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It was a slightly chilly, very dreary afternoon at the New Inn. It had been raining all day, and business was slow thanks to the inclement weather. Hob Gadling sat outside, under the eaves of the awning, enjoying a pint and the sound of the rain. Across his many decades of life, Hob never got tired of listening to the rain—he much preferred to be out of it, of course, but something about the smell of petrichor and the pitter-patter of raindrops against the pavement soothed something in him.
This particular afternoon he'd spent grading, and the beginnings of a headache at his temple told him it was time for a break. With a sigh, he ran a hand down his face, closing his eyes and just listening. It was there, back hunched and eyes screwed shut, that the soft sound of a nearby ‘meow’ caught his attention. Hob stood, searching for the noise. A few feet in front of him, a cat stood, midnight black coat soaked with rain and expression deeply unhappy.
"Hey mate, you alright there?" Hob sat back down slowly, not wanting to startle the creature. He stared at him with large, hungry blue eyes. Hob surreptitiously liberated a piece of turkey from the uneaten half of his sandwich and held it out for the cat. It seemed to perk up, and approached Hob with wary steps.
"There you are, lovely thing," Hob cooed as the cat nipped the bit of meat from between his fingers. The poor thing gobbled it up in two big bites, then stared up at him as if to ask for more.
"Okay, sure thing dearheart, plenty where that came from," Hob started to pick apart his sandwich further but was shocked into stillness when the bony little thing lept onto his lap, dripping coat and all. He sighed, and just pulled the plate closer. "Fine, that's fine. Let me just wipe the mustard off, that can't be good for your wee little tummy," the cat nearly bit off his finger as it fell upon the sandwich. Hob fought off a laugh, taking his hands away from the plate and wiping the grease from his fingers. Carefully, he began to pet the cat—it paused in its feast for half a second, but quickly resumed with a rumbling purr.
"You're rather thin, you know. You kind of remind me of a friend of mine," Hob told the cat conversationally. "He was away for a while, and when he came back he looked just like you do now—all skin and bones with a look that could kill. But under all that, he really is very sweet," the cat, having finished its food, circled Hob's lap. It—he?—looked balefully up at Hob, all wide eyes and mustard on his nose.
"Don't tell him I called him sweet, okay? He probably wouldn't take kindly to it. Are you still hungry? I can take you up to my place, dry you off a bit," the cat licked Hob's hand while he was in the middle of a good chin scratching. "Alright, that seems like a yes. I'm going to pick you up, then, please don't scratch me when I do, I'll be very cross." He wouldn't be, that was a lie, but Hob had to maintain a modicum of self-respect as he conversed with this stray cat.
The cat did not, in fact, scratch Hob as they went inside. He draped himself over Hob's shoulder, head nuzzling into the crook of his neck. Paul, the bartender, raised a single brow at the sight, but wisely said nothing.
Upstairs, the cat god a good toweling down and half a rotisserie chicken before acquiescing to a movie and cuddles on the couch. Hob wondered if the cat would stay—he kind of wanted him to.
It was a rare fair-weather weekend day in London that found Hob at the park, lazing on a blanket in the late afternoon sun. He'd forgotten sunscreen (again), but cancer wasn't going to kill him anytime soon, and he wasn't exactly prone to sunburns either. He was in an especially good mood—Dream had dropped by the New Inn the night before and stayed around for a chat. He'd invited his old friend upstairs, but he had declined. Regardless, an evening spent with the King of Dreams always lifted Hob's spirits (in a way he refused to look too closely at, for his own sanity.)
He'd brought a collection of poems with him today, deciding to channel his inner student and procrastinate writing the midterm. Unfortunately, good old W.E. Henley wasn't holding his attention the way he normally did. He was about halfway through the London Voluntaries when he heard a small noise coming from the bush to his left. Curious, Hob leaned over to inspect the foliage and was met with the sight of a lovely calico cat mid-labor. She was huddled in a cardboard box that had seen better days, two kittens already wet and mewling beside her.
"Oh, for fucks sake," he grumbled, knowing already he'd make this his problem. "Okay old girl, you're fine," he slowly reached a hand in the box to palpate her stomach. He's helped enough cows give birth in his days, it was basically the same thing, right?
It was not, in fact, anywhere near the same.
The cat was too exhausted to do anything but hiss half-heartedly, and he couldn't make heads or tails of what he was feeling. She obviously wasn't quite done yet, but he couldn't leave her here. With a great sigh, Hob packed up his things, swinging the backpack on before returning to the cardboard box. He examed in for a moment—definitely not structurally sound. Quickly, he pulled his blanket back out and used his pocketknife to cut a decent sized square out of it. As carefully as he could, he took the scrap of fabric and maneuvered it under the mama cat (doing his best not to touch the kittens). Satisfied with his work, Hob lifted the box and left the park.
