Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It was no secret that the Corinthian had developed a peculiar routine of visiting Johanna Constantine. Sometimes for work, but more often than not, he visited simply to see her, both in her dreams and in the waking world.

He had returned to the Dreaming one evening with no flourish, just with a quiet shift in the air, arriving at Lucienne’s library. The scent of rain and wet asphalt, remnants of the waking world, still clung to his dark jeans and jacket, which were completely dry. He had come and gone enough times that this had become a quietly accepted norm, considered by the Dreaming. Even the new Dream Lord himself no longer took much notice. Dream trusted his creatures and, for all his foibles, the new Corinthian seemed trustworthy enough.

Lucienne, however, always noticed.

She was perched on a step ladder, a ledger nearly as tall as she was balanced on one arm. She didn’t even look up as he approached, but she would bet all the books in the library that he was looking smug or smiling at the very least with all his teeth (even the ones concealed behind his sunglasses).

“I’m busy, Corinthian,” she said, her voice a weary sigh. “Unless you’ve come to discuss the administrative duties of my new appointment, you’ll have to wait.”

“Busy, yes, of course,” he acknowledged, as if only just noticing. “My apologies, Prime Minister. It’s just that my query concerns something rather urgent-ish. A matter of… human dynamics, if you have a moment to spare from your, ah, significant responsibilities.”

Lucienne paused, slowly lowering the ledger. She peered at him over the top of her spectacles, a single, arched eyebrow conveying all the patience of an overworked librarian who also happened to be in charge of an entire realm.

She took him in: the way he casually leaned against a nearby shelf, and the way his clothes sat comfortably on his tall frame and how they made him look like a modern-day human male. However, as she was notably good at given her role, she also noticed the little details. Although the nightmare was trying to appear completely composed, there was this new kind of energy about him, a barely contained eagerness that hummed beneath his facade. It was the energy of a creature dealing with something terribly foreign, something that both fascinated and confused him in equal measure. He was undoubtedly out of his depth, and Lucienne found it was undeniably endearing to watch.

“I see,” she said, her tone utterly devoid of surprise. “Go on then. My duties as Prime Minister and as a librarian are both very time-sensitive.”

He cleared his throat, a human affectation he had picked up to hide his discomfort. “Hypothetically speaking, of course. If a creature of the Dreaming were to want to… formalize… a certain rapport with a human. You know, a rapport that goes beyond the usual professional courtesy of assisting said human from being harmed by various supernatural threats. What would be the proper procedure?”

Before Lucienne could respond, a thick puff of acrid smoke, smelling faintly of plaster dust and cheap tobacco, erupted from the shelves. Merv Pumpkinhead, the Dreaming's perpetually grumpy, gourd-headed foreman who oversaw its endless repairs and renovations, peered out from between two weighty tomes, a lit cigarette dangling precariously from his carved mouth.

“What’s all this? Some kinda human-on-Dreaming romance advice, huh?” he said in a gravelly voice. “Listen here, pal, you want to get a lady’s attention? You gotta build a foundation. You gotta put in the work. You don’t just slap a new coat of paint on a rotting wall and call it a day. Show ‘er you can fix a leaky pipe, or at least have a smoke with ‘er while she does it.”

The Corinthian raised an eyebrow at the pumpkin-head. “Are you suggesting that my curiosity, Merv, is confined to one gender? That’s quaint. I’m interested in the human element, not the specific details of their biology.”

“Quaint, shmaint,” Merv grumbled, waving his cigarette dismissively. “Look, it don't matter what plumbing they got, or what you call it. You're overthinkin' it. Romance ain't about biology or definitions. It’s about being a rock, a foundation. You just gotta get in there and —”

”Don’t listen to Merv!” Suddenly Matthew the Raven fluttered down from a high shelf, landing on a nearby chair. “That’s so old school, dude. This is all about communication! You gotta ask her, like, what this is to her. You know, the DTR talk.”

The Corinthian looked from Matthew to Merv and even to Lucienne, his brow furrowed in genuine confusion. “DTR?” He asked. “What’s that?”

“Defining the relationship!” Matthew stated with a flap of his wings. Merv snorted at the term. Meanwhile, Lucienne tilted her head as if the term were a new fascinating fact of the day. “And you need to do it, dude! That way she—I mean, they’ll know you’re really, seriously interested in them!”

“But what is there to define?” the Corinthian asked. “I mean ,say again, hypothetically speaking, we’ve been seeing each other often. And say we’ve already err…kissed? What I mean is, my interest is pretty damn clear. So why must we label it?”

“Because that’s what normal people do!” Matthew insisted.

The Corinthian blinked, not that anyone could tell given the sunglasses. Before he could say anything about that, Merv jumped in again.

“That’s what I’m sayin’,” He grumbled, a puff of smoke erupting from his carved mouth. “You’re a nightmare! You don’t do labels! You do, I dunno, dread? Yeah, you do spook stuff! You gotta get some of that back in ya!”

Lucienne silenced them with a single look. “Gentlemen, your counsel is… noted. And profoundly unhelpful.” She turned her attention back to the Corinthian, who was now a study in rigid awkwardness.

“I do believe this all has to do with your relationship with Johanna Constantine,” she said, cutting right to the heart of it.

He deflated, his shoulders slumping. “How did you…?”

“Corinthian, you are a nightmare conceived in a moment of great ambition and great folly. Your attempts at subtlety are about as effective as a fog horn in a library. And if you’re trying to impress a mortal, you have to remember that they are not as simple as we are. Their lives are short, and every moment is filled with a thousand small details.”

The Corinthian stood utterly still, almost like a statue with his hand over his lip and chin, absorbing Lucienne’s blunt words. It felt like the library held its breath then, the air thick with the scent of ancient paper with only the faint sound of a distant thump-thump-thump of one of Merv’s perpetual repairs somewhere in the deeper levels of the Dreaming breaking what would’ve been complete silence. Merv fidgeted, Matthew twitched with anticipation, but Lucienne simply watched, knowing the silence would soon break with the nightmare's next, crucial question.

“So I should…?”

Merv snorted, smoke again escaping him. Matthew shook his head and covered it with a wing, looking disappointed. Lucienne let out a weary sigh, a sound that shook the dust from the ledger. The three without saying a word all agreed the answer should be blindingly obvious by now even to the newly minted nightmare.

“You ask her.” Lucienne starts, before either of her cohorts could chime in. “You ask her directly, as a mortal would. You do not send her a note in the form of a waking nightmare. You do not leave a single, preserved memory of a childhood event on her pillow for her to scrutinize and wonder if it’s an omen of some sort. You simply — clearly and concisely — ask her out on a date.”

The Corinthian considered this, his thoughtful silence stretching out once more. The concept seemed almost too simple, too pedestrian for someone of his nature. Yet, Lucienne’s logic was, as always, unassailable. Slowly a satisfied smile crept up to his face.

“A date,” he said, the word tasting almost new and intriguing on his tongue. “That seems… surprisingly simple. But, I suppose, effective.”

“More than you could ever know,” Lucienne said, turning back to her ledger with a sense of finality.

A small hum of satisfaction came from the Corinthian. He gave the three a brief nod, his gaze lingering longest on Lucienne.

“Thanks for the advice, I’ll be off for now.” He grinned, a newfound certainty clear on his features. He turned round and just as simply as he walked into the Dreaming’s library did he walk out of it, gone once more, leaving only the scent of rain and coffee behind him.

Lucienne let out a genuine sigh of relief as she finally, truly turned back to her ledger, the quiet rustle of its old pages a far more welcome sound than the recent arguments. She even allowed herself a small, contented smile as she resumed her classifications.

Merv and Matthew, however, were left to bicker.

"See, I told him to be direct," Matthew said, puffing out his chest.

"Yeah, yeah, direct," Merv waved his hand at the raven. "Like that's gonna save him from all the messiness. I say, ya can't fix a busted pipe with a fancy conversation."

Chapter Text

Every muscle in Johanna Constantine's jaw ached, a constant throb from clenching her teeth against the relentless tide of the mundane and the monstrous. She'd sworn weeks ago she'd take a proper break, but the next bloody case always found her first, pulling her deeper into the grind.

The pub she found herself in was dimly lit, with just a few scattered patrons lost in their reflections at distant tables and chairs, their quiet conversations absorbed by the thick, musky air. Johanna Constantine sat at the scarred mahogany bar, her notes made on disposable table napkins spread out in front of her, lit by the weak glow of a single bulb overhead. Her whiskey glass, warm from being held too long, contained only a few amber dregs. Another case, another relentless enemy that’s waltzed into the mortal realm, and now she’s got to banish it because who else is going to do it? (But, more importantly, she gets paid to do it.) Tonight’s mystery is that of a demon that fed on stale dreams, hiding in a basement flat in Peckham, leaving nothing but a half-remembered symbol. Her mind raced, chasing connections that wouldn't click —

“Bollocks,” she muttered aloud, slamming her hand flat on the surface of the bar. “I’ve solved this one already.” The words echoed in the air, a sudden, jarring clarity cutting through her frustration. She had solved this. Over a week ago, in fact, after three days straight of barely any sleep and an unhealthy amount of cheap wine. The demon was already gone, the flat cleared, all the nightmares banished, all thanks to her and…

Just as that realization settled, clear and sharp as a fresh blade, a voice came from the stool beside her, smooth as aged whiskey and entirely too close. "It was real impressive, the way you found the demon’s precise hiding place. Took you long enough, though, but Dream says he appreciated you assisting him with the matter anyway. Couldn’t have a demon eating dreams running around for too long.”

She didn't jump. The muscles in her shoulders didn't even twitch. Too many demons, too many sudden arrivals, had forged a reflex more akin to jaded recognition than surprise. Johanna Constantine simply didn't jump at the sound of his voice. She just sighed wearily before she took up her whiskey glass (now suddenly full again) to drink.

She knew then it was a dream. The air was too still. The patrons too quiet and well-behaved. And of course, there was him, now seated on the stool next to hers, not quite having been there a second ago, but as if he always had been. The Corinthian, looking exactly as he did in the waking world, in his faded jeans and a simple shirt, a jacket slung over the stool beside him. He held an unlit cigarette, turning it over and over in his long fingers, watching her with that calm, amused expression. Even in a dream, he’s too damn real, too composed, she thinks. Maybe even more so.

"Have you just been sitting there, watching me unravel for the last five minutes?" she asked, her voice flat. "Just for your amusement?"

He smiled, a slow, almost lazy curve that stopped just short of his dark lenses. It was a familiar expression, one that sent an unwelcome warmth spreading through her gut even as her mind immediately went to damage control. He always seemed so happy to see her, while she always looked to be bracing herself for whatever chaos he might bring.

“Your tenacity’s impressive, y’know?” He drawled, head turned slightly towards her. “Do you always dream of being on a job. I can’t remember a time we met, waking or dreaming, when we didn’t talk about your work or a new mission.”

Johanna just grunted, taking a pull from her refilled glass. "Some of us have to earn a living, mate."

“That’s some dedication,” he said as he shifted slightly on his stool, getting a better look at her. Even in the soft focus of a dream, Johanna looked perpetually worn. Her dark brown hair a bit of a mess, her make-up unable to hide the fatigue in her eyes. Yet in spite of all that her gaze remained sharp, as it was on her notes and now on him.

“Always on the clock, even in your head. Makes me wonder if you genuinely enjoy all this or if you’re just keeping busy. Or maybe,” he spins the cigarette between two fingers, as if trying to find the right words. “You’re just distracting yourself?”

“A distraction from what?” Johanna retorted, trying not to sound nonplussed. She’s still facing towards the bar, but from the corner of her eye, she’s taking him in, noting the way his jeans and shirt clung to his lean, impossibly fit frame. Always immaculate, the bastard. You'd think he had a team of stylists in the Dreaming. She felt a fleeting, dangerous urge to snatch the unlit cigarette from his fingers, just to see his reaction.

“You? You flatter yourself if you think that. What do you want, anyway? I just saw you the other day, and I certainly don't recall sending out an invitation.”

“Believe me, it takes little effort to flatter myself in your company,” he said, and there he was again with that infuriating smile that was drawing her near the point of wanting to wipe it clean off his face. Whether it was by grabbing the damned unlit cigarette or by crashing her mouth into his, she wasn't quite sure. She didn't dare entertain either thought for long, lest she act upon one of them.

“As for an invitation,” he continued, “you didn’t call, no. Not explicitly, at least. But I’m still here, aren’t I? Which means one of two things: either you wanted to see me, or, and this is far more likely despite the former being a rather nice thought, you’ve been working yourself into such a state that your mind is screaming for an intervention.”

He gave a small gesture around the pub, and as his hand swept through the air, Johanna’s gaze followed, a sudden, uncanny sense of displacement washing over her. The place was more like a hodgepodge of memories of every London pub she’s frequented, but at the same time, it all looked foreign. Only the dark, worn bar counter directly in front of her felt steadfast and recognizable. This is where they sat, she realized. For hours. She ordered whiskies, one after the other, while he sampled the drinks menu, shot by shot, while remaining utterly immune to the effects of alcohol.

“We were just here, you and I.” She said slowly as the realization crept up on her.

The Corinthian simply nodded. Without a word, he extended the unlit cigarette he’d been idly turning, offering it to her. It was slightly crooked, as if pulled from an old, well-used pack. Instinctively, Johanna patted her coat pocket, feeling the familiar lump of her pack of cigarettes. As she takes the stick from him, she now remembers why he has it. He’d asked about the vice curiously, and then she gave his the stick, but he never got around to lighting one himself. They were too busy at the time. Now, in this dream, she indulges him.

She takes the stick from him, bringing it to her lips. She fished out her battered lighter, thumbing the flint. The small flame caught, illuminating the faint lines of concentration and worn eyeliner around her eyes. She inhaled, the bite of tobacco tasted unusually sweeter in the dreaming, but maybe it’s because it comes from him. The thought makes her blush which she tries to hide by blowing out smoke. She made sure it drifted away from him, a courtesy born of habit. Then, she handed it back.

The Corinthian took the cigarette, his fingers brushing hers for a fraction of a second. He was studying her as she smoked, then, mimicking what she did earlier, he brought the stick to his own mouth. He inhaled, a delicate experimental pull, and then exhaled, blowing the smoke away from her as she had done, a perfect copy of her casual courtesy. His gaze, still hidden behind his sunglasses, seemed to hold a flicker of strange satisfaction.

“Yeah, I remember this place,” he murmured, the smoke curling around his words. “Your messy notes on the napkins and how — forgive the pun — hellbent you were to find that demon, no matter how many hours you spent hunched over this very bar.” He paused then, and it’s not like him to hesitate as he always seemed to say what was on his mind. “That demon messing with dreams… felt like our responsibility, didn’t it? More than just another job. Maybe for the current Dream King, yeah, but also… it felt like something Morpheus would’ve wanted us to handle. He’s the one who paired us off, and we did good work, all things considered.”

Johanna took another drag from the shared cigarette when he passed it back to her, a cynical smile forming. "Figures even in the Dreaming, you're still pulling on Morpheus' leash. Yeah, mate. We all miss him. Still." She didn't look at him, but she felt his silent acknowledgement, a familiar echo in the hushed pub. It was always like this with them. Morpheus still pops up in conversation, or sometimes his presence, or rather his absence lingered around them like an unspoken third party.

They continued to pass the cigarette back and forth, a quiet rhythm settling between them. Johanna took swigs from her glass, which, impossibly, remained full, the whiskey warm and comforting. The Corinthian watched and then smirked at her.

"Anyone ever tell you," he finally said, after she extinguished the last ember of the cigarette, "that you drink too much?"

She side-eyes him and takes another sip of his whiskey, which she’s making the most of because dream whiskey is wonderfully free and she doesn’t seem to get inebriated from it. “Yes, actually. You, in fact. Last time we were in this bar but in the waking world.”

He chuckled, a genuine, soft sound that made the corners of her mouth twitch. "So I did. I believe you called me a 'bloody knob' for my observation." He says this trying his best British accent and she’s unable to suppress a small smile at that.

"I believe you're right," she agreed, setting the glass down with a thump. She huffs and now turns to face him. "So now that we've established that I'm a workaholic with a drinking problem, which I don't, what do you really want? You still haven’t made that clear."

The Corinthian leaned forward, resting his elbows at the bar.

“What I want is for you to stop running yourself into the ground. You need a proper distraction from all this, Johanna. A more tangible one. The kind that doesn’t involve chasing demons through grim basements or worrying about the next supernatural threat lurking in the shadows.”

"And what would that be? A guided tour of your terrifying little world?"

"No," he said, a sincere smile spreading across his face. He gestured subtly between them. "I was thinking, actually, that we should go on a date. You and I.”

Johanna stared at him, her glass now forgotten in her hand. A date? With him? The idea was so preposterous, so out of left field, that a disbelieving laugh bubbled up.

“A date?” She repeated. She searched his face looking for any hint of mockery, or any trace of the old nightmare he was supposed to be. But all she saw was this puppy-dog like, patient, unnervingly kind expression. “Are you serious? Why?”

“Why not?” He said with a chuckle. “Unless you’ve got other plans, and please don’t tell me it’s more work.”

"Right," she said, a dry sound of another laugh escaping her. "And I suppose you'll be picking me up in a pink limousine, too? Look, mate, this is a dream. You know it, I know it. You can ask me to fly to the moon, I'll say yes. It won't mean anything in the morning.”

The Corinthian’s smile widened, a flash of teeth behind his dark lenses. “So, is that a yes?”

“Yes, yes, fine,” Johanna muttered, her patience with all this dream-logic wearing thin. She’d had enough of this. Time to wake up.

She woke with a jolt, her head lifting from the worn armrest of her sofa. The familiar scent of old tea and dust filled her flat. Outside she could hear distant sirens and the soft drumming of a light drizzle against her windowpane. A date. What was he on about? The remnants of the dream clung to her like a fine mist, confusing and irritating. She blinked, trying to shake off the lingering haze, muttering to herself about the sheer ridiculousness of it all.

And then she saw him.

He was standing by her window, looking out at the dreary London street, dressed the same as he did in the dream. As she came to, the scent of freshly brewed coffee, now filled her flat, cutting through the damp air. He turned, his sunglasses reflecting the grey morning light, and he was still smiling.

Johanna stared for a full five seconds, half-expecting she’d wake up again and this was all still a dream. She blinked again once, twice, and then watched as he walked to her tiny kitchen and when he returned he had two steaming mugs in his hands. Alright, not a dream anymore.

