Because it had happened. He hadn't dreamt it.  Which meant that he hadn't dreamt up the more nightmarish events of the past thirty-six hours either, but he couldn't really bring himself to think about it just then, because Blaine.

He and Blaine, they had happened. All the time and energy and resolve he had put into convincing himself that he was over Blaine, that he'd left all those unrealistic and unrequited feelings behind in college, had crumbled on contact when Blaine had confessed his love to him.

Because who was Kurt fooling anyway? Not Trent. Not his father, when he had been alive. Not Dave.

Kurt couldn't fight a slightly malicious smile. He wondered what Dave would do if he could see them right now. He couldn't decide if Dave would be more likely to beat the crap out of Kurt or try and worm his way into a threesome.

Either way, it wouldn't change a thing. Because Blaine was Kurt's and Kurt's was Blaine's. And nothing short of a prison cell on death row could take Blaine from him now.

Kurt tightened his arms around Blaine. He hadn't wanted to go to prison before, and he certainly hadn't wanted to get executed, but now it was even more than a desire for life and freedom. Because now, life and freedom meant life and freedom with Blaine. A new life with his best friend by his side had softened the blow of all he was leaving behind, but now–

Kurt couldn't lose Blaine now. He simply couldn't.

Blaine gave a soft murmur beside him, and Kurt smiled, nuzzling into his neck and kissing soft across his clavicles and Adam’s apple and up to the place where his stubble began in earnest. He brushed his lips across the sandpapery skin, and Blaine's throat beginning to vibrate with giggles.

“Hey! That tickles!” He protested, voice rough with sleep, but made no move to stop Kurt's ministrations.

“Good morning,” Kurt mumbled against Blaine's jaw, as he continued kissing upward until he reached Blaine's lips.

“Good morning,” Blaine said, smiling sleepily up at Kurt before lifting his head to meet him halfway.

They kissed lazily, morning breath be damned, and Kurt couldn't get over how giggly and loopy Blaine seemed, smiling so hard his face was in danger of breaking. When Blaine finally propped himself up on an elbow beside him, Kurt burst into delighted laughter.

“Oh my god, Blaine, your hair,” Kurt laughed, running a hand through his wild mess of bushy curls.

“Hmmm,” Blaine agreed, dopey smile in place. “Guess it got messed up.”  Kurt had absolutely never seen Blaine this relaxed about his hair before.

“I like it,” Kurt said, burying his fingers in the debauched mess.

“I like you,” Blaine replied, after dipping down to kiss Kurt firmly. “God, it's like I finally know what all the fuss is about now. It's just...I didn't know it could be like this, you know? You...Kurt, I just...”

“You finally got laid properly?” Kurt interjected with a raised eyebrow, feeling very satisfied with his prognosis indeed.

Blaine swatted his chest playfully. “Oh, don't be so smug. I might not actually be the best you ever had, but I do seem to recall–”

“Blaine.”

“Yeah?”

“You're the best I've ever had. Even in a post-coital haze, I only speak the truth.”

“I love you,” Blaine murmured, leaning in to kiss Kurt again, his hand running up and down the side of Kurt's bare waist and hip.

“I love you too,” Kurt returned against Blaine's lips, digging his fingers deeper  into Blaine's curls and angling his head to deepen the kiss.

“Mmmmm...” Blaine murmured, rolling onto his back and pulling Kurt down on top of him. “What time is it?”

Kurt heaved a sigh. “I really don't want to know,” he responded, settling his full weight on top of Blaine and tucking his head against Blaine's chest.

“Me neither, but checkout's at eleven, so–”

Kurt sighed again, and then raised his head to look at the alarm clock between the two beds. He groaned unhappily when he read what it had to say.

“It's ten-fifteen,” he grumbled.

“Well, that might be enough time to–”

“Blaine. Look around. The place is trashed, and I am not putting one of my precious few sets of clean clothes on until I've had a shower.”

Blaine sat up. “We could, um...save time...shower together...”

“Somehow I highly doubt that would actually save any time,” Kurt responded with a laugh.

