Title: Noise
Prompt Used: Use all of the following words: necktie, run, mauve, shovel, excite, deny
Username: anthrop
Notes: HiNaBN Fanfiction, because I am unoriginal and obsessive about all the wrong things. A continuation of the strange little fanon I seem to be building, my bad. (Entry for a contest over on dA.)

"Vampire anatomy?"

It sounds that much dumber coming from Hanna, and you regret asking him that much more. "Uh, yeah. I'm kind of flying blind with—with all of this, and I'm getting pretty sick of surprising myself, and it's uh." You're chewing on your thumb again. "There isn't really anyone else I can ask."

You've imagined trying to ask a salesclerk if they have any how-to books on vampirism in stock, and the thought still makes you mentally recoil. And, well, it's not like any of the other vampires you've run into—got your ass handed to you by—are willing to explain this shit to a (ugh) fledgling like you. They seem to much rather enjoy having a laugh at your expense. So yes, Hanna's it, and a part of you wishes otherwise, but if Hanna doesn't have the answers you know he'll try his best to find someone who does.

So there's that.

Hanna says, "Oh well yeah, Adelaide probably didn't really want to sire you in the first place," and you feel that like a kick in the stomach. You're grateful you called instead of trying to talk about this in person because really, it shouldn't be possible for this conversation to get any more awkward but you know, somehow, it could.

Hanna keeps talking, and you try to listen over the background racket of static and humming and buzzing from hundreds of fluorescents-games-cameras-TVs-cell phones-music players (why does he have to work with electronics when he's not setting his hands on fire?) on his end. "Uh, well I've never heard of a successful autopsy, since vampires kinda have a tendency to go up in, uh, well, a pillar of fire usually." He laughs, and you don't see anything funny about that, but let it pass because you've known Hanna long enough now to translate this laugh as another (unnecessary at this point) apology. "And I really don't think any vampire would be willing to undergo exploratory surgery, yanno?"

"I can't imagine why," slips out with more venom than you intended but Hanna ignores it, or perhaps it just doesn't even register. It's always hard to tell with him.

"What's been surprising you?"

And isn't that the million dollar question? You open your mouth and think about curtains-reflections-senses-sunlight-Abner-Toni-jealousy-species-flying-instincts-breathing-bleeding-drinking-breaking-dying-(it could have been the kid you could have killed the kid instead what if it had been the kid)-hunger-thirst-an ache you can't keep satisfied and a thousand other things, and the whatever in your chest is right at the top of that list, but how the hell do you explain any of that over the phone? So you close your mouth, and you hear the click of your fangs over your favorite playlist because your ears have gotten so sensitive you can't play music louder than the lowest setting without it being distracting, but you can't stand not having music playing, even when you're coma-sleeping because the silence is so much worse now because it's never silent anymore, it's pipes and electricity and your neighbors living-breathing-pumping-fucking-growing old, and you're getting to know the individual pulses better than you knew any of your old friends, and you can hear them all ticking ticking ticking down the mortal coil while you just sit there at your computer and it's just—

"Don't you have anything?"

It's just easier to say nothing, deny everything, pretend nothing is wrong and everything is okay because that's how you were programmed as a kid back home (three thousand lovely miles away) and even though you haven't been for a visit since graduation it's still your default reaction to fucking everything.

"Er, well, nothing that specific—" and you think with a ferocity that almost frightens you, fuck, "—but I've picked up a few books here and there about vampires that have some things I haven't already seen online. Some of it doesn't make a whole lot of sense to me, but then again I'm not much of a vampire hunter."

You think of the fiasco at the church and know he's thinking about it too, but you're not sure what this laugh means in Hanna-speak, so you press on.

"Why do you even have books like that then?"

Hanna makes an impatient, you're-being-stupid-on-purpose-aren't-you noise and static buzzes in your ears even though you have your phone on speaker and it's on the other side of the coffee table because Jesus, why is it so loud? "I'm a paranormal investigator. It was just a matter of time 'til I ran into one, and I didn't want to get my ass handed to me right off, yeah?"

"Oh. Well. That makes sense." And it does, actually, and you hadn't even been sure Hanna was capable of foresight. But you remember the runes he'd drawn on your skin so you could walk on hallowed ground without feeling like your veins—or whatever's left of them (dammit, someone really needs to get on writing a Q&A for these things)—were collapsing like dried twigs, and you guess you should learn to give him the benefit of the doubt more often.

"I'm at work right now, but I can call Michael and have him drop them off if you want."

"No!" Augh, open mouth, insert foot. But really, it's a miracle (or just plain old luck) that none of you neighbors have realized your condo is rapidly becoming a rest house for the supernatural, but the zombie, despite being a decent guy, is just so obviously… not alive. What if someone ran into him? "I mean, I don't want to bother—"

"Oh, he won't mind! It'll give him something to do. I think he gets pretty bored when I'm not around actually."

