Gryff Gift Exchange: for eowyn_rain
Hi bb! Happy holidays! I always seem to end up making gifts for you, so I hope you're not bored of me yet! As always, I had to go with Klaine because, really, how could I not? But I decided to mix it up a bit this time and write you a Glee/SPN fic. It doesn't really focus much on the Glee aspect, or the SPN aspect, but it is Klaine as hunters! At the bottom of the fic, I've linked to my headcanon about SPN/Glee crossovers, so you can clear up anything that doesn't make sense to you (like how in the hell they became hunters).
You might have seen me on twitter bitching about having to write a fluff fic and how much I suck at it. This is why. I hope you don't mind the little bit of angst I've put in, but I made sure to write fluff in too. I have on good authority that it's not the most miserable thing I've ever written :p
I also made a mix, kind of to accompany this, but mostly I just wanted an excuse to make a hunters!klaine mix. That's at the bottom too! Anyway. I've rambled enough. Enjoy, and happy holidays, bb! ♥ I've really enjoyed gifting for you (again).
Title: Surrender.
Fandom: Glee/SPN
Pairing: Klaine
Summary: Five things Kurt tasted on Blaine's lips.
One.
The first time they kiss, in the dark of Kurt’s jeep, at the side of a highway, they’re running on fumes and cheap coffee from the rest stop thirty minutes behind them.
The kiss wasn’t planned, but it wasn’t entirely out of the blue. Something had fizzled and danced between them for months now, since the first shake of the hands in Dalton, Massachusetts. They’d both ignored it at first because that’s what hunters did.
And then Blaine stayed, after the case wrapped, became a permanent fixture of the passenger seat. The car got cleaner, because now Kurt had someone to pass polystyrene cups and twinkie wrappers to and the roads got less boring and the something kept on burning.
Kurt had dreamed of a kiss in Spring, under the sun, their skin warmed and freckling. Blaine had dreamed of a confession in the warmth of a cafe, hands held under the table.
Instead they got Kurt’s hands clenched around the steering wheel until he thought he might scream, a sudden jerk towards the hard shoulder and them both leaning across the gear stick and the hand brake, seatbelts pulling at their shoulders, their mouths awkwardly pressed together, Blaine’s hands cupped around Kurt’s jaw.
Blaine tasted of coffee. Coffee that had been so awful from the cup, now so much sweeter on Blaine’s lips.
When they pull apart, a flush is high on Kurt’s cheeks and Blaine is grinning inanely. His hand rests on Kurt’s thigh and stays there as they gun down the highway, headed for Clayton, Lousiana and a nest of vampires.
The smell of coffee lingers.
Two.
It’s 2:53 AM, they’re in Boise, Idaho and Blaine’s been missing for two hours.
In theory, Kurt knows where he’s gone. When he shuts his eyes, he can see Blaine, slumped in a dark corner, empty glasses on the table around him because the bartender can tell he’s not one to be disturbed, thinking over everything they should have done, everything they didn’t do.
In practice, he has no clue where Blaine is, and Kurt’s left in a motel room, by himself, with no alcohol to be had. The TV isn’t working and all he has for company are the screams of the little girl they let get killed ringing in his ears.
They fucked up, he knows this. It’ll plague him for the rest of his life. But right now, he wishes he could just forget, and that Blaine was there, and they could watch infomercials and, and, and, eat stale donuts from the gas station down the street.
Anything, anything but this.
It’s 3:34 AM, and Kurt hears the purr of an engine he knows is the Jeep.
It’s 3:52 AM by the time Blaine makes his way across the parking lot, across the ten metre stretch of asphalt to the door painted with the number 3. Kurt is standing by the door, because it doesn’t feel right to be languishing on the bed.
“Blaine,” he breathes, and ignores the red rims of Blaine’s eyes as he pulls him into a hug, into a desperate kiss. Their teeth clash and Blaine’s shaking in his arms, his kiss tasting of cigarettes and, surprisingly, not alcohol. “You’ve been smoking,” Kurt murmurs, a hand threading through Blaine’s curls. His head rests against Kurt’s shoulder, back bent to accommodate the position. His body shudders under Kurt’s palms - he’s holding back tears, lung wrenching sobs.
