Chapter Text
It was a dark and stormy night…
Okay, no, it wasn’t. In fact, it was late afternoon. The sun hadn’t even set yet, although the thick thunderclouds were giving twilight their best shot. And up until, say, five minutes ago, it hadn’t even been stormy - chilly, yes, and blustery, with a hint of petrichor in the air. But not actually raining.
Now, though, it was bucketing down as though someone had flushed the toilet of heaven over the New Inn. Hob Gadling, proprietor and occasional barman, hesitated on the threshold for a moment, taking a deep breath of the storm-scented air, and smiled to himself. He loved the smell of rain, especially after the oppressive heat of the last week. It was like a cleansing.
He put up the ‘Please come in - door closed because of the weather!’ sign and reluctantly pulled the door shut. Much as he loved the rain, he didn’t want it all over his floor. The little awning over the front door wouldn’t be much help against a deluge like this.
He ambled back to his post behind the bar, smiling amiably, stopping here and there to exchange a few words with a patron. The pub was warm and cosy against the onslaught of the storm, the beer was flowing, and the unfortunates trapped by the storm would probably add an evening meal to their bar tab. All very good for business. Not that he really needed it, mind. The New Inn was a fixture in the village, and the locals would probably keep supporting it even if they started serving horse piss and deep-fried carpet underlay. Tradition was funny that way. After all these years, the regulars formed something of a family, with its own routines and rhythms and, yes, dramas.
He looked up, surprised, as the bell above the door jingled. Who in their right mind would be out in this weather?
In the door stood a man that resembled nothing so much as a wet cat. ( That one specific picture , Hob’s brain thought, of that very ticked-off black cat getting a bath…) Black hair (wet, plastered to his head but already starting to stick up in places, like little cat ears), black boots, and a long black coat buttoned up to his chin. The coat looked to be high quality, probably wool, and rather warmer than the weather demanded. The rainwater dripping from it was creating a small pond on the pub floor. The man looked down at the drip-drip sound, and glared at the puddle as if he could dry it up with the sheer force of his disapproval. Hob couldn’t help but smile - it was a bit like watching a displeased toddler faced with a pale of boiled cabbage.
“Over here,” he called, digging out a clean tea towel from under the bar and waving it in the air. The stranger stalked over, and accepted the cloth with a softly murmured “thank you.”
“Sure,” Hob smiled, as the man dabbed carefully at his face. It was a losing battle, since his hair was dripping onto his forehead just as fast as he could dry it off. “In fact, hang on a mo and I’ll go grab you a proper towel.”
Hob quickly trotted up the stairs to his flat and grabbed the towel - one of the nice deep violet ones he kept for guests, which he thought would suit the man’s tastes better than one from his own buttercup yellow set.
“There you go.” Hob smiled as he handed over the towel. The stranger had wisely decided to remove his sodden coat, allowing Hob to get a good look at him. Either the guy had just come from a funeral, or he really was committed to his black-on-black aesthetic. What did the kids call it nowadays? Emo? Black jeans, black shirt, black boots. All perfectly fitted and looking more expensive than anything Hob owned. Like an 80’s goth that went to a posh private school.
After some vigorous rubbing, the stranger’s head finally emerged from the towel. Hob had to bite back a laugh - his black hair now very much resembled an old-time chimney sweep’s broom. Well, it worked with the goth aesthetic, at least. Very punk. And - Hob looked a bit closer just to be sure - unless he was mistaken, the guy was even wearing eyeliner. That, or he hadn’t had a good night’s sleep in months. It rather suited him, though. Brought out the blue of his eyes. An icy sapphire hue, like the ocean on the first sunny day of spring.
“Thank you.” The stranger handed his towel back to him.
“No problem,” Hob replied easily. Really, very few things were a problem for Hob’s easygoing nature. “Here, let me hang your coat up by the radiator to dry.”
The stranger handed over his coat wordlessly, looking at Hob as if he were some sort of strange puzzle. Maybe the guy wasn’t used to kindness. He looked like a city boy; Hob knew people could be right arseholes in London.
“Must say, I wasn’t expecting anyone to be walking around in this downpour,” Hob commented idly.
“It wasn’t raining when I set out.” Two things struck Hob about that reply. One, the stranger had a voice unlike anything he’d ever heard. Deep, dark, smoky; it seemed like entirely too much depth and timbre for such a small frame to contain. And two, the stranger was pouting, honest to god pouting - at the prospect of rain in England, no less - and it was quite possibly the cutest thing Hob had ever seen.
“Well, it's always best to carry an umbrella around here,” he remarked. “Whereabouts are you staying anyway? Don’t think I’ve seen you around.” He definitely hadn’t. He would have remembered.
“I’m renting Chalom cottage,” the stranger replied. Hob was familiar with the cottage; the owner and her late husband had been fixtures at the New Inn even back when it was still the White Horse, and Hob was just a spotty kid helping out on weekends. The cottage was a couple of miles from the pub, which explained how the weather had enough time to turn during the man’s walk to the pub. But the last Hob heard, Esther was looking to let it to a permanent tenant, not just holidaymakers.
“Planning on staying for a while then?”
“That seems likely, at this stage.”
“Well, then, I should introduce myself properly, I’m sure we’ll be seeing each other often enough. I’m Hob Gadling, I run this place.” He held out a hand in greeting. The stranger regarded him, and then his hand, with slight puzzlement, before gingerly reaching out to shake Hob’s hand.
“My name is Morpheus.”
Oh-kaaay. Definitely an emo boy.
“Some people prefer to call me Murphy.”
Hell no, Hob thought. Murphy was the name for a balding middle-aged cop in a nineties sitcom, not this strangely alluring creature of the night. And judging by said creature’s little moue of distaste, he agreed.
