Into the Dark (1/2)
Title: Into the Dark (1/2)
Author: blasthisass / goldenwarbler
Rating: R
Summary: Vampire!AU: It's been ten years since Kurt came across the two secrets that Blaine had striven to keep hidden. Ten years since he learned of the reason his life had collapsed in on itself when he was seven years old and came across his best friend dragging the life out of another living being through that pulsing vein in his neck.
Ten years since Kurt has been chasing after Blaine, trying to write the balance of life and death and now that they've finally made it full circle to Lima, Ohio, he thinks the chance has finally come, the chance to end it all.
Previous Chapters: Here
Disclaimers: No one is mine. Move along now.
Warnings: none for this chapter
Spoilers: None
A/N: any vampire lore is taken from The Vampire Diaries (mainly that regarding vervain). The title is from "I Will Follow You Into the Dark" by Death Cab For Cutie
And I held my tongue as she told me,
“Son, fear is the heart of love,”
And I never looked back.
It was the first time in months that the little compass on the dashboard of Kurt’s car spun to life. He was sitting in his Impala, coffee in hand, lost in thought as he stared at the Lima Bean’s sign, illuminated brightly in the midafternoon sun. He’d meant to drive away as soon as he sat down, but there was a weariness in his bones, like sandbags of memory weighting him down.
He started as soon as he registered the clicks of the compass, sitting up so quickly in his seat that he almost dislodged the precious balance of his coffee cup, steadying it at the last minute to keep the contents lodged safely within their cardboard confines. His sea-green eyes widened as the little compass spun, making quick, ninety-degree rotations before freezing, pointing out the front windshield of the car.
Kurt stared at it, mouth dropping open in slight surprise, the life in the little metal device seeming to drain that in his blood and it was only as the little arrow began twitching slightly, as though it wished to move along with its target but didn’t think it work the effort that Kurt looked up. His eyes found him instantly and he slid down automatically in his seat, dropping his dark sunglasses onto his eyes.
He looked the same as ever. Kurt had seen him enough times in the past five years that it wasn’t unexpected, but the sight of him pierced through Kurt like a lightning bolt. It was the once familiar blazer, deep blue polyester and red piping. It was the slicked-back hair, the extraneous use of gel that Kurt hadn’t seen in years. It jolted him painfully and it took all his efforts for memory not to propel him out of the car right then and there. His eyes narrowed and a soft growl escaped his lips, a harsh breath forming into a single, hatful word.
“Gotcha.”
Kurt dropped further in his seat, ducking his head as though reading something when the object of his attention paused in the doorway to the coffee shop, brow furrowing. His gaze, golden and intense, swept through the parking lot as his companions filed past him and, as much as it had hurt in the moment he was doing it, Kurt had never been more relieved that he’d gotten rid of his Navigator. The molten gaze passed over the black hood of the Impala and Kurt’s hand twitched, reaching across the seats. His fingers curled around the wood of a perfectly sharpened stake, his grip tight and turning his knuckles white-hot.
He released it only when the boy standing in the doorway of the coffee shop concluded his sweep of the parking lot and disappeared inside.
Kurt exhaled, letting go of the wooden stake, his shoulders relaxing, but his brow remained furrowed in anger, in the hatred that flowed through his veins. He couldn’t lose the upper hand, not so soon, not here. It had been ten years, but it looked like Blaine had finally made that mistake. The one that Kurt had been hoping he’d make for nearly three. The one that followed his strange little pattern.
He’d come back and Kurt was finally going to finish it.
It was going to end, right there, where it’d all begun.
~
“Why are you looking at me like that?” Blaine asked and Kurt blinked, jolted out of the thoughts he’d been lost in. He flushed, his cheeks stained a pretty pink when he realized that, in the midst of thinking, he’d ended up staring openly at Blaine, who looked bemused and even a little pleased at the attention.
“Just thinking.”
“What about?” Blaine teased, hands winding around the thin cardboard of his Lima Bean cup as he leaned forward, his eyebrows waggling suggestively above the constant, amber heat that radiated from his gaze. “Something dirty?”
“Blaine!” Kurt exclaimed indignantly, cheeks flushing further. He was sure his entire face was red and he quickly occupied himself with taking a quick drink of his coffee, choking slightly when his tongue was reminded of its scalding temperature.
Blaine chuckled softly, pursing his lips in amusement at Kurt. “Hey, we’ve all got urges, you know. That’s why they invented mastur-”
“Oh, my God, please stop!” Kurt yelled, sliding down in his seat as the patrons of the café turned to look at him.
Blaine shook his head, leaning back in his seat. “Okay, I’m sorry. We’re being serious now. What were you thinking about?”
Kurt frowned, sitting up slowly and scratching at the short hairs at the back of his neck. “I was just thinking . . . I don’t know, that you look a little older than you are,” he muttered quickly, in case Blaine got insulted that Kurt was insinuating that he looked old.
Blaine, on the other hand, looked pleasantly surprised. “Well. Not what I usually get.”
“What do you usually get?”
Blaine eyes gleamed slightly, a brief flash of something that Kurt couldn’t understand. “That I look young for my age.”
~
Dalton loomed tall before him as he parked the car and stepped out, boots crunching lightly on the loose stones that had been tracked into the lot in the hills and valleys of countless car wheels. It loomed and Kurt wished he could find a better word to describe it, but there really weren’t any. He could remember it ten years ago, when he’d first stepped onto the campus, dressed as much to blend in as he could without actually purchasing a uniform for the occasion. It had stood majestic then, old and historical and foreign in an absolutely thrilling way, the kind that had shot through Kurt’s body and tingled down to his very toes in anticipation. Anticipation at the exhilarating prospect of what might be awaiting him inside. Everything had excited him, from the old clock tower above the entrance to the fading crimson of the bricks, the color of a setting sun.
Now Dalton loomed above him as he walked, tranquilizer gun loaded with vervain tucked into the back waistband of his jeans. Its bricks served only as a reminder of blood spilt.
He scrutinized the dormitories carefully through the dark barrier of his Wayfayers, allowing memories of secret entrances and doors that one could open at night without sounding the alarms and the countless ways one could sneak into different dorms after hours. He remembered the day he first moved in and how he couldn’t imagine using all those little secrets for more than midnight movie marathons and cuddling sessions.
His boots clicked lightly on the marble floors inside the building, but the taps were lost in the bustle of teenage boys rushing to class, uniforms blending them into one moving blur. It reminded him of poetry. Of Ezra Pound and a two-line poem that he’d once spent a whole class period discussing. The ever-moving blur of Dalton boys, each indistinguishable from the next. But Kurt’s eyes found him in the crowd almost instantly.
He was making his way toward the main staircase, a tall blonde boy on one side and a shorter Asian on the other and the parallel to Wes and Jeff wrenched a gasp out of Kurt. He clasped a hand over his mouth to keep the sound from travelling, ducking behind a particularly tall lacrosse player as he carefully followed Blaine, his eyes trained on the comfortable stretch of polyester jacket over his shoulders.
He froze when he saw the dark-haired boy step down from the final step of the staircase, chatting casually until his shoulder was jostled by a particularly rushed student. It was that action that caused Kurt to freeze in unison with the object he was stalking, who at the moment of contact had instantly stopped talking, his face turning to follow the blazer-clad boy that rushed of quickly down the hallway, his thick brows scrunching together in slight confusion. Kurt stiffened as he watched Blaine inhale, one long, deep breath that he held in his expanded chest for what felt like ages before he let it go, eyes opening as the air left him. A hand reached into his jacket pocket, pulling out an old pocket watch, pressing the latch to pop it open as he stared at it with the most immense scrutiny, his breaths still deep. Kurt’s own eyes widened and he backtracked as quickly as he could, ducking behind a pole just before Blaine turned, his gaze sweeping up the staircase, his eyes dark and thoughtful.
Kurt leaned his back against the pole, head back and eyes closed as he waited. Waited for Blaine to turn around and walk away. Waited for his heart to stop pounding and for his palms to stop sweating, like a strange Pavlovian response. He didn’t risk looking out from behind his hiding spot to see if Blaine had gone. Instead, he ducked down a different hallway, making his way toward the school’s little café and cursing his own carelessness.
If it unraveled, it wouldn’t be because he’d given up the upper hand. Not this time.
~
He was caught up in the bustle of it, the river-like movement of boys down a grand staircase. Puck’s words attacked his thoughts, as much as he tried to suppress them for fear of his own frustration. for fear of realizing his own uselessness to the people that he called friend they still lingered, seeping under his skin like poison.
He couldn’t let himself get caught up in it. He had to find the Warblers. That was why he’d come, after all.
He started to reach out to grab the attention of the boy in front of him but his arm was jostled away as a different boy rushed past him, head ducked down and eyes focused on a gorgeous, vintage pocket watch.
“Excuse me?”
The boy with the pocket watch paused, looking away from it with a hint of annoyance, but the expression fled from his face when he met Kurt’s gaze. He inhaled sharply, his eyes flashing with something that stirred the contents of Kurt’s stomach.
“Sorry, I’m new here and I . . .”