"Well…" You hear a terrific crash on Hanna's end and you flinch and have to ask, "Christ, Hanna, what's all that noise?"

"Noiiise?" He draws out the word, and his voice fades slightly, and it's easy to imagine him in a red polo and sticker-covered nametag, craning his neck as he looks around for the stampeding elephants that have you half-covering your ears. "Uh, I don't—oh, well the TVs are on. Wow, can you hear that?"

"Is it a nature program?"

"Yeah, looks like it. Holy shit, I'm not even in Electronics right now! That's amaz—oh."

"…Yeah." You can't think of anything else to say, and you're just grateful that you hadn't needed to add two and two together for Hanna. Nothing sounds better to you than the idea of backpedaling out of this whole conversation and pretending you hadn't asked at all, but aren't you trying to overcome that shit? You swallow and try to think of something to fill the gap in conversation, but Hanna beats you to it.

"Shit. Conrad, I gotta run. I'll tell Jacob to bring those books over, okay?"

"Wait, Hanna!" But he's already hung up, and a blessed lessening of noise settles in your ears. You curse, but there isn't much you can do about it now. No one has realized yet that the dead man (Michael? Jacob? One of the dozen other names you recall Hanna using? "Zombie" is just so… impersonal...) is in fact, dead, so you decide not to worry about it.

You go to your computer and open up a commission you've been mucking about with for the past few days, turn your music on loud enough to block out the humming of the fridge (and the little bar is barely half-full, Christ, you miss the days you could blast your favorite songs loud enough to break your headphones), and settle into a quiet debate between mauve or Byzantium for the lettering while you wait.

It's nearly two hours later when you finally hear the zombie's firm knock, and it's like a crack of thunder in the steady buzz you've become accustomed to. You answer the door a little too quickly and usher him inside, just in case someone is in the hall. He's taken care to wear his usual coat-glove-fedora ensemble, which at least hides the most obvious of his undead features, though the orange glow of his eyes is still a dead (ha) giveaway. Not for the first time, you're struck by how much he looks like some film noir detective; with his clothes and his posture and his lukewarm expression that has a penchant for looking almost unimpressed with whatever shenanigans he's been pulled into now, not to mention his surprising (But is it really? You've only ever known him as Hanna's sidekick, after all...) brutality when it came to a fight.

You realize you're staring, and stammer out something lame and easily forgettable. His eyebrows wrinkle just enough to mutely point out that you're sounding kind of retarded, so you stop, clear your throat, and ask, "Have you, er, recovered from, um, the night at the church?" and could you be any more awkward? (The answer is yes, but still, fuck, you're just aiming for social pariah now.)

"As best as I expected to," he says in that same quiet, level voice you've always heard him use.

You haven't seen either him or Hanna since that night (no, you haven't been avoiding them, you've just been busy with work and figuring this vampire shit out). You had fallen asleep before Worth or Hanna had gotten to stitching the dead man back together, and they'd been gone by the time you'd woken up at sunset, aching and itchy in your dirty, torn, blood-crusted clothes. Worth had ripped into you as soon as he'd seen you stir, downright bitching about letting Hanna get into another mess—as if you could keep Hanna in check, that's a riot—and the dead man had simply slipped from your mind. You wonder how many more stitches he's acquired under that coat, and inwardly you grimace.

"Do you, er, have Hanna's books?"

Rather than answer, he slips a hand into an inner pocket and withdraws three disappointingly thin, dog-eared books and offers them to you, along with a thick manila folder you wish didn't look so familiar. "Worth mentioned yesterday you haven't been to his office in a while," he says by way of explanation.

"O-oh." Through the paper you can feel the cold blood slosh, and whatever the vampire equivalent of nausea is sharply twists your insides. "I still have a couple bags left, actually. Thanks though."

You haven't gone for a blood bag since you last tried flying. You haven't eaten since then either, but no one else has to know that, or that your fridge is empty of anything you actuallycan eat.

"Hanna's been worried about you," he says after a beat.

"What? Why?" You've been busy, dammit. Not avoiding. Not pretending. Not repressing. Not at all. You're fine.

You think of burying that stupid puppy and the part of you that still insists on being human quails at how fucking delicious-easy-fun it had been to kill it, and fuck, fuck, weren't you getting over that?

The dead man adjusts his necktie, tightening it slightly. It almost looks compulsive, like he's uncomfortable. Another thing you hadn't thought was possible disproved tonight. You wonder if your new circle of friends will go for broke and a completely sober Worth will walk in next, wanting a chat or something. Gah. "You nearly lost your humanity at the church. Do you remember?" He looks at you, waiting.

"I—no. I don't remember anything."