“They wouldn’t sell me alcohol.” Blaine’s lips are pressed against Kurt’s shirt. “I forgot my ID.”
The door’s still open a crack, the February air sneaking in, wrapping tendrils around Kurt’s bare arms. They shuffle together, Blaine still pressed so close, so Kurt can reach over his shoulder to shut it with a snick.
They’re surrounded by the un-silence of night time. There’s a faint hum from the power sockets in the room. Outside, an owl coos, the sound traveling through the thin panes of glass. In the room next door, someone snores a little too loudly.
Blaine tries not to drown, and clenches his fists in Kurt’s shirt.
“Kurt,” he says, and his voice is so broken, so hurt, never like this, never before, that Kurt’s breath catches in his throat.
“Shhh.” Kurt’s pressing kisses to Blaine’s face, barely staying for a second on his forehead before twisting for his cheek, his nose, his lips, sweat and tobacco, smoke and salt. He breathes for the both of them, in, out, in out, as he moves towards the bed, Blaine still clinging, holding.
He lets go when the back of his knees hit the mattress, just falls for a second, curls up on his side, knees tucked up tight. He’s still as Kurt unlaces his boots, leaves them by the end of the bed. His chest hitches every other breath. Kurt pulls the blankets up over him, tucks them tight around Blaine’s chin. Another quick kiss, pressed to his cheek, a dry rasp of soft lips against stubble before Blaine’s eyes close. It’s a certain movement, one moment they’re open, the next they’re tightly shut, the eyelids wrinkled and creased.
“Get some sleep.” The words are nearly inaudible, barely more than a breathe. Kurt sits in the chair by the window, watches as Blaine squirms beneath the blankets. When one hand makes it’s way free, knuckles clenched so tight they’re white against the bone releasing, palm spread wide now, he lifts himself, lifts the chair and makes his way to the side of the bed.
They sleep, Blaine in the bed, Kurt in the chair. Their hands will cramp together, sometime in the night. Kurt will bitch for three days about his neck. Tomorrow, they’ll remember the girl in distant memories, dull the pain the way every hunter learns to and never forget.
Three.
They’ve been hunting together for two years before Blaine has had enough. They’ve just wrapped a case that left Kurt needing stitches and Blaine’s wrist in a cast and he has had enough.
“We’re taking a vacation,” he says, kicking at his duffel bag. Kurt looks up from his laptop, raises an eyebrow and doesn’t say anything. “California. My parents have a house there. We can borrow it.”
“Whatever you say,” Kurt says, and starts looking for hunts in California.
~*~
That doesn’t go quite as planned, though. They arrive at Blaine’s parent’s house. Kurt takes in the views, the steps down onto the beach, straight into the endless sea, if he wanted. The house sprawls, rooms connected by nothing more than whimsy, each room double the size of the motel rooms they’ve been sleeping in for so long. Kurt claims a bedroom just for his stuff, another for when Blaine gets annoying, and one for the both of them. Blaine just smiles and hides Kurt’s laptop.
~*~
“This is nice,” Kurt murmurs, rolling onto his side to face Blaine. The sound of the waves crash and overhead, a gull calls. Blaine smiles, grinning up at Kurt in a way that’s more blinding than the sun. His nose is red and his shoulders freckled. Kurt’s still as pale as the day they arrived, slathered in lotion in a desperate desire not to peel.
“I said we needed a vacation,” Blaine says, and then he’s pulling Kurt down, pulling him down into a soft kiss. Blaine’s lips are cold, artificial strawberry flavouring from the popsicle he’d just eaten making them sticky. His hand rests on the back of Kurt’s neck, fingers creeping into his hair. Kurt’s arms frame his head, but Blaine wouldn’t mind if Kurt fell on him.
They pull apart when Kurt’s back starts to feel warm. Kurt licks at his lips and they taste of strawberry.
Four.