“You’re a bit forward, aren’t you?” she said, her voice dry. She wrapped her dressing gown more tightly around herself, trying to assemble the chaos of her morning mind into something resembling her usual, more professional (to her at least) composure. She probably looked a mess, hair unruly as she wipes away any dry saliva from sleeping.

"I am merely efficient," the Corinthian replied, offering her one of the mugs. "I thought you would appreciate the directness. And the coffee."

Johanna took the mug. It was her favorite, well-worn one. She took a slow sip, the heat and caffeine a welcome shock to her system. "This is not how you ask someone on a date, you know. You're meant to wait for an answer. You're meant to get a 'yes' first."

"But I already did," he said simply. "In your dream."

She sighed, running a hand through her messy hair. Fuck it. He's not wrong. The memory of her saying "fine" to him was still fresh in her mind, and the faint, lingering warmth on her cheek was a cruel reminder of the dream as a whole, with all their talking and sharing a cigarette and everything else in between.

"What brought this on?" Johanna had to ask. She takes another sip from her mug and she curses internally wondering if he’s made it because it’s a perfect cup of black coffee, well-roasted and bitter, the way she likes it.

She walks over to the window, pulling aside the curtain to look out at the grey morning. She half-expects him to vanish, for the coffee to disappear, too. But he doesn’t and her hands are still warm from her mug. She can feel him watching her, knowing she has more to say. Prior to this, their interactions had been…a specific kind of chaotic mess. They shared a mutual, cynical respect. He’d never expressed an interest in these more formal human rituals, so why now?

"I thought what we have is pretty decent. Whatever this is." She gestured vaguely between them, then at the coffee, the fact he was standing in her flat. "Or at least, that's what I thought."

The Corinthian took a sip of his own coffee, his posture relaxed, as if he were meant to be in her kitchen on a Sunday morning.

"Oh, don't get me wrong, Johanna," he replied, "I enjoy what we have. It has its own unique flavor of… excitement." He paused, his head tilting slightly as he considered his words. "But it has occurred to me, in all the time we've spent together, it's always been about your work, or about my function. About chasing horrors, or debating the nuances of existence, or simply enduring my presence." He took another sip of his coffee. "Never anything beyond that.”

He lowered his mug, his gaze, even behind his sunglasses, felt unnervingly direct. "And if I'm being entirely honest," he continued, and Johanna knew, with a familiar pang, that he always was, always terrifyingly honest, "I'm simply curious. Curious what it would be like to experience something... different with you. To go beyond, as you call it sometimes, my usual chaos."

The first Corinthian had been curious about humanity too, she remembered. But this was different. There was no cold, detached observation here. This was lighter, almost wholesome. And his sincerity, as always, was her greatest weakness.

"So you just show up with coffee and an agenda?" she finally managed.

"I prefer to think of it as a well-crafted proposition," he said.

He gestured to the window she was standing by with his own mug. “The rain’s not gonna stop, Constantine. Your cases won’t either. There will always another demon to vanquish, waiting for you when you get back. So what’s one day off? To go on a date with a nightmare I’m quite sure you enjoy the company of.”

Johanna glared at him, hating how easy it was for him to see through her, but even as she did he began to walk from the kitchen counter, closing the small gap between them. He stopped directly in front of her, his posture radiating an easy confidence. His hand lifted, surprisingly gentle, and he brushed a stray strand of dark hair from her cheek, tucking it behind her ear. The unexpected touch made her breath almost hitch. She was suddenly, acutely aware of the warmth radiating from him, the subtle scent of his skin, and the memory of that dream kiss after Morpheus' wake flared, hot and tempting.

"Besides, you do need a break.” he murmured, his voice softer now, leaning in slightly, his gaze fixed on her.

And Johanna knew he was right. She did need a break. The thought of spending the day poring over her archaic notes, with nothing but stale tea and the lingering scent of sulfur from the last banishment for company was profoundly unappealing. She wouldn't admit aloud to enjoying his company—not to him, not ever. But the quiet hum of appreciation settling in her chest, alongside the warmth of the perfect coffee in her hand, was undeniable. Plus points for the coffee, she conceded internally. Major points, actually.

Not everyone you get involved with has to lead to despair, Constantine, she told herself, a flicker of something almost hopeful, almost reckless, sparking in her chest. Just this once.

Her eyes raked over him. Taking in attire, especially his perfect sunglasses that framed his face. He was a nightmare, sure. But standing before her, with a mug of coffee in one hand, he just looked like a man—a slightly unnerving, beautifully dangerous, but wholly sincere man—who had come to save her from herself.

"Fine," she said, finally giving in. "But you wait downstairs. And I pick the place. No weird dimensions, no chasing bloody ghouls, just... a date. My terms.”

A genuine, delighted laugh escaped the Corinthian, a sound that warmed the air. "Agreed," he said without a moment's hesitation. "Perfectly acceptable terms." He finished his coffee in a single, unhurried gulp, then set the mug down on her counter. With a final, lingering look, he turned and was gone, the quiet click of her flat door the only sign he'd ever been there.

Johanna stood by the window for a long moment, watching the street below. After a few seconds, she saw him emerge, a dark, distinct figure blending into the grey London morning, his hands casually tucked into his pockets as he waited. She sighed, then finished the rest of her perfectly brewed coffee, the lingering warmth a strange promise. She had a date. With a literal walking nightmare.

Chapter Text

By the time Johanna Constantine locked her flat and descended the rickety steps to street level, the drizzle had tapered off into a lazy mist, the kind that clung to your clothes without the decency of falling properly. The Corinthian stood exactly where she’d seen him from the window, hands still in his pockets, posture loose but alert, like a particularly well-dressed stray waiting to be let inside.

She stepped past him without a word, tugging her coat tighter around herself. "Come on," she said, glancing briefly over her shoulder. "We're taking the Tube."

The Corinthian followed with the softest crunch of boots on damp pavement. “The Tube?” he repeated, as though tasting the word. “That’s charmingly analog of you.”

“I told you,” she muttered, lighting a cigarette with the casual flick of her thumb. “Normal. No shortcuts. No dream-doors, no time warps, no vanishing into shadows. We’re doing this the boring way.”

He caught up with her stride easily, eyes hidden as always behind his shades, though she could feel the way he was watching her with barely concealed amusement.

“I could have us there in thirty seconds,” he offered helpfully. “If you told me where ‘there’ is.”

“You’ll find out when we get there,” she said around the cigarette. “Patience, nightmare.”

“Hardly fair. I told you my intentions. All cards on the table. You, on the other hand—”

“You asked for a date,” Johanna interrupted. “I said yes. That makes me in charge. That’s how this works.”

The Corinthian gave a short, warm laugh. “Ah. And here I thought it was a shared effort. But I don’t mind. Lead on, fearless guide.”

They walked in step down the narrow street, past corner shops not yet open, past delivery vans coughing against the cold morning. The city was still rubbing sleep from its eyes. London in the early morning was one of the few things Johanna liked: quieter, less smug, easier to ignore.

He, of course, loved it. She could tell.

Every few feet, he tilted his head, his gaze catching on some new detail: posters peeling from brick walls, a couple bickering at a bus stop, a kid in a dino hoodie dragging their mum toward the school gates. He wasn’t just observing, he was absorbing, cataloguing every mundane moment with the precision of a collector. He moved like a tourist, eyes sweeping each crack and corner, as if trying to memorize the city’s very soul.

When they descended into the nearest Tube station, the city changed. The entrance gaped like a grimy, tiled mouth, swallowing them into the slightly stale heat of the underground. Sound became a muffled echo as Johanna led him through the throng of people, her movements economical and practiced. The air took on that familiar metallic tang of damp concrete and burnt toast from the vending machines no one trusted.

Johanna bought them two paper tickets from the kiosk, because, of course, she still did some things the old way. Tap cards were too convenient, and she liked the finality of slipping something through a machine that could still jam up on you. Not to mention, she doubted the nightmare following her would have an Oyster card on his person. Best they do this the same way.

The Corinthian watched with fascination as she handed him his ticket.

“And we do what with these?” he asked, holding the flimsy slip like it was a cursed talisman.

“You insert it into the slot. The machine eats it. If you’ve been good, it spits it back and lets you through. If you’ve been a bastard…” She raised a brow. “Well, you’ll find out.”

He grinned. “And here I thought the gates of Hell were more elaborate.”

She went through first, sliding the ticket in, retrieving it as the barrier clicked open. She turned just in time to watch him fumble slightly, not from lack of coordination, but from that deliberate kind of hesitation someone has when studying a ritual, as if it might change when you look away. He slipped the ticket in, waited. The machine paused just long enough to feel like judgment, then spat the ticket back. The barrier slid open. The Corinthian took his ticket and stepped through like he’d just passed a test he hadn’t studied for.

“Congratulations,” Johanna deadpanned. “You’ve successfully mimicked humanity for six seconds.”

“I deserve a medal,” he replied. “Or at the very least, a seat on this train we’re catching to, ah yes, an undisclosed location.”

As they waited on the platform, the crowd thickened. Commuters began to cluster in that distinctly British way, strategic, silent, and vaguely resentful. A suited man sipped burnt coffee next to a teenager glued to her phone, both pretending the other didn’t exist. Somewhere down the tunnel, the familiar groan of the train echoed like some ancient mechanical beast slowly waking.

The Corinthian stood beside Johanna still and watchful.

“You lot are fascinating,” he said after a long silence, sounding thoughtful. “All of you. The way you behave when you think no one’s watching. Or when everyone’s watching and you pretend they’re not.”

Johanna glanced at him. He wasn’t leering or feeding. He was studying. Despite herself, she felt a flicker of something. It wasn’t affection, not yet, but it was something dangerously close.

"What? No train stations in all the infinite realm of dreams?”

He turned to her, his smile still faint but present. “They exist in the Dreaming, yes. But they’re quite different. There is usually a hidden metaphor, a past trauma or a memory lurking about.” He paused, his gaze sweeping over the crowd of commuters again. “Here, I see actual people. All with their own tiny routines, their own patterns. No subconscious secrets to untangle.”

"No subconscious secrets to untangle, he says," she huffed, leaning against a cold pillar. "You're a nightmare, not a bloody therapist. The only pattern you need to understand is everyone wants to be anywhere but here.”

He gave a small nod. “But that’s a beautiful thought, isn’t it? That you all agree to endure this, side by side, pretending you’re not all terribly alive at the same time. The shared act of waiting. It is your kind’s resilience that’s most interesting. How you do this, day in and day out.”

Johanna shook her head, not sure if she should find his takeaways charming or naive of him. “It’s a Monday-to-Friday misery, don't romanticize it. You've been reading too many of Dream’s old journals.”

“I don’t romanticize,” he said, his smile turning sly. “I simply appreciate the performance. The way you all act so normal, even on the inside.”

She gave him a sharp, sideways glance. “Don’t pretend you haven’t seen worse performances.” Just then, train screamed into the station, and for a moment, neither of them spoke.

As the doors opened, Johanna turned to him to see he was still rooted in his spot, “You coming or what?”

The Corinthian tilted his head. “To the place I’m not allowed to know yet?”

“Exactly.”

He stepped forward, smirking. “Lead the way, Constantine. I’m all yours.”

It took a concerted effort for her not to smile at that. For her, the phrase I'm all yours was meant to be a lie or a prelude to a disaster. But the way he said it, with that knowing look behind his shades, she knew he meant it. She was in charge. For now.

She stepped inside. The Corinthian followed closely behind her, letting her navigate them thru the small gap of the doorway with practiced ease. The train lurched forward with a mechanical groan and the kind of momentum that always made first-time tourists stumble. Johanna, of course, didn’t so much as sway. She’d been riding the Underground since she was old enough to sneak into dodgy clubs and out of worse decisions. She stood near one of the poles, one hand loosely looped around the cold metal. He stood beside her, unbothered by the movement, as if public transit was something he'd done a thousand times in other people’s dreams. He scanned the train like a field researcher, which was either endearing or vaguely unsettling. Possibly both.

He leaned in, not quite whispering, “Do you ever wonder what people are really thinking on these things?”

“No,” Johanna replied flatly.

“Liar,” he said, pleased. “You’re practically vibrating with secondhand judgment.”

She gave him a sideways look. “Says the man cataloguing every stranger like it’s a crime scene.”

His grin didn’t falter. “Crime scenes usually have less tension. This one, though…”

He let the sentence hang in the air like steam on glass.

At the next stop, the train doors opened with a hiss, and quite suddenly a whole flood of new passengers pressed in. Johanna didn’t move fast enough, and soon she was wedged between a stocky man in a neon cycling jacket and the Corinthian’s chest.

Brilliant.

He barely had room to lift his hands, but she felt the amusement radiating off him like a heated seat.

She felt his chest vibrate with a low chuckle. “This is what you call doing it the ‘boring’ way, then?”

“Don’t,” she muttered, eyes fixed firmly on the LED map above the door. “Do not start with me right now.”

“I haven’t said anything.”

“You don’t have to. I can feel the smug coming off you in waves.”

He leaned in a fraction closer. It was not enough to draw attention, but enough that she could feel his breath near her ear.

“You smell like cigarettes and warding spells. It’s oddly comforting.”

Johanna blinked. “Are you flirting with me? On a packed train? With an old woman clutching her purse like it’s full of gold just behind you?”

He turned his head slightly as if pretending to think. “Flirting? No. I’m just making an observation. It’s completely innocent.”

“Right.” She should have stepped away. Should’ve elbowed him in the ribs or muttered a spell to get the train moving faster. But she didn’t. Her grip on the pole tightened, not for balance but for restraint.

He was warm. That was the worst part.

He was warm, and very real, and watching her with a quiet sort of intensity that should’ve made her bolt. But she didn’t. She looked straight ahead instead, at a poster advertising dental insurance where all the people in the ad had such shiny, sparkling white teeth and that made her think about what the Corinthian had instead of eyes. She shook off the thought and tried to remember that she chose this. That this was her call. And that she was still very much in control of this date.

Eventually, the train screeched to their stop. The crowd spilled out onto the platform, and Johanna moved with it, thankful for the space and the excuse to reestablish personal boundaries.

They resurfaced into the London morning, busier now, alive with weekday clatter. The Corinthian followed without question as she led him through crosswalks and past corner cafés until the wide stone plaza of the Natural History Museum stretched before them.

The building rose like something out of time, its arched windows and ornate carvings softened by centuries of London fog. It stood apart from the nearby shops and slick glass buildings, a quiet, immovable titan with a weight and presence all its own.

The Corinthian stopped walking.

He stared up at the façade for several long seconds, mouth parted slightly—not in awe, exactly, but something close. Something deeper.

Johanna paused beside him. Watching him take it in was better than any exhibit.

“Didn’t expect this, did you?”

His voice, when it came, was quiet. “You brought me to a place full of bones.”

“Fossils,” she corrected. “And taxidermy, shiny gems, and history. The literal kind.”

“And you think I’d like this because…?”

“Because it’s not just bones,” she said, turning to face him fully. “It’s memory. It’s things we buried and then decided were worth digging back up. The kind of place someone like you might appreciate. Besides,” Her tone softened, just a little. “Figured you deserved to see something that’s lasted longer than nightmares.”

He looked at her, properly now, his usual amused smirk completely gone. It was a fleeting flicker of something thoughtful behind the glasses, but it was there, and it was enough to make her breath catch.

“Johanna Constantine,” he said, “you’re full of surprises.”

“Wait ‘til you see the dinosaurs,” she replied, brushing past him toward the museum entrance. “Come on, before the school groups flood the place.”

He chuckled, boots clicking on the pavement as he followed.

The brief wait in the queue was less for entry than for crowd control. When they finally stepped through the heavy doors and out of the morning's chill, the city gave way to a different kind of world. The museum was already humming with morning visitors, its grand stone arches looming above as though they had stepped into the ribcage of some ancient god. Schoolchildren clustered in noisy herds near the entrance, their teachers trying (and failing) to maintain order. A buzz of everyday life, messy and ordinary. The Corinthian, who was two steps behind her, looked like he’d walked into another dimension.

Johanna clocked his reaction instantly. He'd gone still, like a dog off-leash in a new park, too many smells and no idea where to start.

"You alright there, mate?" she asked, and for once she allowed herself to grin at his expression.

"It’s... bigger than I expected," he said.

Johanna caught the way his gaze lingered on the towering arches, the filtered light spilling like cathedral sun. He looked almost reverent. Almost.

"Never been in a museum before, have you?" she said, her mouth tugging into a smirk. She looked up toward the high stone ribs of the ceiling, the way the space seemed to drone with a weight older than memory. It reminded her of something.

"First time I saw Dream’s palace," she said, her tone turning inward, "it felt like this. Not the stone, or the light. The scale. Like walking into a story that wasn’t yours."

That earned her a glance. Curious. Not mocking.

She didn’t expect the twist of pride that came with it, knowing that for all his otherworldly bravado, a man built of nightmares could still be undone by a bit of architecture. As far as dates go, she’s rather pleased that she knows how to pick good spots.

He let out a soft breath, half-laugh, half-thought. “Similar, perhaps. But in the Dreaming, the size is a metaphor. Here,” he gestured to the crowds, the noisy schoolchildren, the buzzing of conversations, “it's just a building. And a very impressive one at that.”

"And yet," Johanna said, deadpan, "it still managed to shut you up for a full thirty seconds. Miraculous."

He smiled. Real, this time. She elbowed him lightly.

“Right, then. The dinosaur exhibit is this way," she said, gesturing toward the main hall. "Come on. Last thing I need is a toddler mistaking you for an exhibit."

He snorted and fell into step beside her, the grin still tugging at the corners of his mouth.

They started in the Fossil Gallery, where the bones of giants loomed over quiet glass cases. The crowd here was thinner, the noise dampened as if reverence was built into the very architecture. A full T-Rex skeleton stood poised in mid-roar, its jaws wide, its tail balanced with ballerina precision. The Corinthian stood beneath it, gazing up like he was meeting a celebrity.

He stared up at the colossal skull. "Imagine the terror they once were,” he remarked. "Now they are merely ghosts of themselves. The threat is gone, only the shape remains.”

Johanna looked at him quite amused. She could say the same about him, too. How he was once a serial killer and now he’s—well tame isn’t the precise word she’d use to describe him and she’s seen the violence he’s capable of, but he isn’t quite the same as his original incarnation. Instead she just replies with, “you sound disappointed.”

