A/N: GNEE. You guys are—yay. Thank you so much for the response, I-I'm so glad. Because, like, this is going to be a freaking tome: this universe is so ripe its falling off the bone with almost terrifying quickness. And it's so much better if it's a tome that someone enjoys, because otherwise it was just going to rot on the internet shelf and be loved by no one but meeeeee.

God, Detective just kills me with his worrying and Hanna just kills me with his fail housekeeping. Poor baby just wants to help. Their love is so pure.

Spoilers: none

Notes: Hanna is like {…} is at the moment: monotone and businesslike. It's wrong, I know it, and so does the Detective somewhere inside'a his confused lil brain. That'll change eventually, though, so hang onto this weird snippet of non-hyper 'medicated' Hanna. Also bad djinn research lollollolfail.


Four AM


The Detective tugged a few times at the keys to his apartment before rescuing them from the Lock That Ate Everything, dropping them in his pocket. He was relieved to be home. It had been a long night. A long Monday, especially since it was already Tuesday.

"Hanna," he called out into the dark apartment, hanging his coat on the rack. He blinked a few times, trying to ease the stinging in his dry, tired eyes. "I'm home."

"Gallahad."

The soft voice sounded like it was coming from the kitchen, which was unusual, and the clanging noise that followed verified it. Not knowing quite why he was wincing slightly, the older man walked toward his kitchen and when he flicked on the lights—Hanna didn't need any to see and it saved on electricity-his jaw dropped.

"Aw… Hanna."

"Since I have a lot of time to myself, I've been trying to find things I used to be good at when I was alive," Hanna said pensively into a pot, poking at the burnt and blackened pile at the bottom with an equally burnt and blackened spoon. He pulled it out and blinked curiously when his elbow landed in a dish of thick, gloppy something that most certainly had salmonella. "I don't think cooking was one of them."

Most of the pots were overturned, except for the one shuddering with water boiling out of control; there were at least three spatters on the wall and something was quickly encrusting his stove. The air was hot and smelled like baking powder and burnt rice; jars of both cinnamon and red ground pepper sat on the counter. Eleven of the twelve new eggs were scattered, gutted, around the sink.

The Detective closed his eyes and breathed in deeply.

"You tried—er." He bit his lip. Re-phrased. "You made me dinner."

Hanna floated over to the other end of the kitchen (about three feet), reached behind a hugely messy bowl and, with a surgeon's precision, pulled out a peanut butter and jelly sandwich that was only slightly horribly cockeyed. It sagged to the left, bursting with two layers of peanut butter and one of jelly. He held it out, blue eyes glowing, and his partner chuckled and took it from him.

"Plan B and jelly," Hanna said in his odd half-whisper, looking up for approval or love or perhaps nothing at all.

"Was that a joke?" he asked hopefully over his shoulder, pulling out a chair.

"If you want it to be."

The Detective sat down and bit into the sandwich gratefully. Never mind that it was on sourdough bread, nor that he didn't really like peanut butter and jelly—he didn't like sweets—he was hungry and it was a gift. No matter how many Hanna gave him, he would always feel compelled to take them and feel lucky about it.

The startlingly young zombie had a selflessness that perhaps came from needing nothing himself: with his needs met, who else had he to think about but his 'assistant'? The Detective often woke to find his clothes folded inside-out, his clean dishes re-cleaned and his kitchen plants thoroughly and lovingly over-watered. It was almost like he had a (slightly inept but well-meaning) house gnome or something, which Hanna actually informed him were real and quite oppressed.

Hanna was an interesting roommate, to say the least, and very cost-effective. He was always waiting cross-legged on the floor when he came home from work at the station and his perpetual dusty silence often drew the older man out in a way he hadn't expected. For instance, Hanna was the first one he'd told his secret.

The Detective had only been awake for a year. The people who found him in the depths of the forest were kind, a pack of hunters who reportedly refused to leave his unconscious form until he had been loaded into an ambulance and taken to the city. His pockets and his mind were empty, not even a paperclip to his name or a name with which to label paperclips; the city, sighing, took him on as best it could.

He couldn't remember anything. Yes, he'd been given a name—Marc Raney-after a massive amount of fruitless therapy sessions and municipal processing, but he was sure it wasn't his. He avoided using it at most costs.

