Hello, Everybody!

Oh my god, I meant to write this ages ago! But then other stories took over my life and I had to stuff this on the back burner for a while. As did so many other things…But anyways!

Just a cute little "what happened during…?" ficlet. Not meant to be viewed as slash, but if you reeeeeaaaaalllly want to, I suppose you can. Nothing I write is ever slash, is it? Hmmm…

Disclaimer: Disclaimer: I do not own Hanna is Not a Boy's Name nor any of the character/locations therein. I do, however, own the story.

Spirit Guides

He'd only been gone for a few minutes when he heard the noise. It sounded like death screeching past him, like an echo that preceded the voice instead of following it. It unnerved him, set him on edge, made his hair stand on end. Ghost, he thought. And he was right.

He had spun on his heel then, completely forgetting his previous quest to get to Conrad and Toni and making for the room he had just left. More noise. This time it sounded like someone speaking, only it rasped like the larynx had been crushed and grated upon his ears like sandpaper on stone. The noise was harsh and angry and sent a shiver of dread down his spine.

And then all noise ceased. For a brief moment the world came to a stop. Nothing; no sounds, no movement. Then everything started up again and all he could feel was that something was wrong, wrong, wrong!

He charged to the back of the theatre with all his might, praying that he wouldn't be too late. Then more, different noise reaches his ears. Now, now it sounded like his best friend saying words that did not belong to him, in a voice that most certainly wasn't his.

No!

He didn't even think, just peeled off his shirt and ripped the cap from his marker. He began furiously scribbling runes across his chest, his shoulders, his sides and arms, even his lower back, his body completely on autopilot. He finished his work with one last symbol on his right palm and plowed through the doorway.

What he saw was worse than he could have imagined. Far, far worse; for there was Galahad, standing over their newest acquaintance with a crowbar in his hands. The light that shone from his eyes was not the customary orangey-gold. Instead it was a bright, terrible whitish-blue.

"Keep me company," the thing that was not his friend said through his friend's lips, his voice, layering over the original like some sort of badly recorded audio file that skipped and hissed. Jagged, enraged. Not kind and monotone. The crowbar rose to take another swing downward.

For a moment he panicked. But then he saw the metal move to descend and instantly he knew what would happen if he just stood there motionless. He raised his hand, aimed, and fired.

Away flew the crowbar and the ghost turned its stolen eyes towards him. Anger surged through his system as he stared it down. His blood pulsed with it, carried it to his many joints and nerve endings. He bared his teeth at the spectre. "Ghost dude, if you seriously do not get out of Izanagi right now I will fuck you up something fierce," he warned, tone even and low and deathly calm. "I will count to fucking three…"

He lowered his hand, not backing down, and marked another line or two onto his palm; not even bothering to look. "One…"

The ghost just stared at him in what might have been confusion. A brow lifted on the face that did not belong to it.

"Two…" He tensed for what was to come.

"Who are you to a dead man?"

He faltered for a split second, only a split second, because he hadn't been expecting that, but then regained his composure with more skill than he'd thought he had. His upper lip curled back into a snarl.

"Three."

He leapt forwards, straight at the body that had once belonged to his roommate, his partner, the body that was now inhabited by a stranger. His hand shot out in front of him and connected soundly with the creature's face, with Galahad's face. He felt something pop under his hand and he hoped the he hadn't damaged anything because he could never forgive himself if he had. But that phantom was what he was most worried about now, and just as he pressed the flat of his palm to the dry green skin of his friend's nose and forehead a light flared up from beneath his fingers.

A deep crimson glow forced its way out of his flesh and into the eyes and open mouth of his dead companion. It slithered down over every pore and seeped into anything it could. Directly into the soul.

There was a shriek of pain and hatred as the ghost was forcibly removed from Galahad's being and the both of them were thrown, hurled backwards into the far wall. There was a nasty thud as the body hit the ground. The haint twitched and writhed and flickered where it was, trying desperately to return to its unwilling host. But he was too fast for it. Another symbol on his opposite hand, drawn with the speed of lightning, blazed a dull pink as sparks danced from his fingertips to create a barrier between the unmoving form and the skeletal apparition. Blue-white arms reached for the dead man but were repelled by the force of the light. The ghost howled wretchedly.

At this point, he had no pity, only the desire, the need to keep his friend safe. Time was running out; the longer his soul remained lost, the harder it would be to bring it back. So he did only what he could do: he banished the spectre. It wasn't gone, oh no, but it could never return to that theatre without some delightful repercussions. He'd worry about helping it later.

Right now he had to help someone else.

Kneeling down, he placed his hand on Galahad's shoulders and rolled him over so that he was lying on his back, face to the ceiling. His eyes where closed and it looked as though he was sleeping. But he wasn't, really. The soul was lost within itself and if he didn't do something soon it could be stuck that way forever.

He took a deep breath to steady himself, to ready himself. He placed one hand, the right hand, the one that had expelled the creature from his partner's body, over those closed eyes. He shuddered, opened them, tried not to look directly into them. Then his hand moved to the cold chest just over where the heart would be. He scrawled more runes onto the back of that same hand as well as he could while not using his dominant one. Years of practice had made him semi-ambidextrous.

He concentrated inward, into himself. Focused on his life force. He felt pieces of his own soul chip and splinter, fracturing, peeling away. It was like feeling himself die, almost, a feeling he would never wish on anyone. Ever. He clenched his eyes shut against the sensation. When he opened them again it was to the sight of a pale, soft blue glow. His soul fragment.

Immediately he willed the light to solidify, to condense into one solid, ethereal shape. It twisted and curled in upon itself, folded upward. It became a crane. An origami crane. Had he time, he would have pondered on why that form in particular, but he didn't. He could muse later.

He felt a tug against his spirit as he created the bridge between the crane and himself; a tether, a line, an invisible thread connecting him to his guide. He sucked in a breath, pursed his lips, and blew gently. The wings of light fluttered, then vanished. The piece of his being disappeared into the chest of his unmoving roommate.

All he could do now, was wait.

"Ringo?"

Yeah, so, I forgot about Veser halfway through this. He's just hiding in a corner in shock and disbelief, nkay? And hey! There's a word I'll bet none of you have ever heard before: haint. Yup, that's really a real word. (Wow I am mean to Lee in this, aren't I? Whoops…Sorry, dude.)

Musical Muse: none