One of his former colleagues had opened up a veterinary clinic two or three blocks away; he'd take them there, make sure they were safe and sound, then be on his way. The cats, however, looked extremely distressed at being moved.
"I know, I'm sorry kids, but needs must. We really have to get you to a doctor," he murmured into the box. Strangers cast him puzzled looks, but he didn't care. "Would you like to hear a funny story? Will that help?" He was losing his marbles. But, hilariously, one of the kittens squeaked out a tiny meow. It was all the go-ahead he needed to monologue.
"So my best friend and I—or, my friend, I don't know if I'm his best friend, probably not—not relevant though. We were at my bar last night, and the new waitress I just hired was making moony eyes at him the whole time. I don't blame the girl, she's all but 19 and really into the whole goth aesthetic—and let me tell you, my friend looks like he walked straight from the pages of Vogue Alternative. Anyway, not the point—" another soft meow broke his train of thought. The cat was panting, and another tiny head was breaching.
"Oh my. Saw that with my wife, it's not any prettier on cats, is it? Sorry darling, not insulting you, you're doing great—anyway, so I was saying," Hob picked up the pace as much as he could without jostling them too badly. "So Annie, the waitress, comes over to bring my friend a refill—mind you, the bloke hasn't touched his first glass, so it's terribly obvious what she's doing—and she leans so far down her whole kit and caboodle's resting right on his shoulder. This vaguely man-shaped thing of great and untold power takes the bloody glass without even looking at her, trades it with mine —which was empty, I suppose—and shoos her away! Poor lass." A single tiny paw breached after the head, and Hob's brow furrowed.
"Almost there, sweetling, I've got you," he adjusted his hold on the box to reach a hand in and caress her back. "So after Annie leaves, I turn to my mate and kindly inform him he was being hit on—and the bloody tosser just says, 'I know, I have everything I need right here'! Ridiculous man, that one, nearly choked on my ale I did—oh look, here we are!" Hob yanked the door to the clinic open and breathed a sigh of relief to see the lobby empty.
"Mr. Gadling? Is everything alright with Murphy?" The desk clerk looked concerned.
"Oh, he's fine, found this lovely lady having a hard time in the park is all," he sat the box down on the desk, and the girl gave a little gasp.
"Oh my! I'll take them back to Dr. Jones. Do you want to wait here?" Hob checked his watch—it was getting late, and he still had to go home and feed his own cat.
"Can't, pet. Will you send me the invoice? I'll foot the bill, no problem." She nodded, a warm smile on her face.
When Hob returned to his home that evening, Morpheus (Murphy, to everyone else) meowed imperiously at having been kept waiting.
"Sorry, mate. But I had the wildest day, wait till I tell you about it!"
Hob was very grateful to have a backyard. It wasn't large, not by any stretch of the imagination (and during working hours also served as a break spot for the smokers on staff), but he did so love to keep a garden, and it was exceedingly nice to have the space to do so.
It was on one clear evening when Hob went outside to collect some thyme that he heard a pitiful little meow behind his strawberries. He groaned loudly. He knew the drill by now, he knew he'd find some cute little bugger in some sort of distress and get overly attached and monologue endlessly about his best friend/crush of six centuries. But, well, he was a weak man. Hob went to the bush.
Gnawing on an underripe strawberry like it was going out of style, a lovely siamese cat sat covered in dirt and strawberry juice. It had enormous blue eyes and angular features—obviously a purebred.
"Well hello, darling. Doing some late night thievery? I don't blame you, I've done my time as a vagabond. Why don't we get you inside and clean you up?" He reached a hand out for the cat to sniff him—whatever she smelled there seemed to be agreeable enough, as she pushed her head into his outstretched hand. Hob spent a moment letting the cat get used to him before he tried to pick it up; to his surprise there was a grey leather collar around its slim neck, so worn and faded he hadn't even noticed in the low light of evening.
"Well, at least this time I have no excuse to keep you," he laughed as he went back inside. He wrapped the cat in his jacket, hoping Morpheus wouldn't see it—he didn't know how he got along with other cats, and didn't want to frighten the poor dear. Thankfully, his own charge was fast asleep on the kitchen chair. Quietly, he crept past and into the bathroom.
"Alright, you're going to hate me for this, but I promise you'll feel better afterward," Hob gently removed the collar before leaning over to set the bathtub faucet to a nice warm temperature. The bath itself was a shockingly mundane ordeal—the siamese let herself be moved around and soaped up—she didn't hiss, didn't scratch, just glared murderously the entire time. And Hob, as he was want to do, talked to her.
"You know, it's a good thing you showed up tonight and not tomorrow—my best friend is coming for dinner, and I can't say I'd be pleased to interrupt that. I mean, I would, of course, you’re obviously in need of a helping hand, but I'm not sure how he feels about cats." Hob used a small cup to pour water over the cat. "He's a very easy bloke to like, though, and you've been so nice to me I can only imagine you'd be the same to him. Wouldn't that be a sight, eh? Big scary Dream holding a wee ball of fluff like you," soap gone, Hob reached for a towel.
