto the floor.
"You're not him. But you're pretty damn close. You've got a better sense of style and your jokes are ten times better."
His forlorn face turned up to gaze at me. "Sometimes, I feel like I'm not..."
It had been a few seconds until I realized I was staring straight into his eyes. And they were there. Buried beneath the stars and the world and every other huge intangible thing you could ever think of was a person. A real, honest-to-God person.
"Yeah, you're not. Not yet. You've got an eternity ahead of you... I think. See me whenever you want. I'll be here until the world blows itself up."
"Truly?"
"Yeah. What's your name again?"
"Dre—"
"No. Your name."
He paused for a moment. "Daniel," he responded softly.
I nodded. "Well, Daniel, I think this is the start of a beautiful friendship." I offered my hand to shake.
"I feel like I am missing something," he said, slowly taking my offer.
"Next time you drop by, we'll watch it. I promise."
This time, the teeth actually and honestly appeared. Very white.
"Thank… you, Hob Gadling."
He turned around, his white cloak gently blending with the bland background of the dream.
"No. Thank you, Daniel. Thank you very, very much."He probably couldn't even hear me. Not that it mattered. I'd see him pretty soon.
Jesus. It was cold. Ahh, blizzard. That's what the white was for. How fantastic. I sat down in the now whirling snow, stark naked with some crazy French revolutionaries boxing behind me. Mmm. Something in my hand. Funny, I hadn't noticed that—
Red Bordeaux, 1855. I'll save it for next time.