The inhaled breath was let out slowly, as though the boy that had claimed it was reluctant to let it go. He scrutinized Kurt with a curious look on his face, tongue running along his teeth before he smiled widely and held out his hand.
“My name’s Blaine.”
~
“Excuse me, I was wondering if you could help me with something.”
The duo of boys sitting at a nearby table looked up when he spoke, their eyes taking in Kurt’s casual appearance and the bright smile on his face before determining that he seemed like someone at least mildly trustworthy. He was pleased by this and he pulled out an empty chair at their table, dropping down casually into it. He would have to play it by ear, have to be careful that none of this got back to Blaine before he was ready for it to.
“You guys wouldn’t happen to know someone named Blaine Anderson, would you?” he asked calmly, leaning back in his seat and taking a sip from his coffee. Just like he had been trained. Loose shoulders, legs stretched out before him, one hand lifting his cup to his lips, the other cast casually over his abdomen. Non-aggressive, giving the appearance that it would take a moment to collect himself in order to try anything.
One of the pair smiled happily at him, the bright whites of his teeth contrasting starkly with the beautiful ebony of his skin, like the keys of a piano. “You mean the Warbler lead? Sure we do!” he exclaimed excitedly, pausing momentarily to take in Kurt again. “How do you know him?”
Kurt swallowed in his surprise, trying not to let it show on his face. He was being careless, Blaine was. Far too careless and it set Kurt’s nerves on edge. Ten years wasn’t a long time. It was enough for people to remember what had happened and yet here he was again, using the same name, assuming the same role, his friends startling reminiscent of the old group of Warblers that had drawn Kurt in. Uncharacteristically careless and Kurt forced his unease not to infiltrate into the bones of his body.
Instead he smiled, taking another sip of his coffee before replying. “Cousins,” he said, letting the name roll of his name with an unmistakable, familial affection. “I’m actually trying to surprise him. Was going to sneak into his dorm and jump him outside his room after class,” he laughed. He tried to remember Finn, the way they’d fallen into their respective roles as brothers, as family. “Problem is, I’m not sure which dorm he lives in and I was hoping one of his friends would help me out.”
The boy with ebony skin frowned, casting a quick glance at his companion, who looked up briefly from his texting before returning to it. Kurt scrutinized the look carefully as he waited for his reply. “He . . . doesn’t live in the dorms.”
Kurt’s brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”
The boy with the cell phone finally set it down, glancing at Kurt in curiosity. “He doesn’t live in the dorms. He lives up in the old Anderson estate in New Albany.”
Kurt frowned, gazing between the two boys, trying to process the information, the why of it all. He pursed his lips finally, nodding before sliding his seat out slowly and standing. “Oh, okay . . . Funny, cousin says boarding school and you automatically assume dormitories,” he laughed, running a hand casually through his hair. “Thanks, guys.”
He finished off his coffee and, after a nod, eased himself between the various tables and, skirting around an older gentleman-teacher, maybe-as he left the room, making his way quickly back to his car.
The two boys exchanged glances, looking toward their headmaster as he followed Kurt with his gaze, hand lingering in the pocket of his suit trousers. He looked quickly at them, tilting his head in question after Kurt and pursing his lips briefly when they nodded in the affirmative. Having received his confirmation, he swept back down the hall, pulling a phone out of his pocket and quickly dialing a number.
“Hello?”
“It’s me.”
“Make it quick, Roger, I’m running late and I don’t have time for another long lecture about how I’m endangering the lives of everyone in town.”
Roger Saltzmann sighed, walking quickly past his secretary and locking himself in his office. “He’s here.”
There was a pause on the other end, a silence long and stretched thin, like butter spread over too much bread. They made Roger uneasy, long stretches of silence. Like they were simply laying the groundwork for explosions.
He was about to repeat himself, to clarify, when a lone name crackled though the receiver, heavy with surprise and relief and emotion. “Kurt?”
“Yes. He’s-”
“You’re sure it’s him?”
“Yes. He’s leaving the school now. He was asking a couple of my students about Anderson.”
“Shit.”
Roger frowned, sitting down in his plush, leather chair and tapping a few things on his keyboard to bring up security camera footage, following the two figures in question as they moved about his school. “I expect you’ll stop hindering my actions, then?”
“Excuse me?”
“Burt, I did what you asked. I let the Anderson creature be because you were convinced that if he was here again, your son would follow. I endangered the lives of my students on a whim because you asked it of me. But he’s here now, your son. So, I trust you’ll allow me to now do what has to be done.”
There was silence on the other end, nothing but the slow sound of breathing. The rumble of the engine that had sounded in the background had died, as though its driver had pulled over to the side of the road. “Give me until nightfall.”
“Burt, I swear-”
“Roger. Give me the rest of the day. That’s all I ask. The rest of the day, and the chance to get to my son before he does something he’s going to regret. Then you can do what you need to do.”
“Fine.”
~
“Mr. Hummel?”
“That’s me,” Burt grunted, not looking up from where he was buried in the machinery of the car he was working on, twisting his screwdriver with a practiced flick of his wrist. “What’s up?”
There was an amused chuckle and if Burt had looked briefly out of the corner of his eye, he would see the shiny tips of dress shoes approaching, moving easily over the oil-stained cement of his garage. “Need a hand?”
“You know what, yeah, if you could grab that carburetor for me . . .” Burt started, pulling back from the engine he was absorbed in to look at the person approaching him. As his eyes met the expensive wool overcoat, royal blue and well cared for, and moved up up to the checkered scarf and smiling, tan face, he felt his words die in his throat.
The boy he was looking at missed his expression as he turned to the box of engine parts near the car, golden gaze scanning them for the part in question. Burt felt himself stiffen, the blood in his veins dropping below freezing temperature and transforming into slush. His pulse quickened, trying to push life back into his limbs, his breaths coming quick and stuttered and forced, his eyes disbelieving.
All he could see as he stared at the back of the boy before him was that old video footage, the surveillance tapes from the hospital, playing across the rich blue fabric like a movie on a screen. He could hear a doctor’s words ringing through his head in an amplified whisper, booming almost louder than the rush of blood in his ears and the pounding of his heart, like it was about to give out again.
It couldn’t be.
He almost missed the moment the boy turned around with the carburetor in his hands, the quick movement that dropped it back in the box as he stepped forward with a concerned murmur of, “Mr. Hummel? Mr. Hummel, sir, are you okay? Mr. Hummel? You’re not . . . Shit, Kurt said you’d had a heart attack earlier this year, is this . . . Mr. Hummel-”
It was his son’s name, combined with the sudden press of a hand against his shoulder that shot life back into Burt’s limbs and he jumped back as though electrocuted, cursing as his head collided with the hood of the car, shooting a searing pain through his nerves.
“Fine, I’m fine,” he grunted, waving the boy away as he stepped forward again, concern etched into every one of his beautiful features, shining in his eyes. Burt was drawn to it, now that he was able to take a proper look and even as emotions swirled through his system he found himself succumbing to the numbing shock of surprise. The undeniable beauty of the boy before him.
The boy that hadn’t aged a day since the last time Burt had seen him, ten years ago.
“You know my son?” he asked gruffly, rubbing his head and wincing, every muscle in his body still tense and poised.
The boy flashed him another concerned look, something shining in his gaze as Burt pulled his hand away from his head to check for blood. “Umm . . . yes. Sorry, we haven’t been properly introduced yet, have we? I’m Blaine. Anderson,” he added as a slight afterthought, the corners of his lips curling up pleasantly as he extended a hand toward Burt.
Burt hesitated, eyes trained on the tan skin before grasping the hand carefully in his own, trying not to let his surprise at the warmth of it show. He pulled away a little too quickly. “He’s mentioned you.”
Blaine looked pleased at this, turning away from Burt to pick up the part he’d asked for once again, holding it out to the man helpfully.
Burt took it quickly, dropping back down under the hood and resuming his work, if only to have something to occupy himself with. “You know cars?” he blurted out, cursing silently the minute the words escaped his lips. He didn’t know why he said it, except for the fact that he could think of nothing else to say. What did one say in situations like these?
Just out of his line of sight, Blaine crossed his arms and chuckled, the sound of it warm, yet still chilling Burt down to his toes. “Sort of. I’ve always had a general interest in them. In their history. My dad didn’t so much, not like you. He . . .” Blaine laughed again and when Burt looked up at him his eyes were trained to the ceiling, as though deep in thought. “My dad was more interested in things like sports and hunting.” Burt inhaled sharply, his eyes widening. “Believed that he could make me more of a man if I was taught to kill. Until . . .” Blaine’s brow furrowed and he paused, as though he had realized the words that were coming out of his mouth, hints and pieces and history. He continued, like he’d figured that he had revealed too much to stop. “Well, until my sexuality turned out to be the least of his problems,” he finished with a bitter chuckle.
Burt swallowed heavily, the lump in his throat constricting and tight as he tried not to picture what had happened to the man in question. “You have a reason for coming to see me, son?” He was trying to be normal, but he could feel himself stuttering over the word ‘son,’ as though his body knew how unnatural it was for him to be using it.
