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freyjawriter24 · 5 days

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I had to do my taxes today and now I am wondering about a) Hob dealing with the evolution of taxes over six centuries and b) newly human Dream confronting it for the first time and Hob trying not to *graciously* offer to marry him for (selfish) tax purposes.

I like to think Hob has been doing mega tax fraud since before he was immortal and isn't about to stop now but I am also a sucker for any and all fake marriage so:

---

It's a joke when he says it. Really it is.

There's a thump from the kitchen table, and Hob peers around the corner from the living room to see a charmingly bespectacled Dream with his forehead pressed to the top of it.

"Problem?" Hob asks. He'd offered to help Dream with his taxes. It's baby's first ever tax return and he's got all the forged documents to allow him to be a real live taxpayer. He's been having so much fun, working at the library. He'd initially been shocked they were going to pay him at all and he still doesn't really grasp how money works because Hob is not actually a harsh teacher, as it turns out. He can afford to keep one small former Dreamlord without ever even thinking about the cost. Dream spends a portion of his pay on coffee and books and scented candles and has the rest in the best, most basic savings account Hob could find for him. They're never talking about real investments or shares or anything of the kind, because Dream has suffered enough and does not need to add having to understand the economy to his list of lifetime woes.

"No," Dream says, with a level of petulance that would impress a four-year-old.

Hob hums. "I'll leave you to it, then?"

Dream makes an unhappy sound, and turns his face to look at Hob. He looks so sad and defeated that Hob can't quite go through with leaving.

"We could always get married. Then I'd be responsible for your taxes."

This may or may not be true. He suspects it's not. It's a joke.

The way Dream perks up stops him dead in his tracks.

"What would getting married involve?" Dream asks.

Shit.

"Umm..." Hob scratches the back of his neck. "Well, we'd need to get a licence. Quick little... thing down at the council offices or the courts or something. You would have to kiss me," he adds, grinning.

Dream tilts his head. "Just the once?"

Hob blinks, a little stone of disappointment turning over in the pit of his stomach. "Just the once, yeah."

Dream purses his lips. Hob can almost see the cogs turning behind his eyes.

"Then I accept," Dream says, closing his laptop and pushing it towards Hob. "We will marry, and you will be responsible for my taxes."

So they get married.

"You didn't actually have to kiss me like that," Hob says, face still aflame as they step into the cool air outside, marriage certificate in hand.

"Like what?" Dream asks, so nonchalant it has to be genuine.

Like you were examining my tonsils, Hob doesn't say.

"Doesn't matter. Do you want to grab a bite to eat? In lieu of a proper reception."

"I would like that."

Hob does Dream's taxes, as promised, two days later, and presents him with the confirmation screen.

"You are a good husband," Dream says, dropping a kiss on the top of Hob's head.

Hob sits for several minutes, poleaxed, before getting up to make them both a cup of tea.

The next time they go to the supermarket, Hob almost has a heart attack when Dream's hand curls around his. He looks down, looks at Dream—who isn't even looking at him—and then looks in the direction Dream's looking. At the end of the aisle there's a pair of, Hob assumes, newlyweds holding hands, having an animated discussion about breakfast spread options.

"You don't have to," Hob says softly.

Dream looks at him, blinks, wrinkles his nose, and tugs him towards the cereals.

Life goes on. They've always gone out together a lot, so they keep doing that.

Hob gets Dream a coffee, and hands it to him as they leave the café. Dream accepts it, and before Hob can figure out what's about to happen, darts in and kisses him. It's not the full dental exam the first one was, but it's very definitely happening.

"You are a good husband," Dream says, turning in the direction of the park they're meant to be heading for without another word or backwards glance.

Hob swings by the library to pick Dream up from work, and finds himself being taken by the hand like something being brought in for show-and-tell, around to all Dream's favourite colleagues and regular patrons to be introduced as his husband. It's...

Well, it's quite nice, actually, but it's not...

"You know you're not obliged to make other people believe it, don't you? The tax man isn't going to find out."

Not least of all because it wouldn't make one iota of a difference, but Hob doesn't quite have the heart to explain that at this point. Dream's treating this very seriously.

If it wasn't all an elaborate panto, Hob would be enjoying it a lot.

Dream looks at him like he's an idiot—familiar territory—and gets his coat. Hob helps him into it automatically, and then Dream takes his hand again as they head outside.

Okay, fine. Dream is clearly convinced that they need to convince other people they're married for reasons other than Hob's ability to manipulate a spreadsheet.