His secret was, he still believed he would find it. It seemed insane—until Hanna came along. Maybe it was the fact that Hanna couldn't remember anything either, or that he fell into his life in a dark alley, holding tight to a business card with a picture of him on it. The picture had him smiling professionally in a fedora, captured in color from a different life. There was text, but it had been scratched out.

The only thing it said—half-said, in peeling water-logged letters-was Detective. His title. His fragment. It was the closest thing to a name he had, delivered by a little dead boy at four am in the middle of January, who then passed out cold and had to be carried to his apartment.

"What's your name?"

He ducked at the question. It was an awful one. He knew normal people needed words to call things by and that's why he eventually surrendered up his label to the people he worked with and maybe some waiters, but it was always a loss. He always felt like a fake; would have preferred to stay 'hey you'. Then he looked down into his coffee and made a decision.

"Tell you the truth, I don't know my name. I never have," he said quietly, watching the brown chase the cream around, swirling deeper and deeper into the cup. Hanna the zombie, still a blue-eyed stranger, cocked his head as though the math were all-too-simple.

"Then I will call you everything," he said, voice incredibly clear for being so soft. "I'm sure we'll find yours eventually."

Starting over at thirty was hard. The fact no one was looking for him was even harder. The business card proved that he had, in fact, existed and his grating urges to solve things were actually quite natural, but where were the posters with his face on it, the loving family waiting and wringing their hands? Had they stopped after three months? Three years? When did he disappear, and was anyone still missing him?

Then there was the scar on his chest.

It wasn't so much a scar as a serpentine mutilation tacked with five cockeyed aluminum staples. Pieces of his chest were literally stretched over each other, yanked over his defined ribs and leaving him looking like he had been run through a taffy machine from hell. The skin was rubbery and he was afraid to touch it; he was almost never fully undressed, even when he'd lived alone. He didn't know where it came from, which should have maybe made it easier to bear, but just looking at it made him sick. Made him feel dark inside, he guessed.

The doctors who treated him didn't have an explanation for it, but all his vital-signs held out against various medical tests so they found no reason to remove the staples and look inside. Might have been dangerous. He should just be happy to have his good health.

"Hey. It's good," he said through a sticky mouthful of peanut butter, aiming to soothe Hanna's invisible nerves. It was probably a good deal of projection on his part, but he could tell that when the young zombie had been looking at him that long, he wanted something.

It was the right thing to say. Abruptly, the tips of Hanna's cupids-bow mouth twitched up and the Detective's answering smile was immediate and shiny with jelly.

"Hey." He put his sandwich down, a fond, mildly surprised expression stealing his face. Hanna looked back at him expectantly. "You smiled."

"Yes," the zombie agreed after a moment, simple and short. He cocked his head, as though mystified why he did it—or why it should matter. Was he really so detached from humanity? The thought pained his partner. Hanna functioned, yes, but was he really living? Or was that too much to ask from a boy who died in his early twenties and couldn't even say why it had happened?

"What did you find?" Hanna asked, suddenly at his elbow. The soft light from his eyes glinted in the Detective's periphery and he remembered where he'd come from.

He pushed the last bite of sandwich away on his plate, wiped his hands off and reached into his bag. He pulled out the bundle Dr. Achenleck had given him and carefully spread the pictures out on the table, then sat back. He hadn't had a chance to review them as closely as he felt he should have, but he paused to watch Hanna silently take them all in. Sometimes hours' worth of poring over materials could be solved by one pass of Hanna's scanner-blue eyes.

"Claw marks in sets of four. Bloodless body. Skin warped from heat. Looks like djinn," Hanna murmured, gangly greenish hands hovering above but not touching the photos. His long finger trailed through the air above one particularly nasty image of the victim's exposed spine. "Ifrit, maybe."

"Is it a djinn or an ifrit?" his partner asked slowly, as if afraid to interrupt the intense electrical storm of piecing-together Hanna was locked in.

"An ifrit is a certain kind of djinn," the zombie explained, eyes never straying from the evidence. He blinked, a rare occurrence. "Ifrit is fire-based. Marid is most powerful. They're known for being really mean and hanging out in abandoned buildings. Dirty places like dumps and ruins. Probably was living in that stalled housing project down on fifth. Unfinished is as good as abandoned to them."