Kurt doesn’t remember much from the two worst days of his life. The first, when Burt died, the only thing he could remember clearly, the only thing that wasn’t a blur tinged with pain hurt upset terror was the music playing from the radio in Burt’s pick up truck. The twang of some miserable country song that Kurt couldn’t name if his life depended on it.
The second, when Blaine had let out that strangled, cut off scream like he didn’t want Kurt to hear, was the taste of blood on his lips.
Later, at the hospital, when every thing’s a little clearer and he’s jittering about on too many crappy coffees, he finds four little crescent cuts on Blaine’s hands where he’d held on too tightly and suddenly, he remembers that taste of blood again, the metallic, salty edge to it.
It’s a struggle to get to the bathroom before he pukes.
He gets Blaine transferred to a hospital in Lima, because even he can admit that more than anything, he needs someone to keep an eye on him right now. He rents a little apartment from someone he vaguely remembers going to high school with, someone who remembers him clear as if it was yesterday, because, Kurt guesses, their lives have been pretty simple and easy and good and not full of moments that take precedence and give them nightmares every night.
He pretends he remembers them, and they halve the rent for him once they find out why he’s home.
It’s four walls and a bathroom that’s so small he can touch both sides at once, but it’s the first place that’s felt like home in a long time.
He waits for Blaine to wake up, and the nurses let him stay long past visiting hours. He wonders if it’s because he looks like he should be in the hospital too. He knows what he looks like, he has a mirror, but he can’t find it in himself to care.
He loses ten pounds and hates the feel of his ribs under his hands when he’s getting dressed. He doesn’t take his shirt off if he can help it, because now he can see the awkward angle on three of them from a bad break he’d worked through.
When Blaine wakes up, he frowns and asks if Kurt’s feeling okay, and Kurt smothers the memory of blood when he kisses Blaine, focuses on the musty dryness of Blaine’s mouth and focuses on the croaking laughter.
It’s another two weeks before Blaine’s released, and Kurt forgets to worry about how they’re going to pay the hospital bills. A week later, he finds out Carole’s already taken care of it, and he lets her hold him while he cries.
Blaine calls the apartment cute, doesn’t even comment on the almost disgusting smell and keeps the windows open even though it’s winter.
Kurt cooks every night. While Blaine was in the hospital, he’d lived off cereal and milk that was a little lumpy, a little bit funky smelling. Carole stopped by every day with take away and groceries and cleared them away the next day because they’d just sat on the counter where she’d left them.
The day Blaine’s released, Kurt goes grocery shopping with her, cooks chicken wrapped in bacon and uses too much garlic, just the way Blaine likes, and smothered it all in cheese sauce, even though he’d stopped eating it when he was thirteen, just because he doesn’t think that he can deal with tomato just yet.
“Do you ever think,” he says one day, choking down a sip of beer and shivering under his jacket because Blaine still won’t let him close the windows. “We should retire?”
“Yeah,” Blaine says, legs crossed on the coffee table, eyes focused on the TV that shows fuzzy snow more than it does shows. “My hair’s going grey.”
Five.
They set up shop in Ohio. Close enough that Kurt can see Finn and Jane and his nieces and nephews every week, close enough even that they can help Carole out with groceries or things around the house if she needs them, but not so close that anything that comes their way can get to Kurt’s family too.
They buy a house with legal money, stuff that’s been fermenting in Blaine’s bank account since he was twenty-one, a house with a wrap around porch and a basement for all their guns and books and big barrels they fill with salt, because hunters never truly retire. They salt the windows and lips above the doors, because there’s no point pretending that the things out there will realize that they’ve settled down now.
Two days a week, they drive down to Carole’s place. Blaine watches as Kurt plays with Andrew - Finn’s youngest son, all pale skin and bird like hands and wonders if Kurt recognizes himself in the china wide eyes.
They bring home pies and cakes and cookies and eat them after every meal until the next time they head down. The leftovers go to their closest neighbour - Betsy, a five minute walk away, but she’s on her own, so they don’t mind checking in on her and climbing up on her roof, patching up holes and fixing that creak on her porch.