“I’m not,” he replied, his gaze still fixed on the colossal skull. “Just… thinking.”

“Dangerous pastime.”

He finally looked down at her, a faint smile on his lips. “Only when you’re good at it.”

They wandered deeper into the gallery, past sea reptiles frozen in time and fossilized ferns like pressed flowers from the planet’s youth. Johanna found herself watching him more than the exhibits. He was absorbed, his movements slow and deliberate. She saw the way he’d trace the outline of a fossil with his eyes, not just looking, but seeing.

“You ever think about what’ll be left of us?” he asked suddenly, his voice quiet as they paused before a massive Megalodon jaw. “A thousand years from now.”

She snorted, a low laugh escaping her. “I try not to think a thousand minutes ahead.”

They left the grand, echoing space of the Fossil Gallery behind and slipped into the cool, quiet reverie of the Human Evolution Gallery. The lighting was hushed here, cool tones casting a gentle glow on displays of hominid skulls, bone tools, and the eerie, imagined reconstructions of early humanity. The Corinthian’s confident stride faltered, and he lingered at a case of skulls, his expression unreadable.

"That one looks like my old landlord," Johanna remarked, pointing to a Neanderthal with a particularly sloped brow.

He didn't laugh. Just tilted his head, a shadow of genuine thought behind the glasses. "They were simple. Brutal. Honest. You almost miss that."

"Speak for yourself," she shot back, a faint smirk on her lips. "I’m charmingly brutal."

He glanced at her sideways, the corner of his mouth ticking up. "Charming is debatable. Brutal, absolutely."

For a moment, they stood together in silence, shoulder to shoulder, watching the timeline of humanity stretch forward like a cracked spine. He leaned a little closer, the movement subtle and deliberate.

"What do you think makes someone a person?" he asked unable to hide his genuine curiousity.

Johanna resisted the urge to lean away. It was a simple question, but his sincerity was the most dangerous thing about it.

"Depends on the day," she muttered, eyes fixed on a reconstructed bust of Cro-Magnon man. "Most people don't even qualify for being decent, much less 'person'."

He didn't push. Just nodded, like he'd expected that answer all along.

The Human Evolution gallery bled into quieter halls. Fewer people. Fewer grand declarations. Just the quiet echo of their footsteps and the occasional hum from people at a nearby display. They passed through an exhibit on volcanoes—molten models mid-eruption, facts etched in metal plaques—and into a room filled wall to wall with taxidermy. The Corinthian gave a long look at a trio of lions poised in eternal mid-pounce.

“They look rather underwhelming,” he murmured. “No real threat in their eyes. Just dust and button glass.”

“You’re ruining the illusion for the children,” Johanna said, glancing at the passing kid in a dino hoodie who was far more interested in the elephant behind them. “Let them believe nature’s terrifying.”

“It is. Just not in this room.”

The Corinthian's initial assessment seemed to be a shared one. The taxidermy exhibits, with their dusty furs and glass eyes, held no real terror for either of them. The illusion's novelty had worn off, and they moved through the room with a practiced, uninterested haste.

They stopped walking entirely when they entered the Minerals and Crystals gallery. The space opened up into a glimmering sanctuary of light and geological time. Everything sparkled. Every surface refracted light in subtle, shifting hues. Rows of glass cases held clusters of stone, some jagged, some so perfect they looked unreal—amethyst, quartz, pyrite, all cut or cracked open to reveal their quiet, glittering insides.

He took a step forward like someone entering a chapel.

“This,” he said, voice barely above a breath, “this reminds me of the Dreaming. A little.”

Johanna paused. She hadn't expected him to say anything. Much less that.

She followed his gaze to a geode as tall as she was, its core blooming with violet crystals that caught and scattered light like tiny stars. Their reflections shimmered side by side in the glass, their outlines softened by the fractured rainbow across it.

She didn't speak right away. She let the moment rest, unhurried.

“You enjoying yourself?” she asked finally. The question came out unguarded. Not even a hint of sarcasm.

He turned toward her. No grin. No teeth. Just that same strange stillness he’d had when he first stepped inside the museum.

“Yes,” he said, plain and unvarnished. Then, after a pause: “It’s an odd ritual. I’m learning things. People spend so much time preserving beauty. Curating it. Showcasing the parts that shine.”

The hush between them settled again. It wasn’t uncomfortable. It held weight, like they’d accidentally wandered into a pocket of time that didn’t quite belong to the rest of the day. Then his voice lowered. No mischief in it. Just quiet certainty.

“Would you consider us to be dating now?”

Johanna blinked. Her whole rhythm stuttered.

“…What?”

“This,” he said, gesturing gently at the exhibit, at her, at everything. “I asked. You said yes. That’s how it works, isn’t it? A date. So I’m asking… is this what we are now? And would you—would you do it again in the near future? Go on another one. With me.”

She opened her mouth, but her wit had abandoned ship. Every line, every clever dodge that usually lined up in perfect formation? Gone. Just silence, thick and choking at the back of her throat.

He looked at her, not accusing. Not even particularly expectant. Just waiting. Just honest. And annoyingly handsome, but maybe it was just given the current setting they’re in surrounded by dream-like crystals mixed with how he can look like a lost puppy dog.

“Don’t deflect, Johanna,” he added, soft. “I’d like to know.”

But whatever answer she might’ve scraped together evaporated the second a stampede of schoolchildren burst into the room. Their teacher’s voice trailed behind them like a siren: “Alright, everyone! Let’s find the sparkliest rock!” Dozens of tiny feet stormed the exhibit. Fingers pointed, voices overlapped. One girl shrieked with joy at a chunk of rose quartz. A boy pressed his nose to the glass.

The moment dissolved.

Johanna let out a breath, the kind she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. She straightened, brushing her coat sleeves down.

“Well. That’s our cue,” she said briskly, a little too loud over the chaos. “Time for coffee. And maybe something to eat. I’m not equipped to handle that many emotions or six-year-olds on an empty stomach.”

She started walking before he could answer.

And after a beat, he followed.

The museum café was tucked behind a towering marble staircase, quieter than expected, with warm yellow lighting and the clatter of porcelain. It smelled like burnt espresso and overpriced scones.

The Corinthian insisted on getting the food. Johanna let him, mostly to see what he'd pick but also hoping it’d distract him enough to forget about their conversation earlier. He returned with two coffees and a paper tray balanced with a still-warm almond croissant and what appeared to be a bacon-and-egg sandwich the size of his fist.

Johanna took a long sip of her coffee. It was strong and bitter, exactly what she needed. "You picked a good one," she said, gesturing to the croissant. "Tell me you’re not actually a mind-reader. That would be unbearable.”

He set the tray down on the small table and sat opposite her, his long legs too cramped for the space. "Just another observation. You strike me as a black coffee person."

The conversation felt safe, a return to the easy banter of the morning. It was a temporary truce. The Corinthian took a bite of his sandwich, chewed, and swallowed. He then looked at her with an unnerving, deliberate patience. The kind that made people confess to things they hadn’t even admitted to themselves.

"You never answered my question," he said, his voice quiet but steady.

Her hand froze midair, croissant halfway to her mouth. She didn’t need to ask which question. The mood had shifted, the café walls suddenly felt a bit too close.

"I thought that conversation was over," she said, her tone sharpened by instinct. Please, don’t. Not this conversation. "We got interrupted. It's done."

He tilted his head, mildly amused. “Not done. Deferred. It’s a ritual, isn’t it? I followed the steps—asked you out, fed you pastries. Now I get to ask where we stand.”

She took a deliberate bite of her croissant, the flakiness a distraction from the sudden tension in the air. She contemplated throwing the pastry or coffee at him for a moment, hoping that would be enough of an answer for him but knowing it would just be a poor waste of food and drink. "We're sitting in a museum café, mate. That's where we stand."

Unfazed, he leaned forward, elbows on the table, the sunglasses shielding whatever was happening in the depths behind them. “I’m not mocking you. I’m trying. To be honest. To do this properly.”

She set her coffee down, harder than she anticipated. “You don’t do anything properly. You’re a nightmare. Literally.”

His lips twitched. “And you’re a mess of bad choices in a trench coat. We work with what we are.”

Her gaze hardened, and she pushed her coffee cup away. This was too much, too fast. This wasn't a playful game anymore, this was him digging, chipping away at the walls she’d spent a lifetime building.

"I don't do that," she said, her voice low and dangerous. "I don't 'date.' Things with me don't get 'regular.' My life is a series of disasters, not a quaint ritual you can catalogue. You should know better."

He straightened, no longer smiling. “So that’s it? You’ll risk everything on a case, face things no one should have to see, but ask you to stay still long enough for the part that matters, and you shut down on me?”

"This is the part that matters?" she hissed, leaning over the table. "This is the part where people get hurt! Where expectations get built and then smashed to pieces! This is what always happens. It's what's going to happen here."

He watched her, inscrutable. “So you’d rather pre-ruin it than risk having it ruined.”

She hated that he was right. Hated how it cracked something open inside her. The familiar coil of panic rose in her throat, hot and tight.

“This is over,” she said, standing abruptly. Her chair scraped harshly against the tile. “The date is over.”

She spun on her heel, her body coiled with a furious mix of fear and rage. He followed quietly, like a shadow she couldn’t shake. At the edge of the café, she turned to face him, breath catching in her chest. She wanted to scream at him, to tell him to get out of her life, to go back to the Dreaming where he belonged. But the words that came out were different.

“What do you want?” she hissed, her voice low. “I told you. It’s over. What’s the big deal? Why is defining it so important?”

He stopped, tilting his head slightly, as if studying a particularly difficult puzzle. “You’ll face down gods, hunt monsters, and you’ll go toe-to-toe with me, but you’re running from a simple question. I don't understand it. We’re on a date. You seem to be enjoying it. I know I am. Why can’t we simply continue?”

“Because that’s not how this works!” she spat back. “You don’t just continue. You put a label on it, you make it a thing, and then the whole damn thing falls apart. It gets messy. It gets ugly. Why would you want that?”

He took a step closer, reducing the distance between them. "I want to know what this is," he said, his voice quiet. "And what happens next. That’s all. Because I like you, very much, Johanna Constantine.”

She stared at him, stunned into stillness. The words clung to the air like static.

I like you, very much, Johanna Constantine.

God, he meant it. That was the problem.

“I’m not something you get to keep,” she said, voice taut and trembling with frustration. “You can’t pin me down with a few pastries and a smile. I’m not some prize at the bottom of your fucked-up redemption arc.”

“I never said you were,” he replied, calmly and infuriatingly so. “I’m just asking you to stop pretending this doesn’t matter.”

“It doesn’t—”

“Then why are you shaking?”

Her breath caught.

She hadn’t realized it until he said it, that her hands curled into fists, heart thudding, jaw tight enough to ache. She was vibrating with the effort of holding herself together. Rage. Panic. Something dangerously close to hope.

“Because you don’t get to do this,” she said, shoving him lightly in the chest with both hands. “You don’t get to waltz in with your sunglasses and your perfect cups of coffee and charming smugness and—like me. You’re not supposed to like me. You’re supposed to ruin me. That’s the deal.”

He didn’t move. He didn’t flinch.

“I could say the same,” he murmured. “And yet here we are.”

She could feel the words rising again, bitter and defensive, clawing their way up, but they’d start repeating themselves soon. And she couldn’t stand to hear them anymore. Not in her own voice.

So instead, she closed the distance between them in one breathless, furious step, grabbed him but his jacket, and crushed her mouth against his.

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t gentle. It was the kiss equivalent of throwing a punch and then leaning into it. Teeth, lips, heat—rage and want tangled up until they were indistinguishable.

He kissed her back immediately, like he’d been waiting for her to snap. His hands rose, unsure for a heartbeat, then slid to her hips, grounding them both. He tasted like coffee and smoke and something unnameable but familiar—like dreams that went wrong.

When she finally pulled back, her breath was ragged. She didn’t let go of his jacket.

“Don’t you dare read into that,” she warned, eyes narrowed, voice hoarse. “I just needed you to shut up.”

He smirked, lips flushed, sunglasses just slightly askew. “Sure you did.”

She didn’t answer right away. Just stared at him, jaw clenched, breathing uneven. The weight of the kiss still lingered between them like smoke in a closed room.

Then, after a pause, she exhaled hard through her nose and muttered, “Bloody hell,” like she was cursing herself more than him.

She turned, started walking. He followed, footsteps clacking behind her. She didn’t look at him when she spoke again, voice low, measured.

“My flat’s a twenty-minute ride from here,” she said. “If you’re coming, don’t talk.”

That silenced him, for once. But the faint grin tugging at his lips said everything.

And when she glanced sideways—just once—he was already falling into step beside her.

Chapter Text

In a part of the Dreaming where the sky was the color of a faded bruise and stray thoughts grew on bushes like berries, a highly unserious scene was taking place. Not far from the castle gates, on a patch of moss where the path had decided to stop existing, a crude scoreboard was scratched into the dirt, the object of fierce and entirely inappropriate debate.

The source of the debate was obvious: Mervyn Pumpkinhead, his glowing head looking more smug than usual, stood beside the scoreboard, using the handle of a broom to gesture at his entry as if it were a prophetic text. Across from him, Matthew the Raven perched on a low stone, wings tucked in, looking ready to argue his point with the fierce conviction of a man who’d just read a dozen self-help books.

“I’m telling you,” Merv grumbled, jabbing with the broom handle, “it went up in flames. The nightmare’s lucky if he didn’t end the night with a pair of smudged sunglasses and a broken heart.”

He jabbed a line beneath his name, adding: Merv – she walked out — owes one week of polishing the palace’s reflective surfaces.

“Nonsense,” Matthew replied, chest puffed. “He asked her to DTR like I told him. You think Constantine’d kiss him and then ghost him? Not likely. I’m calling it, the date went well.”

Merv let out a scoff accompanied by a puff of smoke from his cigar. “You’re just mad the birdbath’s still offline, and you’re taking it out on me by arguing. That has nothing to do with the bloody date, y’know.”

Before Matthew could launch into another defense, Nuala appeared from behind a tree, a simple linen apron over her plain clothes. She was a faerie of Titania’s Court once, but now her glamour was gone, leaving her with the clear-eyed grace of a woman who knew her worth. Having been on her way from tending the fig trees when she’d spotted the two of them arguing over their makeshift scoreboard, she had approached out of curiosity and had quickly gotten up to speed.

“The Corinthian went on a date,” she said mildly, taking in the scene with barely concealed amusement. “That explains the general mood.”

“What mood?” asked Matthew.

She didn’t answer. Just smiled. After a beat, she knelt beside the board, scratching in her contribution with a steady hand.

Nuala – she kissed him first — owes one shot from her bow, on request, for any non-lethal task.

“See?” Matthew cried, triumphant. “Romance!”

“I didn’t say romance,” Nuala replied, brushing her hands off. “I said she kissed him. A subtle difference.”

“I’m raising my bet,” Matthew said, hopping closer to the dirt, beak poised with intent. “Second base. Maybe more. Three errands for Lucienne.”

“Oh, now it’s a competition,” Merv muttered, folding his arms. “You two are just shameless.”

“I prefer invested,” Nuala said, the corner of her mouth quirking as she helped Matthew write down his wager.

Matthew – they became intimate — three errands for Lucienne.

None of them heard Lucienne approach. She did that sometimes, arrived like a thought you didn’t know you’d had until she was already there.

“If this devolves into a bookmaking operation,” she said flatly, “I’ll have you all reassigned to the border stacks. There’s a section in the northwest archive still cataloguing sand by grain size.”

Merv jumped. Matthew nearly lost his perch. Nuala just blinked, as if she had expected her to come find them like this.

“It’s not gamblin’, we’re not betting with money, see?” Merv said through a puff of smoke.

“We’re betting duties instead.” Nuala chimed in.

Lucienne’s frown remained in place, and now her attention moved to the scoreboard in the dirt. “Organized speculation on the emotional life of a nightmare,” she continued, with the weary precision of someone who had seen it all before. “How very on-brand.”

“It’s not speculation,” Matthew said quickly. “It’s uhh…observational morale studies.”

“It’s team bonding,” Nuala added, helpful as ever.

Lucienne gave them a long, unreadable look, then glanced at the crude scrawl of names and wagers again. “The air’s gone strange,” she said, quieter now. “Tense in all the wrong places. Like someone’s tried to straighten a thread already woven.”

The three of them fell silent.

Then a breeze shifted through the clearing, soft, golden, and laced with something bright as starlight. They all turned as one.

Dream walked into the space without a sound, barefoot on the moss, the white of his garments nearly luminous in the soft dimness. He said nothing at first, simply stood there, gaze landing on the scoreboard like it was the most curious thing in the Dreaming.

Lucienne stepped forward with a graceful bow. “My lord. We were only…” She hesitated, then chose her words with care, “We were merely discussing the consequences of a certain nightmare’s expedition into the waking world.”

Dream said nothing.

“I can feel the shift,” Dream said, his voice a soft echo of Lucienne’s earlier words. He turned his gaze to the others, a flicker of something in his eyes that was not judgment, but curiosity. “This… tension you have created. It is like an expectation. An expectation for an outcome.”

The others braced themselves for a sermon on their duties, or a quiet disappointment that felt much worse. They waited for his displeasure, for the air to go cold.

Instead, Dream knelt. Not all the way. Just enough to press a single fingertip to the dirt. He made a mark.

Dream – it went well for the both of them — owes a new sunrise for the Dreaming.

The clearing was silent.

Dream straightened, and his gaze moved from the scoreboard to Lucienne. "I have a new star to set in the constellations of the Dreaming. Your precise memory would be invaluable."

He was not displeased. Far from it. As he turned to leave, a brief, silent warmth seemed to emanate from him. It was then that the others saw it—a flicker of a smile, so subtle and so quick it might not have happened at all. But it did. And it was enough to make Merv’s jaw slack, Matthew emit a tiny, stunned croak, and even Nuala’s quiet composure falter.

Then he was gone, bringing Lucienne along with him.

Matthew let out a breath. “Okay, well, that just happened.”

Merv groaned. “We’re all doomed.”

Nuala smiled faintly, brushing her braid over her shoulder. “Oh, I wouldn’t say doomed.”

They all looked at the scoreboard.

“I’d say we’re just getting to the good part.”

The door clicked shut behind them.

Not slammed, nor fumbled. Just closed properly, clean and final like the page of a book Johanna wasn’t sure she wanted to keep reading.