Blaine blinked and his eyes lit up, something in the smile that formed on his face making Burt impossibly uneasy. “Yes, actually. I was hoping to talk to you about Kurt.”
~
Kurt saw it at the last minute, almost missing it as he tried to ignore the ringing of his phone. The truck speeding through the intersection. He swerved quickly, Impala jerking off the otherwise deserted road, just barely avoiding being clipped by the careless driver.
He forced his door open when he saw the truck driving off the side of the road just in front of him and he leapt out of his car, stalking toward the other one.
“Are you insane?” he yelled at the closed door as he approached, unable to see the driver through the tinted windows. “Are you trying to get someone killed?”
The door popped open and Kurt stopped dead in his tracks, finding himself face to face with his father.
Burt eyed him the way only a parent could, annoyance mixed with relief in his expression. “Nope. Just trying to get your attention, since you’re ignoring my calls.”
~
It was dark when Kurt got home for the weekend, the sky clouding with a hint of coming snow, despite the fact that it was almost March. He was surprised to see the lights off in his house when he pulled up, but as he entered the front hallway he caught a glimpse of a light coming from the kitchen and he grinned. Trust his dad to sneak into the kitchen for snacks when he was supposed to be resting and no one was home to monitor him.
He shed his coat quickly and, leaving his satchel and boots near the door, made his way swiftly and silently toward the kitchen, ready to chew his dad out for not taking his health seriously.
“You’re certain, Burt?”
Kurt stilled, the sound of voices slowing his movements.
“I’d know him anywhere, John,” Burt replied, the sound of his voice determined.
“Burt, the only time you’ve seen him was on grainy surveillance tapes and one blurry photo taken in the maternity ward.”
“It’s him, John, I’m telling you,” Burt asserted. In the hallway mirror, Kurt could see him with John Gibbins, one of his friends on the force. They were leaning over the island counter, shuffling through a series of papers spread out over its surface. “It was him.”
“Burt, you have to be absolutely certain of what you’re telling me here,” John muttered, his voice low and cautious as he leaned toward Burt to look at the images in his hands. “I can’t take any actions unless you are. I’m not going to send the full force of the council after an innocent kid.”
Burt sighed, rubbing his eyes tiredly. “John, you’re married. You know what it’s like to be married, to choose to be partnered with someone for the rest of your life. It’s more than a signature on a piece of paper and a couple of metallic rings. It’s a bond and it doesn’t get cut when you lose each other. I can still feel her, in my heart, in my gut, even with Carole, and I . . .” Burt paused, shaking his head and leaning away from the images, taking one grainy, black and white photograph and pushing it toward his companion. “It’s him. Looking exactly like he did in this picture. Exactly, John. It’s no coincidence, I’m telling you.”
Kurt watched the uniform-clad man pick up the photograph and stare at it, looking from its contents to Burt’s determined gaze and back again before setting it down. “Okay. I’ll make sure the right actions are taken,” he said finally. Burt sighed in relief, letting his head drop down between his shoulders at the words, looking up only when John murmured softly, “What are you going to do about Kurt?”
Kurt stiffened at the sound of his own name in the strange conversation, eyes trained on his father as the man looked up, his gaze pained. “I have to tell him the truth.”
“Are you sure that’s a good idea?”
“John, he . . . He’s friends with my son,” Burt countered, his voice laced with desperation. “He is friends with my son. Kurt even . . . I think Kurt even likes him as something more and I can’t hide it from him, I . . . I have to tell him.”
“Tell me what?” Kurt asked suddenly, stepping into the kitchen, eyes looking between the two men situated in it as they both reacted to his presence. “Hey, Officer Gibbins.”
“Evenin’, Kurt,” he received in response as John picked up his keys and walkie talkie from the counter. “I was just heading out.” He leaned toward Burt as he was passing, murmuring in an undertone, “Leave this to me, Burt. No matter how much you might want to, do not go after this kid yourself.”
“What’re you talking about, John?”
“You know what you were telling me just now, Burt? About your gut feeling about Elizabeth. You think I don’t know what that means? You think I don’t know the things that people will do to avenge their loved ones when they get the chance? I’m telling you, Burt, no matter how much you might want to act yourself, leave this to us. Kurt doesn’t deserve to lose another parent like that.”
Without another word, John pulled away and walked past Burt, patting Kurt lightly on the arm as he made his way out of the kitchen.
Kurt turned to watch him go, his mouth dry from nerves, watched until he disappeared into the darkness of the hallway before turning back to the kitchen. “Dad?” he murmured quietly, taking in the shape of his dad as he was bent over the counter, the curve of his back smooth under his rumpled T-shirt, his face buried in his hands. “Dad, what’s going on?”
Burt inhaled into his palms, raising his head and gesturing form the seat around the corner from him. “Sit down, son.”
“Dad, what’s going on?” Kurt insisted, approaching the island counter and standing to Burt’s right, staring at him intently. “Are you okay? This doesn’t have anything to do with your health or anything? Dad-” he stopped suddenly, his gaze falling from his father to the papers that were scattered over the marble of the counter. “Dad . . .” he repeated slowly, moving past the pile of photographs that the two men had been discussing and reaching instead for the nearest piece of paper with a familiar name on it. “Dad, these are . . . these are all of mom’s medical records . . . from when she was hospitalized . . .” he said slowly, staring blankly at the documents lying before him. “Dad, why are you looking at all this?”
Beside him, Burt took a deep breath, the inhale weary and oddly sad. “Sit down, Kurt,” he commanded again, age and exhaustion woven like silver threads into his words as they hung on the air.
Wordlessly, Kurt dropped down into the stool beside Burt, still staring in shock at the harsh stamp of black ink on white paper, stark letters typing out his mother’s name.
“Kurt, I’m sorry.”
Kurt looked up, his brow furrowing. “Why are you apologizing to me, dad?”
Burt let out a humorless chuckle, short and harsh and soundless. “I suppose I have a lot to apologize to you for, kiddo. The fact that I’ve lied to you for the past ten years. The fact that, if it were up to me, I’d continue to.”
“Dad, you’re scaring me,” Kurt whispered, dropping the piece of paper and finally allowing his gaze to stray to the remainder of the papers, scattered haphazardly before him. Burt could see the very instant when Kurt paid full attention to the photographs, the stills from hospital security cameras, grainy and blurry but still so, so clear if only one chose to look carefully at them. He watched the blood drain from his son’s face and the way his blue eyes widened in shock, his hand reaching to brush over the sheen of photograph paper. “Dad, what-”
“Kurt, I need to tell you something about your mother, and I need you to hear me out, no matter how unbelievable you might find it,” Burt said suddenly, laying a hand over Kurt’s wrist as he reached for the image. “Because you know me, kid. I wouldn’t tell you something outlandish unless I had no choice but to believe it. Hell, I wouldn’t tell you this unless I had no choice, but I have to keep you safe.” Kurt didn’t answer, his wide eyes trained on the figure in the photographs. “Kurt, what do you remember about when your mom died?”
“Just that . . .” Kurt murmured, slow and dazed as though he were in a trance, his eyes never leaving the photographs on which they were trained. “It was cancer . . . it was the tumor and there was no way to get it out and she . . . died, I don’t know-”
“That was the diagnosis,” Burt interrupted gently, his hand still keeping Kurt from reaching out to the papers he’d brought out after all this time. “They said there was next to no chance of her survival. But it wasn’t the cancer that killed her, Kurt.”
“Then how . . .” Kurt whispered, his gaze frozen, his body stiff.
“Blood loss.”
At this Kurt blinked, starting visibly as a tremor ran through his entire body and he looked at Burt properly for the first time since seeing Elizabeth’s hospitalization records laid out on the counter before him. “What do you mean, blood loss?”
“When they . . . when they found her body in the morning it . . . it was drained of blood, Kurt.”
Kurt didn’t move except to train his eyes back to those images, the ones that had been presented to Burt when he’d laughed off the notion ten years ago. The ones that had thrown his entire body into shock when the uniform-clad boy had wandered into his shop to talk to him about his son.
Kurt swallowed and Burt could see him, see him fighting his brain from putting the pieces together. Because if they fit, if it all came together in his head now, it would only serve to break his whole reality.
“Dad. This . . . this is Blaine,” he said finally, his voice low and wrecked from nerves, from shock and the unshed tears glistening in his eyes. “This is Blaine, why do you have-”
“Because that’s him, Kurt,” Burt said slowly, quietly as though the volume of his voice mattered in the relation of such delicate information. “That’s the vampire that killed your mother.”
~
“Let me go, dad,” Kurt demanded, trying to make his way around Burt, to get back to his car, but his father was unrelenting, anticipating his movements and stepping into them.
“Nice of you to call and say you were in town,” Burt countered casually, standing with his feet spread wide as he watched Kurt stop in their little dance and groan, running his hand through his hair messily as he started pacing.
“Dad, please, I’m sorry, I really am, but I can’t do this with you right now,” Kurt mumbled, his frustration fading into something impeccably sad that took Burt’s heart in a vice-like grip.