They get a dog, a mutt with mismatched ears from the shelter. They call him Chupacabra, because Blaine thinks it’s funny, but mostly they call him Dog. They mean for him to sleep outside, but every night, he seems to end up at the foot of their bed, head hanging over the edge and keeping Kurt’s feet warm. His circulation had never been the same since he screwed up both knees on a hunt.
It’s slow going, and boring, and they get normal jobs. Kurt finds work at a garage, gets Finn to be his reference though he hasn’t worked a day at Hummel Tire And Lube since he was sixteen, but nobody can tell the difference and he fits in there, anyway, joining in with the off colour jokes and downing whiskey like the best of them. They’re easier to get along with than hunters, Kurt finds, more trusting, less likely to shoot you if they think you’re even slightly suspicious.
Blaine finds work at the elementary school, nothing great, just helping out in the office and the library and the corridors and anywhere they need him, but the kids love him, because he brings in cookies and has a cool car and a cute dog, and he loves them back because they’re loud and playful and okay, sometimes they pull at his hair a little too hard, but it’s almost like having kids himself.
It’s regular and Kurt never imagined his life going this way, but at least they’re alive. Scarred to hell and back, and they both get strange looks sometimes, with the way they react to sudden movements and loud noises and the state of their forearms when they roll up their shirt sleeves but neither of them mind too much. Kurt gets those looks when he gets control of the radio in the garage and plays Madonna and Lady Gaga and Broadway’s greatest hits, the volume dialled all the way up to 11, and Blaine gets them too when he fights Kurt’s attempts to dress him and wears his ugliest bow tie and doesn’t wear socks with his shoes.
They have dinner with friends, drinks at the bar with colleagues and their guest room is always available for any hunter who needs a place to stay, their basement library open to anyone who’s got something they can’t put a name to and sometimes, when there’s a small one close by, they take hunts and come back bruised and bloody to their little house with the wrap around porch.
The biggest change, they both think it, but they never say it out loud, because they can see the raised eyebrows and the stifled laughter already, is that when they kiss, it tastes like forever.
fin
My headcanon can be found here. Sorry for the rambling. I have a lot of feelings, okay?
On A Lonely Road; a hunters mix
a mix about love, and falling, about traveling, and the worst job in the world, a mix about being young forever because you’re not ready to die, about appreciating the little things because they’re all you have left, about life and just how shitty it can get. a mix about a different sort of happiness.
tracklisting|download
♥
You might have seen me on twitter bitching about having to write a fluff fic and how much I suck at it. This is why. I hope you don't mind the little bit of angst I've put in, but I made sure to write fluff in too. I have on good authority that it's not the most miserable thing I've ever written :p
I also made a mix, kind of to accompany this, but mostly I just wanted an excuse to make a hunters!klaine mix. That's at the bottom too! Anyway. I've rambled enough. Enjoy, and happy holidays, bb! ♥ I've really enjoyed gifting for you (again).
Title: Surrender.
Fandom: Glee/SPN
Pairing: Klaine
Summary: Five things Kurt tasted on Blaine's lips.
One.
The first time they kiss, in the dark of Kurt’s jeep, at the side of a highway, they’re running on fumes and cheap coffee from the rest stop thirty minutes behind them.
The kiss wasn’t planned, but it wasn’t entirely out of the blue. Something had fizzled and danced between them for months now, since the first shake of the hands in Dalton, Massachusetts. They’d both ignored it at first because that’s what hunters did.
And then Blaine stayed, after the case wrapped, became a permanent fixture of the passenger seat. The car got cleaner, because now Kurt had someone to pass polystyrene cups and twinkie wrappers to and the roads got less boring and the something kept on burning.
Kurt had dreamed of a kiss in Spring, under the sun, their skin warmed and freckling. Blaine had dreamed of a confession in the warmth of a cafe, hands held under the table.
Instead they got Kurt’s hands clenched around the steering wheel until he thought he might scream, a sudden jerk towards the hard shoulder and them both leaning across the gear stick and the hand brake, seatbelts pulling at their shoulders, their mouths awkwardly pressed together, Blaine’s hands cupped around Kurt’s jaw.
