AN: This was written for a prompt on the kink meme, and was also presented to the wonderful Terrabyte as a birthday present. Two birds with one stone, good job me. The prompt was, "So, on the night they meet, Hanna tags {...} as HIS by sewing his arm back on with "Cross" stitches. Hanna does this subconsciously, but slowly {...} notices that Hanna has a habit of marking all his property with X's and +'s, and this realization totally turns {...} on, which leads to... um, stuff." I will say now, my Zombie has more strong protective feelings than any sort of sexual feelings, because in my headcanon he doesn't have much of a libido. He does these things to please Hanna. This entire thing is a lot more emotional than it is sexual. That said, Hanna is Not a Boy's Name still belongs to the marvelous Tessa Stone, not profit is being made and no offense is meant.
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PROPERTY OF HANNA FALK CROSS
-by: Lira-
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When Hanna reattached his arm that very first night, it was a simple gesture of kindness. Hanna questioned his comfort, the stitches he was whisking out precise and efficient. There was nothing to be concerned over; he did not understand when what pain there was, was negligible. And yet it was a quiet moment, companionable, something he would not have realized he needed before then. It was perhaps the moment when he knew that the partnership was something he wanted to work at, even though their first case had been far from a success.
Somehow this all translated into him living with Hanna – if living was the correct word – in Hanna's sorry little apartment. It was the first time he had a permanent place of residence, since everything, whatever, and he thought he was grateful just for that. Hanna acted like it was perfectly natural. Like he had never lived without a dead man keeping him company. Hanna didn't even mind that his preferred place to sit when Hanna finally slept was beside Hanna's bed, little more than a mattress on the floor. Somehow, those silent moments in the gloom of the apartment were not questioned.
He took a lot of walks, at first. It was one thing when Hanna was awake, and the entire apartment was filled with his undeniable presence. If there was one thing to be said for Hanna, it was his personality, the irresistible way he could appeal to a person – any person. It was impossible not to like Hanna. At least, he found this to be the case. And with Hanna asleep, the apartment slept with him, so that he felt like a transient again. So he left. At first he left. But after a while that was no longer necessary, and he would rest with Hanna, or tidy around the place without lighting a single lamp.
It wasn't weird when Hanna called him by a different name at every turn. He always knew when Hanna meant him – some quality to the redhead's voice would turn his head almost before the utterance was complete. It wasn't weird to worry about Hanna's needs, to cook Hanna breakfast and graciously accept Conrad's gifts of groceries. It wasn't even weird that he tended to keep cleaning, because Hanna accrued /stuff/ like one wouldn't believe, and Hanna tended to just leave these things in piles and boxes until he decided he needed something, at which point he had to rummage through absolutely everything in search of it.
He didn't notice at first that sometimes he would finger his arm, right where the stitches were. While the way pain was dulled to him served them well if there was a fight, it also meant that he couldn't always feel things as well as he would like when he touched them. The stitches were always a crisp line he could feel against the pads of his fingertips, a soothing tactile sensation. And when he looked at them, perfect little "X"s all lined up to lace his dead flesh back together for another day.
The other details sunk in over days and weeks. One morning sitting at breakfast with Hanna, Hanna digging into his omelet with fork and knife, he was running his fingers along the edge of the tabletop. And when he looked down to verify what he was feeling, a chain of "X"s, chiseled into the wood as if with a pocketknife. They were not entirely regular, as if there had been a lot of stopping and starting, just a few carved at a time over... Months. He did not verify until later, but when he came back to look at it, he found that the marks continued around almost the entire rim of the tabletop. There was only a gap of about a foot, where a single line had been drawn cutting them off. He could only guess what it could mean. For some reason, he did not ask Hanna.
At another time, when they were dashing out the door, Hanna asked him to grab the hammer. He had not noticed it that first night, but it bore a circlet of crosses around the head, and one large cross at the base. But Hanna plucked it cheerfully from his hand before he could really think about it, and cases were more important than his foolish curiosity over habits from a man who was in some ways still the largest enigma.