She kicked off her boots by the door, walked in without turning on the lights. The faint orange wash of the city filtered in through the curtains, casting long shadows across her small, cluttered flat. Her coat hung heavy on her shoulders. She didn’t shrug it off.

The Corinthian followed in silence. He stood by the entryway a beat too long before taking a step forward, with a rare hesitation.

“Johanna,” he started.

“No,” she said, without turning. Her voice was quiet. Final.

He stopped again.

She walked deeper into the flat, shedding her coat onto the couch like it had burned her. He didn’t follow right away, but when he did, it was slow. Careful. Like he knew what they were walking toward and still chose not to flinch.

He hovered near the threshold of her living room, unsure if he was allowed to cross whatever invisible line she’d drawn.

“I wasn’t trying to push you,” he said finally. “Back there. I just—”

“I know what you were doing,” she cut in. “I know what it meant.”

She turned to face him, arms crossed tight. “Don’t mistake this for something it isn’t.”

“What is it, then?” he asked, eyes unreadable in the dark.

She took a step toward him. “Don’t ask me to define it.”

“I won’t,” he said, his gaze unwavering in the dark. A moment's thought seemed to pass between them, unspoken. "There's no point in asking now.” His voice was too careful just then, too controlled and she hated it.

She didn’t want to talk. Not anymore.

She reached for him.

He let her.

The kiss was quieter than before. There was no heat of public fury or café stares to burn it bright this time around. Just something slow and heavy, laced with everything unsaid and unwelcome between them. Her fingers found the edges of his jacket, and he let her peel it off. When her hands roamed down his arms, up his shoulders, around his neck, he sucked in a sharp breath—but didn’t move, didn’t touch, didn’t claim. Not yet.

They drifted toward the bedroom without a word.

There was nothing frantic in it this time. No violence. Just a quiet hunger, bone-deep and exhausting. Her lips traced the curve of his throat, and his hands ghosted her waist as though she’d vanish if he held her too tightly.

Then she reached up, fingers brushing the arms of his sunglasses.

He caught her wrist. His fingers wrapped around her skin, not rough, but firm. “You sure?”

“I wouldn’t have reached if I wasn’t.”

A breath passed between them. He let go.

She slid them off slowly, then set them gently on the bedside table with quite care. Beneath, the twin rows of teeth where eyes should be caught the low light, shining faintly. Unsettling. Uncanny. Utterly him. She didn’t flinch. She looked, and kept looking.

His mouth twitched, not quite a smile. Maybe something heavier. “You’re not going to run screaming?”

“Not today,” she murmured.

Her fingers went to the hem of his shirt, and he raised his arms in silent permission. She didn’t hurry. Her hands moved with unhurried intent, every motion precise, as though she was dismantling something dangerous. He stood perfectly still, letting her have this small, purposeful act of control over him. There was no magic to it, but it still felt like a silent ritual, an undoing she was in charge of.

When all of his clothes were on the floor, she let her hands rest against his chest, allowing herself to feel the cool, unyielding perfection of a being not of this world. Her gaze was steady, unafraid. He watched her, and in the dim light, the twin rows of teeth in his eye sockets seemed to gleam.

She reached for the first button of her blouse, but his hands found hers, stilling them. Without a word, he took over, undoing each fastening with slow precision. The brush of his knuckles against her skin was deliberate, testing.

When the last button came free, he eased the blouse from her shoulders, letting it slide down her arms and fall soundlessly to the floor. His hands didn’t leave her—skimming down her sides, pausing briefly at her hips before finding the clasp of her trousers.

She didn’t stop him.

He worked them loose, guiding the fabric down over her hips, the backs of his fingers grazing bare skin as he lowered them. She stepped out of them, and he followed the movement with his gaze, dark and unwavering, a silent study of every detail.

When she was bare before him, he stilled. For a long beat, he just looked at her, transfixed, as though she were something rare he’d been searching for without knowing it.

Johanna broke the moment first. She reached for his hand, curling her fingers around his, and without a word, led him toward the bed.

She climbed atop him, knees bracketing his hips, palms planted on either side of his ribs. She looked down at him like she was memorizing something she shouldn’t keep. Something rare. Something impossible.

And maybe he was.

But for now, she was the one in control.

And he let her be.

Her short hair was a dark frame around her face in the amber-dark of the room. Her brown eyes, wide and steady, continued to peer down at him. He didn’t move, only traced the lines of her with his gaze (if it could be called that), like each second was a photograph he wanted to keep.

Her fingers trailed down his sternum, slow, mapping the shape of him as though touch was the only language left they could share. He let his hands rise, sliding up the backs of her thighs with an almost reverent care, his grip tightening just enough to remind her he was still capable of holding her there if he chose.

She shifted, leaning down until her mouth brushed the sharp edge of his jaw. He turned his head, and the faintest scrape of teeth—not the ones in his mouth—grazed her temple. It should’ve unsettled her. It didn’t.

“You’re staring,” she murmured.

“Always.”

Her lips ghosted over his again, slower this time, letting the kiss unfurl at its own pace. His hands found her waist, grounding her, drawing her closer—not to claim, but to anchor. For a heartbeat, the air between them felt suspended, as if this was all a dream and it was holding its breath.

And then—softly, without warning—she pressed her forehead to his, closing her eyes.

“This doesn’t mean anything,” she murmured.

He didn’t answer. Maybe because they both knew it wasn’t true.

Her hands slipped to his wrists, guiding them higher along her hips. His fingers curled there like they’d always belonged. The warmth of her skin seeped into his touch, grounding him in a way he didn’t know he could be grounded.

She kissed him again, harder this time, the kind that took a little more from both of them. He caught her lower lip between his teeth, a sharp flicker of sensation that made her inhale against his mouth.

“Don’t stop,” she whispered—soft enough that it could have been meant for herself.

His hands slid up her back, palms flattening between her shoulder blades, pressing her closer. She shifted against him, the slow, testing grind of someone deciding exactly how much they’re willing to give in to. His breath caught, his body answering before his mind could.

The city light shifted, shadows spilling differently across the bed. Her hands slid lower, needing to feel more of him. His grip tightened.

What happened next was theirs alone.

Chapter Text

Johanna woke to darkness. The sheets were still warm against her bare legs, but the other side of the bed was cold. For a moment, she lay there, blinking at the ceiling, wondering if she’d dreamed it all—the kiss, the way his hands had felt braced against her waist, the quiet weight of his body beneath hers. The kind of thing she might make up on a lonely night if she’d had too much to drink.

But the faint creak of floorboards in the next room said otherwise.

She sat up, the cool air against her skin making her shiver. Sliding out of bed, she crossed to the closet and tugged out a loose shirt, one soft from years of wear. She pulled it over her head, then reached down to snag her trousers from the floor, stepping into them without bothering to fasten the top button. Only then did she pad barefoot toward the light spilling faintly from the living room.

The Corinthian was there.

He sat on her couch, one leg draped over the other, all his clothes back on save for his jacket, which was slung over the armrest. A slim, worn book rested in his hands, but he closed it as soon as he saw her.

“Well, well,” he said, tone almost lazy, but his head tilted as if he’d been waiting for her. “Thought I’d have to come wake you.”

“Bold of you to assume you’d survive that,” she said, leaning a hip against the doorframe. “I bite.”

His grin was quick and sharp. “So do I.” He had his sunglasses back on, but Johanna could feel even the rows of teeth behind them were grinning back.

She rolled her eyes and crossed the room, dropping into the armchair opposite him. “You’re making yourself comfortable.”

“I’ve been told I have an adaptable nature.” He placed the book on the table between them, the motion unhurried. “Though that’s not really what I’m here for.”

Johanna’s mouth curved to not quite a smile, more like disbelief wearing a smirk’s coat. She let out a short, incredulous laugh. “Bloody hell, you’re persistent.”

He tilted his head, a motion with the faint curiosity of a hound catching an unfamiliar scent, sunglasses flashing in the lamplight. It was impossible to tell if he was amused or simply tracking her every move. When he spoke again, some of the easy glide had gone from his voice, replaced with a quiet, deliberate weight, as if he’d stopped circling and decided to close in.

“You’re not going to answer me, are you, if I ask again?”

Johanna raised a brow. “Are you asking me to define us?”

He gave a short nod, as if committing to something. “I’ve heard somewhere that in a relationship, it’s important to be clear.”

“Sounds like something you read in a magazine,” she said, plucking the battered pack of cigarettes from the table. She shook one loose, rolling it between her fingers but making no move to light it. “We’re two people who went on a date and ended up in bed. There. Clear enough?”

“Johanna.”

Her name sat heavier than it should have, drawing her gaze to him. She leaned back in her chair, shoulders settling against the worn upholstery, and this time when she spoke, her voice had lost its teasing edge. “Was that what the date was all about, then?”

“Not the only reason.” His mouth curved faintly, though it wasn’t quite a smile. “I wanted to see you again. Properly. Not in a crypt, not over a corpse. Just… see you.” A pause, deliberate, before he tipped his head slightly. “But yeah. I also wanted to find out where we stand. What this is.” He didn’t look away. “I like this. Us. The banter, the sharp edges and—” his eyes slid deliberately toward hers, sunglasses turning the look into something more dangerous “—whatever it was we did earlier.”

Her mouth twitched, a faint tug that could have been amusement or the start of a defense. “Romantic.”

“I’m not trying to be romantic,” he said, leaning in until his elbows rested on his knees. The space between them seemed to contract with the movement. “I’m trying to be clear. You know how I feel.” His voice stayed steady, almost deceptively so. “I’m curious how you feel.”

“Curious?”

His gaze didn’t waver. “I like humanity, sure. I like watching it, getting inside people’s dreams, seeing what shakes them. But that doesn’t cancel out the fact that I like you. A lot. I’ve been in enough dreams of people falling in love—or falling apart—to know I’m not making this up in my head.”

She studied him for a long moment, her eyes scanning his face for any sign of a lie, any twitch of deception. There was none. Just the stillness of a being that could wait a thousand years for an answer.

“So you really want a relationship with me.”

“Yes.” The word was a single, simple thing. No nuance, no hesitation.

Johanna broke eye contact, her gaze drifting to the unlit cigarette in her fingers. The air in the room felt suddenly thick with all the things she couldn't say. She took a slow, rattling breath. “I’m not sure I can give you that.”

“Why not?” His voice was calm, but the question was a razor's edge. He wasn't demanding, but he wasn't letting her run either.

Her tongue pressed against the back of her teeth. The words were there, waiting: Because you’re immortal. Because I’m a mess. Because everything good I’ve ever had has been destroyed. But they sounded too vulnerable, too raw. She searched for a way to say it without truly saying it. It was pathetic, really, how easily the cliché came out.

“It’s complicated.” She hated herself for it the second it left her mouth.

“Why is it complicated?” he asked, his voice calm, but with an entirely new tension.

She rubbed her temples. “You really want me to spell it out?”

“Please do.”

She leaned further back, her head resting against the cool leather of the chair. “Do you remember what you said in the museum? About where we’d be in a thousand years?”

“Vividly.”

“I’ll be in the dirt.” She looked at him, letting that land. “You won’t have aged a day. You won’t have changed. And I will be… a ghost. A whisper. A memory. And I don’t even know if I’ll be one you still want to keep.”

He didn’t blink. “If you think I’m the kind of entity who misplaces the good things—” His mouth quirked, just enough to be infuriating. “—then you haven’t been paying attention. That’s the point, Johanna. We don’t have forever, so why not make the most of what we’ve got?”

“That’s not the point,” she said, sharper now. “The point is there is no forever. Not for me. So the ‘what we’ve got’ is nothing more than a temporary arrangement that’s headed for a hard stop.”

“That’s exactly why it matters now,” he insisted.

She shook her head, a short, humorless gesture. “You think that’s romantic, but it’s not. It’s just cruel. People change. Feelings fade. Even if you remember me, it won’t be the same.”

“Nothing is forever,” he began, “Except…”

“Except love? You used that line before. I remember.” The words were out before she could stop them.

Her mind flashed back to their first mission, hunting for Loki to find Daniel Hall. They were in fancy bar at an old hotel, interrogating someone Johanna now knows wasn’t a human. The Corinthian called them newlyweds even, while she denied that cover. She was so focused on getting information, but then he’d said something striking, a quiet, almost poetic truth that had given her pause: It's forever that doesn't exist. Love is the only reason we're here.

At the time, she realized it was a small turning point of lines that made her realize he couldn’t be the first Corinthian. Far from it. This new one had a sense and an idea of love. And now that very idea felt like a weapon.

Johanna’s gaze flicked away first, her voice thinning to almost nothing. “You’re right. Nothing is forever.” Her mouth twisted as if the words tasted bitter. “But I’m mortal. Which means I get to care about forever in a way you never will.”

The Corinthian didn’t move, but the stillness around him sharpened, like the pause before a blade came down.

“So that’s it?” His tone was too calm to be harmless. “You’re too afraid of where it might end, so you won’t even let it start?”

“I’m not afraid,” she said, voice a fraction too sharp. “I’m just not interested in adding your name to the long list of people it’s gone wrong with. Call it realism. Or self-preservation.”

He smiled like she’d just confirmed something for him. “If that’s self-preservation, it sounds a lot like fear dressed up in sensible shoes.”

“And what about you?” she shot back, leaning forward in her chair. “You think you can just walk into my life, play at being human, and not burn everything down in the process?”

His smile thinned, not quite reaching his eyes. “I’m not playing. I know what I want. You. Isn’t that enough?”

She let out a short, humorless breath. “It’s never enough,” she said quietly, like the words were a verdict. “Not when you already know how it ends.”

Something in his expression faltered just for a heartbeat, but he masked it quickly, leaning forward as if sheer proximity might force her to listen. “Then let it end how it ends. I’d rather have the time we do than throw it away before it even starts.”

Her hand tightened around the cigarette between her fingers, the paper crinkling. “You don’t get it,” she murmured, not meeting his gaze. “I’ve lived this story before. And it doesn’t end with anyone walking away clean.”

He sat back, jaw working, his hands restless against his knees like he was holding back every counter-argument he had. The silence between them thickened, heavy with things neither would say.

She forced herself to look up at him, just long enough for it to hurt. Then she looked away.

“I think you should go.”

The silence after that was thick enough to choke on.

He sat back slowly, eyes still on her like he was trying to memorize every detail before she could vanish from his reach. Then, with deliberate care, he reached for the book on the table. Closed it without looking at the page and slid it back onto her shelf.

When he stood, he took his jacket from the back of the couch, letting it hang loosely from his fingers for a beat.

“For what it’s worth,” he said, voice low but not unkind, “I still enjoyed our date today. Thank you.”

Her throat felt tight, but she said nothing. Didn’t even look at him.

The air around her shifted into something cooler, sharper, like a sudden breeze that made no sound, before it went away, leaving her with the familiar chill of absence.

And just like that, he was gone. Back to the Dreaming, probably.

Johanna sat there for a moment, the only sound her own breathing. Then she stood, muttered a curse under her breath, and started cleaning. Cigarette back in the packet, glasses in the sink, coat hung up. Anything to keep moving. Anything but sitting still.

Sunlight in the Dreaming wasn’t exactly real, but it moved like the real thing, golden and heavy, filtering through the high-boughed trees near the garden wall. Nuala was knee-deep in overgrown dream-thistle, tugging it up with elegant efficiency. Matthew, as usual, was not helping.

“Y’know,” the raven said from his perch on a fence post, “if you just set it on fire it’d be faster.”

“I’ve seen what happened last time you suggested fire,” Nuala said, brushing hair out of her eyes. “Lucienne nearly turned Cain into a decorative lamp.”

The sky didn’t change, nor the wind, but something in the garden turned its attention inward. Like a dream shifting just before waking, it became aware of a familiar presence returning.

Then came a telltale sound of boots against the cobbled path.

Nuala stood up straight. Matthew twisted his head around.

The Corinthian was walking up the garden path.

He looked… normal. Too normal. Worn-looking jacket, dark sunglasses, that easy gait like he owned whatever shadow he stood in. But there was a wrinkle in the posture. A weight in the silence. A thing missing from his smile that hadn’t quite grown back yet.

“Well, well,” Matthew said, drawing it out. “Look who survived his date.”

The Corinthian gave a short, not-unpleasant laugh. “Don’t sound so surprised.”

Nuala dusted her hands on her trousers. “We weren’t sure if you’d be back today. Or, well. At all.”

“Plans changed.”

Matthew fluttered down onto the path beside him. “Sooo... how’d it go?”

The Corinthian shrugged, as if the day had been nothing more remarkable than a stroll through the park.

“We went to the museum. Had lunch. She walked away. I followed. Then she kissed me. Then we had sex. Then we talked some more. Now I’m back here.”

Nuala’s brows arched high, a slow, deliberate lift that made her look like she was weighing what to make of him. Matthew gave a sharp tilt of his head, one beady eye narrowing like he’d just been handed half the story.

“That’s it?” Matthew said, feathers ruffling in disbelief.

“That’s it.”

They watched him. The way his jaw set. The way he didn’t fidget, didn’t grin, didn’t gloat. Just said it flat, like ticking off items on a grocery list.

Nuala’s brows drew together, eyeing him as if trying to catch a clearer glimpse beneath the words. “You don’t sound particularly thrilled.”

“I’m not particularly anything.” He looked past them to the horizon. “It was good. Then it wasn’t. That’s that.”

Matthew opened his beak, closed it, and tried again. “You, uh… wanna talk about the ‘wasn’t’ part?”

The Corinthian smiled again, looking at the raven, but this one was thinner. “Not especially.”

A moment of silence. Dream-thistle swayed. Then he stepped past them.

“Anyway. I should get back. Lots of nightmares to manage. You know how it is. See ya.”

“Cor,” Nuala said gently.

He paused. Didn’t turn. She didn’t finish the sentence.

“Take care of yourselves,” he said instead. And then he was gone, disappearing into the shadows at the edge of the path like he belonged to them again.

They stood quietly.

Matthew gave a low whistle. “He’s lying through his teeth.”

“No, he’s not,” Nuala said. “That’s the worst part.”

A dry rustle of leaves and the faint squeak of old wheels cut through their conversation. Merv trundled into view, pushing a wheelbarrow piled high with battered stage props. An unlit cigar was clenched between his teeth, bobbing with each step.

He jerked a thumb toward the direction the Corinthian had vanished. “Told ya mortals always bolt.”

The look Nuala gave him was withering. But it was Matthew who turned, wings puffed and eyes narrowed.