“Because it’s interfering with your obsessive vampire-killing spree?” Burt questioned in surprise, his eyes trained on the son he hadn’t seen in ten years. The one he was supposed to raise, but hadn’t even seen grow up. “Kurt, don’t you think this has gone on long enough?”
Kurt made a noncommittal noise, continuing to pace back and forth as though, as though there were a great battle going on inside of him, jerking him in two different directions. “I have to do this, dad. I’ve been going at it for too long to just walk away now.”
“Kurt,” Burt murmured, taking a step toward his son, his voice wrecked with desperation. His eyes were trained on Kurt’s face, on his cut, coiffed hair, mussed and ruined from the amount of times he’d unconsciously run his hands through it. His eyes, glittering with unparalleled strength and determination. The hard line of his jaw, the curved shape of his cheekbones. The several inches he had on the Kurt that Burt remembered. “Don’t do this. Walk away before you do something you’re going to regret.”
“You wanted this.”
“I . . . what?” Burt started, frowning at the strange little interruption.
Kurt laughed softly, eyes trained at the ground. “I heard it. John Gibbins expected it from you, didn’t he?” he asked, raising his eyes and fixing his father with a steely glare. “He warned you not to go after Blaine in some crazy plot of revenge. Didn’t want you getting yourself killed. Didn’t want me losing both my parents to a vampire attack. But you would have done it, wouldn’t you?” Kurt continued quietly, taking a small step toward his father and Burt was startled by the anxiety shining in Kurt’s eyes, the force with which he wished to compel Burt to see his reason. “Because you loved her and he ripped that away from you. Dad . . . you . . . you raised me to see everything through to the end. I can’t walk away from this, I can’t. If I just leave, it’s not going to stop. There’s going to be more death, and more violence and I’m sorry, I’m so, so sorry, but I can’t walk away from this. Not after all this time. Not when I’m so close.”
Burt didn’t answer, choosing simply to gaze sadly at his son. Kurt waited for some sort of response, eyes shining with determination mixed with strange little droplets of pain. Of the fight still going on within him. After a beat of silence, Kurt took a tentative step to his right, watching his father to see if he would try to intercept him again. When Burt did nothing but watch his son, Kurt stepped around him and walked back to the Impala, his shoulders hunched and his pace quick.
“How that fair, then, kid?”
Kurt froze at the door of the car, his hand curling hard over the door handle. “How is what fair?” he responded quietly.
“How come you don’t get to lose both your parents, but I have to lose my wife and my son?”
Kurt closed his eyes, his face contorting as though the words were causing him physical pain. His knuckles were white hot from his grip on the metal door handle.
He wrenched the door open quickly, refusing to look at Burt, to betray himself. “I’m sorry. I’ll be home tonight,” he muttered quickly before dropping into his seat and slamming the door shut.
~
“What is that? I’ve heard it before,” Kurt asked curiously, looking up from his reading where he was sprawled out on his stomach on Blaine’s bed.
Blaine’s fingers continued to strum out the familiar melody, but he glanced up at Kurt with a smile. “I hope so,” he replied with mock indignation. “It’s ‘Iris’ by the Goo Goo Dolls.”
Kurt rolled his eyes. “You forget that not everyone is as obsessed with Top 40 radio as you are, Blaine Anderson.”
Blaine made a face at him, pausing in his music-making to throw his guitar pick at Kurt’s head. Kurt let out an undignified squawk as the small piece of plastic hit him in the temple and he threw Blaine a dirty look as the latter laughed, continuing to strum gently with the backs of his nails, his soft singing voice filling the quiet space around them.
And I’d give up forever to touch you
‘Cause I know that you feel me somehow
You're the closest to heaven that I'll ever be
And I don't want to go home right now
Kurt smiled, about to go back to his book when he felt the heat of Blaine’s gaze trained on him as he sang. He could feel it roving over his body, slow and almost hungry. Could feel its presence lingering on the smooth line of Kurt’s neck, all the way down to the outline of his collarbone where it was visible, exposed by the deep V-neck of the Dalton T-shirt he was wearing.
He could feel the rush of blood to his face, the deep blush spreading over his cheekbones. The flash of Blaine’s gaze to it as he continued to sing, his voice growing lower and rougher the longer he looked.
And I don't want the world to see me
‘Cause I don't think that they'd understand
When everything's made to be broken
I just want you to know who I am.
~
The grass was soft under Kurt’s feet as he walked. He could see the lights of the Anderson manor before him as he made his way through the neighbor’s yards, his car parked a couple of blocks away so as not to attract more attention than he had to. He flicked from shadow to shadow, pausing near the gravel of the long, winding driveway. He crouched down, eyes scanning over the old house in careful scrutiny.
He didn’t know the layout of the house very well, having only been there once with Blaine over winter break. When Blaine had claimed that his parents were out and he wanted to show Kurt around the manor. Kurt could remember it like it had just happened the other day, his awe and excitement, eyes flying to old portraits and intricate wall designs, sloping ceilings and brightly lit chandeliers. And Blaine, strong, calm, secretly dangerous Blaine following him with his eyes, taking in every one of his emotions as it was etched across his face. With each artifact thrilling his blood, making it rush through his veins like down a waterfall, Blaine stared at him like he could hear it, like it pounded just as strongly through his eardrums and he hungered for it. With each high ceiling, forcing Kurt to throw his head back, Blaine’s eyes were draw to the movement of his throat, to the long line of muscle under his pale skin, the long silver chain that followed the cut of his shirt before disappearing under it, his eyes glittering desperately under the dim light all the while.
Kurt closed his eyes and shook his head, trying to clear his own thoughts out. This was not the time to think about it and instead he swore quietly under his breath, at the brightly lit house for making it harder to hide in the shadows, at himself for seeing Blaine in those moments, those brief flashes and never realizing, never suspecting.
He checked his supplies, the gun still tucked in the waistband of his jeans, two stakes hidden away in the pockets he’d sewn himself in the inner lining of his jacket. He carefully zipped his jacket up after determining everything was intact and walked slowly toward the brightly-lit house, his guard up and his eyes passing from one illuminated window to the next, trying to discern movement, but the house was quiet and he couldn’t see anything stirring within. He swallowed at the fact, nothing in it allowing him to take his guard down, not as his boots crunched quietly as he made his way toward the front door, not when he reached it and found it open. He should have long ago learned not to concern himself with that detail; Blaine never locked his doors. His powers were his own best security system, but the fact never failed to inject uneasiness into Kurt. Like maybe this time the door was open because he was anticipated.
He remained on the doorstep quietly, out of sight of any of the windows, his hand reaching for his gun as he cautiously eased the door open, movements poised for that tell-tale creak of a door that would resound through horror movies.
But the door moved soundlessly on its hinges, swinging open and revealing a dimly lit entryway. Kurt could feel his stomach clenching with memory and he leaned against the door frame, body bending at the waist as he breathed, his stomach twisting around its empty contents and he fought to keep the bile from rising up this throat. He squeezed his eyes shut, forcing steadiness into his inhales and when he opened them again they were shining with a steely light, burning with determination.
The floors were covered with a plush carpet, rich and old and spread over the dark wooden floors. Kurt walked carefully on it, allowing his boots to sink into it as it absorbed the sound of his movements. The house was quiet, as though it were slumbering and Kurt would have almost succumbed to the instinct that it was empty, if not for the brightly lit rooms branching off from the main hallway and the tiny, barely discernible sound of music playing deep within it.
The only dark room that he passed the staircase, his shoulder pressed against the wall, was some sort of study, lit only by the bright white glow of a laptop screen. Kurt didn’t pause to look at it, too focused on following the music to the object of his hunt to concern himself with Blaine’s internet browsing history.
The silence concerned him as he pressed his back against the wall beneath the staircase, eyes trailing up briefly but again seeing nothing. When the hallway ended he paused, taking a deep breath and flexing his fingers around the weapon before tightening his grip and stepping around the corner, raising the weapon against the room, his jaw stiff and his eyes blazing, roving over the details of the room as quickly as he could.
The room before him was empty, just as the rest of the house appeared to be. The long, mahogany dining room table stretched out long before him, just as it always had, its spotless wood sparkling under the light that flickered from the lit candles spaced at even intervals along its length. Kurt inhaled, his throat clenching at the intricately arranged place settings, table looking as though it were set for a feast. Near its head stood a drink cart, lined with gorgeously carved crystal bottles two holding a bright amber liquid and one filled with something deep and blood red.
Every muscle in Kurt’s body froze at the sight of it, stiffening as though petrified and despite everything, despite every little care he’d put into planning this, into making sure it worked, he couldn’t move, the thick liquid captivating his very soul.
He slowly became aware that the music that was playing wasn’t coming from that old gramophone but from a small iPod dock sitting next to it. When the words of the song, playing so, so quietly, like it had been stalking him, taking him as its prey and drawing him in out of curiosity, only to betray him.
And you can't fight the tears that ain't coming
Or the moment of truth in your lies
When everything feels like the movies
Yeah, you'd bleed just to know you're alive
There was a breeze against the back of his neck, a hot swirl of air that chilled him to the core, raising goose bumps, whispering so close that it was almost as though it were coming from an entity within Kurt.
