“You're not going to give up on me, are you?” Blaine asked.

Kurt blinked. “Of course not. Why would you think that?”

Blaine didn't meet his eye. “You're not going to make a deal with that detective?”

“Blaine!” Kurt shook his head and pulled the car over to the side of the road. When they came to a stop, he reached for Blaine's hand.

“Blaine, will you please look at me?” Kurt asked gently. Blaine looked up nervously. “You know what I told you,” Kurt said. “We're in this together. No regrets, remember?”

“I know,” Blaine answered. “But...don't give yourself up just to save me, Kurt, no matter how bad things get. Do you promise?”

Kurt rolled his eyes as if Blaine were being utterly ridiculous. “Blaine.”

“Kurt, do you promise?” Blaine pressed.

Kurt averted his eyes. “Blaine, I can't – if there's no other–”

“Damn it, Kurt, no,” Blaine practically shouted, making Kurt flinch. He stared at Blaine, whose eyes were almost too full of fire to withstand. “We stand together or we fall together. There is no other option. Do you get me?”

Kurt swallowed. “Yes.”

“So–”

“I promise,” Kurt conceded, tilting the side of his head against the headrest behind him. Blaine's eyes were liquid gold in the afternoon sun. “We're in this together.”

“Because even if you thought you were doing it to help me, Kurt, it wouldn't – I just – it's like something's...I don’t know...like something has crossed over in me, and I can't go back. I just couldn't live,” Blaine said. And looking into his eyes, just his eyes alone – was more than enough to prove the truth of what he said. Kurt couldn't imagine this Blaine back at that apartment in Willamsburg, insecure and accommodating, eyes almost perpetually downcast because of something Dave had done or said.

“I know,” Kurt said softly. “I know what you mean.”

Blaine tilted his head back against his own headrest, mirroring Kurt's position. The only point of contact between them was the movement of fingers over hands and wrists, soft and intimate as they stared into one another's eyes.

It was simple and silent, and it was everything.

“They, um...” Kurt began after a moment, clearing his throat. “They're charging us with murder.”

“Oh,” Blaine answered thoughtfully. “Well. Didn't she say anything positive at all?”

Kurt laughed, pulling Blaine closer by the hand to kiss his smiling lips. “Well,” he replied when he pulled back, still cradling the nape of Blaine's neck in his hand and thumbing over the soft curls there, “at least we have some very vague advice from the internet about how to slightly increase our chances of getting into Canada without getting shot or eaten by bears.”

“See? I'll bet you're glad I brought that lantern after all,” Blaine reasoned, laughing, before pulling Kurt back in for another kiss.

As they pulled back onto the road (because really, as much as they might like to wile away the afternoon making out in the car, they did have some time restraints to consider), Blaine began dislodging a new prepaid phone from its packaging. They had been getting rid of the phones after each call, but this was really the last one they could justify paying for.

Kurt lit a cigarette, allowing Blaine to take the car lighter from his hand when he was finished with it, lighting his own cigarette and plugging the phone into the lighter receptacle to charge.

“You're not calling them back, are you?” Kurt asked. “Because at this point, I don't think there's much left to say.”

“No,” Blaine answered with a shrug. “I just figured I may as well keep looking for ideas for getting into Canada. I mean, we may as well, right?”

Kurt nodded. “Sure,” he said, trying to make his tone sound light and positive. Trying not to let himself start to panic about the fact that they would be reaching the border before too long, and they still weren't entirely sure what they were going to do.

Kurt hummed along to the radio as Blaine thumbed through the phone, the sun warm on the exposed skin of his arms and face and throat. He could almost pretend that they were still on a vacation in moments like this one, and the thought filled him with an unwelcome and overwhelming sadness.

“Hey,” Blaine said suddenly. He stared at Kurt and then back down to the phone, throwing his cigarette over the side of the car and gripping the phone with both hands. “Wait a minute. I don't think we checked out this page yet.”

“Hmmm?” Kurt asked, trying not to let the tiniest flutter of hope rise in his chest.

“We – holy shit. Kurt, you need to pull over. This...this could be it, Kurt.”

“OK,” Kurt agreed, his voice a little too high. He pulled over to the side of the road, a constant, silent mantra of don't get your hopes up, don't get your hopes up, don't get your hopes up managing to keep him relatively calm.

Blaine handed him the phone, his face alight with such excitement that Kurt could barely manage to cling to his cynicism.

“Blaine, I've already looked at all the...oh.” Kurt stopped short, raising an eyebrow at the screen. This was new. And oddly detailed. And...shit. Kurt sighed. “This does look new, but we still don't have grappling hooks, so–”

“No, I know,” Blaine interrupted, barely able to sit still. “But if you follow this link just below that part, there's an alternate path we could take.” Blaine pointed to one of several embedded links on the screen. Kurt clicked on it and his eyes widened.