“Not the time, Merv.” Matthew said, voice clipped.

Merv raised both hands. “Hey, hey, just sayin’. I told ya before and I’ll say it again, ya can’t fix a busted pipe with a fancy conversation.”

They stared at him as though weighing whether he was worth the oxygen.

“…Alright, alright. I’ll go shovel some dream muck or something,” Merv grumbled, shifting the wheelbarrow handle in his hands. “But for the record, I was right—she did walk away from him.”

Matthew let out a short caw of agreement, shifting his head toward Nuala. “And we were right too. She kissed him. They… y’know.”

It should have been the perfect moment for gloating. Instead, the words landed heavy, like stones dropped in still water. Neither of them looked remotely pleased.

“Guess that means all our bets paid out,” Merv added, grinning like he’d hit the jackpot. “Well—’cept for the Boss’s maybe.”

Nuala’s brow furrowed, the sharp glint in her eyes dimming. “Doesn’t feel like winning.”

Matthew’s wings settled close to his body. “Yeah. Not the way I pictured it.”

Merv glanced between them, clearly baffled. “So… bets still on, or what?”

Two simultaneous, warning looks cut him off mid-chew of his unlit cigar. “Okay, okay—message received,” he muttered, rolling the wheelbarrow away with a squeak of its one bad wheel.

As Merv wheeled away, muttering about sensitive types, Matthew let out a long breath.

“Y’think he’ll be okay?” he asked Nuala.

She didn’t answer right away. Her gaze lingered on the path the Corinthian had walked, as if expecting it to answer for her.

“…Maybe,” she said at last. “But not today.”

The corridors of Dream’s palace had a way of stretching when you weren’t looking, like someone was quietly adding more in the gaps between blinks. The Corinthian had been through half a dozen vaulted halls already, each one a different shade of impossible: some lined with endless bookcases that smelled of moonlight and old dust, others with gilt-framed portraits of creatures who had never existed. The silence was the real enemy here, a thick, plush thing that swallowed the quiet scuff of his boots and the sound of his own breathing.

He was looking for Lucienne. He needed to ask her something before his own thoughts became too much to face alone, before the strangeness of his own feelings buried him.

A turn through a cool, stone archway brought him into a long gallery lined with windows the size of church doors. Sunlight—long and thin and orange, the color of a fading ember—spilled over the polished marble tiles. It smelled of quiet warmth and something like nostalgia, throwing patterns of long, stretching shadows that deepened and shifted like living things.

And there, at the far end of the gallery, sat the Dream King.

Dream had his back half-turned, his coat—a cascade of pearl-white fabric—draped over the back of the chair. His short, dark curly hair, with a few streaks of brilliant blonde, caught the light against the deep wood of the table.

In front of him, a chessboard rested on a stand. The squares were not wood but a polished checkered board of gleaming starlight and deep, swirling shadow. On one side, the pieces were glowing with the pearlescent sheen of polished bone. On the other, they were shimmering with the heavy weight of obsidian. Dream moved a knight for black, then—without pause—reached over and shifted a pawn for white, continuing a silent game against himself.

The Corinthian stopped a few steps short of the table, his boots making no sound on the polished marble. He didn't interrupt the silent game, but simply stood there, watching. "Well. That's new."

Dream glanced up, his expression mild, as though a sudden presence in his private gallery was an expected occurrence. "What is?"

"You. Playing chess." The Corinthian said with a subtle lift in his brow behind his glasses. "With all due respect, your predecessor didn't strike me as the 'take a break for a game' type."

"That's because he wasn't," Dream said simply, his gaze falling back to the board. The white pieces and their black counterparts waited in a state of suspended conflict. "Different rulers, different habits."

The Corinthian stepped closer, a hand rising to the edge of his sunglasses as he tilted his head, a gesture of genuine, if wary, fascination. "And you play both sides?”

Dream's mouth curved, just slightly, with the faintest hint of something that wasn't quite a smile. "Someone has to."

The Corinthian almost smiled in return, but stopped himself. "Suppose that makes sense for you."

There was a quiet between them, not heavy but not entirely comfortable, like the last exhale before a sentence is formed. Dream moved a piece of shimmering obsidian, another pawn this time, then looked up fully, his pale eyes finally settling on the Corinthian.

“I assume you weren’t searching for me,” he said, the words clean and certain.

“Lucienne,” the Corinthian confirmed, his posture easing slightly. “Haven’t seen her all day.”

“She’s in the east wing archives.”

He nodded, but didn’t move to leave. “Figured I’d try asking before I hunted the entire place down.” His gaze flicked to the board again. “You any good at it?”

Dream’s eyes softened in a way that reminded the Corinthian of how he had once been human. It was a faint, fleeting shift, but it was there all the same. “The game?”

“Yeah.”

Dream leaned back in his chair, the pearl-white coat shifting with the movement. “I’m patient enough for it. That’s most of the work.”

The Corinthian let out a short, cutting breath that might’ve been a laugh if it had any warmth. “Never been my strong suit.”

Dream’s tone didn’t change, but there was a thread of weight under it now. “Then maybe you should practice. On the board… and elsewhere.”

A muscle in the Corinthian’s jaw tightened, the faintest tic betraying what his grin didn’t. One hand flexed against his thigh before he stilled it, posture sharpening like a blade. He met Dream’s gaze with the full force of his sunglasses. “And I’m guessing ‘elsewhere’ isn’t a reference to the east wing archives.”

Dream’s expression remained perfectly mild, a deep ocean of calm. “I’m simply referring to the principle,” he said, his eyes lifting to meet the Corinthian’s. “Some moves take time to matter. But when they do, they can change the entire game.”

It was almost infuriating how unruffled he was—a perfect reflection of the placid cool Johanna herself had wielded earlier. But the words stuck, quiet as a hook sinking in. The Corinthian shifted his weight from one foot to the other, a rare show of his restlessness.

Dream looked back down, his attention returning to the board. He adjusted a black rook. “You’ll find Lucienne where I said. And Corinthian…”

He waited until the Corinthian’s gaze was fixed on him again.

“Don’t make every move just because you can. Make the ones that count.”

The Corinthian didn’t answer. He simply turned and headed for the archway, the long, thin patterns of late afternoon sunlight on the marble floor tilting with each step, the echo of that advice still sharp and unsettling under his skin.

Chapter Text

Johanna Constantine had perfected the art of staying in motion.

It had been two weeks (or maybe a little more) since she’d told the Corinthian to sod off, and she’d made damn sure not to leave herself a spare moment to dwell on it. Her flat looked like the war room of someone losing several battles at once. Everywhere were maps and photos layered over each other on the walls, Post-it notes curling at the edges, a coffee table buried in takeout cartons and ashtrays.

Caffeine, nicotine, and stubborn spite were the holy trinity keeping her vertical. She hadn’t had a proper night’s sleep in days, but that was the point. Downtime meant thinking, and thinking meant remembering, and remembering… well. No point in kicking open a door you’ve been keeping bolted shut.

It was a quarter to ten at night, the drizzle making half-hearted streaks down her window, when the phone on the table started buzzing against an empty mug. She ignored it at first, tugging a cigarette from behind her ear and lighting it one-handed while scanning a half-finished ritual diagram.

“You gonna get that?” Chas’s voice drifted in from the doorway, accompanied by the faint scent of takeaway curry. The man himself leaned on the frame, he was broad-shouldered, with a weathered face, and hair that had gone just a touch more grey since she’d last taken a proper look at him. Chas Chandler had been her friend longer than most people managed to stay alive around her. Taxi driver, occasional partner-in-crime, the sort of bloke you could call at 3 AM to help dig up a cursed grave, and he’d only grumble half the time.

“Could be important,” he added, holding up a paper bag that steamed invitingly.

She exhaled smoke toward the ceiling. “Could be a telemarketer.”

He gave her a look that was far too practiced to be anything but long-suffering. He stepped forward and looked down at the phone. “It’s Mrs. Patel. She says it’s urgent.”

That got her attention. Johanna stubbed out the cigarette, reached for the phone, and listened without interrupting as Mrs. Patel — one of Chas’s regular fares, whose trust in him apparently extended to all things ‘unexplainable’ — laid out the problem.

Daughter, sixteen. Been waking up with deep scratches across her chest and neck. Says she’s being “sat on” at night by an old crone. Doctors found nothing wrong. The girl’s getting paler, thinner, and jumpier by the day.

Johanna pinched the bridge of her nose. The “witch on your chest” story was as old as the hills. It seemed like classic sleep paralysis lore, more often caused by stress or a nasty spirit than by anything truly impressive. Still, the scratches were the real trouble.

“Probably a poltergeist with a grudge,” she muttered, more to herself than to Chas. “Or someone’s laid a curse thick enough to stick.”

Chas shifted his weight, eyeing her over the curry bag like he was weighing his next words. He set the steaming paper bag on the corner of her desk, the faint smell of the curry cutting through the stale air. "You know," he said casually, "might be worth ringing up that tall blonde fella. Always in the shades, even indoors? Bit unsettling smile?”

Johanna didn’t even look up from the diagram. A cold, bitter laugh ran through her mind. Oh sure. She could just call him up. ‘Hey, I know I told you to sod off and never come back because I'm emotionally unavailable and a danger to everyone I get close to, but can you come back just to help me with this monster? Cheers.’ No, that wasn't happening. She was dragging her thumb across a half-erased line of chalk, her movements sharp and restless. "Don't need him.”

“Mm.” Chas leaned against the wall now, hands shoved in his jacket pockets, undeterred. “Just saying, didn’t you mention he’s from that… dreaming place? Bloke like that might know his way around this kind of trouble since it’s got to do with sleeping victims, right? Sounds like the sort of thing he’d be useful for.”

She finally looked up, her gaze pinning Chas with a raw, exhausted fury that seemed to have been simmering just under her skin. "I said I don’t need him.”

"Right. It’s just…" He held his hands up in a gesture of peace, but his tone was still firm. "I’ve driven you two to and from cases before, yeah? You made a pretty good pair. Got things done quick, no mess left behind. Mostly.”

“Chas.” Her voice was flat enough to squash the conversation dead, but the edge in it was more brittle than sharp. She shoved the diagram aside, the papers rustling. The circles under her eyes made her look like she’d gone twelve rounds with something that didn’t play fair which, knowing her, was probably true.

“I’ll look into it. For Mrs. Patel. That’s all.”

Chas didn’t push. He just watched her shrug on her coat, his expression somewhere between concern and resignation. The curry on her desk had already started to cool.

“No rest for the wicked,” she said, mostly under her breath.

Chas just shook his head, his hands still in his pockets. “At least eat on the way.”

The girl, Mrs. Patel’s daughter, sat hunched on the threadbare sofa, a moth-eaten thing that looked as tired as she did. Her knees were drawn up, an oversized hoodie swallowing her frame, and the mug of untouched tea Johanna had shoved into her hands sent a lazy wisp of steam into the cold air. She was sixteen, but the shadows under her eyes were the sort you only got from a lifetime of not sleeping right. A smell of stale potpourri and a deep, clinging dread filled the room.

Mrs. Patel, a small, worn woman with worry lines etched around her eyes, stood by the doorway. “Thank you for coming,” she whispered, her hands clasped together as if in prayer. She gave a tearful, grateful look to Chas before slipping out of the room, leaving them to it.

Johanna stayed leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, the old wood cold against her back. She'd learned a long time ago that crowding someone only made them clam up faster.

“All right,” she said, her voice low. “Tell me what you’ve been seeing.”

The girl's gaze flicked up just for a second before dropping to the floor again. Her hands, pale and fine-boned, tightened around the mug like she was trying to wring the last bit of warmth from it. "She's… old. Old like… y'know when people look dried out? Skin all wrong." She shuddered, and her voice dropped to a whisper. "Hair's white, but her nails are long. Black. Like they've been rotting for years. And she smiles…"

Johanna didn't move. "Go on."

"No teeth. Just… gums. But her mouth's too wide. And her eyes… milky. Like she's blind, but she still sees you." The girl's breath hitched, a thin, rattling sound. "She sits on my chest. I can't—I can't scream, I can't move. I feel her breathing into me." Another shudder, this one more violent. "It's cold. Even her breath's cold."

Chas shifted his weight in the armchair, the leather groaning under him. "And this happens when you're asleep?"

The girl nodded. "I wake up after, but it's like…" She faltered, her voice a weak, desperate thing. "Like she's still in the room."

Johanna finally pushed off the doorframe, setting her cup on the table beside the untouched tea. She crouched so they were at eye level, the cheap synthetic carpet rough against her knees.

“You feel anything else?”

The girl’s lips twitched as though she might laugh, except nothing about it was funny. "Like she's taking something. Like she's… heavier each time."

Johanna’s gaze flicked briefly toward Chas. This wasn't a poltergeist, she realized. It was something else.

The next several hours blurred into a grim, looping reel. Door after door. Flat after flat. Faces drawn and grey under the sickly light of flickering fluorescent bulbs. The same stories, told with different accents and to different rhythms. An elderly man in a threadbare cardigan, wheezing through a description of "something pressing me down… heavy as a bloody tombstone." A young mother whose hands trembled around her mug as she whispered about the red lines across her collarbone, "like a spider crawling out of my chest." A night-shift nurse who swore she could feel breath on her face, stale and damp, before waking up choking.

Every story was the same: waking exhaustion, unexplained weight loss, and a creeping dread that swelled after sundown. They were all hollowed out, their energy bled out of them like a slow leak. A vampire of a different sort maybe, Johanna thought, one that fed on more than just blood. A psychic parasite. And now, she knew, it was an epidemic.

By the time Johanna made it back to her flat, her notebook was a cramped mess of scrawled times, symptoms, and street names. She dropped her coat over the back of a chair, the leather making a soft slap, and kicked off her boots with a weary grunt. They landed with a thud on the worn floorboards as she crouched in front of the lowest shelf of her occult library, pulling a stack of weathered volumes onto the rug.

Chas came in a moment later, the door clicking shut behind him. He didn’t say anything, just went to the kettle and filled it, the sound of running water cutting through the silence.

“You’re a saint,” Johanna said, her voice muffled as she peered into a thick, leather-bound book, its spine cracked and held together with thread.

“Don’t spread that around,” he grumbled, plugging in the kettle. “I’ve got a reputation.”

Johanna just grunted in reply, her attention fully absorbed. Her fingers, stained with ink and grime, flicked through pages filled with intricate engravings and spidery text. After a minute or two of frantic searching, she stopped, her thumb resting on a page. She pulled the book closer, her breath a soft whisper of recognition.

It was an old continental bestiary, the pages yellow and brittle. She began to read aloud, her voice low and steady. "Night Hag—a type of Mare or sleep paralysis monster. They take the form of a witch. They are not bound to the realm of dreams but to the thin places between, where breath and life may be drawn away. Normally, they prey on those already stressed or exhausted, and if they feed regularly, they can solidify their hold and manifest in the waking world."

The kettle clicked off. "So it's a nightmare witch sort of thing?" Chas asked, setting two steaming mugs on the coffee table.

Johanna didn't look up, her eyes still tracing the text. "Sort of. The key is, it doesn't seem to be a creature bound to the Dreaming. It sits in a halfway place, which is why it can leave scratches. It feeds on people's energy, not their nightmares. And if it keeps feeding, it can stick around in our world." She slammed the book shut. "Probably why it’s making itself comfortable."

"And you're planning on going after this monster that preys on people who are stressed and exhausted?" Chas said, his voice laced with concern.

"That's the job."

"While you're stressed and exhausted yourself?" Chas pointed out, gesturing with a mug of tea. He takes a sip before lowering the mug to look at her over the rim. “You ever think about what happens if you’re running on fumes when you do your work?”

Johanna didn't answer right away. She was staring into the dark depths of her own mug, the reflection of the single lamp a distorted, watery star. “I’m fine, Chas. I always am.”

“Sure you are.” Chas sighed, the sound a low, steady rumble. “But I’ve driven enough wrecks to know when something’s burning through the fuel too fast. Even a car needs a pit stop.”

Johanna rolled her eyes and took a small sip, immediately regretting it. The tea was scalding hot, and a sharp curse hissed between her teeth. She pulled the mug back with a wince, the heat a welcome, grounding pain. "Since when did you start doing metaphors?”

“Since I’ve been watching you run yourself into the ground,” he said, a little sharper this time.

She paused, and for a brief, unwanted moment, she heard the smooth cadence of the Corinthian’s voice in her head, the words from a dream she'd had a while back: “What I want is for you to stop running yourself into the ground.” He'd told her the same damn thing. She bristled at the thought, at the infuriating similarity of their concern, and pushed the memory into a dark, locked corner of her mind.

Chas didn't seem to notice—or maybe he did, and just decided it helped his argument—that Johanna had zoned out for a brief second. He kept right on talking, “See here, you’re not sleeping right, you’re living on tea and spite, and you’ve got that look.”

She set her mug down with a small clink. “What look?”

“The one that says you’d rather chew glass than ask for help.” Chas's gaze was steady, piercing through her defenses. He leaned forward slightly, his voice dropping to a serious tone. “Things like this, things that feed on energy, they know when someone’s alone in the fight. They prey on the stressed. The exhausted. You’re practically begging this thing to come get you. Makes you easier to corner.”

Johanna was quiet at that, the argument dying on her lips. The silence in the flat was suddenly thick, oppressive. She picked up her tea again, but only stalled, her knuckles white around the ceramic.

“I’m not saying you can’t handle it,” Chas went on, his voice softening a little. “Just… maybe don’t push away the people who’d step in if you needed them.”

She shook her head, a familiar, stubborn gesture. “I’m fine, Chas. Like you said, I can handle it. And if you’re insinuating I call the guy with the sunglasses, I’m not. He’s... not a complication I need right now. The fewer connections, the less collateral.”

Chas let it drop. He knew she was too stubborn and too irritable at this point, with the lack of sleep, to listen to reason. They finished their tea in a quiet truce, the silence broken only by the hiss of rain on the window. As he stood to leave, he put his hand on her shoulder for a brief moment.

“Well, however it ends up,” he said, “and you better come back when you’re done, I hope I don’t have to tell you ‘I told you so’.”

Johanna had never been much for taking good advice, especially from the handful of people whose opinions she actually respected. Chas had practically gift-wrapped her a sermon, complete with metaphors about wrecks and fuel.