Blaine tasted of coffee. Coffee that had been so awful from the cup, now so much sweeter on Blaine’s lips.
When they pull apart, a flush is high on Kurt’s cheeks and Blaine is grinning inanely. His hand rests on Kurt’s thigh and stays there as they gun down the highway, headed for Clayton, Lousiana and a nest of vampires.
The smell of coffee lingers.
Two.
It’s 2:53 AM, they’re in Boise, Idaho and Blaine’s been missing for two hours.
In theory, Kurt knows where he’s gone. When he shuts his eyes, he can see Blaine, slumped in a dark corner, empty glasses on the table around him because the bartender can tell he’s not one to be disturbed, thinking over everything they should have done, everything they didn’t do.
In practice, he has no clue where Blaine is, and Kurt’s left in a motel room, by himself, with no alcohol to be had. The TV isn’t working and all he has for company are the screams of the little girl they let get killed ringing in his ears.
They fucked up, he knows this. It’ll plague him for the rest of his life. But right now, he wishes he could just forget, and that Blaine was there, and they could watch infomercials and, and, and, eat stale donuts from the gas station down the street.
Anything, anything but this.
It’s 3:34 AM, and Kurt hears the purr of an engine he knows is the Jeep.
It’s 3:52 AM by the time Blaine makes his way across the parking lot, across the ten metre stretch of asphalt to the door painted with the number 3. Kurt is standing by the door, because it doesn’t feel right to be languishing on the bed.
“Blaine,” he breathes, and ignores the red rims of Blaine’s eyes as he pulls him into a hug, into a desperate kiss. Their teeth clash and Blaine’s shaking in his arms, his kiss tasting of cigarettes and, surprisingly, not alcohol. “You’ve been smoking,” Kurt murmurs, a hand threading through Blaine’s curls. His head rests against Kurt’s shoulder, back bent to accommodate the position. His body shudders under Kurt’s palms - he’s holding back tears, lung wrenching sobs.
“They wouldn’t sell me alcohol.” Blaine’s lips are pressed against Kurt’s shirt. “I forgot my ID.”
The door’s still open a crack, the February air sneaking in, wrapping tendrils around Kurt’s bare arms. They shuffle together, Blaine still pressed so close, so Kurt can reach over his shoulder to shut it with a snick.
They’re surrounded by the un-silence of night time. There’s a faint hum from the power sockets in the room. Outside, an owl coos, the sound traveling through the thin panes of glass. In the room next door, someone snores a little too loudly.
Blaine tries not to drown, and clenches his fists in Kurt’s shirt.
“Kurt,” he says, and his voice is so broken, so hurt, never like this, never before, that Kurt’s breath catches in his throat.
“Shhh.” Kurt’s pressing kisses to Blaine’s face, barely staying for a second on his forehead before twisting for his cheek, his nose, his lips, sweat and tobacco, smoke and salt. He breathes for the both of them, in, out, in out, as he moves towards the bed, Blaine still clinging, holding.
He lets go when the back of his knees hit the mattress, just falls for a second, curls up on his side, knees tucked up tight. He’s still as Kurt unlaces his boots, leaves them by the end of the bed. His chest hitches every other breath. Kurt pulls the blankets up over him, tucks them tight around Blaine’s chin. Another quick kiss, pressed to his cheek, a dry rasp of soft lips against stubble before Blaine’s eyes close. It’s a certain movement, one moment they’re open, the next they’re tightly shut, the eyelids wrinkled and creased.
“Get some sleep.” The words are nearly inaudible, barely more than a breathe. Kurt sits in the chair by the window, watches as Blaine squirms beneath the blankets. When one hand makes it’s way free, knuckles clenched so tight they’re white against the bone releasing, palm spread wide now, he lifts himself, lifts the chair and makes his way to the side of the bed.
They sleep, Blaine in the bed, Kurt in the chair. Their hands will cramp together, sometime in the night. Kurt will bitch for three days about his neck. Tomorrow, they’ll remember the girl in distant memories, dull the pain the way every hunter learns to and never forget.
Three.
They’ve been hunting together for two years before Blaine has had enough. They’ve just wrapped a case that left Kurt needing stitches and Blaine’s wrist in a cast and he has had enough.