Hanna had so little money, if it was at all possible he would pay his acquaintances in runes. More than once he watched Hanna sketch them out, a perfect frown of concentration on the redhead's face. It was different from being in the middle of a confrontation, when Hanna's marker swiped without hesitation wherever was necessary. These Hanna crafted with care, and he would watch Hanna do it with complete captivation. It was only after the third sitting crafting runes that he noticed that a number of Hanna's contained small "X"s or crosses worked into the design so that they were almost imperceptible. Just at the ends of strokes, like punctuation. Watching Hanna do it, like Hanna wasn't even thinking about it, so /naturally/... It made an impression.
The "X"s meant something. Hanna placed them on his belongings, on things important to him, for a reason.
It made him curious, in a way he could not remember being in his retained memory. He was already cleaning Hanna's apartment for his own peace of mind, because of course Hanna simply wouldn't do this for himself, but after that he started inspecting things. The piles and boxes of Hanna's personal detritus, were nothing interesting. But anything that had clearly been in the apartment for a while had some new evidence for him.
Little white "X"s had been painted in a peculiar pattern on the leading of Hanna's favorite faux Tiffany lamp, the one they would leave on by unspoken agreement on those nights Hanna slept only fitfully.
A few crosses decorating the cover of Hanna's DS, and on the inside to either side of the screen and curling around all of the buttons.
On Hanna's bookshelf, just a few of the books, two of the most pristine ones and all of the old well-worn ones, bore unique designs comprising only of "X"s.
By that point, the curiosity all but consumed him. When Hanna slept he would sit by the bedside like a vigil, doing nothing but tracing the tiny "X" stitches on his arm with his fingertips. Once, only once, he considered taking them out and redoing them himself. But as soon as he touched the thread the idea evaporated. He just couldn't. Since before he knew it meant anything those stitches had been a source of comfort to him, a source he could not explain but welcomed all the same. They made him think of Hanna's steady hand, Hanna's earnest concern for him.
It was also a reminder of why he needed to protect Hanna. He could be stitched back together; he was far more durable than the little redhead ever could be, even with all the runes in his books. If he was possessed or attacked it was okay, because he was defending the mastermind. Hanna was, in a way, the puppetmaster, and he was content with a certain degree of puppeting. It was not as if Hanna demanded these things. He didn't think Hanna was capable of that. Everything was his own volition, proof that he did indeed have free will.
And it was somewhere in those thoughts, in his sifting through his actions for justification, that he realized what it meant. It was indeed a mark of Hanna's possession, perhaps nothing more complex than that. The redhead placed these symbols, this evidence of /him,/ on things that held meaning to him as a sort of claiming gesture.
He had, in a way, been claimed.
It didn't make anything different, he found himself thinking. Nothing had changed. Only... It was not entirely fair, was it? He could not stop himself from taking care of Hanna, from protecting him, from caring about him. He couldn't even really think about stopping. And the evidence of Hanna's... Hanna's /ownership/ was there on his unliving flesh, and him without any way to reciprocate this sentiment. Should not Hanna be his as well? He did not begrudge Hanna the things he did, all the happy tasks he performed. But if he went out of Hanna's life, would there be any mark to prove that he had been some impact? He could not leave the redhead unprotected.
The matter of a countermeasure became his new concern. Clearly it would be something he could do for Hanna, something he was not doing already, preferably something with a visual impact that would still be there afterward. It would take some study. Again he calmly dipped his attention into Hanna's business, feeling in no way as if he was trespassing because this was their life, and he had just as much right. And time and time again, their life came back to the runes. The runes were Hanna's most outward demonstration of exactly what he was and what he could be. There could be something there, some crumb for him.
He read through Hanna's books, all of the old ones with the cross patterns decorating the pages. He read through them twice, making sure he was certain. And then he sat down beside Hanna when Hanna was playing one of his videogames, placing the aged tomb on the floor beside Hanna's elbow.
"Hanna, I was doing some reading," he said softly, catching the redhead's attention.
Hanna perked up instantly, not minding for an instant being called away from his game. But then his gaze fell on the book, on the page it was open to in particular. His face fell into a little frown.