Which is why, the very next evening, she was letting herself into a cramped, second-floor flat in Camden with a rucksack full of wards and a plan that could generously be described as ill-advised. The place belonged to the night-shift nurse she’d interviewed—the one with the livid red marks along her jaw where the Night Hag's fingers had supposedly gripped her. The nurse was staying with her sister for the week, leaving Johanna alone with the peeling floral wallpaper, a faint, clinging smell of damp and cheap air freshener, and the kind of silence that felt like it was actively listening.

She set her bag on the bed, the thin mattress groaning under the weight, and unpacked with a methodical, almost ritualistic precision. The salt line was the first thing, a thin, gritty border she laid along the baseboards. Then came the rowan sprigs, tucked in the corners. Chalk sigils were drawn under the rug and on the windowsill, hidden but potent.

And, because she needed the bastard to show up, she etched one more mark in the center of the floor—not a barrier, but a beckoning. An opening. A dinner invitation scrawled in chalk dust. The wards she left in place were good enough to keep out most things. But she’d deliberately made them permeable, just enough to let a certain kind of darkness in. She made sure of that.

By the time she’d finished, the sky outside was a smeared charcoal wash, the streetlights humming faintly, their light barely reaching the room.

Johanna lit a single candle on the bedside table, the small flame casting long, dancing shadows. Chas’s words were still rattling around the back of her skull, uninvited: Things like this, things that feed on energy, they know when someone’s alone in the fight.

Well, let them know. She’d never been much of a team player anyway.

She slid under the thin blanket, the rough wool scratching at her skin. Her boots were still on, and her coat was draped over the chair within arm's reach. The cold, heavy shape of a pistol-shaped charm was under her pillow, and a silver-edged knife was in the nightstand. She ran through a series of strange, guttural words in her head—an incantation half-remembered from an old grimoire—a promise to banish the thing if she could get her hands on it.

The wards pulsed faintly in her awareness, a slow, thrumming beat. Beyond them, the air was already colder, an invasive chill that seemed to seep in from the corners of the room.

Johanna closed her eyes, forcing her breath to even out. If the Night Hag wanted a feast, it was about to choke on the wrong dinner.

It was an empty boast. The wards pulsed once, twice, a slow and steady hum, and then the air went utterly still. She held her breath for a count of five, of ten, her heart hammering a frantic, useless beat against her ribs. And then it happened.

Her eyes snapped open to darkness that was absolute, thicker than the deepest London fog. She couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. Her chest felt like someone had dropped a slab of granite on it, the weight crushing the air from her lungs. Her heartbeat slammed against her ribs, a frantic, useless drum solo.

The shape above her resolved by degrees out of the gloom—a hunched, long-limbed thing crouched on her sternum, its knees digging into the soft flesh of her sides. Its skin was like scorched parchment, taut and dry, and its long, stringy hair was matted and damp. Its face, a nightmare caricature of an old woman, loomed close enough for her to see the cracked edges of its gums, the black rot between them where teeth should have been. Its breath smelled of grave dirt and stagnant water, a foul and ancient odor that made her stomach turn.

“Pretty little dreamer,” the Night Hag rasped, its voice the creak of rotting wood on a damp night. “You make it so easy. All that exhaustion, all those locked doors inside your head… I only had to knock.”

Johanna’s fingers twitched uselessly against the sheets, her tongue a useless slab of lead in her mouth. She forced her eyes to narrow, fighting to force a spark of anger up through the terror.

“You’ve no idea who you’re—”

“Oh, I do.” The Night Hag's lipless smile stretched impossibly wider, a gaping maw of blackness. "A woman with too many ghosts and one particular monster circling her, whether she admits it or not.”

Its nails, long and the color of old bone, dug into her shoulders. Her breath hitched as something icy, something impossibly cold, crawled under her skin.

The Night Hag’s smile stretched wider, its black gums a chasm in the gloom. “Yes. I felt you coming, Constantine. Exorcist. Magician. The Constant One.” The Hag’s raspy voice, a sound like a fingernail dragged over a grave-marker, seemed to scrape against the inside of Johanna’s skull. “Oh, I was waiting. It’s so easy to pick up on the static of a mind running itself ragged. And you… you're a symphony of chaos.”

A new wave of cold, sharp as a needle, pierced Johanna’s chest. The Hag leaned closer, its putrid breath a vile presence. “I saw it all, Constantine. The handsome nightmare with many teeth. The one you ran away from.” The Hag’s laughter was a dry, rustling sound. “Funny, isn’t it? You banished him with a simple command. Me, you'll have to work for.”

Johanna’s heart hammered a frantic, useless rhythm against her ribs. Her fingers twitched, desperate to move, to grasp at the charm under her pillow. "Why? Does the man with teeth instead of eyes scare you, or do you wish he’d stay?”

Johanna’s anger, a familiar, stubborn furnace, flared against the cold. She wasn’t afraid of him, she thought fiercely. She’d made the choice, told him to sod off, and this ghastly old crone had no right to come in and make a song and dance about it. The Hag could have her sleep, her breath, her energy—but it was never, ever going to get inside her head and poke at that particular locked door. The paralysis was the Hag’s power, but pure, unadulterated rage? That was all hers.

With a monumental surge of will, she forced her mouth open. Her tongue felt like lead, the words a raw, guttural scraping from her throat. She fought against the crushing weight on her chest, a single, hoarse phrase forcing its way out. “N-Noctis tenebris…”

The Hag recoiled, its lipless mouth stretching into a snarl of surprise. “No!” it shrieked, the sound a thin whine. Its nails, a black blur of movement, raked across Johanna’s side. A searing pain bloomed there, a deep, hot gash that momentarily broke her concentration.

But the anger was too strong. She pushed through the pain, through the crushing weight, through the taunt, and forced the words to come faster, stronger.

“Vincula coniuro! Spiritus malus, profunde vade!”

The Hag’s body began to writhe, its long limbs scrabbling uselessly against her chest. Its form started to shimmer, a hazy, indistinct mass, as if its very substance was being unraveled.

With a final, desperate howl, the Hag's form was ripped from her chest, the searing coldness crawling back out of her skin. Johanna, gasping for air, finished the incantation with a final, desperate roar. “Evanescat!”

The Night Hag was gone. The cold receded, leaving a familiar damp chill in the air. Johanna lay there, her heart still slamming against her ribs, the taste of blood in her mouth. Her victory felt less like a triumph and more like a bloody, painful chore. She'd proven she could handle it, just like she told Chas she would. And it had left her more exhausted than ever.

An hour later, Johanna’s world had shrunk to the backseat of Chas’s cab. The rain made blurry streaks down the window, the glow of streetlights turning into long, indistinct lines of color. The faint, cloying smell of pine-scented air freshener mixed with the stale curry from the previous night, and the engine hummed a low, steady lullaby. Chas had done a quick patch-up job on the gash on her side—not exactly professional, but he’d cleaned it out with a surprising tenderness and wrapped it tight. The wound still throbbed, a hot, angry pulse of pain.

The silence hung between them, thick and heavy. Chas drove, his face a grim, shadowed profile. After a few minutes, he finally broke it.

“I told you so.”

Johanna sighed. “I know, I know.”

“You don’t, though.” His low voice held an iron-hard edge of frustration. “You were running on fumes, Jo. Said it myself. When I got there, you were swaying on your feet like you’d gone twelve rounds with a heavyweight champ. A miracle you didn't end up dinner for the bloody hag.”

She tried to keep it light, a half-hearted attempt at her old swagger. “Well, I’m a terrible cook. Probably would’ve given it indigestion.”

The joke fell flat. Chas’s grip on the steering wheel tightened. “Don’t. It was reckless, and you know it. You shouldn’t have gone in alone.”

He fell silent for a moment, and Johanna knew he was replaying the moment she'd called, the brief, frantic report, the worry he'd felt.

“I was so bloody close to coming in with you myself,” he said, the words heavy with genuine concern. “But you were adamant. Adamant you didn’t need anyone. Especially not… the sunglasses guy.” Chas glanced at her in the rearview mirror, his expression a mix of confusion and genuine care. “What the hell happened there, Jo? Was it a falling out or…?”

Johanna was quiet, staring at the streaks of rain on the window. She could feel the fight draining out of her, replaced by a deep exhaustion that was winning over her usual stubbornness. She knew Chas wouldn’t let it drop. And after everything, after finding her and patching her up and putting up with her bullshit, she supposed he deserved a little more than a brusque dismissal. Maybe it was the exhaustion. Or maybe it was just him.

"It's complicated," she finally said, the words feeling brittle and old on her tongue.

Chas’s eyes flicked to hers in the mirror, then back to the wet tarmac of the road.

“Try me.”

Johanna let out a long, slow breath, a plume of visible vapor in the cool air of the cab. “We got partnered up on a case. It was a success. Managed not to kill each other or get killed in the process, so naturally that meant we ended up working together again. And again. And again.” She shrugged a sore shoulder. "It's what we do."

Chas arched a brow, a hint of his familiar, long-suffering smile on his lips. “Sounds romantic already.”

She ignored him, watching a red taillight smear across the window. “Then one day, in between hunting demons and monsters and dodging death, he decides to ask me out. And I—” She made a vague, weary hand gesture that might’ve meant ‘went along with it’ or ‘was temporarily insane.’ “Fine, I said yes. It was… good. Surprisingly good.”

“And?”

“And then came the part where you have to define what the hell you are. Which is when I pushed him away. Like I do.”

“Why?” The question was simple, but it was edged with a quiet exasperation.

“Chas, look at my track record. My longest functional relationship is with nicotine. And the tall blond in question?” She tilted her head, watching his reflection in the mirror. “Not exactly mortal. The whole thing is one long list of complications. Might as well date a landmine.”

Chas hummed low in his throat. “Or maybe you’re looking for excuses.”

Johanna snorted, a sharp, bitter sound. “Oh, please—”

“I’m serious.” His voice was quiet, but it cut through the hum of the engine. He didn’t look at her, but his words were a direct hit. “You’ve been dragging that baggage around so long, it’s practically an organ now. How long are you gonna keep punishing yourself for the past? You screw up, you learn, you move on. That’s the job. That’s life.”

She didn’t answer right away, watching a single raindrop race its neighbor down the glass, winning by a hair before another one splattered into it and broke its momentum.

“Not saying you have to run off and pick out curtains together,” Chas went on, his tone a little gentler now. “But you’ve got a bloke who’s stuck around through whatever the hell your version of courtship is, and you’re acting like it’s a bloody plague. Maybe you let yourself be happy for once.”

Her mouth twisted into a wry grimace. “You make it sound simple.”

“It’s not. But it’s worth it.” His gaze found hers again in the rearview, steady and knowing. “Also—if I see you taking another case before you’ve had a proper night’s sleep, I will personally lock you in your flat. And I’ve got the keys.”

He pulled up outside her building, the engine idling, the wipers thumping a slow rhythm. Johanna hesitated, then reached for the door handle, her movements stiff and slow.

“Night, Jo,” he said, his tone gentler now, laced with a familiar note of tired concern. “Get some sleep.”

She gave him a half-smile, a fragile, exhausted thing. “Night, Chas.”

Her flat, when she finally reached it, was exactly as she’d left it: a chaotic, comforting mess. The familiar smell of old paper, stale cigarettes, and a lingering sense of barely-contained chaos hit her like a punch. The wards she’d scrawled on the floor a lifetime ago still hummed with a low, sullen energy. It was an absolute wreck, but at least it was a wreck she knew how to navigate.

She dropped her bag by the door, the heavy thud echoing in the stillness. Her coat joined it a moment later. Each step toward the bathroom was a conscious effort, her side throbbing with a dull, insistent ache. The gash was deeper than she'd thought. She peeled back the flimsy dressing Chas had used and winced, the raw skin looking angry and red.

Self-care, she thought with a cynical snort, was clearly a job for the weak.

The bathwater steamed as it filled, scalding hot, enough to feel like a bad decision she was committed to anyway. She slid in with a gasp, the heat burning away the lingering cold of the night, the street grit, and whatever spiritual stink the Hag had left clinging to her. By the time she’d scrubbed clean, the skin around her wound had stopped glaring quite so hard. She dabbed it with antiseptic—because apparently she was interested in not dying—and wrapped it neatly in a fresh bandage.

As she collapsed onto her sofa, a dry, weary laugh escaped her lips. The flat was silent. Chas’s words came back to her, uninvited: Maybe you let yourself be happy for once. And then the Hag's voice, a dry rattle in her memory: A woman with too many ghosts and one particular monster circling her.

Maybe Chas was right. Maybe the hag was right, too. Maybe she was just so used to the mess, so comfortable with being alone, that the idea of a decent relationship—or even a bloody complicated one that wasn't trying to tear her apart—was more terrifying than a monster with no teeth. Maybe pushing people away was just her version of breathing.

The exhaustion hit her then, a physical weight she couldn’t fight anymore. She didn’t even make it to her bed. She just lay there on the sofa, the old cushions sinking under her, and finally gave in. She let herself go. She closed her eyes.

The sleep took her without ceremony. One moment, there was a quiet, damp chill in the air of her flat. The next, a different kind of quiet. A stillness that was too deep. She sat up slowly, her body no longer aching, and stared. The room was hers, the maps on the wall, the clutter of books, the stale smell. All of it. Except for the figure of a man leaning against her doorway, his dark suit pristine, his sunglasses glinting in the nonexistent light. He stared at her like he’d been expecting her the whole time.

"Evening, Johanna," the Corinthian said. "Nice to see you again."

Chapter Text

"Nice to see you again."

Johanna’s head snapped toward the doorway. The Corinthian was there, framed in it like he'd been leaning there for hours. The familiar tilt of his chin and the calm stillness of his posture said he'd been expecting her all along. The suit was dark and razor-sharp, a fresh, starched kind of pristine that looked absurd in the familiar mess of her flat. The crease in the trousers was flawless. Sunglasses gleamed in the room's non-existent light.

Johanna didn’t answer right away. She took him in the way you’d check a coin for forgery—slow, careful, looking for the tiny, impossible detail that didn't fit. He still radiated that same invasive confidence, but the swagger she remembered was gone. He wasn’t taking up the whole room this time. He was… waiting.

Her mouth twitched, the corner lifting in a wry, tired smirk. “Don’t tell me you’ve gone polite on me.”

“Only for you, Johanna.” he replied smoothly. “Most people don’t get my full package of charm.”

“Lucky them,” she shot back, but there was a hint of a smile in her voice.

“Heard about your little hag problem,” he said, the corners of his mouth twitching like he wasn’t sure whether to smirk or wince. “You didn’t exactly come out of it unscathed.”

“You keeping tabs on me now?”

“Between jobs, yeah. You’re not the only one with things to handle.” His tone stayed even. “Still…was wondering how long you’d keep me locked out,” he said, straightening just enough to push off the doorframe. The movement was fluid, graceful. “Or if you’d ever let me back in, really.”

She leaned back into the soft cushions of the couch, the comfort of it a strange luxury in this dream-space. “Didn’t know I had that power.”

“You’ve got more say in this than you think.” His tone made it sound less like an observation and more like a quiet, irrefutable truth.

Her breath caught, just a fraction. She’d always assumed his appearances were inevitable, like bad weather you learned to brace for. But if he’d been waiting on her, even unconsciously… that wasn’t inevitability. That was choice. Hers. And the thought lodged somewhere she didn’t want to examine too closely, because it meant every time she’d seen him in the shadows of a dream, she’d chosen it. Chosen him. She should’ve felt invaded. Instead, something sharper, stranger (curiosity, maybe) unfurled low in her chest, making the space between them feel just a little too close.

Johanna frowned, the sharp spike of realization cutting through her exhaustion. “So what, all those times you showed up in my dreams—”

“—and a few in your waking life.” His smile was a slight, precise thing. “You let me in. Might not’ve known it, but you did.”

She huffed, a sharp burst of air. "You’re making me sound complicit."

“Maybe complicit’s just another word for interested.”

Her mouth curved slightly, unable to help herself. His usual confidence was showing again. “Careful, you keep talking like that and I might start believing you.” It sounded tossed-off, but there was a thread under it she couldn’t cut. He caught it too, she saw the flicker in his expression before she looked away, letting her gaze sweep over his suit as if that had been her focus all along. “And what’s this? The last time you were dressed like that, someone had just died.”

A corner of his mouth lifted further. “Some people find a well-dressed man more unnerving than a scruffy one. Neater. Less obvious. You expect trouble from the obvious sort.”

“So this is you dressed for your job, then, mister nightmare?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know.”

“Not particularly,” she said, though the glint in her eyes completely undermined the protest.

The Corinthian pushed off the doorframe, taking a slow, measured walk toward the center of the room. He didn’t get close, though. Instead, he stopped about ten feet away from her couch and leaned against a section of wall that, in her real flat, was usually obscured by a teetering pile of occult books. He was still in her line of sight, still very much present, but the distance between them was a physical, unspoken line, and he was staying neatly on his side of it.

“You’ve been out for a while,” he observed.

Johanna took a sip of the drink that hadn’t been in her hand a moment ago but was now very much there—a mug of what looked like steaming tea. It was her subconscious telling her to relax, and she decided not to overthink it. "Work."

“Two weeks of dreamless sleep isn’t just work, Johanna.”

She snorted, a sharp, cynical sound. "That's one way to get rid of you."

He let a slow, perfectly timed smile spread across his face, not missing a beat. “If that was the plan, it worked. I almost started to take it personally.”

“Almost?”

“You’re harder to shake than you think.”

She took another slow sip of her tea. “You’re the sentimental one here, not me.”

“And you’re the stubborn one. It’s a wonder we get on at all.”

They stayed like that—her folded into the couch, him propped against the wall—locked in the kind of standoff that had long since become second nature. A give-and-take dressed up as banter, just sharp enough to keep them from tipping into anything more dangerous.

When the quiet came, it wasn’t uncomfortable. It was worse than that, something more charged and deliberate. Like they’d both agreed to stop hiding behind the easy rhythm, if only for a breath.

They both opened their mouths at the same time. “So—”

They stopped, exchanged a look that was part amusement and part resignation.

“You first,” he said, the words an invitation.

“No, you,” she countered, her gaze steady. “I want to hear what you’ve got to say.”

The faintest tilt of his sunglasses, a small shift that was his equivalent of testing the waters. He drew a slow breath, the sound impossibly calm in the quiet room, and let his words fall into the space between them.

“I’ll be honest,” he said finally, voice low enough to draw her in. “After the way things ended on our… date, I didn’t know what to make of it. Or you. Figured maybe I pushed too hard for a definition you didn’t want to give. So I stepped back. Gave you space.”

