X x XxX xXx X xX

"You couldn't have just, oh I dunno, not exploded everything? Not exploded anything?" When Conrad is startled, or piping with indignation, his voice reaches the nasal upper registers of British incredulity. Conrad is hissing, and the words are tersely strung as the pebbles rain down around them, bouncing smoke trails off sweaty forearms and heaving shoulders.

Hanna is squashed flat to the pavement, arms wrapped over his head to protect important skull-bits from the debris pelting down. After the booming rush of the first detonation, he'd found himself under three pairs of grasping arms, belly shaking with triumphant laughter. Worth was the squashing-est of all, tugging Conrad down by the ear as the next explosion rocked the horizon, while Zanzibar/Thomas/Veronica sat just to Conrad's left, fist snaking out to catch a baseball-sized bit of wall before it could land on the party huddled against impact.

Conrad felt ribs against the flat of his forearm, smelled sweat and the hard citrus tang of lingering chemicals, hand clawing over the back of Hanna's head to push his face into the cement, spitting - "Stay down. We are so fucked. They're going to call this terrorism, Hanna."

"They're not gonna find anything close to incriminating evidence," Hanna's voice is tinged with the laughter of someone who hadn't expected to succeed. His feet wag out from under the pile of legs, kicking in small delighted circles. His protest (explanation) is muffled by another hard press into the parking lot to which the crew had barely had time to scramble. "'S not trrorism, Conmn!" Let up for a breath, even as the longer, more distant explosions were painting the smoky night sky in wide wet streaks of red and orange, "They had the zabt-petra. They were probably going to use all those crates of Boran ash and Kalinga root to explode something. Did you see any mining equipment? Fireworks shells? 'Cos I saw a whole lotta anti-werewolf propaganda an' a map to the venerated Elder's Lodge, which happens to be a department in City Hall -"

"We got it," Worth grumbles, pulling himself to a kneel to dust the cooling pebbles from his shoulders. He shakes out his coat before shrugging it back on, grumbling, "Yer a goddamn genius. Bravo, detective. Who wants a taco?"

From under the unrelenting press of Conrad's arms, Hanna raises his hand, awkward like a seal trying to roll out from under an angry bit of seaweed. "Me! I do!"

A belated mini-explosion, no more than a rumbling pop of some leftover whatever the flames were only just then reaching, has Conrad wrapping all four limbs around Hanna in a less-than-friendly attempt to keep him down and out of harm's way. This time, it's Worth who catches the bit of debris that sails too close, but the smoking piece is squishy and wet between his fingers, and leaves a black splat of liquid where it's dropped, near Hanna's shoulder. Conrad makes a choking noise. Worth stands, wiping his hand on the thigh of his jeans, grumbling, "How 'bout burgers instead? Gotta sudden craving fer somethin' pulped."

"Nobody's going out for burgers!" Conrad rolls Hanna away from the sopping bit of mystery flesh, teeth flashing in a snarl. "You don't get tacos for extensive property damage, Hanna!" Conrad disentangles himself from Hanna, Tall Dead 'n Silent bending at the waist to help both Conrad and bright-eyed Hanna to their feet.

"Yer right," Worth counters, "Think thass more of an ice-cream kinda gig."

"Are you kidding me?" The upper-registers of offended incredulity ring through Conrad's tone.

"Sure ain't," Worth dusts his hands together, pulling a face as this only served to transfer the black gunk between his palms. "Nobody dead 'r eviscerated. Prob'ly." Grumbling nonsense syllables, Worth pats himself down for a cigarette. "Let th' fukken realtors worry 'bout property damage."

Hanna was standing, feet shoulder-width apart, fists propped on his hips as his glasses catch the yellow light of the flames, surveying the wreck that had once been a row of storage hangars two miles past the line where 'outskirts of the city' had become 'wooded highway fuck-all'.

Conrad hovered, seething, the flat lenses of his glasses also two lit windows obscuring his eyes. Smoke guttered past on the wind. "Hanna,"

"We did good," Hanna reassures, quiet but confident. He crosses his arms. "Don't worry so much, Connie." A flicker behind his flame-lit lenses. A smile. "Sometimes things go right."

This had Conrad's frown withering, shoulders slumping, fingertips dulling. He watches Hanna, his eyebrows slowly making a bid to collide in the middle of his forehead. Waiting for Toni to bring her band's van to their rescue (and hadn't that been a drive full of Scooby Doo jokes), Worth watches Conrad watch Hanna watch the destruction that was just settling to its fiery haunches.

Bartholomew/Werner/Raj watches the roadside.