“We'd have to leave the car and we couldn't carry much, but–”

“Fuck the car,” Kurt managed, his voice high and choked, his heart beating so hard it was threatening to split his ribcage open.

“Kurt, you love this car,” Blaine protested, but he was still speaking unnaturally fast, his body practically vibrating with enthusiasm. “Your father gave you this car.”

“I-I'm not saying I want to leave it. But it's just a thing, Blaine. It's all just things.” Kurt waved a hand back to indicate everything they had piled into the back seat. “If all I get out of this is you and freedom and a future, I don't want anything else.”

“Neither do I,” Blaine said fiercely, eyes blazing, pulling Kurt into a toe-curling, heart-clenching, hot, wet, arousing, otherwordly kiss. Kurt dropped the phone to the center console, clutching at Blaine desperately, pulling and reaching and panting and not even knowing what he was trying to get, but god, he fucking wanted it. He wanted every inch of Blaine, every little bit from the beautiful to the festering, from the ridiculous to the sublime. He wanted to hold Blaine whenever he cried and watch him whenever he laughed and wake up next to him in the morning and and whisper secrets into the darkness as they fell asleep, he just wanted it all and he wanted it forever and suddenly it was not only possible but probable that he would have it.

That they would have it. Together.

When they finally broke away, there were tears in both of their eyes. Kurt bit his lip and smiled so hard it made his face ache.

“This...yeah. This could work,” Kurt said, picking up the phone again and staring incredulously at the screen. “Oh my god, Blaine, this could work.”

Blaine actually kicked his feet, emitting a squeal of pure joy. Kurt couldn't help but swoop in again, pulling Blaine into a tight hug.

They sang at the top of their voices along with every song on the radio, even the terrible ones. They kissed at every stoplight. They fed each other ice cream sandwiches and Kurt didn't even seem to mind when he got chocolate on his pale blue shirt.

Because they were going to make it.

When they crossed into Minnesota Blaine let out a whoop of joy and gave Kurt a resounding high-five.

“We'll need to stop for supplies,” Kurt mused as the air grew colder and the stretches between towns grew longer. “Maybe a camping supply store or– ”

“Oh my god, Kurt, look.”

Kurt squinted at the truck ahead of him, taking in the pinup girl mudflaps and the "Rush Limbaugh for President" bumper sticker.

“Holy – do you think that's him?”

“That's him,” Blaine declared, bouncing with excitement. “That's definitely him. I think you should pass him.”

Kurt bit his lip and tossed Blaine an uncertain glance.

“Come on, Kurt. You really think that jerk is any kind of a threat to us? If you haven't been paying attention, we're kind of turning into bad-ass motherfuckers here.”

Kurt pursed his lips, clearly fighting to avoid giving in.

Blaine smiled, leaning into Kurt's space seductively and rubbing his thigh.

“Come on,” Blaine mumbled against Kurt's jaw between slow, wet kisses, his hand moving closer and closer to Kurt's groin. “Let's give him a show. Find out what the fuck he's so afraid of.”

Kurt groaned. “You're going to be the death of me, Blaine Anderson.”  Blaine grinned against his jaw in response.

Kurt sped up until the Camaro was abreast of the truck. Blaine looked up and flashed the driver a wink as they passed.

“Well, if it isn't the same little cocksuckers from back in Kentucky,” came the truck driver's voice when they both pulled to a stop, side-by-side at a lonely intersection. “You boys sucking your way across the country or what?”

Blaine batted his eyelashes and flashed the man a smile, continuing to rub Kurt's thigh. “Wouldn't want to intrude on your territory,” he replied.

“You fucking little faggots,” the guy sneered. “I ought to ram you right off the goddamn road for real this time.”

“Oh, aren't you brave, cowering behind your eighteen wheels,” Kurt shot back disdainfully. “It's not like you could take either one of us in a fair fight.”

The man narrowed his eyes. “It's a pity I don't believe in hitting women,” he said.

“It's a pity you're too scared to face us like a man,” Blaine retorted.

“You fucking–”

Kurt floored it before the guy really could ram them with his truck, Blaine laughing and waving both middle fingers high in the air.

“He's following kind of close,” Kurt observed.

“Well, maybe we should give him the opportunity to settle this then,” Blaine said with a smirk and a shrug. Kurt side-eyed Blaine for a moment before allowing his face to break into a wicked smile, a moment of silent communication passing between them.

Kurt pulled off the road toward an empty weigh station without so much as a glance in the rearview mirror.

“Holy shit, he's actually following us,” Blaine said excitedly, looking back over his shoulder.

“Well, good. I think the three of us are overdue for a nice little conversation, don't you?”

Blaine grinned. “Definitely.”

