Chazzam
Dec. 17, 2012, 1:22 p.m.
Midnight Confessions: Chapter 6
E - Words: 2,267 - Last Updated: Dec 17, 2012 Story: Complete - Chapters: 21/21 - Created: Dec 06, 2012 - Updated: Apr 13, 2022 871 0 1 0 0
Sunday, 12:39 a.m. - 9:56a.m.
Maryland, West Virginia
Detective Santana Lopez was not particularly excited to be called to an investigation in her piss-poor backwater of a hometown. She had worked hard to get the hell out of there. She had worked hard to get the hell out of Pennsylvania, and she had.
For a while, anyway.
Santana reminded herself for the five hundredth time that she should be grateful. After the mess with the Bureau, at least she had managed to twist what little nepotism was still available to her into a job in law enforcement. At least she wasn't stuck working at a drive-through. Or worse, a small town police force.
And at least she still got to do real work. At least some of the time.
She glanced back to where the victim was being zipped up tight for transport to the coroner's lab. Her first thought had been hate crime – she knew exactly what kind of town the gay community of southwestern Pennsylvania had to deal with in order to get their drink on – but something in her gut had told her differently. And that was before she saw that the man with a bullet in his chest was one Sebastian Smythe.
Santana always trusted her gut. Almost as intensely as he had always distrusted Sebastian Smythe.
Mr. All-American Closet Case seemed to have finally gone just a little too far. All Santana had to do now was figure out what he had done to deserve it.
Santana straightened her blazer turned her attention back to Quinn Fabray, who stood smoking a cigarette and surveying the scene as if it were a mildly interesting television show.
She'd barely changed a bit since high school.
“Could you identify either of them if you saw them again?” Santana asked briskly, notepad in hand.
Quinn gave her a measured look. “For the tenth time, San, of course I could identify them. But it would be pointless, because neither one of those little care bears is the murdering type. One of them was even wearing a bow tie.”
“And this is your expert opinion, Miss Fabray? As a – I'm sorry, what credentials does serving watered-down cocktails to men in second-hand bridesmaid's dresses lend you again?”
“Oh, cut the Miss Fabray crap, Santana, we were in cheerleading together. You helped me cover up my baby bump when I was seventeen. I'd like to think we're at least on a first name basis by now. And to answer your question, I'm an expert on human nature.” She narrowed her eyes, as if daring Santana to refute it. “If waiting tables and tending bar for ten years doesn't make someone an expert at that, nothing will.”
Quinn took a final drag off of her cigarette, dropping it to the ground and stamping it out neatly with her heel. She glanced away for a moment before looking back and meeting Santana's eye.
“Look, San. To be honest, I could have told you Sebastian Smythe was going to meet his maker in a gay nightclub parking lot. I'm just surprised it didn't happen sooner than this.”
Santana couldn't help but quirk her lips into a small smile. “Alright, then, Ms. 'Expert on human behavior,' who do you think did it?” She asked.
“Has anyone asked his wife?” Quinn replied pointedly “She's the one I hope did it.”
Santana raised an eyebrow. “Sugar? Really? You think she'd be capable of something like this?”
“You think she wouldn't be?”
Santana smiled, but didn't respond. They would question Sugar Smythe – of course they would, it was standard protocol – but Sugar didn't do it. Santana would bet her best pair of Jimmy Choos on that.
“But it could have been anyone,” Quinn continued. “You know as well as I do how many people he laid off when he took the mill over from his dad, not to mention all the boys he had on the side. There's no telling how many lives he ruined in his day. Looks to me like somebody just got even.”
Santana sighed, privately agreeing. She really hoped they could nail down a reasonable lead on the two strangers Sebastian had last been seen with at the club, because if not, it was going to end up being a very complicated investigation. “Fine then. Since you seem determined to make this into some sort of conspiracy theory, let's just switch focus. Did you see what kind of car they were driving?”