"But, this…" The Detective picked up a snapshot that was caught at the bottom and looked at the brutal rips and tears for no more than a moment before tossing it down and sighing thickly into his hand. "What would have provoked this kind of attack?"

"Maybe James Maleck went wandering in its new home and it didn't want visitors," Hanna guessed, then looked hard at another photo, lingering on the sagging depression of James' closed lids. "But… did it rip his eyes out?"

Hearing that awful sentence in Hanna's faint, blank voice made it twice as awful, but the Detective scrounged for the back of the file and—yes, among the listed injuries, both of his eyes had been gouged out.

"Yes."

Hanna frowned—or did a Hanna frown. His lower lip protruded slightly, a veritable explosion of emotion.

"That's an insult or a curse. You only rip out an enemy's eyes if you never want them to find the light. Condemning them to hell, effectively."

The Detective had to remember to shut his mouth, and did so. Hanna had a tome of old, perversely diverse knowledge in his head. The older man couldn't fathom it, much less where he'd gathered it from, but trusted it implicitly. More and more he felt like a student in a world he hadn't even known existed, which was strange, owing as his teacher was a twenty-something year old boy.

"Djinn don't do that, normally. It either had to be really mad or really confident no one would care." Hanna's eyes flared slightly, making his partner look up immediately. The zombie's round face was as close to tense as it ever got. "Or… he was performing a spell."

Hanna and magic was something he'd learned not to ask about.

"Where does that get us?"

"I guess we go check out the housing project and try not to get killed," Hanna suggested, face blank again as quickly as if someone had shaken an etch-a-sketch. Then he shrugged. "Or you try not to get killed. I don't think that's a danger for me anymore."

"Let's play it safe, just in case," the Detective said tiredly, getting up with a little groan he hid in his collar. His back hurt. Bed called, but his want for something warm was louder than either his back or his bed.

"Okay."

The older man moved around the ruined kitchen as if picking through a demolition zone, wincing as he had to reach over the pot he would either have to bleach or toss in the fire. He was scarce on pots anyways, but this would make cooking macaroni even hard. He could feel Hanna's eyes on him as he made tea, but was used to it by now. The zombie rarely blinked and never slept. It took him a while to get used to that part.

It was strange to go to sleep with Hanna at his laptop screen, face illuminated aqua in a way that made him see, at least, what the boy had looked like when he was alive and glued to a monitor, then wake up eight hours later to find him in the exact same position.

"Level thirty-eight," he announced, looking up at his partner, who was still under the sheets and blinking vapidly. The Detective scrubbed at his eyes.

"On what?"

"I'm a level thirty-eight night-elf."

"Oh," he said intelligently, reaching for his watch.

He wasn't one for videogames. He wasn't even quite sure how Hanna was paying for that subscription, or if he was going to end up paying for it. Not that he minded. He lived cheaply and Hanna didn't eat: he could afford a little brain-food for a friend who needed nothing, as long as his own brains weren't at risk.

"How, uh… how long did that take you?"

"Seven hours and thirteen side-quests." Hanna's thumbs moved: twitchtwitchtwitch. It got him thinking. Worrying, really.

"… What else do you do at night, Hanna?"

"Go walking."

The idea of Hanna's checkered vans on the chilly streets, scraping down and down and down into unmarked alleys (because of course he wouldn't be cautious enough to stick to under the streetlamps) unnerved the Detective instantly.

"Where do you go?"

"Places."

He grit his teeth, tossing back the sheets and making the five-step trip to the bathroom. It was like dealing with a dodgy, snotty fourteen year old, except there was no malice in it and a legitimate chance that Hanna didn't remember.

"Just… be careful, okay?"

"What could happen?" Hanna asked the screen, forgetting to blink again.

What could happen, indeed, was something that had been worrying the Detective more and more lately, not just in terms of Hanna but the magic that had reanimated him. Was there ever a chance it could just… stop? Did he need some sort of refill? Would he just run down one day like a clockwork toy or would he actually start to rot? Should he be feeding him mothballs to keep him fresh?

"How was Dr. Achenleck?"

The Detective looked up and over his shoulder, frowning some. He blinked back his tiredness. Lost in his own head again. His memories were incredibly distracting for one who had as few as he did.

"Fine. A little unnerved. Understandable."