You remember how delicious Abner was, and how the few swallows of blood you'd managed had flooded your torso with a warmth that had almost felt like being alive again. You remember feeling stronger than you had ever felt before, like you could take on fucking anything and win. You remember white pain in your shoulder (which later you learned was one of three fucking bullets that psycho had gotten you with on top of that agonizing smorgasbord of rock salt-garlic-holy water to your gut) that had faded on the second swallow, and then you know you'd gotten at least one more in but there's nothing from there until the alley outside Worth's. You remember all that, but you sure as hell won't be sharing it with—

Wait, whoa, hold the phone. Why does that sound so familiar?

"Lost my humanity?" you ask faintly, and you think of the haunted theater and for a moment can't imagine why that popped into your head.

"Yes. Hanna described it to me as a kind of 'leveling up' for vampires." His eyebrows knit together in something near amusement. "Casimiro—"

"Oh god." You remember Casimiro alright. Your jaw ached for a whole day after he'd kicked you in the face, and you couldn't get the burning electrical wire smell out of your nose for even longer. "I—I did that?"

"No—" and you think with a ferocity that almost frightens you, thank god, "—but you came very close."

"Fuck." You spin on your heel and walk stiffly to the kitchen to the put the folder of blood in the fridge because the idea of drinking it right now honest-to-god makes you want to puke. Hanna's books crash into the spice rack you haven't thrown away yet and you curse again as your bottle of Saigon cinnamon spills across the counter and the smell of it is a fucking crowbar to your face. You grunt and stumble back out of the kitchen, your hand over your nose even though, really, if you just stopped breathing you'd be fine—

Your lungs hitch, hitch, hitch, and stop, and the burning in your throat fades immediately.

Fuck.

"Are you alright?" he asks you, as if you'd tripped and barked your shin or something so mundane.

"That's exactly what I'm talking about!" And you're shouting, throwing your hands into the air and just generally making a complete ass of yourself but seriously, this shit got old after the first blood bag. You think of and loathe the memory of when it had settled like lead in your ribcage and the scratches and bruises all over your body had vanished with an itchy, tingling what the fuck. "You would think, considering how much hype there is about how fantastic being a vampire is, it actually would be now and again! But so far it's just been one stupid thing after another! I mean, really, what's so scary about a fanged bloke out for your blood when you can just throw rice at him?"

"Not much," he admits, but you barely hear it over the sudden blare of music of a passing car three blocks away, and you keep ranting about the dumb superstitious shit you keep discovering is actually true, and you're focusing on the dumb superstitious shit because the idea that you almost turned into a sizzling, jagged thing is just too much right now, too much forever because—well, holy shit, because.

And then, out of nowhere, you feel a tug in your chest. Painless, yet firm, a calm-your-shit tug. You don't know what makes you think of it like that but you do, and just like that the frustration bleeds out of you, the words die in your throat, and your two cents are completely moot.

What the hell was that?

The dead man looks at you, passive and patient, and it hits you: Christ, none of this is his problem at all. "S-sorry," you say on impulse, because that's what you do best. That, and making an ass of yourself, as you've just finished doing so neatly. Two for two, and the dead man's been in your condo all of ten minutes. Grand.

"It's alright," he says. His mouth twitches. "You've turned into a bat?"

You groan and pinch the bridge of your nose. "Several times, actually. Don't tell Hanna," you add quickly.

"Why?"

You look at him, hoping your expression conveys the amount of duh you're too polite to properly voice. "He'd probably want me to perform like a circus animal or something and I, uh," you laugh weakly, thinking it could have been the kid, and say "I'm not very good at controlling it yet."

"He'll be very excited when you tell him," he says, like the two of you are planning a surprise for Hanna or something.

"Ugh. Which is why I won't be saying anything. Ever." You glance at your watch, and because you focus on it even that much the ticking fills your ears, and fuck, that's gonna drive you crazy for the next hour. "A-anyway, thanks again, but I've let work pile up and…" Please, let him take the hint.

The undead man hmms and turns to leave, but pauses at the front door. "Oh, you wouldn't happen to have a shovel, would you?"

"A sho—No. Why?"

"Hanna wanted me to ask. I didn't think you would." Either you're getting better at reading his face, or he's just as nervous about why Hanna needs a shovel in the first place as you are. "He also wanted to know if you're free tomorrow night."

You look at him, dubious. "If it's another of your cases…" you start, thinking of the growing number of shirts you've had to toss after another night of alleyways-bar fights-murder-supernatural ludicrousness.

"No. Just dinner, I think."

"Ah." Dinner Hanna and a few dozen questions for you, more like it, and no doubt /iyou'll/i be the one paying for it. You open your mouth to decline, but, "Tell him I'll think about it," comes out instead.

"I will. Good night, Conrad."

"Uh, yeah. Night."

Your front door closes with a click, and the sounds of your complex crash in on you all over again.