All the Other Ghosts (Boyxboy Superhero AU Fanfic (Klaine))

Chapter 27

So maybe he is the most paranoid overprotective idiot on the planet.

So far he's seen Rachel approach a few people in the dark but they've either largely ignored her or, in a couple of instances - the guy sitting in a blanket against the wall rocking back and forth, the woman with a cigarette who began screaming at Rachel that she 'knows she's CIA' - scared her immediately back off again. She's pretty tireless, though. Rachel and her notebook and the iPhone she keeps stabbing in people's faces (the Ghost wants to smack himself in the forehead, she might as well be waving a sign that says Please mug me!) to record them largely backing away and telling her to fuck off. The Ghost could have told her this was a bad idea for so many reasons. Who wants their life to be turned into a salacious pass grade for a cluelessly privileged journalism student? This isn't only dangerous, it's pointless.

In its own way, so is what the Ghost's doing. Maybe he is a patronising chauvinist after all, apart from alarming her no-one's hurt Rachel in any way, it's just . . . it's just that he knows what the worst case scenario could be (nearly six years of his life, now, he's been dealing with the worst case scenario every night), and he can't not. It's Rachel. Despite every reason not to, he loves Rachel, she's one of the most important people in his life, she has been impossibly good to him over the years while he's been - as far as she knows - moody and unpredictable and a terrible, terrible friend. She's put up with his awful hours and his sleep-deprived rattiness and his kitchen fascism (that's not related to the superheroing, that's just because things will go in the correct place and that is the end of any discussion), god, she maced a guy for him once, she's his best friend. They don't talk about it but he thinks she knows that he doesn't want to talk about it, and they both know what would have happened. He can't explain to her the particular painful twist of that escape, why he can't bring himself to think about it. She doesn't know . . .

She doesn't know so many things. He's never been fair to Rachel.

He follows along the edge of buildings, invisible and holding his too-numb arm to himself, trying to avoid people walking right through him, watching her stride frustrated along the sidewalk. It's dark, and people are busy with any number of both harmless and not-so-harmless activities, but the weird thing is that two blocks that way are expensive restaurants and wedding planners and boutiques, this city's just got too much of everything crammed together like a nest of ants, because here it's the cold wind off the Hudson and the Ghost is fairly certain that those guys in that empty building yard are stealing copper but he's not exactly in any position to do anything about it, while Rachel approaches a woman standing under a streetlight who tells her where the nearest subway station is, which isn't what she'd asked, and adds, not exactly cruelly, "Just fuck off home, okay honey?"

He follows her, and thinks, Rachel, this isn't your world.

Nor is it Kurt's, Kurt has led a very sheltered life from all of this. But it is the Ghost's . . .

Rachel not them, he thinks, face screwing up. Don't walk up to them, they are high. How can you not tell that they are high. God's sake, Rachel -

Rachel backs off again quickly. The Ghost sighs, in the shadows, and rubs his sore arm a little, and thinks, You don't need to do this to be an investigative reporter, Rachel. You don't need to put your neck on the line to prove something to some bitter teacher of yours, journalists are brave when they look past the easy story and tell the difficult truth, not only when they're out alone in the dark. You could have written something real and genuinely dangerous just by sifting through other people's information, it's people like you finding the flaws in how we view the world that changes how we can view the world. You are actually good at writing opinion pieces. You mean it and you care about it and it shows. It might be nice if they weren't all about how evil I must be but it turns out that being really opinionated means there's a real place for you in the world, and you should be at home on the sofa on your laptop, you shouldn't be out here . . .

Neither should you, 'superhero' with multiple semi-healed broken bones.

(Blaine will kill me. But not if I kill him first, why didn't he pick up his phone -?)

She heads a little further north. They're far away from all the parkland now, all those nice green spaces planted alongside the river, here are the rusted piers - no fancy, shiny white yachts moored to these like they are further south - disused loading docks, old factories not yet gentrified. It's here that the hairs rise, a little, on the back of his neck. It's quieter, here. New York is so rarely quiet, one thing he should have trusted in instead of following her out like this was that hardly anything can happen unseen in New York, there are always people around, doesn't he - constantly caught on cameras he doesn't even realise are there - know that all too well? But - but here it is quiet. No loitering men and women, no people heading out to bars, not even drug dealers impatiently jigging their hands in their pockets. Quiet as the grave.

And the Ghost, who knows this city, who walks in all its darkest places, thinks, If I spoke to some people who just might speak to me but never a cop, they might tell me, We don't go there anymore. We know not to go there. We know the things we're better not seeing.