Blaine grinned. “Okay, fair point. I at least need some caffeine in my system first, though. Can you give me some money for the coffee machine down the hall?” He glanced around the room, trying to locate Kurt’s messenger bag.

Kurt went rigid.

“I...um...thought you were holding onto the money, Blaine,” he answered slowly.

“I...” Blaine froze.

Kurt took in the nervous look of dawning realization on Blaine's face. He swallowed. “Blaine, sweetie, where's the money?”

“In...in my bag,” Blaine replied. “It just...I think I must have left it in Puck's room.”

Kurt didn't take a single second to process this information. Body on auto-pilot, he tore out of bed, pulling on the nearest set of clothing he could find; his pajama shirt and Blaine's jeans from the night before, which were frankly too small.  Kurt yanked them up his legs anyway, leaving the fly mostly undone as he ran toward the door.

“Kurt, it's fine,” Blaine insisted,, fighting a losing battle to remain calm. “Puck's probably not even up yet, I'm sure he–”

Kurt stood in the middle of the room, staring. Blaine's bag was emptied across one of the beds.

The money was missing.

“No,” Blaine whispered, looking around frantically. “No, he couldn't have. He–”

But the money was not under the bed or in the pocket of the cardigan that had been in Blaine's bag. The money was not in the bathroom or behind the TV or amongst the empty cups and bottles and wadded up tissues that littered most of the surfaces throughout the room. The money had not ended up in a drawer or on a shelf.

The money was gone.

Kurt slid down to the ground, his back slumping heavily against the foot of one of the beds. His elbows dropped to his knees, and he buried his face in his hands.

“Shit!” Blaine bellowed when it became clear that no amount of searching would erase the facts that were right in front of his face. “Shit,” he seethed again, kicking the TV cabinet and not even caring that his foot was bare and it hurt like a bitch. “I can't believe he – god, what is wrong with me? Why do I trust these assholes that just – I'll fucking kill him. I'll fucking kill him when I find him, and I swear to god, Kurt – I – Kurt?”

Blaine turned to look at Kurt, who had folded in on himself entirely. His face was buried in his hands and his shoulders were shaking. Blaine's breath caught in his throat.

“Kurt, are you okay?” Blaine asked warily, walking over to him, wincing against the pain in his toes.

Kurt didn't answer.

“Kurt, I'm so sorry,” Blaine said softly, crouching down beside him. “I just...I'm so sorry. I didn't – I wasn't – but it – it's okay.”

Kurt raised his head slowly. His face was streaked with tears, and the look of defeat in his eyes made Blaine's gut twist miserably.

“No, Blaine,” Kurt answered quietly, “it's not okay. It is definitely not okay. None of this is okay.”

“N-none of it?” Blaine asked, swallowing hard. Because yeah, he had fucked up, but if he had managed to fuck everything up–

Kurt squeezed Blaine’s hand and shook his head. “I don't mean that,” he assured him quickly. “I love you, I just – it's not – Blaine, I don't know what we're going to do. How are we going to – how are we going to do anything?” Kurt looked more than afraid. He looked resigned. He looked completely and utterly broken.

Blaine studied him, feeling like a lost child without an adult to help him.

But that was exactly the problem, wasn't it?

Blaine wasn't a child, and it wasn't Kurt's job to take care of him. It wasn't anyone's job to take care of him. But they had fallen into it because it was familiar and it was easy for them both; Blaine was used
to letting someone else call the shots, and Kurt hadn't had anyone to take care of him for a very long time.

Blaine swallowed, raked a hand through his hair, and made a decision.

“Kurt, it is going to be OK,” Blaine said firmly. “Just – just trust me, all right? Now we – we need to keep moving. Come on.” Blaine pulled on Kurt's arm, which continued to hang limply like dead weight while Kurt sobbed.

Blaine sighed and stood up, stuffing his belongings back into his bag. He brushed a few crumbs off the Polaroid of himsef and Kurt before tucking it gently into the front pocket.  At least Puck had left him what meager possessions he still had left in the world.

“Kurt, come on,” Blaine urged, slinging the bag over his shoulder and once again attempting to tug Kurt to his feet. When Kurt still wouldn't budge, Blaine knelt in front of him, lifting Kurt's chin and looking him square in the eye.