"Did you have a question?" he asked, trying for his usual chipper tone and not quite making it. "I mean, I know these are all mine, but it's not like I get everything in them! Some of it's really archaic!"
The fact that Hanna had difficulty looking at what he'd found was a bit of an encouragement. It meant he was right. This was what Hanna had been doing; all of those little marks really were simplified runes and that really was why Hanna's cross signature was a part of one of the strokes on all of his best-used runes.
"I didn't know you had a signature, Hanna," he commented calmly.
"Yeah, well uh, the magic kind of works better if you do," Hanna said sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck. "Like, I sort of made some deals in my past, you know, and it's like... Calling debts every time you do magic."
He could read between the lines. Hanna had given up some of his safety to be able to do the job better. He could call on these forces, strong forces, but some day he might be forced to pay the piper. He only hoped that he would be there when that day came to call, because he would not permit something to take Hanna down for the good he had been working in the world.
"But you don't just use your signature when you need to handle something on a case," he told Hanna. "You put it on all your most prized possessions. From my reading, I would say it's an anchor. You mark the things that are /yours/ so you can draw on it."
Hanna ducked his head again, but did not deny it. He hadn't thought about it that way until he'd tried to explain Hanna to himself, but... This basically meant that even when he was already protecting Hanna, Hanna was relying on him, because he had been worked into Hanna's safety net of magic.
"Hanna..." he began again, pushing the book closer to the redhead.
For a moment they both looked at what was on the page. It was a complex series of interlocking runes, shaped roughly like a keyhole and fringed with places for Hanna's signature crosses to be subbed in. He had considered practicing, even just once, smooth motions of the hand like the ones Hanna had conditioned himself to make, but he couldn't. In all of his reading from Hanna's texts, it had been the best thing he could find. So that Hanna could draw more freely. Whenever he liked. Complete subjugation of whatever magical energies he was accruing... But he /had/ done his reading. It was a give and take and Hanna would know that.
The best he could do. A way to write his claim on Hanna out, to acknowledge this, whatever it was.
"You read it all?" Hanna asked, somehow just a whisper.
He nodded. He didn't have to say it.
Hanna reached behind him, pulled his marker from his back pocket where he'd stashed it. He held it between them, the final query, and he was able to marvel for a long moment that Hanna did not even think. It was so typical of them. They both knew what was at stake, but the trust was palpable. It could not be denied.
With those cold hands that Hanna never flinched from, he peeled up the hem of Hanna's shirt, higher, higher. That scar that was actually a familiar sight my then, bared an inch at a time until Hanna's arms had lifted and he'd pulled the shirt free entirely. Already Hanna's flesh bore the marks of runes he'd laid there himself, magics that had proven more permanent perhaps than Hanna had known at the time. He could only wonder what each one had cost, and what had been gained in exchange. They were not stories Hanna told to him.
They both knew where it would fit, the only viable option. And yet he watched his fingers curl around Hanna's belt, rest there, wait. It was not quite a question, for he had not thought it through. But Hanna's much warmer hands curved around his, fingers tightening to a point that might have been painful. It was a concession; he got the message. It was a concession and Hanna helped him fumble the belt undone, helped him pull it free of belt loops with a very final shushing sound. Hanna's fingers undid the button, the zip, pulled the material when Hanna thrust his legs forward so that he could disrobe further.
He met Hanna halfway, pulling Hanna's pants from the knees to off, placing them aside, with the shirt, with the care he paid to all of Hanna's things. The socks remained, by unspoken agreement, and his cold fingers reached no further. Without a lick of embarrassment, like Hanna tried strange rituals every day – okay, maybe he did – Hanna slipped out of boxers studded with colorful little dinosaur designs. For once, Hanna's fondness for the dead reptiles did not earn a smile.
