but he talks like a gentleman, like you imagined (nanshe)
Morpheus did not turn in, so to speak, the way other people, or even other gods, did for the evening. He'd be up all night, either pacing or motionless in a red arm chair, the French doors of his apartment in New Orleans thrown open. He'd only half-occupy the Waking World, if half. Most of him was thrown into weaving dreams for and about the sleeping portion of the planet.
He did not wake up in a spaceship, therefore. Dream rarely slept, and tonight was no such occasion. No. Rather, when he realized his body was arranged differently in the red arm chair, that there was no breeze from the open doors... he came back to Waking Life entirely, leaving dreams in the hands of the myriad Oneiroi.
As someone who routinely altered reality based on very specific parameters, Dream was not an easy being to fool. That he had, apparently, been taken from his home and placed somewhere else--somewhere he'd never seen before, though it had a familiar red chair and some poppies in vases--simply flabbergasted him.
He got to his feet, putting on his shoes, which he found next to the chair, and explored the room. Down to the last detail, every item was his. Loki perhaps was involved in this, or...
Well, who hadn't Morpheus annoyed in the last century?
He sighed, very deeply.
Running his tongue over his teeth, annoyed, Morpheus opened the door to his room and ventured out into the hallway.
"Okay," he called down it, voice very melodic, almost sing-song, "Good trick. Now, let's be a nice asshole and put me back in my flat, hmm, before I allow Phoebetor access to your head forever and sit and watch with popcorn."
The last word was drawn out, almost comically. Popcooooooorrrrnnnnnn.