There's a guy smoking up against the side of a van at the base of a pier. The Ghost - feels the prickle, between his shoulder blades, lowers his arm carefully to his side, hurries, a little, to follow Rachel's approach. He's kept his distance, even invisible he's wary, he knows Rachel can't get a good look at him like this, and he's far enough away that he can't see the set of her jaw, though he can see the determined set of her stride. The man drops his cigarette, looks at her when she announces a question and pushes the iPhone at him. And then -

Two other men are coming out of the rust-rickety building at the base of the pier, one of them wiping his hands off on his pants, heading back to the van. Rachel, suddenly very outnumbered, hesitates. The man by the van says, "Get the fuck out of here, bitch." and Rachel takes one step back, weight paused like a deer to flee but holding her ground, saying shakily, "What are you three doing - in the middle of the night on a disused pier -"

The guy lunges to grab her. Rachel takes a photograph right in his face and he swears at the flash but she's too slow in turning, his blind hand still snatches and twists on her upper arm, and the two guys are running to get to them now -

The Ghost gets there first. He becomes visible grabbing the guy's arm, ghosts his grip right through Rachel, turns and uses the guy's own weight and momentum to throw him right over his shoulder, and his ribs wrench a discordant accordion note in his chest -

Idiot. Idiot, he let instinct take over, idiot, should've haunted him, should've tasered him, should've - he staggers back, a small noise punched out of him with the pain, a diaphragm-low un. The other two guys are yelling now, and he looks up to see the drawn gun, grabs Rachel's arm - she's staring at him open-mouthed, huge-eyed, this is way too much for her to process all at once - and runs.

She jerks into the run after him, while he grits his teeth and concentrates as much as he can on ghosting them, pain squeezing and stretching his ribcage. Two bullets zip through his body and one must go through Rachel - she suddenly, violently screams - and she almost trips, he has to catch her with his body more than his useless right arm, then yank her into the run again. Away from the water, straight at the first building he can see, the edges of his vision are already going dark, he can hear his own breath too loud, ghosting two people and his ribs and the jerking of his arm -

Rachel shrieks, "No-!" as they ghost through the wall - it's like running face-first through a smokescreen so thick the whole world goes dark, and he knows that the normal reaction to running right at a wall is panic - and inside the Ghost stops, heart pounding his crackling ribs, hanging his head in the hood, she can't see his face, he can't let her see his -

Rachel wrenches her arm out of his hand, backs away with her phone held tight to her chest, spits, "Don't touch me don't you dare I am carrying mace-"

He keeps his head low in the hood, turned slightly away, and tries to breathe. Pain speckles and narrows his vision and it's pitch black in here anyway, as Rachel lights a flashlight function on her phone and he lifts his head dazedly; warehouse, there are shipping containers piled up around them, filing cabinets against the wall, a dusty semi-pornographic calendar hung over them. He lets the fall of the cloak disguise that he puts a hand on one of the cabinets, to bear his weight better, because he feels like he's going to be sick. Didn't think that through. Idiot. Should've just haunted him, in this state, Blaine will - Mike will - his dad will - idiot. It could've been a lot worse but god, he didn't think that through, as his ribs wheeze and jar with pain . . .

Rachel lets her breath out heavy and shaking. "Thank you," she says, clipped but trembling a little, "for getting me away from them. But just so you know, I do not approve of what you do, I do not trust you, you can't buy people into liking you by rescuing them."

He keeps his head down, and breathes. And as weird as this is - as terrifying as this is, because Rachel is not stupid and he can't let her see his face even in this dim lighting - some small part of him wants to smile; Rachel Berry, life threatened, shot at, rescued by the superhero she hates - is still determined to let him know that. Her teacher's an idiot. Who could ever say that this woman doesn't have more guts than a person could need?

She rubs her arms, bristling, and says, "It's creepy, you just turn up out of nowhere and - how do we ever know you're not there -?"

He swallows, and breathes, and he's already thinking that he needs to get Rachel out of this area but he knows that won't be easy if she doesn't trust him and he can't let her see his face, this is . . .

Something in Rachel's stance has changed. "Are you okay?"

I just threw someone who weighs more than I do over my shoulder on top of my three cracked ribs. I'm not exactly feeling the best I've ever felt, no. He swallows his own sickly saliva, drops his voice an octave - it grates low with pain anyway - and says, "Please let me get you to safety, ma'am."

She says, wispy, frightened, determined voice, "I don't need babysitting by a criminal." and then they hear -

Noises, from the big doors at the front of the warehouse. The Ghost lifts his head, grabs her phone to muffle the light; "Off," he rasps, low, and Rachel's face is too pale as she kills the light. He swallows again, hard, pushes himself off from the filing cabinet as a gun goes off (the lock, shit) and reaches for Rachel's arm to walk and ghost her out of -

His step twists this weird way, there's no strength in his knees. Rachel catches his arms, his weight, staggering back with him, and she says in a cracking voice, "You're - how are you hurt, why are you hurt - ?"

The doors screech with rust, and grind against the concrete floor as they're pulled open.

He has to get Rachel out of here. He has to get her to safety. But black bubbles are popping in his eyes, and it's Rachel who hisses, "Stay quiet." and drags him through the dark (his right arm, the pain grinds hot in the bone), so their backs press to a container, yanking him in against her hot thrumming side and the container's cold hard metal.