The marker was in his hand, he realized, and this part was his express responsibility. Hanna rose only as far as his knees, spaced evenly a foot apart, his shoulders squared. Hanna looked utterly calm, his expression serene and eyes meeting his without shame. He should not have lingered, should have taken the initiative and pursued this plan he himself had concocted. Instead his fingers trailed from Hanna's knees up the sides of his legs, ponderously slow, lingering. Hanna gave a full-body shudder, but his expression did not falter. He did not look away. His fingers reached Hanna's hips and for a brief moment he held on, firmly, and then ran his thumbs upwards over Hanna's ribs, glided his hands down the lengths of Hanna's arms. The scar he did not touch, not then. And book in hand, he shifted to behind Hanna, only then breaking eye contact.
He uncapped the marker, looked again to the page. He began at the center of the design as the cramped text instructed, made his brush stokes as confident and as even as he knew how. Thought of nothing save for protecting Hanna, keeping this remarkable person safe and within his reach, so that he could simply pass through a doorway and see Hanna there, always. His thoughts that no one could do this better than he were entirely without vanity. Hanna trusted him. Hanna had left the stitches, which almost burned against his flesh as he moved the marker over Hanna's own skin.
There was complete silence as he did it, and he did not stop once. Each and every whorl, flourish, and dab, every last cross spangled around the edges when it was all but complete. The shape of his devotion. It was only marker; logic dictated that it would fade with time. But this was Hanna, and this was magic. He knew that to their ends, this would be more permanent than any human tattoo. And when the entire pattern was complete, there was a brief flare of light, down every last line, and he marveled just that he could cause some magical reaction, like he was Hanna for one night and one night only.
Even then, the ritual did not feel over. He was certain that the mark would be there, no matter what he did next. But there was still a window, he could feel the winds of change breezing through it, just a few gentle wafts at a time. On impulse, he shifted back around to Hanna's front. Hanna's eyes had glazed slightly, his eyelids lowered to half mast. Hanna's gaze raised to meet his, and he knew it was not over. He would do whatever Hanna asked just then; his most pressing need had been satisfied.
And it was a very human need Hanna still possessed, the flush to his face just then mirrored in the suffusion to his cock. He imagined that no number of years dead would lessen the meaning there, although he did wonder if it was something inherent in the ritual... Or something he had done.
There was a disconnect in his brain. There was something all the more humanizing in seeing this last and perhaps most personal of Hanna's myriad needs for his very self. Like all of Hanna's other needs, he found that he wished to fulfill it. It was not a surprise. It was like the ritual; they both had an inherent understanding of what was going to happen. The joy was in the execution far more than in the discovery.
His fingers were no less chill than normal when they moved to encircle Hanna, and Hanna placed his hands on his shoulders when he had his other hand on Hanna's hip, like they were dancing. It was as concerted as a dance, him tugging with the same gingerly smooth motions as his hand across Hanna's back. The entire time, watching Hanna. Watching Hanna watch him back, leaning gently into his hand as he continued but only just. Lips gently parted, but no words offered, no need for words even.
When Hanna came, he could feel the magic taking, like little hooks burying into him and lodging tight. He imagined it should have hurt, for someone else, but for him it was like the stitches, only buried somewhere he could not see. His stickied hand was of no consequence, nor the fact that Hanna's hands tightened, spasmed on his shoulders during the redhead's orgasm. What was curious, interesting, cheering, was the fact that Hanna scooted just the last bit closer, the hands on his shoulders lowering to wrap around his middle and hold Hanna close.
"I don't think I'm supposed to say thank you," Hanna murmured, from somewhere around his chest. "But thank you."
"You're welcome, Hanna," he said, on impulse, and because he would always answer to Hanna. "But I think this time that's my line."
Hanna laughed a little, a half-chuckle, half-giggle that was half-lost in his shirt, and it really didn't matter that Hanna was naked and he'd never stripped at all. He could feel the lines from the rune on Hanna's back, now raised slightly from the surrounding flesh when he held onto Hanna. He was satisfied twice over. He had been able to lay his own claim, mark Hanna back. And he had been able to make a motion to protect Hanna better, to be a better support, no matter the cost.
He had already lived his life once, whatever it was. He could not know if he had done wrong or right by the world, because he was no longer even endeavoring to remember. This time, this chance, he would give his days for someone else, though they be many or few.
He didn't have to say any of it. Whatever else Hanna might miss, this he could transmit directly to the redhead by touch alone.