He hated to say it even in his own head, but it looked like the young coroner was going to be very useful to them for the next… however long his sanity lasted. The younger man, nervous and polite, looked like the type that either could show a surprising aptitude for bucking up and dealing once he realized his nightmare wasn't going to end anytime soon, or have a screaming mental breakdown. Still, they were lucky to have met him, he thought. Funny, how vampires could work in their favor.

Well, some vampires. Others, especially ones in fur coats who asked incomprehensible questions about his new partner, he had to be wary of. Very wary. He didn't even mention the encounter to Hanna, even if the night-creature seemed to know the young zombie and was pretty pissed about him partnering up with Hanna. It could all just be an act or something vitally connected to the boy's murder. Something to keep to himself until he learned more.

After all, it wasn't as if Hanna could help him figure out what it meant: they both knew the same amount about each other's lives or lack thereof. It was a thought both comforting and disturbing. Who knew there could be a friendship utterly without secrets? Well. Except for this one.

For a moment the only sound in the kitchen was his spoon hitting the side of the cup as he stirred in a little honey. Clinkclinkclink.

"I could have put on a coat, Barnaby. Maybe a mask."

It seemed random, distinctly at odds with his ever-wandering thought train, but then he looked back and Hanna's upturned face and non-expression said it all.

"I wanted to go with you."

"I know," he said guiltily, shoulders dropping as he walked back to the table.

Hanna was ready to go everywhere with him. He was his partner. He just didn't think it was such a good idea to bring a zombie everywhere. After that last incident with Hanna's stitch straining and almost snapping… hell, it still looked a little loose and that worried him.

"Everything I have sews back on," his partner said quietly.

"But you. You don't sew back to… you," he said dumbly, at a loss. What would happen if he were crushed? Incinerated? Would the dust just pile back up and solidify? Damnit, he didn't know the limits of reanimated people. He stared at Hanna, expecting some kind of response—some sort of visceral emotional twitch to the idea of him losing what little life he had left-then sighed and shook his head, taking three deep gulps of his tea. "Never mind. I'll bring you on the next run."

Dr. Achenleck would just have to deal with him. Maybe it would push him a little more towards the 'buckling down and dealing' end of the spectrum and away from the 'running crying to the cops' end. Mostly, he didn't want Hanna stuck here alone. And it didn't have anything to do with what might happen to his kitchen while he was gone. Or, maybe… a little.

He bit back another sigh and looked to the kitchen, where a bowl was merrily drip-drip-dripping some kind of tar-like substance onto the floor.

"Think we can get a walk in before I turn in."

They walked at night so no one could see Hanna. Cause undue alarm. Plus it comforted him to be there when his partner could be out walking alone. He always felt the need to be beside Hanna when they went out. Just to protect him, even though the boy he'd seen in action hardly needed it. He was just so small and so cool and dry, like a book-pressed leaf. Made him seem like a puddle would be the end of him.

The Detective drained his cup and set it down next to the pictures, thinking he would leave them for Hanna to look over and then tidy up. Just so he wouldn't feel awkward asking for them if he wasn't done. He squinted towards the kitchen again, reluctance pooling in every inch of him.

"Let me just take care of—"

"I'll do it," Hanna said, putting out a hand. The Detective could just barely see the curve of a rune on his dry greenish palm. "It's my mess. And I have all night. You need sleep. Lots of it."

Lots of it wasn't an option. It was four am and he had to be at work at ten. And it was Monday, so he would have to deal. Hanna, inspired, went to the door and got his partner's huge trench-coat, struggling a little to get it off the high coat-rack due to his height. His holey vans creaked and squeaked with the effort and he skittered back, holding it out.

"Let's go."

The please was unsaid but still present. He had learned to read Hanna well enough over the past two months and he was rewarded for his skill only every so often. The Detective smiled, shrugged on his coat and his hand landed on Hanna's head. His hair was a little dry but otherwise soft. He fluffed it.

The zombie looked up and gripped onto the side of his coat, fingers poking into the pocket, and they hit the streets at four am. Didn't find anything more alarming than a woman that seemed intent on luring both of them down an alley for unknown purposes, but it was calming floating from streetlight to streetlight atop the steady scrape of their shoes, with Hanna's hand half in his pocket, clinging there like a delicate dried moth.

In some ways, four am was his favorite time of day.