POV Break: Worth

You knew this was bound to happen sometime. After all, the little fuck really couldn't be trusted to think that far ahead, and damned if he'd listen to anyone's warnings. If you had brought it up, he'd have gotten defensive, yelled at you, cursed and covered his ears like a goddamn child. You know damn well it was his own fault, but shit, there's still that twinge of guilt in you. You could have done something. Could have had Lamont bug the kid's house to make sure he'd be ok, especially since the dead man stopped moving. Hanna loved him. It was clear as day and sick as fuck, but for what it was worth the zombie loved him back just as much. You guessed that made it all right, in some twisted way. The hell were you to talk about sick versus normal, anyway?

And fuck that guilt. It's not your fault. You know that. It is not your fucking fault the kid couldn't keep his shit together and just accept the man was dead for good now.

You remember the day it happened. You take the deepest drag you've taken since Hanna came to you for the fist time, bleeding out worse than any normal human being could survive. Funny how that kid is probably the most responsible for the blackening of your lungs these days. The scene plays in your head plain as day.

"Worth! Fucking hell, get out here, I need you!"

The cry was desperate, raw. You'd never heard him like that before, so you went out to him in a huff but held back your curses. He'd heard them all before anyway. You entered the front to find him dragging the motionless corpse behind him, his face streaked with tears and blood and snot, and your first instinct is to slap him for dribbling all over himself like that. Then you'd looked at the corpse real close, and the urge faded away. His eyes were open, but there was no glow. His limbs were nearly rigid. The stitching was loose; the skin was shrinking around them. Pretty obvious what had happened. Whatever had that stiff walking about had finally given up on him. You felt a bubble of dread in your chest. You did not want to think about how difficult Hanna would be to deal with after this.

"Worth, he just stopped moving, what happened to him? Help him, please, I don't know what to do, none of my runes worked and he's just fucking laying there, shit, I can't-"

"Shut the fuck up," you said, more gently than you'd have liked. "Put 'im on the table.

Hanna did what he was told, but you knew what was wrong already. Hanna would never believe it without a procedure, so a procedure he'd get. You didn't feel the need to try an persuade him otherwise, no point in wasting energy like that, you'd just end up with the scalpel anyway. You didn't mind cutting into the corpse to prove it to him. That's what you told yourself at least.

After maybe half an hour, you'd performed a slipshod autopsy procedure, reopening the stitches from his previous one and trying to look like you'd done this before. Hanna wouldn't know the difference. He had winced and trembled and sniffed the whole time, but remained silent otherwise, his eyes intense and glued to the open green skin. You were sort of glad for that. You don't think you'd have been able to handle him crying and whining the whole time. You just wished he'd stop staring. That look in his eyes made you uncomfortable.

"He's dead," you told him, as firmly as possible. What the hell else could you say?

"I…I know that, but what's-

"Hanna. He's dead dead. He's fucking gone."

You tossed your gloves into the trash bin to give yourself a reason not to look at him. You didn't want to see the struggle on his face when he processed that

"He's…I don't understand."

"He's gone. He ain't gonna get up this time, kid. It's for good unless ya can find a damn good necromancer. But I think even you know how little good that'd do."

Hanna was quiet for a long time. You remember that tense moment so acutely it makes your chest throb with all the smoke you're holding in. You exhale and it continues, against your will.

You went about your business after that, deciding to re-stitch the man on the table. Hanna still hadn't said a word by the time you were done. He'd just sat and stared. His eyes were more intense than before, but for different reasons, reasons that made you worry and lick your lips with desire for a cigarette. Your eyebrows lifted in shock as Hanna stood up and went to your desk to get the crumpled pack of street cigs from the drawer. His face hadn't changed. His eyes weren't seeing. You wondered what the fuck was going on behind them, but you didn't ask. You never ask those kinds of questions. When it came down to it, you really, really didn't want to know. You took your cigs with a grunt and he sat back down, went right back to staring.

Hanna passed out on your floor that night. You left him there, not bothering to even fetch him a blanket. You left the corpse on the table. You went to your office to sleep, had nightmares about Hanna jumping off buildings. You awoke to the distinct sound of Hanna choking back sobs. You didn't go to him. Not until it was silent.

When you did, he was curled up on the operation table with the corpse, looking about as dead as it did.

You didn't see him again after he left the next afternoon, without a word, dragging the corpse behind him. You crack your neck now, thinking disgustedly back to how blue the sky was that day. You realized then that Hanna's eyes would never be that blue again; just electric pools of nervous despair. You knew it. You know it. As soon as Lamont came to you to tell you where the kid was, you were more certain of it than you were of anything.

As if on cue, Lamont walks in through the door, saving you from your thoughts. His face is stern and tired. His fists are clenched.

"He's…fine…" he says, obviously meaning the exact opposite. You scoff at him

"The fuck are they doin' to 'im over there? He ain't lettin' anybody poke at his chest, right?"

"Yeah, nobody knows about that. But his doctor is uh, on our side I guess. He knows about everything but the scars, I think."

"Hanna fuckin' told 'im?" It's not exactly rage in your voice, but it has the same flavor.

"Yes, but I think it's all right. This guy's not exactly one of them, you know. Not that I'm comfortable with it either, but Hanna trusts him."

"Fuckin' moron…that little shit's gonna dig himself even deeper at this rate."

"I'm…Worth, I'm afraid that might be what he wants."

You don't say anything to that. You finish your cigarette and snub it onto your desk. You know Lamont is right, but you curse the kid in your mind anyway, thinking he had to be at least a little smarter than that. It may be the first time you felt like you were losing faith in Hanna Falk Cross's ability to pull through.

"He'd better fucking not try anything stupid."

More POV switching. Language, jeez. Worth is a pottymouth, PFFT. One more POV, I think, unless my brain pops up with another one. Should be interesting, then we'll get to the case. Which I am still deciding a verdict to...mah gunnuss, this is such a difficult fic. Trying to gauge just how depressing to beeeee...XD

AND YOU GUYS. Thanks for reading and commenting and helping me out with it, you're so awesome, I can't even. I appreciate all the support so much. :'D