“Oh, there you are.”
~
PART 2
Author: blasthisass / goldenwarbler
Rating: R
Summary: Vampire!AU: It's been ten years since Kurt came across the two secrets that Blaine had striven to keep hidden. Ten years since he learned of the reason his life had collapsed in on itself when he was seven years old and came across his best friend dragging the life out of another living being through that pulsing vein in his neck.
Ten years since Kurt has been chasing after Blaine, trying to write the balance of life and death and now that they've finally made it full circle to Lima, Ohio, he thinks the chance has finally come, the chance to end it all.
Previous Chapters: Here
Disclaimers: No one is mine. Move along now.
Warnings: none for this chapter
Spoilers: None
A/N: any vampire lore is taken from The Vampire Diaries (mainly that regarding vervain). The title is from "I Will Follow You Into the Dark" by Death Cab For Cutie
And I held my tongue as she told me,
“Son, fear is the heart of love,”
And I never looked back.
It was the first time in months that the little compass on the dashboard of Kurt’s car spun to life. He was sitting in his Impala, coffee in hand, lost in thought as he stared at the Lima Bean’s sign, illuminated brightly in the midafternoon sun. He’d meant to drive away as soon as he sat down, but there was a weariness in his bones, like sandbags of memory weighting him down.
He started as soon as he registered the clicks of the compass, sitting up so quickly in his seat that he almost dislodged the precious balance of his coffee cup, steadying it at the last minute to keep the contents lodged safely within their cardboard confines. His sea-green eyes widened as the little compass spun, making quick, ninety-degree rotations before freezing, pointing out the front windshield of the car.
Kurt stared at it, mouth dropping open in slight surprise, the life in the little metal device seeming to drain that in his blood and it was only as the little arrow began twitching slightly, as though it wished to move along with its target but didn’t think it work the effort that Kurt looked up. His eyes found him instantly and he slid down automatically in his seat, dropping his dark sunglasses onto his eyes.
He looked the same as ever. Kurt had seen him enough times in the past five years that it wasn’t unexpected, but the sight of him pierced through Kurt like a lightning bolt. It was the once familiar blazer, deep blue polyester and red piping. It was the slicked-back hair, the extraneous use of gel that Kurt hadn’t seen in years. It jolted him painfully and it took all his efforts for memory not to propel him out of the car right then and there. His eyes narrowed and a soft growl escaped his lips, a harsh breath forming into a single, hatful word.
“Gotcha.”
Kurt dropped further in his seat, ducking his head as though reading something when the object of his attention paused in the doorway to the coffee shop, brow furrowing. His gaze, golden and intense, swept through the parking lot as his companions filed past him and, as much as it had hurt in the moment he was doing it, Kurt had never been more relieved that he’d gotten rid of his Navigator. The molten gaze passed over the black hood of the Impala and Kurt’s hand twitched, reaching across the seats. His fingers curled around the wood of a perfectly sharpened stake, his grip tight and turning his knuckles white-hot.
He released it only when the boy standing in the doorway of the coffee shop concluded his sweep of the parking lot and disappeared inside.
Kurt exhaled, letting go of the wooden stake, his shoulders relaxing, but his brow remained furrowed in anger, in the hatred that flowed through his veins. He couldn’t lose the upper hand, not so soon, not here. It had been ten years, but it looked like Blaine had finally made that mistake. The one that Kurt had been hoping he’d make for nearly three. The one that followed his strange little pattern.
He’d come back and Kurt was finally going to finish it.
It was going to end, right there, where it’d all begun.
~
“Why are you looking at me like that?” Blaine asked and Kurt blinked, jolted out of the thoughts he’d been lost in. He flushed, his cheeks stained a pretty pink when he realized that, in the midst of thinking, he’d ended up staring openly at Blaine, who looked bemused and even a little pleased at the attention.
“Just thinking.”
“What about?” Blaine teased, hands winding around the thin cardboard of his Lima Bean cup as he leaned forward, his eyebrows waggling suggestively above the constant, amber heat that radiated from his gaze. “Something dirty?”
“Blaine!” Kurt exclaimed indignantly, cheeks flushing further. He was sure his entire face was red and he quickly occupied himself with taking a quick drink of his coffee, choking slightly when his tongue was reminded of its scalding temperature.
Blaine chuckled softly, pursing his lips in amusement at Kurt. “Hey, we’ve all got urges, you know. That’s why they invented mastur-”
“Oh, my God, please stop!” Kurt yelled, sliding down in his seat as the patrons of the café turned to look at him.
Blaine shook his head, leaning back in his seat. “Okay, I’m sorry. We’re being serious now. What were you thinking about?”
Kurt frowned, sitting up slowly and scratching at the short hairs at the back of his neck. “I was just thinking . . . I don’t know, that you look a little older than you are,” he muttered quickly, in case Blaine got insulted that Kurt was insinuating that he looked old.
Blaine, on the other hand, looked pleasantly surprised. “Well. Not what I usually get.”
“What do you usually get?”
Blaine eyes gleamed slightly, a brief flash of something that Kurt couldn’t understand. “That I look young for my age.”
~
Dalton loomed tall before him as he parked the car and stepped out, boots crunching lightly on the loose stones that had been tracked into the lot in the hills and valleys of countless car wheels. It loomed and Kurt wished he could find a better word to describe it, but there really weren’t any. He could remember it ten years ago, when he’d first stepped onto the campus, dressed as much to blend in as he could without actually purchasing a uniform for the occasion. It had stood majestic then, old and historical and foreign in an absolutely thrilling way, the kind that had shot through Kurt’s body and tingled down to his very toes in anticipation. Anticipation at the exhilarating prospect of what might be awaiting him inside. Everything had excited him, from the old clock tower above the entrance to the fading crimson of the bricks, the color of a setting sun.
Now Dalton loomed above him as he walked, tranquilizer gun loaded with vervain tucked into the back waistband of his jeans. Its bricks served only as a reminder of blood spilt.
He scrutinized the dormitories carefully through the dark barrier of his Wayfayers, allowing memories of secret entrances and doors that one could open at night without sounding the alarms and the countless ways one could sneak into different dorms after hours. He remembered the day he first moved in and how he couldn’t imagine using all those little secrets for more than midnight movie marathons and cuddling sessions.
His boots clicked lightly on the marble floors inside the building, but the taps were lost in the bustle of teenage boys rushing to class, uniforms blending them into one moving blur. It reminded him of poetry. Of Ezra Pound and a two-line poem that he’d once spent a whole class period discussing. The ever-moving blur of Dalton boys, each indistinguishable from the next. But Kurt’s eyes found him in the crowd almost instantly.
He was making his way toward the main staircase, a tall blonde boy on one side and a shorter Asian on the other and the parallel to Wes and Jeff wrenched a gasp out of Kurt. He clasped a hand over his mouth to keep the sound from travelling, ducking behind a particularly tall lacrosse player as he carefully followed Blaine, his eyes trained on the comfortable stretch of polyester jacket over his shoulders.
He froze when he saw the dark-haired boy step down from the final step of the staircase, chatting casually until his shoulder was jostled by a particularly rushed student. It was that action that caused Kurt to freeze in unison with the object he was stalking, who at the moment of contact had instantly stopped talking, his face turning to follow the blazer-clad boy that rushed of quickly down the hallway, his thick brows scrunching together in slight confusion. Kurt stiffened as he watched Blaine inhale, one long, deep breath that he held in his expanded chest for what felt like ages before he let it go, eyes opening as the air left him. A hand reached into his jacket pocket, pulling out an old pocket watch, pressing the latch to pop it open as he stared at it with the most immense scrutiny, his breaths still deep. Kurt’s own eyes widened and he backtracked as quickly as he could, ducking behind a pole just before Blaine turned, his gaze sweeping up the staircase, his eyes dark and thoughtful.
Kurt leaned his back against the pole, head back and eyes closed as he waited. Waited for Blaine to turn around and walk away. Waited for his heart to stop pounding and for his palms to stop sweating, like a strange Pavlovian response. He didn’t risk looking out from behind his hiding spot to see if Blaine had gone. Instead, he ducked down a different hallway, making his way toward the school’s little café and cursing his own carelessness.
If it unraveled, it wouldn’t be because he’d given up the upper hand. Not this time.
~
He was caught up in the bustle of it, the river-like movement of boys down a grand staircase. Puck’s words attacked his thoughts, as much as he tried to suppress them for fear of his own frustration. for fear of realizing his own uselessness to the people that he called friend they still lingered, seeping under his skin like poison.
He couldn’t let himself get caught up in it. He had to find the Warblers. That was why he’d come, after all.
He started to reach out to grab the attention of the boy in front of him but his arm was jostled away as a different boy rushed past him, head ducked down and eyes focused on a gorgeous, vintage pocket watch.
“Excuse me?”
The boy with the pocket watch paused, looking away from it with a hint of annoyance, but the expression fled from his face when he met Kurt’s gaze. He inhaled sharply, his eyes flashing with something that stirred the contents of Kurt’s stomach.
“Sorry, I’m new here and I . . .”
