"Conclusion"

Pairings: Hanna/...
Warnings: Minor swearing, hinting :3

So I didn't really want to start a whole new story, since this isn't massively long. Therefore I am tacking this on the end here as a bonus story!

He comes to the conclusion that, if there was someone he really, truly loved, he would at least remember the feeling, if not the person. The sense of something, of someone missing from his afterlife. The same feeling of Lee's ghost passing through his cold, dead body, of loving something to the point of obsession and having no idea what or who it was.

He doesn't remember much about these things. It makes him feel old sometimes (does it count as aging if he's already dead, or is he just rotting?), to know that ten years have passed and he's hopelessly clueless about the ever-changing social structures of modern youth. But more worryingly, he doesn't quite remember what's acceptable, what this or that touch means, who can kiss who or what or where without it meaning something more.

It starts, he thinks, unconsciously (he's still not sure how conscious of it all Hanna really is). A moment of panic where Hanna reaches for his hand like a child seeking safety. He takes Hanna's hand in his without question, instinctively, and the living man looks almost surprised, as if he's the one who reached out. Then Hanna gives his hand a squeeze and lets go, and that's the end of it.

But Hanna reaches out again, and again – a few fingers pinching at the sleeves of his jacket, warm digits brushing against his cool skin, and surely, surely that must mean something? He takes petty, secret pride in the fact that Hanna doesn't do it to anyone else. Later, he agonizes over it in the middle of the night; is Hanna trying to comfort him, to give him that touch of life he never knew he craved before, or is he trying to comfort Hanna?

For the living man, it becomes natural. Never questioned, never talked about. He takes the dead man's hand is his while he talks at a thousand miles an hour, swinging their arms back and forth like an overexcited five year old, and the zombie can't hear a word Hanna is saying because he's too busy wondering whether this is something friends do nowadays, whether it's just Hanna, whether it means something or absolutely nothing at all. And those hands, those pale pink hands are so warm and so soft and hold his palm so gently that he never wants to let go.

The touches spread, from hands to arms to shoulders, and each time he can't help wanting just a little bit more. Hanna loops their elbows together sometimes (it's a little difficult to get right, because Hanna's pretty short, and he's pretty tall), wraps an arm around his shoulder in that way he sees Worth do to Conrad (and oh how the vampire hates that, but what does it mean for them, what does it mean?). And sometimes, on rare occasions where they just sit and talk and Hanna is quiet and sleepy, the smaller man will rest his head against his shoulder and be still.

Which, Gallahad thinks, is all very well, because those things, those he can pass off as friendship.

What he can't quite wrap his head around, more so than holding hands or linking elbows or leaning against each other, is kissing Hanna on the cheek. He's not sure who started it anymore, but before he knew it, the mornings started with a kiss to a warm cheek, and the days ended with warm lips pressing against a cold, stitched-up jaw. Good morning, Hanna, and good night, zombie. And that he is absolutely sure is crossing the line between friendship and something else.

He doesn't want to say anything. What if Hanna takes it the wrong way? What if those little touches become worried flinches? No, he likes the attention, the heat of a living person near his dead flesh…but it's never enough. The cold kiss he wakes Hanna with inches closer and closer to the redhead's mouth every morning. If Hanna has noticed, he certainly hasn't said anything. He likes to think (to hope) that Hanna would do the same if he could reach more than just his chin, even on tiptoes. He's started to lean down for his nightly kiss just to see.

But then when his hand brushes against Conrad's as he passes him a bag of blood under the table down in the Rabbit Hole, or when Worth slaps him on the back and bitches at him for letting Hanna do something stupid again…nothing. So he comes to his second conclusion; it's not touch he's craving, or the warmth of living, human skin - it's just Hanna. Darling Hanna, sweet Hanna, little Hanna, who he so dearly wants to cradle and call stupid, affectionate names in a lovely parody of the weird and wonderful titles the redhead invents for him.

Then one night, he leans down for his goodnight kiss, and Hanna kisses him on the mouth.

"Goodnight, Ernest," Hanna says pleasantly, sleepily, and clumsily crawls into bed the same way he does every night. The dead man spends the night sitting on a park bench, both more confused and happier than he's ever been since rising from the grave. In the morning, he kisses Hanna's lips, and his still heart swells when it's returned with a little "mmf" and a "mornin'".

And so it continues, each morning and nightly kiss lasting a little longer than the previous. Yet…(and oh, he hates himself for this) it's still. Not. Enough. He's not exactly sure what he wants anymore, and he panics when the only answer he can come up with is 'everything'. He wants to kiss Hanna when and as he pleases without consequence, without having to worry about the red-haired man pulling away. He wants to know that this isn't just Hanna's odd concept of friendship, that Hanna doesn't do this to Toni, to Conrad, to Veser. And most of all, he wants to stop the terrible guilt that comes after locking himself in the bathroom while Hanna is at work, thinking only of flushed cheeks, muffled moans and "oh, more, more"s.

Tonight his heart is heavy, chopping carrots while Hanna leans against the kitchen counter babbling about something a customer did (or his manager, maybe, he wasn't really listening again).

"Are you my boyfriend?"

The knife goes straight through his finger, but he doesn't even notice (it doesn't hurt as much as it should anyway). "W-what?"

"Jeez, you…be careful! Shit, look, you cut it right off!" Hanna frowns, turning to search about the tiny kitchenette. "Where'd we leave the needle and thread?"

He ignores him, choking on his words. "Do you…want me to be your…y-your boyfriend?"

Hanna turns to look at him, eyebrows raised in surprise – then he rolls his eyes and smiles. "No, Sherlock, I've been kissing you because it's how I get my maaagical pooowers!" Hanna says sarcastically, wiggling his fingers in a dramatic fashion before shuffling closer to wrap his arms around the dead man's waist. "'Course I do. But only if you want us to be…y'know. Like that. I don't wanna force you or anything."

He answers by shoving Hanna against the refrigerator, ignoring the stump of finger lying with the carrots in favor of kissing the redhead the way he's wanted to for months. And oh, it's so nice to be kissed back the same way, and those little muffled squeaks Hanna's making might just be the nicest thing he's ever heard.

Then Hanna pulls back for air, gasping with a goofy grin on his face, and he's pretty sure he's grinning too.