“I need you to trust me, Kurt, can you do that?” Blaine asked.

“It isn't a matter of–” Kurt began to protest weakly.

“Can you do that?” Blaine asked, surprised by the force in his own voice.

Kurt swallowed, and finally nodded in response. He let Blaine help him to his feet, his body still mostly limp, and allowed Blaine to lead him back to the room across the hall.

Because there was no way out now. He couldn't keep Blaine safe if he couldn't even get him to Canada.

Kurt briefly wondered if he should just turn himself in already.

It would be so easy; the prepaid phone was in Kurt's messenger bag in the backseat. But arguing with Blaine about it would take too much energy. Reaching back for the bag would take too much fucking energy. In fact, anything more than breathing and sitting sounded like an entirely exhausting prospect just then.

Kurt stared straight ahead and had absolutely no idea what he was looking at.

“Oooh. Can I borrow these?” Blaine asked, his voice so genuinely cheerful that Kurt felt even more energy drain from deep within his bones. He glanced over to Blaine, who was holding up Kurt's sunglasses. Blaine's hair was still wild, though much less so than earlier that morning,  his sleeveless black t-shirt clinging tight in all the right places and exposing the barest hint of chest hair. He hadn't bothered to shave that morning, so he was still lightly stubbled. Kurt was almost too exhausted to even notice how hot he looked.

Almost. It wasn't like Kurt was dead, after all. At least not yet.

Kurt nodded, because Blaine had asked him a question.  He knew he had taken far too long to respond, but he couldn't bring himself to care.

“Thanks,” Blaine said with a smile, sliding the sunglasses onto his face. He pulled a cigarette from Kurt's pack and lit it, taking a long drag before grabbing Kurt's hand, pressing the cigarette between Kurt's middle and forefinger.

“You want anything?” Blaine asked, exhaling a plume of smoke and adjusting  the radio slightly.

Kurt shook his head.

“Okay. Be right back,” Blaine said, darting in to plant a kiss on Kurt's cheek. He hopped out over the side of the car and headed toward the store, his messenger bag swinging against his hip as he walked.

Kurt sighed. They had half a tank of gas and $4.46 from the day before that had been left in Kurt's pocket. Everything else was gone. Everything. He was going to lose Blaine, and there was nothing he could do to stop it. Absolutely nothing mattered.

He glanced over to his arm, elbow propped on the side of the car, halfway surprised to find the cigarette between his fingers. He took a drag but all it did was make him even more nauseous than he already was. There were only four left in the pack. Kurt didn't care. He tossed the cigarette over the side of the car and leaned back in his seat, closing his eyes and taking a few deep breaths.

He needed to snap the fuck out of this. He had to do it for Blaine. If he wasn't strong, Blaine would have no one to protect him, and even if their hours were numbered at this point, Kurt needed to man up and make them hours that counted. Kurt opened his eyes and stared up at the open sky. Maybe he should fix his hair. That usually made him feel better. Maybe if he could summon the energy to grab his messenger bag, he could–

“DRIVE, Kurt!”

Kurt looked toward the source of the voice, his eyes going wide when he registered that Blaine was running toward the car – and not just running, but running as fast as he could, his messenger bag in one hand and a bulky paper shopping bag in the other.

Kurt just stared at him, shocked and uncomprehending.

“Drive!” Blaine repeated, panting. Kurt blinked. “Kurt! Drive the fucking car!” Blaine screamed. “DRIVE!”

The desperation in Blaine's voice finally smashed through Kurt's wall of shock and confusion, snapping him into action. Kurt clambered across the center console and fired up the engine as Blaine tore across the last few feet separating him from the car and leapt over the side, landing in the passenger seat with his feet still hanging over the edge.

“Go!” Blaine bellowed. “Go, go, go, go, go, go, go!”

Adrenaline shot through Kurt's bloodstream as he shifted the car into gear and tried not to stall out as he peeled out of the parking lot. They tore down the road, Kurt's heart pounding, Blaine laughing hysterically beside him. “What happened?” Kurt asked when he finally regained the power of speech.