He didn’t look away as he said it, but there was a calculated looseness to his posture — the kind that left room for her to deny it.

“Kept busy in the meantime,” he went on. “Work as usual. Slipping into dreams. Scaring the right people. Making sure the others like me don’t start chewing on the wrong ones. Easier than thinking about the fact I couldn’t get to you.”

Johanna’s expression flickered — the kind of change only someone who knew her tells would notice. “I’ve been keeping busy too.”

“I noticed,” he said, the words neat and precise, without any heat, but there was weight under them, all the same. “Didn’t have to do much to give you space — you built enough walls yourself. Not sleeping. Working yourself past the point of sense. That’s not just busy. That’s running.”

Her gaze dropped, a pause stretching long enough to almost pass for indifference. “You figured right.” she admitted, reluctant but without apology.

“Figured,” he echoed, like confirmation had never been in doubt.

The quiet that followed wasn’t neutral. It was threaded through with something taut — like an unspoken dare hanging between them. She could’ve cut it short, steered them back into safer waters. She didn’t.

“I’ve realised something,” he said, finally breaking it. “I was too busy trying to pin you down into something neat. A label. A line in the sand. And you—” his mouth curved, sharp and exact, “—you don’t do neat.”

Her almost-smile was wary. “That’s not news.”

“Maybe not. But back at the museum…” His eyes glinted, sharp as the glass cases they’d stood between. “You still leaned in when you could’ve walked away. Didn’t have to take the coffee and croissant. Didn’t have to stay in my company. Didn’t have to tour me through all those galleries. But you did.”

“Maybe I was bored.”

“Maybe you weren’t.”

Her gaze narrowed, but there was no real bite in it.

“I could call it a mistake,” he went on, “but the truth is, I don’t regret it. Not the pushing. Not you walking away. Because it got me here.”

He pushed off the wall, his approach unhurried, but enough to tighten the space between them. “I like you, Johanna. Still do. Always will, I think. Relationship, no relationship — doesn’t change that.”

Her mouth parted to speak, but he slid neatly over the interruption.

“And if you want me gone, you’ll have to say it. Out loud. Until then… I’m not going anywhere. In fact, I’d rather keep seeing you. If you’ll let me.”

Something in the air shifted, not lighter, but warmer, sharpened by the tension neither of them was moving to cut.

Her gaze narrowed. “And if I do tell you to leave?”

The smile was faint but unyielding. “Then I’ll go. But only because you said it. Not because I guessed you wanted me gone.”

Her fingers drummed against the rim of her mug. She studied him like she was trying to decide whether the blade in front of her was meant for protection or for use.

He didn’t fill the pause. Just waited, still as a held breath, letting the weight of the moment rest exactly where he wanted it.

“You’re serious,” Johanna said finally, the words a quiet observation.

“Always have been,” he replied, and the simple truth of it made the air feel thin.

Something in her smirk faltered—the corners of her mouth twitching as if they couldn’t quite decide on the expression. Because under the razor-sharp suit and the glib answers, he was steady. Not pressing, not circling, not performing—just there. The realization of it landed like a slow, heavy drop into her chest, not of dread, but of a strange, terrifying calm.

She finally broke eye contact, her gaze falling to the mug in her hand. She turned the ceramic over in her fingers for a long moment before a low, dry laugh escaped her. “Then I suppose you should hear this before I change my mind.” She looked up at him, a flicker of something she’d been running from for a long while in her eyes.

The Corinthian’s posture didn’t change, but she felt his attention sharpen, a subtle shift behind the shades that was his way of leaning in.

“Look,” she began, the words coming out in a rush, as if she were trying to get them out before her courage failed her. "After two weeks of running, and a lot of thinking, and—alright—being told by a friend I've been a bloody idiot… I'm not going to sit here and tell you this isn't a terrible idea.” She gestured between them, the mug in her hand wobbling slightly. "Because it is. For a dozen reasons I'm not going to bore you with right now. You're a nightmare, I’m a train wreck, and we both have more baggage than the bloody London underground.” She finally let out the breath she’d been holding, her grip on the mug easing as though the admission itself had taken weight off her hands. "But… for some insane, idiotic reason… I wouldn’t mind seeing where it goes. Trying. Despite the challenges."

She looked at him then, a silent question hanging in the air. The challenge was plain on her face, sharp as broken glass, but underneath it, a raw vulnerability shone through, waiting for him to pick up the pieces.

For a long while, the Corinthian didn’t speak. He just stood there, still and silent, a statue carved out of a bad dream. She wondered if he’d even heard her, but then she saw the subtle, almost imperceptible flexing of his fingers where his hands were at his sides. He had. He’d heard every single word.

“Trying. You realise what that means, don’t you?” he said eventually, his voice a low, even murmur that finally broke the quiet.

Johanna’s smirk, now fully back in place, didn’t waver. “That you’ll be unbearable?”

“That you’ll see every bit of me,” he said. “The parts you already know. And the ones you don’t.”

He moved forward and stopped just short of the couch, the distance between them now nonexistent. Johanna saw him more clearly than she had in weeks—the clean lines of his jaw, the faint dusting of stubble, the perfect black of his suit. She hadn’t seen him this close since that day they visited the museum, and the memory was a sharp, pleasant ache.

“And you’re saying you can handle that?” There was a flicker in his expression—half skepticism, half something warmer—like he couldn’t quite stop himself from hoping she meant it.

Johanna didn’t look away. "I'm saying I'll find out.”

A pause hung in the air, a breath held between them, and then that familiar grin finally came from the Corinthian. It was sharp and beautiful and utterly terrifying. “Guess we’re both going to find out.”

Johanna didn’t answer right away. She set the mug down on the coffee table before her, and then leaned back into the couch, letting the cushions cradle her, and for a long moment just let herself think. She’d actually said yes. After everything—the running, the overthinking, the sharp edges of her past—she’d opened the door again. And now that it was open, she could admit it: she’d missed him. Missed the way he got under her skin, the way he made her laugh, the way he could be smug and infuriating all at once. The terror was still there, but it tangled with a dangerously pleasant sort of thrill. God, she was an idiot. After two relentless weeks of overworking herself, maybe a different kind of poor decision was exactly what she needed. She’d been a lot of things, but predictable wasn’t one of them—and this felt wonderfully, terribly unpredictable.

When she finally looked back at him, a tired, knowing smile tugged at her lips. “You know what? I’ll admit it. It’s… not terrible to see you again.”

It earned her a low chuckle from the Corinthian, the sound warm and full of genuine amusement. “You would’ve seen me sooner if you hadn’t been so stubborn,” he said. “Then again, it’s a good look on you. Suppose I don’t mind it.”

She let herself watch him for a moment—the easy set of his shoulders, the measured stillness in the way he stood, that infuriatingly confident curve to his mouth. It was him, perfectly, undeniably him.

Something in his eyes told her he knew exactly what she was thinking. He closed the short distance between them, settling onto the couch with a kind of careful ease. He left a sliver of space, just enough to give her the choice to bridge it or not, and turned to face her fully. “I know you’re not one for definitions,” he said, gaze unflinching. “But where do we go from here, then?”

Johanna was quiet for a moment, letting the question hang in the air. A slow, mischievous smile finally bloomed on her face. “How about we go on another date?”

The moment seemed to freeze with him, the only change the slight tightening at the corners of his mouth—more focus than expression—like he was making sure she meant it.

“Don’t look so shocked,” she said before he could speak, the amusement in her voice clear. “It doesn’t have to be anything elaborate. No need for a fancy dinner or another museum. Maybe just a walk. Talking. Simple stuff. We can start simple.” She leaned forward a bit, the smile turning sly. “Who knows, maybe at the end of that date I’ll be the one asking you to define things between us.”

He let out a short, surprised laugh, the sound both pleased and disbelieving. “Guess I’ll just have to make sure it’s a date worth defining then.”

He eased closer, closing the last bit of space between them. Johanna didn’t pull back. She stayed exactly where she was, letting him reach up—not to touch her face, but to tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear. He’d done it before, always as a way to needle her, to slip past her guard. But now, his hand lingered just long enough to make it clear: this time, it was so he could see her. All of her.

Her blush came fast, unexpected. The heat crept across her skin, and instead of hiding it, she let it stay. It was almost laughable. How long had it been since she’d felt this fluttery, this stupidly young? Still, she kept her eyes on him, allowing him this once to see that part of her she usually kept locked away.

“Can I ask you something?” His head tipped ever so slightly, the look he gave her bordering on trouble. “In these two weeks, did you miss me?”

Johanna tried not to smile at that. She knew he was baiting her, a lighthearted challenge she couldn’t resist.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” she said, her voice dry, but the corners of her mouth twitched with the effort of holding back her smile.

He smiled back at her, slow, edged with something that felt like he’d been certain of her answer just now. His hand lifted, intentional in a way that made her aware of every inch it traveled. No cupping her face, no tugging her closer—just a light graze of fingertips along her jaw, enough to make her breath catch. It wasn’t force. It was invitation. A dare she could decline. She didn’t.

He didn’t press harder, but his body shifted, closing the air between them until she felt the heat radiating off him. His other hand came down to the back of the couch, boxing her in—not so much a trap as a boundary, a silent question about whether she’d step over it.

Her gaze didn’t waver. If anything, it sharpened, catching the faint echo of his smile—quiet, certain, patient.

“Tell me you don’t want me to,” he said. It wasn’t a murmur so much as a thread pulled taut, meant for her alone.

She didn’t give him the satisfaction of words. Silence was answer enough.

He closed the last inch. The first touch of his mouth to hers was light and testing, a whisper of a kiss that lingered just long enough to ask the question again. When he returned for the answer, she met him halfway.

This time, it was deliberate. Not a battle to be won, but a slow acknowledgment of something neither could keep denying. Her lips moved with his, the tension of the past two weeks loosening with each careful press until it was replaced by something warmer, steadier. It wasn’t perfect—there was hesitation, a little mess—but it was real, an unspoken admission that all the words and skirting around had finally led them exactly where they were supposed to be.

He didn’t let up. The first kiss had been a question; the second was a claim. His hands slid along her sides, tracing the curve of her waist with controlled pressure, just enough to draw her closer without crowding her. She responded in kind, letting her fingers curl into the fabric of his suit jacket, tilting her body toward him.

Their lips moved together with a fierce tenderness, urgent but measured. The teasing grazes of teeth against lips and the press of mouths were sharper now, more insistent, more daring. Each shift, each sigh, each subtle push and pull carried the weight of two weeks of held-back frustration finally spilling into the open.

The Corinthian’s other hand braced lightly against the back of the couch, securing the space around them, framing her without confining her. He brushed another stray strand of hair back from her face with delicate care, letting his thumb linger along her jawline, a faint, almost merciless touch that made her shiver, and she realized she didn’t want him to stop.

When they finally drew back, it was only slightly, foreheads pressed together, breaths mingling. Her pulse still raced, warmth blooming across her cheeks. The intensity of the kiss had left a delicious, electrifying ache between them.

He let out a low, satisfied breath. A slow grin spreading across lips that had just tasted her. “Whatever this is, I’m not letting it go. Not if you’ll have me.”

She pressed her lips to the corner of his mouth, brushing him with the gentlest affirmation before lifting her gaze to meet his. “Good. I’m not letting it go either.”

His expression flickered, the sharp, confident line of his mouth softening into something private, almost tender. For a moment, he pulled back just to look at her, as though fixing this version of her—calm, close, unguarded—somewhere he could keep it.

Then he broke the silence, steady as ever but carrying a new weight. “Before anything else,” he said, his voice careful, “you’re getting proper sleep. You must be running on empty.”

Johanna arched a brow at him. “What, you’ve gone all bossy on me now?”

He let out a low chuckle, a rich sound that vibrated through her. “I believe the way you describe me is ‘bloody persistent,’ ” he said teasingly. “And I do try to live up to my reputation.”

Johanna didn’t question it. She knew, even in this dream-space, that her waking self must be running on fumes. He was right. With a slow, measured movement, they shifted on the small couch, settling so that she could lie with her head on his lap, her small frame stretched as far as she could until she had to curl up her feet to fit. They got comfortable, not just in the space on the couch, but with each other.

It was funny, how she was falling asleep—or felt like it—even though she was already dreaming. She didn’t question the dream logic. She just supposed this was how it worked now.

He ran a hand gently through her hair, the simple touch a quiet comfort. “When you wake up and when you’re ready for that date, I’ll be here.”

She curled a bit tighter, her eyes already closing. “I know.”

The room held its quiet like it was listening and waiting. Johanna let herself sink fully into it, into him, into the warmth and steadiness of his presence. Safe. Seen. Somehow, unexpectedly home.

There was no definition to pin down, no line to draw—but in that small, shared space, it didn’t matter. She could feel him near, feel the quiet promise in the press of his hand, the steady rhythm of being here together. She was exactly where she needed to be.

And for now, that was more than enough.

Chapter Text

The library was supposed to be quiet. Respectful. A sanctum that smelled of dust, parchment, and the faint tang of candle smoke, where time itself seemed to pause between the shelves. Which, of course, made it the perfect place for Mervyn Pumpkinhead to run his mouth.

He was leaning against a towering stack of leather-bound volumes, a cigar bobbing as he spoke.

“I’m telling you,” Merv said, his voice flat as sandpaper, “he’s fine. Nightmare of the Year material. Back on the job, chewing through his assignments like he’s got something to prove. Which, knowing him, he probably does.”

Matthew tilted his head from his perch on the shelf, feathers giving an unsettled twitch. “Doesn’t mean he’s happy about it.”

“He doesn’t have to be happy. He just has to be useful.” Merv shrugged, flicking ash into a battered tin he’d stolen from his own supply closet. “The guy’s built for cocky. When he turns it down, that’s when you worry.”

“Which he has,” Matthew shot back. “Turned it way down. It’s like somebody sanded the edges off him. You telling me that’s normal?”

Nuala, lounging on a pouf across from them, crossed her arms, and looked to Merv unimpressed. “You’re heartless.”

“Correct,” Merv said cheerfully, the cigar wagging between his teeth. “And still right.”

“Not right,” Matthew countered, his feathers bristling. “I’ve been around the guy long enough to know when he’s off. This is off. He’s all work, no bite. I don’t like it.”

“Maybe he’s growing up,” Merv said, smirking.

Nuala arched a brow. “That’s not growing up. That’s burying something. And frankly, it’s eerie.”

Merv gave a grumble of protest, but it lacked conviction. He took a long drag on the cigar, exhaled, and admitted, “Alright. I’ll give you that. He ain’t as…” he gestured vaguely with his cigar “As strutty as usual. No grin, no little performance. Just clocking in and out, eyes-for-teeth on the job. Like…” His words trailed off, a shudder crawling down the stem of his pumpkin neck. “Like his first self. Don’t need to be reminded of that one, thanks.”

“Exactly,” Matthew said quickly, feathers giving another nervous flutter. “That’s what I mean.”

Nuala leaned forward, the faintest note of triumph in her voice. “So you see it too.”

“I noticed,” Merv muttered, puffing out smoke. “Doesn’t mean I’m losing sleep over it. Nightmare does his job, nightmare’s quiet about it, so what’s the problem?”

“The problem,” Nuala said carefully, “is that he isn’t himself. No smug remarks, no slick jokes. It’s all… task after task, nothing else.”

Matthew ruffled his feathers, hopping closer on his perch. “Exactly! That’s not him. The Corinthian’s supposed to be, y’know, obnoxious. Too smooth for his own good. Creepy, yeah, but funny creepy. This is just…” he flapped his wings for emphasis, “straight-up serial-killer silence, and I don’t like it. And this is considering he worked real hard to prove to all of us before that he isn’t going to turn out like his old self!”

Merv snorted. “Oh please. He’s a nightmare. Creepy’s what he does.”

“Yeah, but not like this,” Matthew shot back. “Normally he acts like he’s in on the joke. Lately? No grin, no cocky attitude. Just this laser-eyed focus like he’s carving the world into pieces in his head. I mean, am I the only one getting chills here?”

“You’re overreacting,” Merv said, though his scowl looked more uneasy than dismissive. “So he cut the banter. Maybe he’s growing up. Maturing.”

“Big word for you, Merv,” Matthew sneered. “But no. This isn’t maturity, this is, I dunno—this is him hollowing out. If you strip all the charm off him, what’s left? Teeth and knives. And newsflash, that’s terrifying.”

Though her words were measured, something cold flickered in Nuala’s expression, the kind of chill that left no doubt she meant it. “Exactly. His swagger and his confidence are his guardrails. Take those away, and what remains is rather dangerous.”

Merv waved his cigar like a flag. “Dangerous is the job description! Come on, you wanted him scarier last month.”

“Not like this,” Nuala shot back. “A nightmare without balance is no longer a tool. It’s a weapon. And weapons can be misused.”

Matthew let out a sharp caw. “Finally! Thank you! Somebody else gets it. I mean, we’re basically looking at Corinthian 2.0: Grim Reaper Edition.”

Merv grumbled, letting his weight sag against the stack of books like it was the only thing keeping him upright. “Or maybe you two are just bored and inventing drama. Guy’s quiet, that’s all. Not every silence means the end of the world.”

“Not wisdom, Mervyn,” Nuala said softly, tilting her head. “That’s fear talking.”

They might have argued it down to sparks and cinders, their chatter swelling in a place meant for silence. But before the quarrel tipped over, the shadows seemed to lean in, the air taking on the hush of a room about to be interrupted. And then he was there, slipping between the shelves without sound, as though the nightmare had simply condensed out of the gloom. Or perhaps the Dreaming itself had summoned him to shut them up.

He looked infuriatingly composed. Shoulders loose, jaw unclenched, that faint, unsettling curve to his lips betraying something dangerously close to cheer. It was wrong enough to set their nerves on edge. No wonder all three of them froze like children caught making noise in church.

Matthew let out a short, pathetic squawk. “Uh—hey! Buddy! Didn’t see you there!”

“Afternoon, Cor.” Nuala tried, but her smile made it obvious what they were just in the midst of.

Merv’s cigar almost fell out of his carved mouth. “Oh, for—yeah, hi.”

The Corinthian surveyed them, lenses glinting in the dim light. “You all look busy.”

They absolutely did not.

“You’ve been good,” Nuala offered carefully, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. “Keeping the nightmares in line. We were just noting that.”