The dark's pierced by the light from the opening door - it's big enough for a truck but they've only opened it enough to admit a couple of people, it's still midnight dark, line of light on the ground like the line of a sword and the dim edges of containers revealed. There's murmuring near the doors, and footsteps click, grind a little on the dusty concrete floor.

Shit, shit, shit.

"Quiet," Rachel so, so barely says, low as a breath in the chest. And she starts pulling him away from the doors, along the edge of the container, slow as she can dare with men moving through the dark looking for them. They turn the corner, press their backs to the darker side of a container, and it's difficult to make his breath quiet enough to keep them safe . . .

His vision's blotching darker in places, and he's scared to try to move them out of here in case with one step his knees go. So they wait. In the silence and the dark and the fear, breath muffled, hearts racing, they wait.

Footsteps circle them, the bright beams of flashlights fly across the walls. Slowly they hear the approach of someone muttering, "Fuckin' invisible creepy fuck -" and Rachel's hand tightens on his arm, he grabs her wrist involuntarily - the pain startled him like a punch - and she just stops a choked breath, stares at him shocked while he unpeels her hand from his arm, can't, he can't bear it -

He meant for her to take his other arm, if she has to hold him. She puts her hand in his instead, and squeezes the glove hard. He closes his eyes, keeps his head down, squeezes back.

(I will keep you safe, I will, I have to -)

A voice is approaching their corner, their nothing of a hiding place with the flashlight a quick wobbling beam out in front. "Why's he rescuing girls anyway, everyone knows he's a fuckin' faggot -"

He squeezes her hand, and fades them invisible. He hears the soft intake of her breath, he knows it's strange, knows it's weird and unsettling in a really fundamental way to see your body fade away like it doesn't exist, it's scary, just before one of the guys turns the corner, gun raised, looking nowhere near them as he stares around the dim of the warehouse, still murmuring, "Come the fuck on out Casper you cocksucking -"

Rachel's hand is shaking in his, god he knows it's scary, please Rachel, please, please just be as brave as you're being for just a little -

Rachel's cell bloops a text message.

The guy spins and looks wildly all around them, flashlight streaming through them, gun aimed right at them and Rachel can't stop the shriek, and the Ghost lifts his leaden, hopeless right arm to take her arm in a trembling grip and tries to concentrate on invisibility, on ghosting, on not existing enough for their bullets -

"Fucking fucking creepy fuck -" the guy chokes, backing off, gun and flashlight still shakily aimed on where they are. "Fuck, they're here! Can't - can't see them, they're still in here -"

There's the sound of tyres outside, popping and gritting on the concrete. Help? the Ghost thinks, too wildly, too desperately, if someone intervenes - if someone's passing by - there are people getting out of the car, but -

"C'mon out, they're here, they got it." someone calls, and the guy with the gun stares at them and through them at the same time, shaking, then spits out, "Creepy fuck." and runs around the container for the entrance. The Ghost squeezes her hand tighter, need to get moving, need to get out of here, no choice, need to -

Low murmured voices at the entrance, and he drags his wobbling breath in, starts walking Rachel for the back wall to just ghost them out of here -

They're fading back into view. He stops, confused as the panic rises, he's never - he tries to concentrate, his hands are shaking, closes his eyes and tries to make them safe, unseen, safe, but when he opens them they're even more solidly there, and sickness picks through his guts like playing a harp . . .

"What -" Rachel whispers, and he doesn't understand, he feels so sick and -

"Here." He jolts as he spins, his ribs jump and grind and Rachel is gripping his hand tight enough to hurt as the Ghost stares at that blond super through bursting bubbles of black, that blond super whose face looks too blank, grim but pale and too young, like he feels ill. "They're here," he says, looking right at the Ghost, who stares back, and can't make himself not be seen.

More footsteps. He backs Rachel for the wall, if he can just ghost her through then she can run, if he can just - there's a man approaching, quite tall and thin, walking straight at him like he's not afraid of him at all and the Ghost can't - trying to lurches a panic inside him, he can't - make himself unseen. His breath huffs out hard through his nose, he presses Rachel behind his cloak, they can't - he throws a hand up to haunt him.

The man grabs his wrist.

Hand gripping tight to the bone like the Ghost is no ghost at all, and he can't - can't make himself intangible, can't make him stop touching him, can't - can't do anything -

He doesn't understand and he can't make himself invisible and he can't make him stop touching him. Can't. Can't do anything. Can't do anything -

His voice drops out of him like a stone, a pebble, small and useless in this big dark building, he doesn't mean to say it, it just is, the only thought, the only word left to him, tiny feeble useless word -

"- no -"

The man sinks a syringe into his hanging arm, his useless right arm, and the Ghost's breath sucks back into him again, and the black rises so suddenly, like the ground does.

"No," he says, and there's heaviness, the ground, then nothing.