By the time the truck reached them, Kurt and Blaine had climbed out of the car and were leaning against it casually.

The man threw open the door and climbed out. He wore a Bruins baseball cap and a faded and stained T-shirt that read “hockey players do it with their sticks.”

“So, which one of you nancy boys wants to go first?” He growled, cracking his knuckles as he advanced on them. “And just so we're clear, I'm here to kick your asses, not fuck them.”

“I actually think we'd rather have a chat first,” Blaine replied calmly. “So what the hell is your problem with us, anyway?”

“Yeah. What did we ever do to you? Do you really think either one of us looks desperate enough to have sex with you?” Kurt demanded, his lip curling with revulsion.

“Please,” the guy scoffed. “You only wish you could ride the stick.”

“You know what I think?” Kurt mused. “I think you're afraid.”

“What the–” the guy sputtered. “I'll kick your fucking–”

He moved closer, zeroing in on Kurt. Kurt smiled pleasantly and pulled the Jericho out of his waistband, training it on the man. The guy froze dead in his tracks.

“Now this? This you have every reason to be afraid of,” Kurt said, nodding toward the gun. “But this?” Blaine tilted his head, allowing Kurt to lean in and kiss his lips softly. Kurt looked back at the man as he broke the kiss. “Now what on earth is so scary about that?”

“I'm not afraid,” the man muttered, “I just don't need to see that shit.”

“Oh?” Blaine responded, raising an eyebrow. “And we need to see straight people sucking face everywhere we go? Because I can absolutely assure you that we're forced to look at that every goddamn day.”

“How would you like it if you couldn't even kiss your wife?” Kurt added, noting the man's wedding ring. “How would you like it if some asshole was more than happy to beat the crap out of you – or her – for doing it?”

The man opened his mouth as if to reply, then closed it sullenly, glaring at the gun in Kurt's hand.

“I think you owe us an apology,” Blaine said, crossing his arms over his chest.

“I'm not apologizing for shit,” the guy said, raising his chin defiantly.

“Just say you're sorry,” Kurt demanded.

“Fuck that!” the guy spat, seeming to decide that Kurt wasn't actually going to shoot him. He shook his head and turned to walk back to his truck.

He froze at the sound of one hammer, and then another, sliding into position. The guy slowly turned around to see both Kurt and Blaine, guns cocked and pointed directly at him, their hands steady and their eyes blazing.

“You say you're sorry,” Kurt said, “or I'm going to make you fucking sorry.”

The trucker glared at them, his eyes radiating nothing but pure, unmasked hatred. He pressed his lips into a thin line and said nothing.

Kurt sighed, then aimed the gun to the right of the guy and pressed the trigger.

A shot rang out and one of the truck's tires began to hiss loudly.

“Yes!” Blaine cried out, taking his left hand off the grip to punch the air. Kurt laughed and took aim again, shooting out another tire.

“Jesus Christ!” The man shrieked, whipping around to look at his flattened tires before turning back to face Kurt. “You crazy fucking faggot!”

Kurt studied the man thoughtfully. “You know what?” he asked, turning slightly toward Blaine. “I don't think he's going to apologize to us.”

“Nah, me neither,” Blaine agreed, scrunching his nose and grinning wide.

The man dove to the ground as both Kurt and Blaine began firing at his truck in earnest, the clang of metal and hiss of tires suddenly swallowed by a deafening blast.

They watched the explosion with wide eyes and open mouths, Blaine pulling Kurt to the ground to avoid the flying chunks of metal as an enormous ball of orange fire lit up the sky.

“Holy shit,” Blaine whispered, staring in wonder at the smoking, burning wreckage of the truck.

“You crazy psychotic perverts!” the truck driver screamed, throwing his baseball cap to the ground as he knelt in the dirt and watched his truck burn. “You evil fucking hell-bound faggots!”

“Oh my god, Blaine, we have to get out of here immediately,” Kurt said, gasping through a maniacal bout of laughter that had consumed him. Blaine nodded, laughing just as hard, allowing Kurt to help him to his feet so that they could scramble into the car.

Even in his haste to leave, Kurt couldn't seem to resist driving a couple of circles around the enraged man, giggling uncontrollably at the man's screamed insults and threats.

“I'll kill you!” he screamed as they peeled out of the weigh station. “Just wait! Just fucking wait!”

“Wow!” Blaine gasped once they were back on the road.

“Oh my god! Blaine, I can't believe we did that! Where did you even learn to shoot like that?” Kurt was still laughing, adrenaline pumping through his veins so fast he felt like his entire body was buzzing.

“Oh, you know...movies?” Kurt screamed with laughter at that. “I pretty much just hit the side of the truck, though. You're the one that got the tires and the gas tank. How on earth did you learn to shoot like that?”