“We’re taking a vacation,” he says, kicking at his duffel bag. Kurt looks up from his laptop, raises an eyebrow and doesn’t say anything. “California. My parents have a house there. We can borrow it.”
“Whatever you say,” Kurt says, and starts looking for hunts in California.
~*~
That doesn’t go quite as planned, though. They arrive at Blaine’s parent’s house. Kurt takes in the views, the steps down onto the beach, straight into the endless sea, if he wanted. The house sprawls, rooms connected by nothing more than whimsy, each room double the size of the motel rooms they’ve been sleeping in for so long. Kurt claims a bedroom just for his stuff, another for when Blaine gets annoying, and one for the both of them. Blaine just smiles and hides Kurt’s laptop.
~*~
“This is nice,” Kurt murmurs, rolling onto his side to face Blaine. The sound of the waves crash and overhead, a gull calls. Blaine smiles, grinning up at Kurt in a way that’s more blinding than the sun. His nose is red and his shoulders freckled. Kurt’s still as pale as the day they arrived, slathered in lotion in a desperate desire not to peel.
“I said we needed a vacation,” Blaine says, and then he’s pulling Kurt down, pulling him down into a soft kiss. Blaine’s lips are cold, artificial strawberry flavouring from the popsicle he’d just eaten making them sticky. His hand rests on the back of Kurt’s neck, fingers creeping into his hair. Kurt’s arms frame his head, but Blaine wouldn’t mind if Kurt fell on him.
They pull apart when Kurt’s back starts to feel warm. Kurt licks at his lips and they taste of strawberry.
Four.
Kurt doesn’t remember much from the two worst days of his life. The first, when Burt died, the only thing he could remember clearly, the only thing that wasn’t a blur tinged with pain hurt upset terror was the music playing from the radio in Burt’s pick up truck. The twang of some miserable country song that Kurt couldn’t name if his life depended on it.
The second, when Blaine had let out that strangled, cut off scream like he didn’t want Kurt to hear, was the taste of blood on his lips.
Later, at the hospital, when every thing’s a little clearer and he’s jittering about on too many crappy coffees, he finds four little crescent cuts on Blaine’s hands where he’d held on too tightly and suddenly, he remembers that taste of blood again, the metallic, salty edge to it.
It’s a struggle to get to the bathroom before he pukes.
He gets Blaine transferred to a hospital in Lima, because even he can admit that more than anything, he needs someone to keep an eye on him right now. He rents a little apartment from someone he vaguely remembers going to high school with, someone who remembers him clear as if it was yesterday, because, Kurt guesses, their lives have been pretty simple and easy and good and not full of moments that take precedence and give them nightmares every night.
He pretends he remembers them, and they halve the rent for him once they find out why he’s home.
It’s four walls and a bathroom that’s so small he can touch both sides at once, but it’s the first place that’s felt like home in a long time.
He waits for Blaine to wake up, and the nurses let him stay long past visiting hours. He wonders if it’s because he looks like he should be in the hospital too. He knows what he looks like, he has a mirror, but he can’t find it in himself to care.
He loses ten pounds and hates the feel of his ribs under his hands when he’s getting dressed. He doesn’t take his shirt off if he can help it, because now he can see the awkward angle on three of them from a bad break he’d worked through.
When Blaine wakes up, he frowns and asks if Kurt’s feeling okay, and Kurt smothers the memory of blood when he kisses Blaine, focuses on the musty dryness of Blaine’s mouth and focuses on the croaking laughter.
It’s another two weeks before Blaine’s released, and Kurt forgets to worry about how they’re going to pay the hospital bills. A week later, he finds out Carole’s already taken care of it, and he lets her hold him while he cries.
Blaine calls the apartment cute, doesn’t even comment on the almost disgusting smell and keeps the windows open even though it’s winter.
Kurt cooks every night. While Blaine was in the hospital, he’d lived off cereal and milk that was a little lumpy, a little bit funky smelling. Carole stopped by every day with take away and groceries and cleared them away the next day because they’d just sat on the counter where she’d left them.