“Mm.” The Corinthian sat down across from them, his long frame settling into one of the library chairs with an easy grace. “Noting.”

“Yeah,” Matthew rushed in, his voice pitching higher than intended. “You know, casual commentary. Very supportive. Real morale-boosting kind of stuff.” His wings twitched. “Nothing weird about it at all.”

Merv cleared his throat, cigar rolling from one side of his mouth to the other. “Uh-huh. Just shop talk. You know how it is.”

The Corinthian let the silence settle, heavy as wet concrete. He didn’t move. He didn’t so much as arch an eyebrow at them. He just let them squirm in it, the faint tilt of his mouth suggesting he could wait all century for one of them to crack.

When he finally spoke, his voice was low, calculated even. “I took a trip, actually.” The pause stretched, enough to make the air feel too thin. The Corinthian reclined in his seat as though the chair belonged to him, then, almost lazily, he added, “visited the dream of a beautiful exorcist.”

Silence dropped like a curtain. Merv’s cigar froze half-chewed. Matthew’s feathers trembled, a ripple of instinct running down his spine. Nuala’s eyes narrowed, betraying a flicker of surprise before discipline clamped it out.

The Corinthian savored it—three pairs of eyes waiting, dreading, curious. He let the silence linger just long enough to ache. Then he cut it clean, precise, and smug as hell.

“Lucienne told me all about your wagers.”

Three reactions collided in the quiet space.

Matthew’s wings flared, feathers breaking loose in a frantic scatter. “She—wait—she told you? Oh, crap.”

Nuala’s brows shot up, and then, unexpectedly, her lips curved into a faint smile. Of course, he’d corner them eventually. The only surprise was that it had taken him this long.

Merv cursed so violently that the shelves muttered in disapproval. “Goddammit, Lucienne.”

The Corinthian lounged, lips quirking in quiet delight. “Organized speculation on my personal life.” His voice was bright with amusement, but not quite safe. “Adorable.”

Matthew’s wings gave another nervous shake. “Adorable? Y-yeah, sure. Adorable. That’s us. Just a buncha adorable idiots.”

“Speak for yourself,” Merv muttered.

The Corinthian stretched out in his chair, crossing one leg over the other, the teeth behind his lenses glinting faintly in the library’s muted light. “Alright,” he drawled, “since you were all so invested in my affairs, let’s take stock, shall we?”

Merv groaned. “Oh, hell.”

The Corinthian’s grin widened, too bright to be reassuring. “Don’t groan yet. You might actually enjoy this.”

Settling back, he tilted his head as though considering them from a better angle, casual in a way that was anything but. The faintest shimmer of light touched his glasses, reflecting nothing back. “I know I’ve already fed you the basics. But since the three of you couldn’t help yourselves, let’s make it official. A proper recap.”

He turned first toward the pumpkin-headed custodian, a slow, predatory calm in his movements.

“Mervyn.”

Merv twitched, a reflexive jerk of his shoulders. He hated it when anyone used his full name. “Yeah, yeah, spit it out.”

“You were right,” the Corinthian said smoothly, as if it were a simple observation. “She walked out. Twice, in fact. Once, when we were at the museum café. And again, when I found myself at her flat. Pushed me away like I was smoke in her lungs.”

Merv barked a laugh, a dry, rattling sound from his hollow chest. “Knew it. Should’ve doubled my stake. You get dumped twice in one date? That’s a record, even for you.”

The Corinthian ignored the jab, his calm unbreaking. “But,” he continued, savoring the word, “after a little space, we talked. Properly. Just came from it, in fact. Which means you’re right, but only on a technicality. You won your wager. No polishing the palace mirrors, unless Dream decides you’ve annoyed him in some way.” His grin widened, unnerving in its stillness. “And your other prize? The satisfaction of being right for entirely the wrong reasons.”

Merv grumbled, exhaling smoke through his nose in two sharp streams. “Story of my afterlife.”

Then the Corinthian’s attention slid to Nuala. “And you.” His voice softened, a hint of playful mockery that was now almost endearing. “Yes, she kissed me first. You called that one.”

Nuala inclined her head, regal even when smug, a small, knowing smile playing on her lips. “I knew it.”

“Though,” the Corinthian added with a chuckle, “let’s be clear, it wasn’t some grand romantic declaration. More of a desperate tactic to shut me up about where we stood.” He leaned forward again, eyes bright. “Still, it counts. Which means you owe no favors to that little bow of yours.”

Nuala’s smile tugged wider, her tone lilting with triumph. “I’ll take it. Proof enough that I was right. Kissing doesn’t necessarily make a love story, no matter how dramatic the gesture.”

Finally, the Corinthian turned to Matthew. The raven fluffed up instinctively, his feathers puffing out in a defensive poof.

“And you,” the Corinthian said, a low snicker rumbling in his chest. “Bravest bird in the Dreaming. Betting things would get… intimate.”

Matthew flapped his wings defensively. “Hey, I was just reading the room!”

“You weren’t wrong,” the nightmare said. “Though, again—at the time, another dodge to avoid a real conversation. Still, for your audacity, you’re free. No three errands for Lucienne. Consider yourself lucky.”

Matthew let out a relieved caw, settling back on his perch. “Knew it. Knew I was right.”

He spread his hands, easy, dangerous, his grin too sharp to be entirely friendly. “Well done. Everyone wins tonight. Just don’t make it a habit, unless I get to play. And trust me, I don’t like to lose.”

The trio exchanged uneasy looks, then relaxed only when he tipped them a smile like a blade sheathed. Matthew leaned forward, curiosity burning through the quiet. “Wait. If you just came from Constantine’s dream, how did it go? Really?”

“Yeah,” Merv added, trying for casual but leaning in despite himself. “Don’t leave us hanging.”

Even Nuala’s steady gaze betrayed a flicker of interest.

He let the quiet simmer a moment longer, then cut through it with a smile that looked almost boyish on him. “Talked it over. Sorted things. And, well…” he tilted his head, grin sliding back into place, “…she asked me out again. Guess Dream’s bet wasn’t completely off the mark either. Lucky him. Luckier me.”

The reaction was instant.

Matthew flapped his wings in triumph, a small, hysterical squawk escaping him. “Ha! I knew it!”

Nuala clapped her hands once, the sharp sound breaking decorum but betraying her utter delight. “So it worked out.”

Even Merv, after a long, thoughtful drag on his cigar, grunted, “Well, I’ll be damned. Good on you, teeth-for-eyes.”

The questions came fast and tangled after that, one tripping over the other before the last could even land.

“Wait—when’s the next one?” Matthew blurted, wings giving a twitch.

Nuala leaned in, eyes alight. “Will she come here, to the Dreaming? I’d very much like to meet her.”

Merv cut across them both with a dry snort. “Yeah, are ya gonna actually introduce her this time? Or should we start another betting pool?”

The Corinthian only lounged deeper, savoring the chorus of voices. He didn’t answer—not yet.

Because then the light shifted.

From the tall windows that overlooked the Dreaming, a glow began to spread. It was not the pale, mortal light of dawn, nor was it the gentle radiance of the Dreaming's usual twilight. This was a new sunrise, a warmth richer than fire, softer than candlelight, unfurling across the realm in impossible golds and ambers that seemed to breathe against the glass.

All of them fell silent. A sudden, deep hush that swallowed Merv’s grumbling, Matthew’s frantic wings, and even Nuala’s quiet breathing. They simply stared, their faces bathed in the impossible light.

Matthew’s wings drooped, his feathers hanging limp as his eyes widened. “That’s… new.”

Nuala pressed her hand to her lips, a look of profound wonder softening the sharp lines of her face.

Even Merv stopped mid-drag, his cigar forgotten and frozen at the mouth of his pumpkin head. “Well, I’ll be damned.”

The Corinthian didn’t say a word. He just sat back in his chair, tilting his head toward the light as the golden glow fell across his face. The curve of his smile lingered, quiet and knowing, a secret shared only with the air.

“Timing’s impeccable, boss,” he murmured, the words so soft they were almost lost in the sudden, sacred hush.

The glow swept through the shelves, gilding the spines of forbidden tomes and breathing life into the static shadows. And for once, even in the mouth of the library’s constant hush, none of them had anything left to say.

Matthew was the first to break the silence. His feathers gave a nervous ruffle as he muttered, “Wait, hang on. If Dream won his little wager, he didn’t have to build a whole new sunrise.”

Nuala and Merv’s eyes swiveled toward the Corinthian. He only rolled one shoulder in a lazy shrug, the light painting his smile in amber.

“Maybe,” he drawled, “he just wanted an excuse to make one anyway.”

Nuala exhaled slowly, her hand still at her lips. “It’s breathtaking all the same.”

“Breathtaking, sure,” Merv grumbled, puffing smoke without much heat. “Or maybe the boss is still breakin’ in the crown. Gotta practice somewhere, right? Lucky us, we get front-row seats.”

And then she was there. Lucienne’s presence slipped into the library as if it had always belonged, quiet as a breath through the shelves, and none of them noticed her arrival until she spoke.

She regarded the golden horizon with a nod, fingertips brushing the edge of her glasses as though settling them into place. Her voice was soft but certain. “A fitting addition to the realm.”

At the sound, they turned—Matthew giving a startled flap of his wings, Merv nearly dropping his cigar. Nuala only inclined her head, as if she had expected Lucienne to appear sooner or later. The Corinthian didn’t flinch at all, his mouth curving as though he’d been waiting for her to catch up.

Lucienne’s gaze flicked toward the Corinthian, just briefly, just enough. “You’re looking well.”

He tipped his head in acknowledgment, though the way his smile widened suggested the compliment landed deeper than he let on.

For a while, they all stood together, their silence companionable, the light pressing warm against their faces. Then Lucienne’s voice cut gently through it, like the turning of a page.

“There is still much to be done. If you’ve had your fill of spectacle, I suggest you return to your duties.”

“Oh, come on,” Matthew whined. “Five more minutes.”

“Yeah,” Merv chimed in, smoke finally curling from his pumpkin head. “Let us enjoy it a bit, will ya?”

Lucienne’s mouth twitched, almost a smile. “Five minutes. No more.”

And so they lingered, watching as the new sun rose higher, spilling its impossible colors across the library’s endless shelves. Then, one by one, they drifted away. Matthew with a final chirp of awe, Merv muttering about overachieving dream-lords, Nuala moving as if she dared not break the hush.

At last, only the Corinthian and Lucienne remained.

He straightened from his lounging sprawl and inclined his head toward her. “Thank you. For the advice.”

Lucienne adjusted her spectacles, the light gilding their frames. “Think nothing of it. I merely keep the Dreaming running as it should.” A pause, thoughtful but not unkind. “And in your case, it seems you do your best work after encounters with the exorcist.”

The Corinthian stood up, the grin on his face tilted, sharp and amused. But Lucienne’s final words softened the edge.

“I wish your date—and what follows—well.” She said, smiling.

They stood in silence after that, shoulder to shoulder, watching as the new sunrise completed its climb. The tension that had hung between them all evening dissolved, replaced with something quieter, steadier.

By the time the sun crested fully over the Dreaming, it felt like the beginning of something new.

The cab smelled faintly of petrol and takeout, just like it always did. Chas kept one hand steady on the wheel, the other drumming along to some tune that wasn’t really playing. He’d seen Johanna in every state a human could be dragged through—bloodied, bruised, and reeking of smoke. Tonight though, her trenchcoat actually had all the buttons done, the collar sat neat instead of crumpled, and there was a touch of color in her face he hadn’t seen in years. Less like a ghost walking, more like someone who remembered she had a pulse.

He caught her in the rearview, brow raised. “You look different.”

Johanna flicked her lighter open and shut, the flame never catching. “Yeah, cheers for the compliment. Always nice to hear I don’t look like a corpse.”

“No, I mean it,” Chas pressed, catching her reflection in the mirror. “You look… less knackered. Less like you’ve been sleeping with one eye open. That mark from the Night Hag, healed up, yeah? Or are you just pretendin’ it doesn’t hurt?”

Johanna smirked, leaning back against the worn leather seat. “Still hurts like hell when I sneeze. But don’t worry. If I croak, you’ll be the first to inherit all my unpaid bills.”

“Comfortin’, that,” Chas muttered, but there was a warmth in his voice.

For a while, it was just the hum of London outside the cab windows, tires hissing over wet pavement. Then he asked, casual but pointed, “So where am I takin’ you, then? Another bloody poltergeist? Demon in a lift? Or just somethin’ cursed this time?”

“Not work,” Johanna said simply.

That gave him pause. “Not work,” he repeated, as if testing the words for cracks.

She only arched a brow.

The cab eased to the curb. Chas squinted. Under the streetlamp, leaning like he owned the whole bloody park, was a tall bloke who looked like he’d stepped out of some dodgy men’s magazine—pale hair, real nice grey coat, everything fitted like it’d been sewn on. Even the sunglasses (hiding what Chas knew better than to imagine), at night, somehow worked for him. When he spotted them, the blond lifted a hand in a polite, almost delicate little wave.

Chas nearly stalled the engine. “Is that the blond fella—? With the shades? You’ve gotta be takin’ the piss.”

Johanna’s lips curved, the expression almost shy, though she tried to smother it under her usual bite. “Not this time.”

Chas twisted in his seat, gawping at her. “Hold up. A date? Since when do you date? You’re the one always sayin’ it’s complicated, it’s messy, it’s heartbreak on repeat. You’ve been givin’ me grief for ages about keepin’ clear of that sort of shite.”

“Don’t make a meal of it,” Johanna shot back, though her grin ruined the scold. “It’s not marriage, it’s a stroll through the park. Maybe some greasy chips after, if I’m feelin’ generous.”

For a moment, he just stared. Then, slowly, his face cracked into a grin so big it almost didn’t fit him. “Well, I’ll be damned. About time you had somethin’ good, Johanna. Really bloody is.”

Her hand was already on the door handle, but she paused to toss him a look, half-teasing, half-grateful. “Don’t wait up for me, love.”

And with that, she slid out of the cab, coat catching the glow of the streetlight as she walked toward the waiting figure.

Chas watched her go, shaking his head with a low whistle. Then, as he eased the cab back into motion, a small, proud smile tugged at his mouth. “Would you look at that,” he muttered to himself. “Johanna bloody Constantine, goin’ on a date.”

The taillights dwindled behind her, leaving Johanna alone in the cool night. The Corinthian straightened from where he’d been leaning under the streetlamp, and as she strode toward him, he stepped forward to meet her halfway, boots crunching lightly over gravel.

“Been waiting long?” she asked, her hands sliding into the familiar, comforting pockets of her trenchcoat.

“Not really,” he said, easy as anything. “Been enjoying the sights. London’s got its own kind of music at night. Footsteps, laughter, a bit of wind through the trees. Not so bad to listen to.”

Johanna gave him a look, half-amused, half-exasperated. “You’re ridiculous. Next you’ll say the pigeons are prophets and the Thames sings lullabies.”

He grinned, the curve of his lips gentle. “Funny you should mention it. Want to hear my theory on the pigeons?”

They fell into step, moving past the wrought-iron gates. The gravel path stretched ahead, the lamps spaced far enough apart that shadows lingered between them.

“New coat?” Johanna asked after a moment, tipping her chin toward the grey wool draped neatly over his shoulders. “Haven’t seen you in one before. Usually it’s all dark jackets and denim, like you’ve just crawled out of a dive bar.”

“Figured I’d try to make a decent impression,” he said, brushing invisible lint from the lapel. “And after enough visits, I caught the hint on how coats are practically a uniform here. Didn’t want to stick out.”

Her mouth curved, faintly amused. “So you swapped denim for wool, but kept the sunglasses. At night. You’re half undercover agent, half prat.”

His smirk curled, easy and unbothered. “Which half’s more charming?”

“Still debatable,” she shot back, though there was a flicker of amusement tugging at her mouth.

“Funny,” he said, lowering his voice a notch. “You’re the one looking like you’ve stepped out of a catalogue tonight. More polished. Puts the rest of London to shame. How’s your sleep lately?”

“Better,” Johanna said with a mock sigh. “Fine, you were right. Sleep’s good for me. Consider that my formal admission.”

“Duly noted.” His grin widened. “I’ll have it engraved somewhere.”

She snorted. “Speaking of sleep, how’re things in your little corner of the Dreaming?”

That earned her a laugh, quiet but genuine, the sound misting faintly in the cool night air. He continued to walk in step beside her, coat swaying as his hands slipped behind his back. “Funny thing, actually. Some of the folks in the Dreaming decided to place wagers on how our first date went. This one guy, Merv put money on me messing it up.”

She cut him a sidelong look, brow arching, lips curving despite herself. “Oh? You talk about me over there, then?”

“Maybe. Sometimes.” He gave a small shrug, shoulders rolling beneath the grey wool in a way that looked practiced—casual, but not careless. “It’s no secret where I wander off to now and again.”

Her eyes glinted in the dim light, amused. “Careful, there. If this keeps up, you’ll have to introduce me to your mates. I’d love to hear what they’ve got to say about you.”

“Why not?” he said easily, like the idea didn’t daunt him at all. “Could be fun. Besides, your friend, the cabbie—his reaction to seeing me was priceless. Next time, maybe he should join us for drinks.”

Johanna scoffed, smirking. “Moving fast, aren’t we? Already planning a meet-the-friends?”

“You were the one who suggested introductions first,” he countered, lips quirking in practiced ease.

The banter slipped into a quieter rhythm as they walked further into the park. The night was mercifully dry, the paths slick but not puddled, and the air cool without biting. London’s hum dimmed behind the trees, leaving only the rustle of branches and their footsteps on the gravel. For a while, that was enough. Just the two of them, strolling and talking, letting the edges of conversation rise and fall without urgency.

And then it happened. Their hands brushed, just a fleeting graze of knuckles. Once, twice. The third time, he caught her hand in his.

Johanna didn’t pull away. She only gave the smallest squeeze, as if to say yes, fine, then, without breaking stride.

He glanced down at her, half-expecting a cutting remark, but she only looked ahead, mouth tilted in something that might’ve been the ghost of a smile.

They kept walking, trading jokes that came out half-serious, half a dare, testing how far they could push without breaking the fragile ease between them. It wasn’t much, and it wasn’t grand, but it was theirs, a small pocket of the night where the world felt lighter.

And if anyone had seen them, the two figures side by side under the lamplights, hands linked as they wandered the park, they would’ve thought nothing unusual of it. Just a perfectly happy couple out on a date.