Quinn rolled her eyes. “It's a nightclub, Santana, not a drive-in. But trust me – it wasn't either of those two. The taller one – the one with the perfect hair? He left me a huge tip.”
“Because, of course, it's a well-documented fact that big tippers never commit first degree murder. Guess we can just close the case on this one, huh?” Santana replied crisply, flipping her notebook closed.
Quinn shook her head. “Those two are good boys, Santana. Neither one of them is the murdering type. In my expert opinion.”
“Duly noted,” Santana returned, before heading toward her own car to mull over what she'd learned so far.
~000~
Kurt was pacing, pulling items out of his suitcase as he muttered under his breath. The calm and closeness they had reached in the diner had long since given way to the stark reality of their situation. And in the harsh light of day (or, rather, the harsh fluorescent lights of the motel room they found themselves in), things were beginning to look even worse.
“Okay, so we – between what we took out and the cash we already had, we have a little over $2700. Thank god I didn't deposit my tips before we left. That's not – I mean, it will keep us on the road for a little while, but we still need to figure out-”
“Kurt?” Blaine interrupted. “Why – why are you unpacking? I thought we were just stopping for a few hours.”
The motel room was cheap and small and smelled of stale smoke, and the glare of a street lamp jutted in through the cracks in the plastic blinds. Blaine looked up at Kurt from where he sat on the twin bed nearest the window.
Kurt looked at him. “I...I'm just trying to figure out what to do,” he said, moving to the dresser and tucking jeans into one of the drawers neatly.
Blaine stared at him incredulously for a moment. He wasn't sure if he was delirious with sleep-deprivation or if Kurt was, but nothing about Kurt's behavior was quite making sense.
“Well, when you figure it out, wake me up,” Blaine said with a sigh, laying back on the bed and closing his eyes.
The sounds of Kurt's rapid movements came to an abrupt halt.
“What is going on with you, Blaine?” he demanded, his voice unnaturally high.
Blaine opened his eyes and stared at Kurt in confusion.
“What is that supposed to mean?” Blaine groaned, rubbing his temples. He really wished Kurt would just stop already. Just stop moving and stop talking and stop planning and just stop. Just for a little while. Just long enough to take a fucking nap, which was the whole reason they had bothered stopping in the first place.
“I mean, why are you acting like this?” Kurt demanded.
“Acting like...wh...I'm sorry, but how the hell am I supposed to act, Kurt? I'm sorry for not knowing the customary way to behave after watching one's best friend blow someone away!”
“You could help me figure out what to do instead of lying there passively and just-”
But Blaine didn't let him continue, because that was it. That was fucking it. Blaine barked a sharp laugh and sat up, shaking his head as he rose to his feet.
“I had a suggestion, Kurt,” he snapped, “a pretty active fucking suggestion. I suggested that we go to the police. But you didn't like that suggestion, so now I am frankly out of ideas.”
Feeling infected by Kurt's thrumming agitation, Blaine began to pace. Kurt narrowed his eyes at him.
“Well, what's the hurry, Blaine?” he asked, his tone icy. “If we give them enough time, they'll just come to us.”
Blaine swallowed but continued pacing. Kurt was right. Kurt was right, and they were utterly and completely fucked.
He swore under his breath as the tears started back up, enraged at himself for falling apart again, for being the weak one.
He was always the fucking weak one.
Blaine looked up when he felt a soft touch to his shoulder. Kurt had stopped moving, and was staring at him, his anger utterly and completely dissolved into something much worse. All Blaine could see etched into his face was guilt and pain and sorrow.
Because Blaine had made him feel that way.
“Blaine, I'm so sorry, I keep – I'm not trying to – god, you're just – you're not OK, and I don't know what to do, and I love you so much, you're my best friend, and what he – what he did-” Kurt's breath hitched. “I'm just – I'm so sorry, Blaine.”