The inhaled breath was let out slowly, as though the boy that had claimed it was reluctant to let it go. He scrutinized Kurt with a curious look on his face, tongue running along his teeth before he smiled widely and held out his hand.
“My name’s Blaine.”
~
“Excuse me, I was wondering if you could help me with something.”
The duo of boys sitting at a nearby table looked up when he spoke, their eyes taking in Kurt’s casual appearance and the bright smile on his face before determining that he seemed like someone at least mildly trustworthy. He was pleased by this and he pulled out an empty chair at their table, dropping down casually into it. He would have to play it by ear, have to be careful that none of this got back to Blaine before he was ready for it to.
“You guys wouldn’t happen to know someone named Blaine Anderson, would you?” he asked calmly, leaning back in his seat and taking a sip from his coffee. Just like he had been trained. Loose shoulders, legs stretched out before him, one hand lifting his cup to his lips, the other cast casually over his abdomen. Non-aggressive, giving the appearance that it would take a moment to collect himself in order to try anything.
One of the pair smiled happily at him, the bright whites of his teeth contrasting starkly with the beautiful ebony of his skin, like the keys of a piano. “You mean the Warbler lead? Sure we do!” he exclaimed excitedly, pausing momentarily to take in Kurt again. “How do you know him?”
Kurt swallowed in his surprise, trying not to let it show on his face. He was being careless, Blaine was. Far too careless and it set Kurt’s nerves on edge. Ten years wasn’t a long time. It was enough for people to remember what had happened and yet here he was again, using the same name, assuming the same role, his friends startling reminiscent of the old group of Warblers that had drawn Kurt in. Uncharacteristically careless and Kurt forced his unease not to infiltrate into the bones of his body.
Instead he smiled, taking another sip of his coffee before replying. “Cousins,” he said, letting the name roll of his name with an unmistakable, familial affection. “I’m actually trying to surprise him. Was going to sneak into his dorm and jump him outside his room after class,” he laughed. He tried to remember Finn, the way they’d fallen into their respective roles as brothers, as family. “Problem is, I’m not sure which dorm he lives in and I was hoping one of his friends would help me out.”
The boy with ebony skin frowned, casting a quick glance at his companion, who looked up briefly from his texting before returning to it. Kurt scrutinized the look carefully as he waited for his reply. “He . . . doesn’t live in the dorms.”
Kurt’s brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”
The boy with the cell phone finally set it down, glancing at Kurt in curiosity. “He doesn’t live in the dorms. He lives up in the old Anderson estate in New Albany.”
Kurt frowned, gazing between the two boys, trying to process the information, the why of it all. He pursed his lips finally, nodding before sliding his seat out slowly and standing. “Oh, okay . . . Funny, cousin says boarding school and you automatically assume dormitories,” he laughed, running a hand casually through his hair. “Thanks, guys.”
He finished off his coffee and, after a nod, eased himself between the various tables and, skirting around an older gentleman-teacher, maybe-as he left the room, making his way quickly back to his car.
The two boys exchanged glances, looking toward their headmaster as he followed Kurt with his gaze, hand lingering in the pocket of his suit trousers. He looked quickly at them, tilting his head in question after Kurt and pursing his lips briefly when they nodded in the affirmative. Having received his confirmation, he swept back down the hall, pulling a phone out of his pocket and quickly dialing a number.
“Hello?”
“It’s me.”
“Make it quick, Roger, I’m running late and I don’t have time for another long lecture about how I’m endangering the lives of everyone in town.”
Roger Saltzmann sighed, walking quickly past his secretary and locking himself in his office. “He’s here.”
There was a pause on the other end, a silence long and stretched thin, like butter spread over too much bread. They made Roger uneasy, long stretches of silence. Like they were simply laying the groundwork for explosions.
He was about to repeat himself, to clarify, when a lone name crackled though the receiver, heavy with surprise and relief and emotion. “Kurt?”
“Yes. He’s-”
“You’re sure it’s him?”
“Yes. He’s leaving the school now. He was asking a couple of my students about Anderson.”
“Shit.”
Roger frowned, sitting down in his plush, leather chair and tapping a few things on his keyboard to bring up security camera footage, following the two figures in question as they moved about his school. “I expect you’ll stop hindering my actions, then?”
“Excuse me?”
“Burt, I did what you asked. I let the Anderson creature be because you were convinced that if he was here again, your son would follow. I endangered the lives of my students on a whim because you asked it of me. But he’s here now, your son. So, I trust you’ll allow me to now do what has to be done.”
There was silence on the other end, nothing but the slow sound of breathing. The rumble of the engine that had sounded in the background had died, as though its driver had pulled over to the side of the road. “Give me until nightfall.”
“Burt, I swear-”
“Roger. Give me the rest of the day. That’s all I ask. The rest of the day, and the chance to get to my son before he does something he’s going to regret. Then you can do what you need to do.”
“Fine.”
~
“Mr. Hummel?”
“That’s me,” Burt grunted, not looking up from where he was buried in the machinery of the car he was working on, twisting his screwdriver with a practiced flick of his wrist. “What’s up?”
There was an amused chuckle and if Burt had looked briefly out of the corner of his eye, he would see the shiny tips of dress shoes approaching, moving easily over the oil-stained cement of his garage. “Need a hand?”
“You know what, yeah, if you could grab that carburetor for me . . .” Burt started, pulling back from the engine he was absorbed in to look at the person approaching him. As his eyes met the expensive wool overcoat, royal blue and well cared for, and moved up up to the checkered scarf and smiling, tan face, he felt his words die in his throat.
The boy he was looking at missed his expression as he turned to the box of engine parts near the car, golden gaze scanning them for the part in question. Burt felt himself stiffen, the blood in his veins dropping below freezing temperature and transforming into slush. His pulse quickened, trying to push life back into his limbs, his breaths coming quick and stuttered and forced, his eyes disbelieving.
All he could see as he stared at the back of the boy before him was that old video footage, the surveillance tapes from the hospital, playing across the rich blue fabric like a movie on a screen. He could hear a doctor’s words ringing through his head in an amplified whisper, booming almost louder than the rush of blood in his ears and the pounding of his heart, like it was about to give out again.
It couldn’t be.
He almost missed the moment the boy turned around with the carburetor in his hands, the quick movement that dropped it back in the box as he stepped forward with a concerned murmur of, “Mr. Hummel? Mr. Hummel, sir, are you okay? Mr. Hummel? You’re not . . . Shit, Kurt said you’d had a heart attack earlier this year, is this . . . Mr. Hummel-”
It was his son’s name, combined with the sudden press of a hand against his shoulder that shot life back into Burt’s limbs and he jumped back as though electrocuted, cursing as his head collided with the hood of the car, shooting a searing pain through his nerves.
“Fine, I’m fine,” he grunted, waving the boy away as he stepped forward again, concern etched into every one of his beautiful features, shining in his eyes. Burt was drawn to it, now that he was able to take a proper look and even as emotions swirled through his system he found himself succumbing to the numbing shock of surprise. The undeniable beauty of the boy before him.
The boy that hadn’t aged a day since the last time Burt had seen him, ten years ago.
“You know my son?” he asked gruffly, rubbing his head and wincing, every muscle in his body still tense and poised.
The boy flashed him another concerned look, something shining in his gaze as Burt pulled his hand away from his head to check for blood. “Umm . . . yes. Sorry, we haven’t been properly introduced yet, have we? I’m Blaine. Anderson,” he added as a slight afterthought, the corners of his lips curling up pleasantly as he extended a hand toward Burt.
Burt hesitated, eyes trained on the tan skin before grasping the hand carefully in his own, trying not to let his surprise at the warmth of it show. He pulled away a little too quickly. “He’s mentioned you.”
Blaine looked pleased at this, turning away from Burt to pick up the part he’d asked for once again, holding it out to the man helpfully.
Burt took it quickly, dropping back down under the hood and resuming his work, if only to have something to occupy himself with. “You know cars?” he blurted out, cursing silently the minute the words escaped his lips. He didn’t know why he said it, except for the fact that he could think of nothing else to say. What did one say in situations like these?
Just out of his line of sight, Blaine crossed his arms and chuckled, the sound of it warm, yet still chilling Burt down to his toes. “Sort of. I’ve always had a general interest in them. In their history. My dad didn’t so much, not like you. He . . .” Blaine laughed again and when Burt looked up at him his eyes were trained to the ceiling, as though deep in thought. “My dad was more interested in things like sports and hunting.” Burt inhaled sharply, his eyes widening. “Believed that he could make me more of a man if I was taught to kill. Until . . .” Blaine’s brow furrowed and he paused, as though he had realized the words that were coming out of his mouth, hints and pieces and history. He continued, like he’d figured that he had revealed too much to stop. “Well, until my sexuality turned out to be the least of his problems,” he finished with a bitter chuckle.
Burt swallowed heavily, the lump in his throat constricting and tight as he tried not to picture what had happened to the man in question. “You have a reason for coming to see me, son?” He was trying to be normal, but he could feel himself stuttering over the word ‘son,’ as though his body knew how unnatural it was for him to be using it.
