Chapter Text
Canadian Army Medical Base - Saint-Eloi, Belgium - 10 April, 1916
Smell is always the first sense to come back.
In this case, it is the sharp sting of antiseptic that assaults him as he slowly makes his way back from wherever the hell he was before. Well, antiseptic, mixed with the sour smells of sweat and bile. This is all aside from the ever lingering presence of the metallic scent of blood that Hob is all too familiar with. That and the bitter stench of death are the ones that seem to follow him around no matter where he goes.
The fact that he’s clearly in an army medical camp, and not buried in the poppy-filled fields that McCrae wrote about, tells Hob that he must have survived that last artillery attack. Though, considering the stabbing pain in his left leg, the splitting headache, and the burning sensation in his chest, this has to be one of the worse injuries he sustained in recent memory.
He scrambles his brain to remember what exactly happened right before he slipped away (he’s never been sure of where his consciousness goes when he dies) (or in this case, almost dies). He’d been a part of the 2nd Canadian Division, tasked with recapturing one of the German held mining craters of St-Eloi. Only, like everything else in this shitshow of a war, communication was faulty. What seemed to be an easy target ended up being nearly a massacre of troops. Images of young men dropping around him as German bullets rain down appear in his mind’s eye, and Hob stiffles a sob in the back of his throat.
“Oh you poor dear,” a smooth, deep voice wafts through the air. Soft fingers card through Hob’s hair. “It’s a miracle you survived that battle. Left leg completely shattered, collapsed lung, along with a major concussion. Lucky for you, someone cared enough to bring you back. You would have died out there.”
Hob struggles to open his eyes, but everything around him is still too much . The smells, and now the noise of medics rushing and shouting orders. His comrades screaming in pain, all the while gunfire continues right outside their tent.
“Breathe, Hob Gadling. Allow the medicine to ease your pain,” whispers a voice that Hob has only heard in the sweetest of dreams. A voice that last promised would “prove him wrong” for assuming they were even the barest of friends.
“Stranger,” Hob rasps, fire gripping his lungs tight. He’s used to this, his throat feeling like it’s been run through the rocky ground as his senses come back to him. He must have been screaming in pain as he was dragged back to camp. To be honest, his memory is still only coming back in patches.
He manages to crack one of his eyes open, and yes , that was a grave mistake. While there is limited light in the makeshift medical tent, the shifting activity, along with the overhead light hanging above his head, only serve to further aggravate his concussion.
Nearly 600 years of doing this song and dance tells him that his vision will take a few minutes to settle fully. For now, he has to make do with vague shapes and colours floating in and out of his periphery. Despite all that, he can still make the unmistakable shape of the creature hovering over his bed. A creature he last saw stalking off angrily into the rain 27 years ago. The clear, pale face, framed by feathery wisps of raven hair. Unable to make out the specific details of his dear Stranger’s face, Hob finds he cares not. Nor does he care if this is the work of the morphine pumping in his veins.
His Stranger is here .
“Tell me I’m not dreaming,” he croaks, a shaky hand reaching up to touch his beloved’s smooth skin. For who is he kidding, really? Hob’s loved this man for nearly 300 years, possibly longer. And after thinking he’d nearly lost him completely during their last meeting, all he wants – needs– is to run his fingers down his face, through his hair.
“Who is to say that dreams are not real themselves? That they are not the product of one’s deepest desires ?” Cool fingers grasp onto his, lifting his hand over soft, sweet lips. Hob closes his eyes and sighs deeply, relishing the care afforded to him.
“I have missed you, dear Stranger.”
“And you, I.”
Hob wants more than anything to apologise, to explain what he meant by his accusation of loneliness in 1889. To tell his Stranger that all he meant was that he was able to recognize the loneliness inside because he felt it everyday. In fact, the yearning for a consistent companion had only been getting stronger as the years passed by. He wasn’t by all means ready to die, of course not. There was still so much to see and experience. How could he ever want to give any of this up? No, the sweet song of death was not enticing to Hob in the least. However, with every friend he’s been forced to leave, and every love he’s had to lose, he feels as if he loses a small part of himself.
With every life he has to abandon, he experiences a small death himself.
So, when it came time to see his sweet Stranger once more, Hob sought to hopefully reach out to someone he would not have to abandon. Someone who could be his anchor, as others faded away. Although he was unsure of who or what this mysterious being was, Hob had a feeling he was an entity beyond both space and time.
Of course he had to go and cock it all up. Stumbling over his words and shouting to the retreating shape in the darkening street.
He didn’t stay in London for too long after that meeting. When the time came to kill his current life and start again, Hob took the first ship out of London, settling in the province of Quebec, in the commonwealth of Canada. He’d been able to avast a small fortune, opening a few general stores. His knowledge in both English and French helped in gaining the trust of both major language groups in the area. When the time came, he’d even managed to use his money in support of a local hockey team, convincing several talented young men to join and play for the Les Canadiens. Unfortunately, his good fortune would come to an end in 1914, with the murder of the Austrian Grand Duke.
England all but rushed into battle once The Great War began, and although Hob was hesitant to sign up to fight, many of his friends were all but forced to join. The attitude in Quebec was one of bitterness to fight for a monarchy that cared little for them, and Hob couldn’t really blame them. Being a soldier since the 1300s makes you all too aware of the petty whims between minor lords and how the lower classes get caught up as cannon fodder. No, Hob wanted none of that. But as months passed and more friends he’d come to know and care for left and never returned, he’d made up his mind to follow them into battle.