As he sat on the closed bathroom toilet, cat cuddled up like a moist and angry burrito, he pulled out his phone and dialed the number on her tag.
"Hello?" The voice on the line sounded tired.
"Terribly sorry for the late call, but it seems I've found Calliope—"
"You—oh my god, George! Someone found her! Can I come now? What's the address?" There was a smattering of noise in the background as someone—George, presumably—cursed up a storm.
"Oh, uh, you know the New Inn? The one off Main Street? I can meet you in the bar." Calliope made a grumbling noise in the back of her throat, one he wasn't sure how to decipher.
"Thank you, thank you. Oh, you're a saint, I'll be there in five minutes!" Not enough time to get the poor dear dry, Hob thought, he'd just have to sit with her in a towel.
He snuck back downstairs (with Morpheus none the wiser) and made himself comfortable in a booth in full sight of the door.
"What, again?" Paul frowned at Hob.
"Well I'm not keeping this one, now am I?" Hob grouched right back.
"I should hope not, the one you've got now is a right terror!" Hob snorted.
"He has discerning taste is all. You just don't pass muster."
"Oi!"
"Shhhh. The baby is sleeping," Hob nodded down at the snoozing cat. He was only half joking, though. Paul rolled his eyes and returned to the task of polishing glasses.
It was slightly under five minutes when a harried looking woman burst through the front door. She immediately spotted Hob and dropped into a crouch next to the table to examine the cat.
"She got into my strawberries, so I gave her a quick bath. Think she's still a bit wet, so go ahead and take the towel—wouldn't want her catching a chill," Hob handled the bundle over easily.
"I can't thank you enough, we were—we were just so heartbroken, and—God, how did you manage to bathe her? I can't believe she let you!" Hob shrugged.
"She was probably just tired. Here's her collar," he held the worn grey leather out to the woman, and she took it with great care.
"Truly, thank you. Is there anything—can I give you—"
"Oh, no, please. No. I'm just glad you've got her back safe and sound." The woman left in a flurry of effusive thanks and poorly controlled tears.
"S'real shame you ain't a dog person, boss," Paul leaned over the counter. "They're obedient, always in a good mood—"
"Obedience and constant chipperness are not traits I generally look for in a companion," Hob cut him off.
"Obviously," Paul drawled, throwing a cheeky wink at Annie, who silently fumed for a reason Hob could not discern.
Hob and Dream had been sitting at his kitchen table for a little over an hour before Hob's cat made himself known.
"Murphy, you little rapscallion, what crimes are we committing today?" Hob held his hand out, but the cat breezed past him and straight to Dream.
"Hello, little Morpheus," Dream all but purred as the cat leaped into his lap. A crimson blush colored Hob's cheeks, and he was speechless for a long moment.
"How... how did you—I'm sorry. I didn't mean, he just, well he reminded me an awful lot of you, so I—"
"Bestowed my ancient name upon this child?" Dream did not sound angry—didn't even look angry, but Hob's nod was hesitant nonetheless.
"I can call him something else, if you want?" Hob offered sheepishly.
"Certainly not, he quite likes this name."
"He, uh, told you that?" Oh god Dream could talk to cats. Dream could talk to cats, and Hob had been using his feline friends as makeshift therapists for weeks now. Fuck.
"Cats are one of the many creatures under my dominion. To them, I am known as the King of Cats," Dream let one hand rest on Morpheus's back as he spoke.
"Wait, you're a cat? You can turn into a cat?" Hob sincerely hoped he'd never run into his friend in his feline form. A man can only handle so much embarrassment in one sitting, after all.
"In a manner of speaking. Am I really sweet, Hob Gadling?" Hob buried his face in his hands. "Is Vogue Alternative even a real publication?" He'd very much like the ground to open up and swallow him whole, thank you.
"I'm sorry, I... don't know what to say," Hob's voice was muffled behind his fingers, but he didn't dare look up.
"You have done a great kindness for those of my realm that walk between worlds. Do not be embarrassed. I quite liked hearing the stories, at any rate," that last bit was added almost as an afterthought and in a voice so warm and fond that Hob chanced a peak up.
"You really didn't mind my blabbing about you to strange cats across London?" The ghost of a smile on Dream's face widened into something he may have dared to call a grin on anyone else.
"No. Against all reason, I do not mind." Dream reached across the table, slowly enough to give Hob a chance to pull away should he desire to do so. He did not. "And for the record, you are my best friend as well."
Dream's hand was cool as fresh rain, his large palm and spindly fingers easily engulfing Hob's own. Hob turned his hand over, lacing their fingers together as he did so.
"Noted, my friend. Duly noted."