Blaine blinked and his eyes lit up, something in the smile that formed on his face making Burt impossibly uneasy. “Yes, actually. I was hoping to talk to you about Kurt.”
~
Kurt saw it at the last minute, almost missing it as he tried to ignore the ringing of his phone. The truck speeding through the intersection. He swerved quickly, Impala jerking off the otherwise deserted road, just barely avoiding being clipped by the careless driver.
He forced his door open when he saw the truck driving off the side of the road just in front of him and he leapt out of his car, stalking toward the other one.
“Are you insane?” he yelled at the closed door as he approached, unable to see the driver through the tinted windows. “Are you trying to get someone killed?”
The door popped open and Kurt stopped dead in his tracks, finding himself face to face with his father.
Burt eyed him the way only a parent could, annoyance mixed with relief in his expression. “Nope. Just trying to get your attention, since you’re ignoring my calls.”
~
It was dark when Kurt got home for the weekend, the sky clouding with a hint of coming snow, despite the fact that it was almost March. He was surprised to see the lights off in his house when he pulled up, but as he entered the front hallway he caught a glimpse of a light coming from the kitchen and he grinned. Trust his dad to sneak into the kitchen for snacks when he was supposed to be resting and no one was home to monitor him.
He shed his coat quickly and, leaving his satchel and boots near the door, made his way swiftly and silently toward the kitchen, ready to chew his dad out for not taking his health seriously.
“You’re certain, Burt?”
Kurt stilled, the sound of voices slowing his movements.
“I’d know him anywhere, John,” Burt replied, the sound of his voice determined.
“Burt, the only time you’ve seen him was on grainy surveillance tapes and one blurry photo taken in the maternity ward.”
“It’s him, John, I’m telling you,” Burt asserted. In the hallway mirror, Kurt could see him with John Gibbins, one of his friends on the force. They were leaning over the island counter, shuffling through a series of papers spread out over its surface. “It was him.”
“Burt, you have to be absolutely certain of what you’re telling me here,” John muttered, his voice low and cautious as he leaned toward Burt to look at the images in his hands. “I can’t take any actions unless you are. I’m not going to send the full force of the council after an innocent kid.”
Burt sighed, rubbing his eyes tiredly. “John, you’re married. You know what it’s like to be married, to choose to be partnered with someone for the rest of your life. It’s more than a signature on a piece of paper and a couple of metallic rings. It’s a bond and it doesn’t get cut when you lose each other. I can still feel her, in my heart, in my gut, even with Carole, and I . . .” Burt paused, shaking his head and leaning away from the images, taking one grainy, black and white photograph and pushing it toward his companion. “It’s him. Looking exactly like he did in this picture. Exactly, John. It’s no coincidence, I’m telling you.”
Kurt watched the uniform-clad man pick up the photograph and stare at it, looking from its contents to Burt’s determined gaze and back again before setting it down. “Okay. I’ll make sure the right actions are taken,” he said finally. Burt sighed in relief, letting his head drop down between his shoulders at the words, looking up only when John murmured softly, “What are you going to do about Kurt?”
Kurt stiffened at the sound of his own name in the strange conversation, eyes trained on his father as the man looked up, his gaze pained. “I have to tell him the truth.”
“Are you sure that’s a good idea?”
“John, he . . . He’s friends with my son,” Burt countered, his voice laced with desperation. “He is friends with my son. Kurt even . . . I think Kurt even likes him as something more and I can’t hide it from him, I . . . I have to tell him.”
“Tell me what?” Kurt asked suddenly, stepping into the kitchen, eyes looking between the two men situated in it as they both reacted to his presence. “Hey, Officer Gibbins.”
“Evenin’, Kurt,” he received in response as John picked up his keys and walkie talkie from the counter. “I was just heading out.” He leaned toward Burt as he was passing, murmuring in an undertone, “Leave this to me, Burt. No matter how much you might want to, do not go after this kid yourself.”
“What’re you talking about, John?”
“You know what you were telling me just now, Burt? About your gut feeling about Elizabeth. You think I don’t know what that means? You think I don’t know the things that people will do to avenge their loved ones when they get the chance? I’m telling you, Burt, no matter how much you might want to act yourself, leave this to us. Kurt doesn’t deserve to lose another parent like that.”
Without another word, John pulled away and walked past Burt, patting Kurt lightly on the arm as he made his way out of the kitchen.
Kurt turned to watch him go, his mouth dry from nerves, watched until he disappeared into the darkness of the hallway before turning back to the kitchen. “Dad?” he murmured quietly, taking in the shape of his dad as he was bent over the counter, the curve of his back smooth under his rumpled T-shirt, his face buried in his hands. “Dad, what’s going on?”
Burt inhaled into his palms, raising his head and gesturing form the seat around the corner from him. “Sit down, son.”
“Dad, what’s going on?” Kurt insisted, approaching the island counter and standing to Burt’s right, staring at him intently. “Are you okay? This doesn’t have anything to do with your health or anything? Dad-” he stopped suddenly, his gaze falling from his father to the papers that were scattered over the marble of the counter. “Dad . . .” he repeated slowly, moving past the pile of photographs that the two men had been discussing and reaching instead for the nearest piece of paper with a familiar name on it. “Dad, these are . . . these are all of mom’s medical records . . . from when she was hospitalized . . .” he said slowly, staring blankly at the documents lying before him. “Dad, why are you looking at all this?”
Beside him, Burt took a deep breath, the inhale weary and oddly sad. “Sit down, Kurt,” he commanded again, age and exhaustion woven like silver threads into his words as they hung on the air.
Wordlessly, Kurt dropped down into the stool beside Burt, still staring in shock at the harsh stamp of black ink on white paper, stark letters typing out his mother’s name.
“Kurt, I’m sorry.”
Kurt looked up, his brow furrowing. “Why are you apologizing to me, dad?”
Burt let out a humorless chuckle, short and harsh and soundless. “I suppose I have a lot to apologize to you for, kiddo. The fact that I’ve lied to you for the past ten years. The fact that, if it were up to me, I’d continue to.”
“Dad, you’re scaring me,” Kurt whispered, dropping the piece of paper and finally allowing his gaze to stray to the remainder of the papers, scattered haphazardly before him. Burt could see the very instant when Kurt paid full attention to the photographs, the stills from hospital security cameras, grainy and blurry but still so, so clear if only one chose to look carefully at them. He watched the blood drain from his son’s face and the way his blue eyes widened in shock, his hand reaching to brush over the sheen of photograph paper. “Dad, what-”
“Kurt, I need to tell you something about your mother, and I need you to hear me out, no matter how unbelievable you might find it,” Burt said suddenly, laying a hand over Kurt’s wrist as he reached for the image. “Because you know me, kid. I wouldn’t tell you something outlandish unless I had no choice but to believe it. Hell, I wouldn’t tell you this unless I had no choice, but I have to keep you safe.” Kurt didn’t answer, his wide eyes trained on the figure in the photographs. “Kurt, what do you remember about when your mom died?”
“Just that . . .” Kurt murmured, slow and dazed as though he were in a trance, his eyes never leaving the photographs on which they were trained. “It was cancer . . . it was the tumor and there was no way to get it out and she . . . died, I don’t know-”
“That was the diagnosis,” Burt interrupted gently, his hand still keeping Kurt from reaching out to the papers he’d brought out after all this time. “They said there was next to no chance of her survival. But it wasn’t the cancer that killed her, Kurt.”
“Then how . . .” Kurt whispered, his gaze frozen, his body stiff.
“Blood loss.”
At this Kurt blinked, starting visibly as a tremor ran through his entire body and he looked at Burt properly for the first time since seeing Elizabeth’s hospitalization records laid out on the counter before him. “What do you mean, blood loss?”
“When they . . . when they found her body in the morning it . . . it was drained of blood, Kurt.”
Kurt didn’t move except to train his eyes back to those images, the ones that had been presented to Burt when he’d laughed off the notion ten years ago. The ones that had thrown his entire body into shock when the uniform-clad boy had wandered into his shop to talk to him about his son.
Kurt swallowed and Burt could see him, see him fighting his brain from putting the pieces together. Because if they fit, if it all came together in his head now, it would only serve to break his whole reality.
“Dad. This . . . this is Blaine,” he said finally, his voice low and wrecked from nerves, from shock and the unshed tears glistening in his eyes. “This is Blaine, why do you have-”
“Because that’s him, Kurt,” Burt said slowly, quietly as though the volume of his voice mattered in the relation of such delicate information. “That’s the vampire that killed your mother.”
~
“Let me go, dad,” Kurt demanded, trying to make his way around Burt, to get back to his car, but his father was unrelenting, anticipating his movements and stepping into them.
“Nice of you to call and say you were in town,” Burt countered casually, standing with his feet spread wide as he watched Kurt stop in their little dance and groan, running his hand through his hair messily as he started pacing.
“Dad, please, I’m sorry, I really am, but I can’t do this with you right now,” Kurt mumbled, his frustration fading into something impeccably sad that took Burt’s heart in a vice-like grip.
“Because it’s interfering with your obsessive vampire-killing spree?” Burt questioned in surprise, his eyes trained on the son he hadn’t seen in ten years. The one he was supposed to raise, but hadn’t even seen grow up. “Kurt, don’t you think this has gone on long enough?”