Blaine barked out another laugh, and when Kurt looked over at him his eyes were impossibly wide, his pupils huge and bright. Blaine bit his lip against another fit of giggles as he reached into the paper bag and pulled out two enormous handfuls of cash.

Kurt choked on air. “You robbed a store?” he demanded. “You robbed a fucking store?”

“Well, we needed the money!” Blaine said, trying to pout but only managing to burst into another fit of laughter.

Kurt opened his mouth to respond, but nothing would come out. He had no idea what should come out. “Blaine!” he finally managed to croak. “Holy fuck, Blaine, you can't just–”

“Oh come on,” Blaine huffed. “It's not like I killed anybody!”

Kurt narrowed his eyes at that. “Blaine.”

“I'm sorry, Kurt,” Blaine said, sounding sincere even through his persistent giddiness. “It's just – we needed the money. Now we have it.”

“Shit,” Kurt said, because it was all he could think of. “Oh, shit, Blaine, I just – shit!”

Blaine rolled his eyes and grinned up at the sky. “Oh my god, will you stop being such a drama queen and just drive us to Canada already?”

Kurt's heart was beating a hard staccato rhythm. “Shit – I just – oh my – I mean – how did you – what did you – what did you say?” he finally asked lamely.

Blaine looked different than he did in all the pictures Santana had seen. He looked rumpled and casual and unstyled (and frankly well-fucked, but that was strictly an off-the-record observation), and sunglasses were obscuring his eyes, but he still had the same five hundred–kilowatt smile she recognized from the photos when he stepped up to the cashier and calmly pulled a Jericho 940 out of his satchel.

“Good morning, ladies and gentlemen, this is a robbery,” Blaine said warmly, projecting his voice nice and clear. He held the gun above his head. “Simon says, everyone get down on the floor!”

The cashier and three of the other customers in the store got down quickly, but an older couple next to the chips stood frozen, both looking especially terrified.

“All right, now let's see who will win a prize for keeping their cool,” Blaine continued, voice even and pleasant.

This kid was a fucking born performer. Santana tried not to let any admiration show on her face.

“Sir, can you get down, please?” Blaine asked politely, gesturing toward the man by the chips with his gun. “Ma'am, you too.” The couple quickly complied. “Thank you,” he said, sounding genuinely appreciative. He turned to the cashier. “Sir, would you do the honors?” he asked. “Just take all the cash out of that box and put it in a paper bag.”

“Yes, sir,” the cashier replied, immediately following Blaine's orders.

“Thank you. I really appreciate it. And now you'll have an amazing story to tell all your friends. And if not...well, you'll have a tag on your toe. You decide.” He smiled at the cashier as if it had simply been a harmless joke.

“Ma'am, could you possibly quiet down, please?” Blaine asked one of the customers, who had began whimpering. She nodded and managed to quiet down a fair bit. “Sir, please stay down,” Blaine said again to the man by the chips. His wife quickly pulled him down, whispering harshly.

“Thank you,” Blaine acknowledged. “Just stay there. Just get nice and comfortable.” Blaine turned his attention back to the cashier, who was putting the last of the cash into the bag. “Hey, could your throw a couple of bottles of Wild Turkey in with that too? And a carton of Camel Lights? And do you have any condoms?” Blaine’s tone was excited, as if he had just remembered that this store actually sold stuff  too.

Dave made a loud choking noise at Blaine’s words, putting his coffee down on the table and coughing uncontrollably.

The cashier added Blaine's requested items to the cash in the paper bag, and Blaine thanked him as he hefted the bag up, holding onto it tightly. “Can you get down on the ground now too, please?” he asked when the cashier was done.

“Yes, sir,” the cashier responded as he lowered himself to the ground.

“Thank you,” Blaine said when the cashier was properly on the floor. He began walking backwards, glancing over his shoulder a few times as he moved toward the door. “Ladies and gentlemen, I want to thank you all for your cooperation,” Blaine said. “Now stay down on the floor until I'm gone, and have a nice day.”

And with that, Blaine Karofsky-Anderson turned and ran out the door and the footage ended.

“Jesus Christ,” Dave growled.

“Good god,” Sandy muttered, shaking his head.