Date: May 3rd, 2008
Location: Malibu, California
The night after Tony Stark announced his truth to the world, the air above California shimmered faintly — not from the heat, but from something deeper. The collective pulse of a planet's imagination stirred, dreaming of flight, of armor, of redemption.
Dream stood on the edge of that ripple, the veil between waking and sleep bending gently beneath his feet. He didn't walk among mortals often — not physically — but tonight he lingered close. The man of iron slept restlessly in his glass house by the sea, unaware that the Dreaming stretched out like a vast ocean beneath his restless mind.
Dream watched Tony's slumber like a guardian and a witness. The dreams were vivid — flashes of metal and flame, screams echoing through the cave, a heart of light struggling to stay lit against the dark. Yet threaded through it all was something new: hope.
That word carried weight again.
He let the dream unfold — a child's vision of the man in the armor lifting people from fire, a hand of gold outstretched toward salvation rather than destruction. The dream wasn't just Tony's; it was the echo of every soul who'd seen him and whispered, maybe we can be better too.
For the first time in a long while, Dream smiled.
He spoke softly into the stillness, his voice like the hush of wind through deep halls.
"Do you see it, my love?"
Death's presence arrived like the scent of rain — gentle, unforced. She didn't need to manifest; he could feel her beside him, her warmth steady and sure. When she chose to appear, it was in her usual way: jeans, dark hair, eyes full of eternity.
"I see it," she said, looking toward Tony's sleeping form. "You're proud."
Dream didn't hesitate this time. "I am."
Death tilted her head, smiling. "You don't usually admit that."
"I used to think pride was something reserved for mortals," Dream said. His tone was quiet but sure. "That we — the abstracts — were beyond such frailties. But this isn't vanity. It's affection."
He looked down at Tony, at the fragile arc reactor that pulsed like a heart. "They keep trying, even when they break themselves doing it. They dream of saving one another even when the world tells them not to. They fall, they build, they fail — and yet they dream again."
Death stepped closer, watching him as much as she watched humanity. "You sound like someone who's finally forgiven them."
Dream considered that. "Perhaps I've forgiven myself instead."
The stars beyond Malibu flickered faintly, like they were listening. Dream's cloak of darkness stirred — not in menace, but as if moved by the ocean breeze.
He turned to her, eyes shimmering with unspoken emotion. "Do you remember what I told you once? That I am not of them, nor they of me?"
Death smiled, soft and knowing. "And now?"
"I see now that isn't true," he said. "Every thought, every story, every dream they've ever had — it flows through me, and I through them. We are not bound by blood or matter, but by meaning."
Death touched his hand lightly, her thumb tracing the edge of his pale fingers. "You're changing, Dream."
"Evolution is not just for the living," he replied. "Even ideas must grow."
For a while, they simply stood together — two constants in a sea of fragile light, watching the surf of dreams crash and retreat upon the shores of the mortal mind.
Far below, Tony's breathing steadied. In his dream, he was flying again — not away from his guilt, but toward something better.
Death broke the silence first. "Do you think he'll keep that hope?"
Dream's eyes softened. "He will lose it. Then find it. Then lose it again. That is how mortals are shaped — not by their victories, but by their recoveries."
Death leaned against him, her head resting on his shoulder. "That's the side of you I love most."
He turned slightly, curious. "The honest side?"
"The human side," she corrected.
He let out a breath that almost resembled laughter. "You've always found humanity beautiful."
"I have to," she said gently. "I'm the one who meets them at the end."
Dream looked down at her, eyes full of a warmth that once would have frightened him. "And I am the one who meets them every night. Between us, perhaps they are never truly alone."
Her smile deepened. "That's why I love you, you know. You don't just see their dreams — you believe in them."
"Belief is powerful," he said. "Even for beings like us."
They stood in silence for a long while after that, the Pacific waves glimmering far below, their spray catching the moonlight like scattered pearls. When at last she faded — her duty calling her elsewhere — Dream lingered.
He let his gaze wander across the city lights, each one a soul, each one a dream. The pulse of imagination was brightening again, like the first faint blush of dawn after a long winter.
He felt it ripple through him — not the endless ache of ages past, but something lighter, alive.
"Heroes," he murmured, almost to himself. "They are dreaming of heroes once more."
The Dreaming shifted in response, filled with images of capes and armor, shields and thunder. The archetypes were returning — not as myths of the old gods, but as reflections of humanity's own courage reborn.
Dream closed his eyes, and for the first time in eons, he allowed himself to feel joy without restraint. The mortals had learned to dream of light again — and that meant the universe still remembered how to hope.
The tide rolled in, whispering softly against the shore.
Dream's voice, carried by the wind, was little more than a whisper — but somewhere deep within the collective unconscious, a thousand sleeping minds turned toward it like flowers toward the sun.
"Dream well," he said. "You've earned it."