Kurt made a noncommittal noise, continuing to pace back and forth as though, as though there were a great battle going on inside of him, jerking him in two different directions. “I have to do this, dad. I’ve been going at it for too long to just walk away now.”
“Kurt,” Burt murmured, taking a step toward his son, his voice wrecked with desperation. His eyes were trained on Kurt’s face, on his cut, coiffed hair, mussed and ruined from the amount of times he’d unconsciously run his hands through it. His eyes, glittering with unparalleled strength and determination. The hard line of his jaw, the curved shape of his cheekbones. The several inches he had on the Kurt that Burt remembered. “Don’t do this. Walk away before you do something you’re going to regret.”
“You wanted this.”
“I . . . what?” Burt started, frowning at the strange little interruption.
Kurt laughed softly, eyes trained at the ground. “I heard it. John Gibbins expected it from you, didn’t he?” he asked, raising his eyes and fixing his father with a steely glare. “He warned you not to go after Blaine in some crazy plot of revenge. Didn’t want you getting yourself killed. Didn’t want me losing both my parents to a vampire attack. But you would have done it, wouldn’t you?” Kurt continued quietly, taking a small step toward his father and Burt was startled by the anxiety shining in Kurt’s eyes, the force with which he wished to compel Burt to see his reason. “Because you loved her and he ripped that away from you. Dad . . . you . . . you raised me to see everything through to the end. I can’t walk away from this, I can’t. If I just leave, it’s not going to stop. There’s going to be more death, and more violence and I’m sorry, I’m so, so sorry, but I can’t walk away from this. Not after all this time. Not when I’m so close.”
Burt didn’t answer, choosing simply to gaze sadly at his son. Kurt waited for some sort of response, eyes shining with determination mixed with strange little droplets of pain. Of the fight still going on within him. After a beat of silence, Kurt took a tentative step to his right, watching his father to see if he would try to intercept him again. When Burt did nothing but watch his son, Kurt stepped around him and walked back to the Impala, his shoulders hunched and his pace quick.
“How that fair, then, kid?”
Kurt froze at the door of the car, his hand curling hard over the door handle. “How is what fair?” he responded quietly.
“How come you don’t get to lose both your parents, but I have to lose my wife and my son?”
Kurt closed his eyes, his face contorting as though the words were causing him physical pain. His knuckles were white hot from his grip on the metal door handle.
He wrenched the door open quickly, refusing to look at Burt, to betray himself. “I’m sorry. I’ll be home tonight,” he muttered quickly before dropping into his seat and slamming the door shut.
~
“What is that? I’ve heard it before,” Kurt asked curiously, looking up from his reading where he was sprawled out on his stomach on Blaine’s bed.
Blaine’s fingers continued to strum out the familiar melody, but he glanced up at Kurt with a smile. “I hope so,” he replied with mock indignation. “It’s ‘Iris’ by the Goo Goo Dolls.”
Kurt rolled his eyes. “You forget that not everyone is as obsessed with Top 40 radio as you are, Blaine Anderson.”
Blaine made a face at him, pausing in his music-making to throw his guitar pick at Kurt’s head. Kurt let out an undignified squawk as the small piece of plastic hit him in the temple and he threw Blaine a dirty look as the latter laughed, continuing to strum gently with the backs of his nails, his soft singing voice filling the quiet space around them.
And I’d give up forever to touch you
‘Cause I know that you feel me somehow
You're the closest to heaven that I'll ever be
And I don't want to go home right now
Kurt smiled, about to go back to his book when he felt the heat of Blaine’s gaze trained on him as he sang. He could feel it roving over his body, slow and almost hungry. Could feel its presence lingering on the smooth line of Kurt’s neck, all the way down to the outline of his collarbone where it was visible, exposed by the deep V-neck of the Dalton T-shirt he was wearing.
He could feel the rush of blood to his face, the deep blush spreading over his cheekbones. The flash of Blaine’s gaze to it as he continued to sing, his voice growing lower and rougher the longer he looked.
And I don't want the world to see me
‘Cause I don't think that they'd understand
When everything's made to be broken
I just want you to know who I am.
~
The grass was soft under Kurt’s feet as he walked. He could see the lights of the Anderson manor before him as he made his way through the neighbor’s yards, his car parked a couple of blocks away so as not to attract more attention than he had to. He flicked from shadow to shadow, pausing near the gravel of the long, winding driveway. He crouched down, eyes scanning over the old house in careful scrutiny.
He didn’t know the layout of the house very well, having only been there once with Blaine over winter break. When Blaine had claimed that his parents were out and he wanted to show Kurt around the manor. Kurt could remember it like it had just happened the other day, his awe and excitement, eyes flying to old portraits and intricate wall designs, sloping ceilings and brightly lit chandeliers. And Blaine, strong, calm, secretly dangerous Blaine following him with his eyes, taking in every one of his emotions as it was etched across his face. With each artifact thrilling his blood, making it rush through his veins like down a waterfall, Blaine stared at him like he could hear it, like it pounded just as strongly through his eardrums and he hungered for it. With each high ceiling, forcing Kurt to throw his head back, Blaine’s eyes were draw to the movement of his throat, to the long line of muscle under his pale skin, the long silver chain that followed the cut of his shirt before disappearing under it, his eyes glittering desperately under the dim light all the while.
Kurt closed his eyes and shook his head, trying to clear his own thoughts out. This was not the time to think about it and instead he swore quietly under his breath, at the brightly lit house for making it harder to hide in the shadows, at himself for seeing Blaine in those moments, those brief flashes and never realizing, never suspecting.
He checked his supplies, the gun still tucked in the waistband of his jeans, two stakes hidden away in the pockets he’d sewn himself in the inner lining of his jacket. He carefully zipped his jacket up after determining everything was intact and walked slowly toward the brightly-lit house, his guard up and his eyes passing from one illuminated window to the next, trying to discern movement, but the house was quiet and he couldn’t see anything stirring within. He swallowed at the fact, nothing in it allowing him to take his guard down, not as his boots crunched quietly as he made his way toward the front door, not when he reached it and found it open. He should have long ago learned not to concern himself with that detail; Blaine never locked his doors. His powers were his own best security system, but the fact never failed to inject uneasiness into Kurt. Like maybe this time the door was open because he was anticipated.
He remained on the doorstep quietly, out of sight of any of the windows, his hand reaching for his gun as he cautiously eased the door open, movements poised for that tell-tale creak of a door that would resound through horror movies.
But the door moved soundlessly on its hinges, swinging open and revealing a dimly lit entryway. Kurt could feel his stomach clenching with memory and he leaned against the door frame, body bending at the waist as he breathed, his stomach twisting around its empty contents and he fought to keep the bile from rising up this throat. He squeezed his eyes shut, forcing steadiness into his inhales and when he opened them again they were shining with a steely light, burning with determination.
The floors were covered with a plush carpet, rich and old and spread over the dark wooden floors. Kurt walked carefully on it, allowing his boots to sink into it as it absorbed the sound of his movements. The house was quiet, as though it were slumbering and Kurt would have almost succumbed to the instinct that it was empty, if not for the brightly lit rooms branching off from the main hallway and the tiny, barely discernible sound of music playing deep within it.
The only dark room that he passed the staircase, his shoulder pressed against the wall, was some sort of study, lit only by the bright white glow of a laptop screen. Kurt didn’t pause to look at it, too focused on following the music to the object of his hunt to concern himself with Blaine’s internet browsing history.
The silence concerned him as he pressed his back against the wall beneath the staircase, eyes trailing up briefly but again seeing nothing. When the hallway ended he paused, taking a deep breath and flexing his fingers around the weapon before tightening his grip and stepping around the corner, raising the weapon against the room, his jaw stiff and his eyes blazing, roving over the details of the room as quickly as he could.
The room before him was empty, just as the rest of the house appeared to be. The long, mahogany dining room table stretched out long before him, just as it always had, its spotless wood sparkling under the light that flickered from the lit candles spaced at even intervals along its length. Kurt inhaled, his throat clenching at the intricately arranged place settings, table looking as though it were set for a feast. Near its head stood a drink cart, lined with gorgeously carved crystal bottles two holding a bright amber liquid and one filled with something deep and blood red.
Every muscle in Kurt’s body froze at the sight of it, stiffening as though petrified and despite everything, despite every little care he’d put into planning this, into making sure it worked, he couldn’t move, the thick liquid captivating his very soul.
He slowly became aware that the music that was playing wasn’t coming from that old gramophone but from a small iPod dock sitting next to it. When the words of the song, playing so, so quietly, like it had been stalking him, taking him as its prey and drawing him in out of curiosity, only to betray him.
And you can't fight the tears that ain't coming
Or the moment of truth in your lies
When everything feels like the movies
Yeah, you'd bleed just to know you're alive
There was a breeze against the back of his neck, a hot swirl of air that chilled him to the core, raising goose bumps, whispering so close that it was almost as though it were coming from an entity within Kurt.
“Oh, there you are.”
~
PART 2