'It's late.' Geronimo noted as Hanna's soft snores and the strangled chirps of the cricket they'd caught earlier resounded through the silence. Some shuffling and quiet murmurs leaked through the walls next door, but the zombie politely ignored them, choosing instead to dwell and mull around with the thoughts in his head.
Normally the undead man chose to spend his nights walking the dark desolate city streets in an effort to preserve some sense of privacy for the sleeping boy-man, but they'd already spent a great deal of time outdoors already; the cricket in the jar was evidence of that mis-adventure. To go back out now would be pointless, as he'd already seen what this night had to offer.
He sat back against the wall, transfixed on the light of the hall creeping in under their dingy door as he ambled aimlessly through his musings. He wasn't thinking about anything in particular, more just reflecting on the day's events, when he heard a peculiar sound. The cricket they had caught earlier had let out a weak, barely-there chirp, announcing that it was slowly fading. The bug was dying.
Amadeus turned the faint glow of his eyes to the direction of the insect's cries, barely able to discern it's dark form in the jar. A small, unmoving blob in the darkness that he was only able to see thanks to his preternatural state of being. He frowned as it gave one last strangled cry before giving up and allowing the silent shufflings of their neighbors to fill the gap.
It was odd, he thought; he'd just witnessed a life fade and he'd made no move to help it, though admittedly there wasn't much he could've done. And, well, it was only a bug. He didn't know where the thought came from, but he suddenly found himself wondering if that was the same sort of situation he'd found himself in while he was alive. Had anyone helped him when they'd heard his dying cries? Or had he too just been another hapless form, helpless even to save himself?
Loki frowned. The events leading up to his death were still elusive, and he began to ponder the many ways it could've happened. He looked back to the jar that held the lifeless cricket, wondering if anyone thought about his death as much as he was thinking about the bugs. He wondered if anyone in his previous life still thought about him, wondered if they wondered about him. Wondered if there were flowers on his grave.
He blinked; where had that come from? Bartleby let his head fall back against the wall, picking and mulling over that last thought.
People placed flowers on their fallen peers' graves as a sign of acknowledging their sadness and how much they missed those that had gone, so it only made sense that if he were missed, then surely there would be flowers decorating his place of (supposed) eternal rest. If he could remember where he came from, he'd go and see for himself, however, with no such recollection he was left only to speculate.
Beside him, his ginger roommate grunted, halting his snores momentarily before sighing and rolling over. Azrael opened his eyes and shifted slightly, eyeing Hanna's slumbering form quietly. Hanna. Had Hanna ever been in a situation where he'd had to lay flowers on someone's grave?
Everyone had to at some point, right? After all, no one lived forever; he'd just gotten lucky that he'd been granted a second chance.
Hmm. Hanna didn't seem the type of person who was capable of feeling sadness, let alone the type to dwell on that sadness. Then again, he hadn't really known him all that long to be able to accurately judge how Hanna'd react should someone he knew passed on. From what he did know about the hyperactive young man, he guessed that Hanna would probably feel guilty about it in some regard, whether it was some ill-placed sense of responsibility or just that he hadn't been there to help when he could've. It was somewhat expected of Hanna to feel like that.
Content with his thoughts for now, Tallahassee resumed his resting position against the wall, listening to the various creaks and groans of the old building.
Even if Hanna didn't seem capable of feeling anything other than his usual ADHD form of happiness, Don Juan was sure that if Hanna had known him while he was alive, he'd have placed flowers on his grave. Actually, knowing Hanna, if the two of them knew where his grave was now the little redhead would probably insist on visiting it and leaving flowers anyway.
For some reason, that thought made him happy. Knowing that someone as genuine as Hanna existed in this cruel dog-eat-dog world that would take the time to lay flowers on some unknown mans grave was enough to make him feel as though that if it weren't for people like Hanna, then perhaps a lot of graves would lie barren and lost; forgotten remembrances' of people no longer a part of this world, and then where would he be? Perhaps he'd still be there, rotting away on his tombstone to forever ponder about the meaning of his existence, waiting patiently for someone who might not come to drop by and remember him, to tell him they missed him and wished he weren't gone.
He owed Hanna a lot of things, a new cricket was just one of them.
A/N: This was written for the Truth or Dare challenge over on deviantArt; I was dared to write something Zombie/Hanna centric based off the song 'Flowers Grow out of My Grave' by Dead Man's Bones. Pretty sure this wasn't what the person who dared me had in mind, but whatever haha.