X x XxX xXx X xX

"I'm not saying you didn't do a good job." They are all strapped into the bucket seating of the band van, squashed up against a drum set and amplifiers, Conrad having abandoned his seat to kneel at the side of Hanna's so they could talk in relative privacy. "You did, and I'm glad, and you should hear about it when something goes well. But. I just." A roll of the eyes. "I worry. I can't help but worry. I'm Jewish."

"Oi! Getcher belt on, Confag!" Worth is riding shotgun, folding one spindly leg over the arm rest, eye in the rearview mirror. "Dead man's got more sense than you, christ."

Placidly ignoring Worth, Conrad bites the inside of his cheek and scrutinizes Hanna's subdued grin. "Tacos though, really?"

Hanna laughs, "Yyyeah. Sort of an inside joke. I've known the doc for... oof, what, years. Nearly forgot that one, the one about the tacos and solving client cases and then getting like this rat maze reward - it - it was a different time, you'd had to be there."

"Swear ta god almighty, Connie, we will pull this van over an' strap you in manual-like if -"

Toni laughs, "Dude!"

Conrad explodes - "What the fuck, Worth, do you even think is going to happen if we crash; I'm going to die again? Get a grip you fucking nanny-goat!"

"I wouldn't crash ~" Toni reassures musically, swerving the van playfully from side to side.

Maybe it was the post-adrenaline successful mission high, or the quiet anonymity of a dark van driving down a back-road. Maybe it was the wind whistling cool and fragrant through the front windows, the rattle of the equipment as the van swayed on its shocks, the buzz and burrh of the radio and the way nobody could hear you over all this white noise unless you made the effort to raise your voice or bring your face intimately close. Conrad had moved to Hanna's side so he didn't have to shout, didn't have to let everyone else in on their conversation. Maybe it was the fact that they were all together, unhurt, bantering.

Conrad looks back the moment Hanna is cleaning his glasses on the hem of his shirt. In the dark, without the over-large frame of his glasses dwarfing the rest of his face, Hanna looks like a twenty-four year old detective who had just performed a landslide victory against the forces of hatred and fear. The happiness didn't overtake Hanna's face, didn't shove aside all the wisdom to replace it with enthusiasm, no. Instead, the happiness settled there in the creases of Hanna's eyes, pulled a small valley from the corner of his nose to the corner of his mouth, an adult line, the ghost of a smile. Conrad stares.

Hanna gets his glasses back on, knocks Conrad's shoulder. "Hey, Conman. Go Team, though, amIright?" The ghost of the smile pushes itself up on its elbows, grin overtaking Hanna's face, shoving the tired wisdom aside for dopey enthusiasm.

"Why do you invite me on your cases?"

And here, Hanna's grin falters. "Well. Why not?" A bluster of a laugh, "Believe me dude, if I was like a movie theater usher or something, I'd be inviting all my friends to the movies every weekend. If I was a waiter, I'd want them to stop by the restaurant." He makes a gun out of thumb and forefinger, aiming at the roof of the van, "But I'm a Paranormal Detective, so you all get invited to this. Neat, huh?"

"Ah," Conrad's eyebrows collide with the rims of his glasses. "I didn't realize you considered me a friend." As the Arrow was more or less Conrad's burden to bear; still it was... well, maybe supposed to be a relief, to hear that Hanna considered him good enough company. "But why also invite Worth? Don't you think a doctor would have more important things to do? I'm not criticizing, mind."

Hanna snorts into his hand, "Worth never used to follow me around like this, you know." Eyebrows raised, "Even though I invited him. 'Cos he needed to get out more. And I'm glad he's finally coming along, getting exercise and fresh air and, I dunno, field experience. Just in case." A chuckle that dissolves into a fake cough. "Good to have a medic in the platoon, right? Darn skippy."

"So," Conrad shifts to keep his preternatural balance as the van takes a turn onto an exit ramp, fingers pale sticks in the dark wrapped around the armrest of Hanna's seat. "You don't really invite somebody because you actually need help? You could probably do this job well enough on your own, right? Without any of us underfoot, I mean, you could have -"

"No," low, emphatic, "I can't - I don't like being alone."

From the back of the van, a set of glowing orange eyes turns their way.

A shiver runs down Conrad's neck, and he scrubs a hand over the sensation. "But you could do it, if you had to. You're really quite capable, Hanna."

A tired grin. "So are you, Conman. But I wouldn't ever ask you to go it alone."

"I'm not -"

"I know, dude. You're just a tad on the misanthropic side. I get it okaygeeze. But no man's an Island, or something."

Conrad's fang pokes out around his frown. "Was trying to compliment you," smaller, quieter, "is all."