Fics like the remains of the dead

“You hauntin' me, McCauley?” Hanna starts as warm fingers encircle his wrists, drawing his hands down into his lap. McCauley's hands are bigger than his own, more callused. But there's a grace to them, a precision that Hanna's ham-fisted style has never allowed. His thumbs circle Hanna's pulse, as if eager to seek out life. “Do you want me to haunt you?” he murmurs. “Is that why I'm here? To punish you?” "I don't regret it,” Hanna insists, but still searches the other man's downturned face, hooks taut behind his rib-bones. The intensity, the appreciation in McCauley's eyes—like Hanna's weathered forearms are as captivating as an unbreakable safe, a taunting riddle he can't solve. “I told you square, I would put you down.” OR In the hall that holds the haunted banquet table, McCauley pays Hanna a postmortem visit.

Fics like the remains of the dead

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