The day Blaine’s released, Kurt goes grocery shopping with her, cooks chicken wrapped in bacon and uses too much garlic, just the way Blaine likes, and smothered it all in cheese sauce, even though he’d stopped eating it when he was thirteen, just because he doesn’t think that he can deal with tomato just yet.
“Do you ever think,” he says one day, choking down a sip of beer and shivering under his jacket because Blaine still won’t let him close the windows. “We should retire?”
“Yeah,” Blaine says, legs crossed on the coffee table, eyes focused on the TV that shows fuzzy snow more than it does shows. “My hair’s going grey.”
Five.
They set up shop in Ohio. Close enough that Kurt can see Finn and Jane and his nieces and nephews every week, close enough even that they can help Carole out with groceries or things around the house if she needs them, but not so close that anything that comes their way can get to Kurt’s family too.
They buy a house with legal money, stuff that’s been fermenting in Blaine’s bank account since he was twenty-one, a house with a wrap around porch and a basement for all their guns and books and big barrels they fill with salt, because hunters never truly retire. They salt the windows and lips above the doors, because there’s no point pretending that the things out there will realize that they’ve settled down now.
Two days a week, they drive down to Carole’s place. Blaine watches as Kurt plays with Andrew - Finn’s youngest son, all pale skin and bird like hands and wonders if Kurt recognizes himself in the china wide eyes.
They bring home pies and cakes and cookies and eat them after every meal until the next time they head down. The leftovers go to their closest neighbour - Betsy, a five minute walk away, but she’s on her own, so they don’t mind checking in on her and climbing up on her roof, patching up holes and fixing that creak on her porch.
They get a dog, a mutt with mismatched ears from the shelter. They call him Chupacabra, because Blaine thinks it’s funny, but mostly they call him Dog. They mean for him to sleep outside, but every night, he seems to end up at the foot of their bed, head hanging over the edge and keeping Kurt’s feet warm. His circulation had never been the same since he screwed up both knees on a hunt.
It’s slow going, and boring, and they get normal jobs. Kurt finds work at a garage, gets Finn to be his reference though he hasn’t worked a day at Hummel Tire And Lube since he was sixteen, but nobody can tell the difference and he fits in there, anyway, joining in with the off colour jokes and downing whiskey like the best of them. They’re easier to get along with than hunters, Kurt finds, more trusting, less likely to shoot you if they think you’re even slightly suspicious.
Blaine finds work at the elementary school, nothing great, just helping out in the office and the library and the corridors and anywhere they need him, but the kids love him, because he brings in cookies and has a cool car and a cute dog, and he loves them back because they’re loud and playful and okay, sometimes they pull at his hair a little too hard, but it’s almost like having kids himself.
It’s regular and Kurt never imagined his life going this way, but at least they’re alive. Scarred to hell and back, and they both get strange looks sometimes, with the way they react to sudden movements and loud noises and the state of their forearms when they roll up their shirt sleeves but neither of them mind too much. Kurt gets those looks when he gets control of the radio in the garage and plays Madonna and Lady Gaga and Broadway’s greatest hits, the volume dialled all the way up to 11, and Blaine gets them too when he fights Kurt’s attempts to dress him and wears his ugliest bow tie and doesn’t wear socks with his shoes.
They have dinner with friends, drinks at the bar with colleagues and their guest room is always available for any hunter who needs a place to stay, their basement library open to anyone who’s got something they can’t put a name to and sometimes, when there’s a small one close by, they take hunts and come back bruised and bloody to their little house with the wrap around porch.
The biggest change, they both think it, but they never say it out loud, because they can see the raised eyebrows and the stifled laughter already, is that when they kiss, it tastes like forever.
fin
My headcanon can be found here. Sorry for the rambling. I have a lot of feelings, okay?
On A Lonely Road; a hunters mix
a mix about love, and falling, about traveling, and the worst job in the world, a mix about being young forever because you’re not ready to die, about appreciating the little things because they’re all you have left, about life and just how shitty it can get. a mix about a different sort of happiness.
tracklisting|download
♥