“Well, those people are wrong,” Hob stated simply. And Morpheus… didn’t smile, exactly, but Hob could tell he was pleased.
“Anyways, welcome to the village. Now, what can I get for you?”
Morpheus shivered. “Do you have anything warm?”
“Depends. Do you want alcohol? Coz there’s also coffee and tea, if you want to warm up the responsible way.”
“No, I think a day like this calls for alcohol.”
“Okay, then, I have just the thing for you. It’ll warm you right up.”
Since Hob didn’t have any mulled wine on hand (because it was the middle of the fucking summer), he decided to make Morpheus a drink of his own invention. Dry red wine, sweet old brown sherry, and a slice of orange.
“Go on,” he said, handing over the drink. “Try it, tell me what you think.”
Morpheus took a tentative sip, and seemed to think about the taste for a moment. He made a little hmm sound. Then the corner of his lips turned up in the tiniest of smiles, and he took a second, larger sip. Bingo!
“This is rather pleasant,” he said after swallowing. “What is it? Port?”
“Secret recipe,” Hob winked at him. “My own. Heats you up from the inside.”
Morpheus placed the glass down very deliberately. “I am not taking another sip unless you tell me what I’m drinking,” he said stubbornly.
“Whoa, okay,” Hob raised his hands apologetically. “It’s just red wine and sherry, nothing funny. Although I can add a tot of brandy if you want something stronger.”
“Tempting, but I must decline. I still have to walk home.”
Hob smiled at what he assumed was a joke. “Well, then. You enjoy that while you warm up, and just shout if you want another.”
A few minutes later, Morpheus waved him over.
“Could I trouble you for a piece of paper? I usually carry my own, but…” he held up a small notebook. It was wet through.
“Yeah, sure.” Hob found him one of the paper pads the waitstaff used.
Morpheus produced a pencil from goodness knew where and started scribbling furiously.
“What you writing?” Hob asked, curious as a soon-to-be-deceased cat.
“Oh, just some… things.” Morpheus’s voice was distracted. Clearly, he was already lost in whatever he was doing.
“Okay, then,” Hob said. “I’ll just be… over there.”
Hob got caught up serving and chatting with other patrons, and didn’t get back to Morpheus for a good half-hour. By that time, his drink was empty and he’d filled several pages of the notepad. Currently, he was staring off into space, idly twirling the pencil between his fingers.
“You good?” Hob asked.
Morpheus started a little, as if he hadn’t even noticed Hob was there. Perhaps he hadn’t; he seemed rather lost in his own mind.
“Yes, thank you,” he answered. “Although, if it isn’t a bother, I would like another one of those drinks.”
“Coming right up.” Hob smiled. “Something to eat with that? This stuff hits harder than you’d think.”
“Oh… I suppose that would be a good idea,” Morpheus agreed. He thought for a moment. “Do you have chips?”
“Sure do. Best chips in town, I’d say.” This was true. Geoffrey (or Jeff the chef , as he liked to call himself) was an expert at producing chips that were like little golden pillows of heaven: melt-in-your-mouth soft on the inside, and wonderfully crispy on the outside. “I’ll get you the gourmet special.”
There was, of course, no such thing on the menu. But Hob had recently discovered a penchant for a sprinkling of pecorino and freshly ground pink peppercorns on his chips, and he wanted to share the joy with someone. Besides, starch and sharp cheese were the perfect companions to his sweet cocktail.
Morpheus eyed the plate sceptically when it was delivered… but still, when Hob went to check on him a bit later, it was empty.
“All good?”
“Hmm.” Morpheus was frowning at his paper. “What’s a good word for many?”
“Um. Lots?”
Morpheus glared at him. Hob just shrugged apologetically. “I’m a barman, not a poet.”
Morpheus huffed - whether in frustration or amusement, Hob didn’t care to guess. “In that case, may I have another one of these?” He lifted his empty glass.
“Coming right up.”
By the time Hob called the last round, Morpheus was still sitting in his chair, scribbling away. He’d finished a total of one large plate of chips, four wine cocktails and about half a notebook. And, because Hob is a good and caring person, several glasses of water.
“I suppose I should get going.” Morpheus looked toward the door morosely. The rain was still going strong - no longer a deluge, but nonetheless steady enough that it could be heard even over the hum of the pub. “Would you pass my coat, please?”
Hob gave it a moment’s thought. “Just hang on a sec, I’ll be right back.”
He darted up the stairs to retrieve an umbrella. On the way back, he grabbed Morpheus’s coat too. He walked around to the front of the bar.
“Here you go,” he said.
Morpheus stood up - obviously a bit too quickly for the number of cocktails he’d consumed, because promptly tripped over his own feet, stumbling forward and landing with his hands against Hob’s chest.
“Whoopsie daisy!” Hob said, instinctively grabbing the man’s arms and steadying him.
Morpheus looked up at him through his messy fringe and giggled.
Hob stared, temporarily speechless. Sure, he had talked to the man for all of five minutes, but he was absolutely certain that Morpheus Did Not Giggle.
Except that, apparently, he did. And Hob couldn’t help but find it adorable. He stared a bit more.
“What?” Morpheus asked as he straightened up, a slight pink tinge on his cheeks. Hob held out the umbrella wordlessly.
“That’s not mine.”
“Nope, it’s mine, but you can borrow it. I didn’t dry you out just so you can get soaked again.”
Morpheus regarded him with a quizzical little frown, as if he still couldn’t figure him out. “You are uncommonly kind.”
“Nah, not particularly. As long as you promise to bring it back.”
“And if I don’t?”
“I know where you live.”