It's not as though Hob minds holding his hand or being introduced as his husband—that is literally true, anyway. And even though he knows it's all part of the act Dream's putting on, he really doesn't mind being kissed as a thank you, or a greeting. Or sometimes just because. Sometimes Dream stops him in the street and holds up the foot traffic to kiss him, and Hob really doesn't mind, honestly.

It's fine. It's fine, it's fine. Hob's managed to keep a greater or lesser hold on his sanity for six centuries, and pretending to have the thing he wants most in the whole world isn't going to be what breaks him. Not even if Dream cuddles up to him on the tube on the way home every time they go out. Not even when he shows up at the university, introduces himself to absolutely everyone as Professor Gadling's Husband, and kisses him hello in front of a whole lecture hall full of first years.

At least, not until Hob drops into the library and finds Dream calmly going through something on the computer with a young woman who's obviously been crying. Dream hasn't spotted him yet, and he doesn't quite mean to spy, but he also doesn't want to interrupt.

"Perfectly simple," Dream says, low and soothing. He's good with people who're upset. Some things never change, Hob supposes, and sleep is always restorative. "My husband taught me all of this, so you mustn't be embarrassed. Taxes are complicated."

Except Hob had not, at any point, showed Dream any of it. He'd just done it. There'd been no instructional element. Hob had simply accepted that he'd be responsible for taxes until the sun exploded.

He watches with his jaw hanging as Dream explains patiently and with authority how to do each step, and the two of them whiz through it in the space of ten minutes before the young woman offers Dream a hug—which he accepts—and goes on her merry way.

It's at that point that Dream notices him.

"Hob," he says, widened eyes giving away that he knows he's been busted.

"Have you secretly got a second husband who showed you how to do that?"

Dream bites his lip.

Hob realises extremely belatedly that Dream knows Hob thinks he's adorable. That he knows Hob can't resist him being a little pathetic. That...

"You knew how to do it," Hob says.

Dream hesitates. Hob watches the full spectrum of possible responses pass through his mind, glimmering in his eyes, before he draws a breath to speak.

"It is a simple form and some basic arithmetic."

"And you're billions of years old and smart even for your age," Hob says as he realises it himself. Why had he thought Dream would be defeated by something like a tax return?

Because Dream had also seemed defeated by...

"You know how the kettle works," Hob says.

Dream nods. "I like the way you make tea for me. It is never quite the same twice, but it is made with affection."

"You also know how the telly works," Hob goes on.

"But if you are required to operate it, you will sit with me."

"And you could've done your own taxes," Hob says. His brain feels like a series of knots being untangled. "But... you know me. You know me so well, better than you let on. Because you think it'll freak me out, I suppose. You knew I'd joke about getting married for tax purposes?"

Dream nods in confirmation.

"And you knew you could run with it."

Crafty bugger. But then he can't help it, can he? Dreams are manipulative. You can take the metaphysical concept out of the function, but you can't take the function out of the ex-metaphysical concept, current menace of a flatmate-slash-best-friend-slash-husband.

Dream nods again.

"Because..." Hob lets out a breath. It can't be true, except it's the only logical conclusion. "You wanted us to be married?"

Dream smiles the sort of tiny, proud smile normally witnessed the faces of parents whose children have just managed to say dada for the first time. He takes a step forwards, closing the gap between them.

Hob suspects he ought to be cross, but then Dream takes both of his hands and he can't quite summon the necessary ill-feelings for it past the sudden upswell of happiness and wellbeing he feels whenever Dream touches him.

"I was just dropping by to tell you that we're stuck in a hotel for the night. Kitchen's flooded. Burst pipe, looks like. I packed you a bag."

"You are a very good husband," Dream says. Normally there's a note of playfulness, even laughter, when he says it. But this is different.

Hob glances up to meet his eyes.

Dream kisses him. He's gotten the hang of appropriate depths of kiss for various public settings, so it's soft and gentle, but lingering.

"I really want to be," Hob confesses.

Dream lights up, one of his gorgeous little smiles making his eyes glitter. "Then we are unified in our desires."

"You want me to be a good husband?"

"To continue to be so, yes."

Hob lets out a long breath. Well. This is...

Good, probably. Yeah, good. Who cares how they got here.

"I was also coming to warn you that the insurance has only booked us one room with one bed. Because we're married."

Dream's eyes sparkle in a way Hob genuinely hasn't seen before.

"I believe that is the ideal number of beds," he says. "I will look forward to seeing you tonight."

Hob leaves the library in a daze, with the biggest, stupidest grin on his face. It's almost enough to make him like taxes.

Almost.

#dream of the endless #hob gadling #fanfiction #other people's writing #taxes #married for tax purposes #funny #cute #long post

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