And didn’t that just fuck his whole world view up?
It was apparent, from the moment he arrived in Ypres in late 1914, that nobody knew what they were doing. With every soldier he spoke to, the more he believed that this war would be bloodier than any he’s seen in his long lifetime. As he took in the confusion and disarray of the units, he’d resolved himself to make it out of Belgium not only alive, but with his mind still tact.
God above , it was so hard to keep carrying on, when everyday was filled with nothing but death and despair. Men, who had been at the peak of health upon arriving were soon reduced to empty shells, barely hanging on to hope. Hob had seen far too many bodies rotting alive in the mud of the trenches, pestilence ravaging the close camps. Not to mention the horror of the guns used to eviscerate a man without having to look them in the eye. On more than one occasion, he’d been forced to look into the eyes of a friend who was breathing his last, holding their hand and helping them find peace in their final moments. He’d sung hymns from when he was a boy, holding onto the bodies of his parents, brothers, and sisters as the Black Death took them one by one.
Hob didn’t believe in Hell. Not since meeting an entity who, by all accounts, was more ethereal than the Lord Himself. After two years here, he wasn’t so sure anymore. For the first time, in his almost 600 years of existence, all the deplorable acts Hob had committed were begging for some sort of karmic payback.
And he couldn’t deny deserving every bit of it.
Maybe, just maybe , with his Stranger finally here with him –even if in his drug-addled mind– Hob can have a moment of peace. Of hope , once again.
“I–I’m sorry –” Hob’s apology was cut short by a series of hacking coughs. Gentle fingers card through his hair, in an attempt to calm him down. He leans into it, greedily taking everything his Stranger is willing to give him.
“Hush, there is no need for apologies.” Hob feels the cool breath over his fingers, his Stranger speaking reverently into them. For the first time, since December of 1914, Hob feels blessed warmth running through his veins. What he would give for this apparition to stay with him for the rest of his time overseas. To have the comfort and love of one he holds so dear during the bleakest of days.
“Will you stay?” he asks, hand shaking in his Stranger’s cold grasp.
“You need not ask,” he replies, leaning down to place a kiss upon Hob’s forehead. He shivers as the kisses trail down to his eyes. Hungry and desperate for this beauty and peace, tears betray him, further blurring his vision.
“My precious one,” his most beloved purrs, kissing the tears away. As Hob closes his eyes, more delicate kisses grace each one of his lids. “You have called out to me, in your hunger. In your yearning , did you desire me?”
“Always,” Hob says, coughing out a laugh. He should not be surprised. He’s always worn his heart on his sleeve. He was certain in 1789 that his feelings would have been made clear to his oldest friend. It was only a matter of time until they came to the surface.
“Will you gaze upon me, so that I may give you a gift for your utmost devotion ?”
The warmth inside him grows. It’s almost intoxicating –but that could also be the medication–. Hob, with a smile on his face, opens his eyes, meeting beautiful golden irises.
“There’s a love,” a cool, sultry voice responds, and in the back of Hob’s mind, something doesn’t exactly add up. Was his Stranger’s voice always so seductive? Were his eyes always so bright? Of course they were.
Weren’t they?
“Stranger—” A deep kiss interrupts Hob’s thoughts and plunges him into a state of absolute bliss. Static vibrates through his bones, igniting each and every one of his limbs. In the midst of this, Hob knows… he knows he needs to fight.
This isn’t right.
This doesn’t feel like his Stranger.
This feels… it feels…
Hob’s lungs are alight with fire. He coughs into the imposter’s mouth, but they don’t let up, breathing more toxins into him. Hob struggles against the strong hold, arms and legs flailing, choking on whatever gas he’s been given.
Shhh. Don’t fight it, says a soft voice in his head.
Bugger that! Hob thinks. He’s been fighting for 600 years, and he’ll be damned if he allows some trussed up prat imposing as his beloved Stranger get the best of him.
You’ll thank me for this, dear Robert.
Not bloody likely, you wanker. Hob gathers up whatever remaining strength he has left and quickly brings up his knee, connecting it to the bastard’s stomach. Immediately, the kiss is broken, leaving Hob coughing and gasping for air.
He wants to push himself off of the bed and teach this entity a lesson. He may be human, but that does not mean he’s completely helpless. The problem, however, is the coughing fit that has completely taken him over, making him unable to take a single breath in.
“What– did you- do to me?” he asks the person standing before him. A beautiful figure with platinum blond hair, done up like a Gibson Girl, but dressed in a Canadian infantryman uniform. A Cheshire grin spreads across their face, as they slowly back away from the tent. Hob tries to throw himself off the bed, but his leg screams in pain, stars dance across his vision, and his lungs… his lungs … There is something gripping them tight, refusing to let them go.
“Nothing that will kill you, I don’t think,” they smirk, sauntering out the door.
“You– fuck –” Another coughing spasm takes over, and Hob collapses back onto the bed. He’s immediately surrounded by medics, and while he tries to fight them all, they push even more morphine into him, clouding his thoughts and numbing his body.
As the dark creeps into the edges of his vision, Hob makes a promise to himself.
He will find out what was done to him. He will find that golden-eyed, Cheshire-smiling fucker. He will survive this.
He always does.