Blaine was too tired to respond, too drained to talk about the extent to which he really and truly was not the least little bit OK. Instead, he just wrapped his arms around Kurt's waist, both men melting into a hug at the same time. Blaine wondered how long they would keep defaulting to this – anger and tears and remorse and embraces – how long they would be able to hold themselves together in the nightmare that had become their lives. He burrowed into Kurt, into the spicy scent of him and his lean chest and strong arms. Dave was much bigger than Kurt, but Kurt was the one that always made Blaine feel protected. He could feel some of the tension draining out of him, just from being held in Kurt's arms.
“Blaine?” Kurt ventured.
“Hmm?”
“I just...I...do you really want to go to the police? If you...if you really want to-”
Blaine shook his head, but remained silent. He rubbed Kurt's arm gently.
“I don't want to go to jail, Blaine,” Kurt admitted, sounding genuinely scared for the first time since leaving The Silver Bullet.
“Neither do I,” Blaine murmured. He paused for a moment, thinking about what that meant. Thinking about the options they actually had. “I think ...I think I'm going to take a shower,” Blaine finally decided. “And we can both take some time to think.”
Kurt smiled weakly as they pulled away from one another. “OK,” he agreed softly.
~000~
After they had showered and managed to get a bit of sleep, both men were feeling immeasurably better. Kurt smiled as Blaine padded out of the bathroom following his abbreviated night of sleep, fondness surging in his chest at the sight of Blaine's rumpled curls and cheeks that were sleep-pink even against his bruises. Kurt patted the mattress beside him, and Blaine returned his smile as he sat down.
“So,” Blaine said as he tucked his feet under himself, facing Kurt.
“So,” Kurt echoed.
There was a long pause, only soft music emanating from the clock radio on the bedside table and the rumble of distant traffic on the highway to muffle the silence that stretched between them.
“Blaine,” Kurt began, “I'm...I'm in deep trouble, and I....” he closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, steeling himself. He couldn't put any pressure on Blaine. This had to be something he either accepted or declined freely.
“I'm the one who fucked up, Blaine,” Kurt continued, looking at Blaine. “If I haven't made that entirely clear then I'm sorry, but if you...if you still want to turn yourself in you might be OK. You didn't do anything wrong, and maybe...” Kurt paused, studying his hands clasped in his lap.
“I'm going to Canada,” he finally said in a rush, looking resolutely at his hands so as not to react to whatever Blaine's expression might be. “I figure I can make it in three days, maybe two if I really push. I can buy a prepaid phone with an extended data plan and try to find some way across without dealing with border patrol, which – I mean, it might work, I don't know. I might end up needing to hike across or something, and I won't have much money, but I can contact Finn – I still own part of the garage, so maybe we can figure something out and he can get some money to me, maybe set up an overseas account, or....”
Kurt trailed off, studying dust particles dancing through a beam of sunlight near Blaine's bed.
“I...I'm not asking you to come with me,” he continued. “I would never expect you to take that kind of a risk, but I'm going to Canada, Blaine. I just...if you want to come with me you can, but I'm going.”
Kurt finally looked up and met Blaine's eyes, which were staring back at him wide and inscrutable.
“Can I have some time to think about it?” Blaine asked. Kurt tried not to let the disappointment show on his face.
“Of course,” he agreed quickly, “but I can't waste time sitting still. Can we – I'm heading north, and you can think on the way, all right? There's a bus station in Indianapolis, and...” Kurt swallowed. “You can have until Indianapolis, and then – is that enough time to decide?”
Blaine nodded, looking thoughtful.
Kurt looked back at the sunbeam streaming in through the blinds, wondering what his life would be if Blaine decided not to come with him.
“Let's go,” he said softly, interrupting his own thoughts. “We should get on the road before it gets much later.”
Blaine nodded, still looking contemplative, as Kurt began re-packing his suitcase methodically.
He tried not to think about the fact that it would almost certainly be the last suitcase he ever packed on American soil.
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I really hope everything turns out OK for Kurt and Blaine :( I'm so scared for them.