The apartment was small and neat, arranged to feel much more spacious than it actually was. The furniture was tasteful and understated, the artwork on the walls flamboyant and extreme. Everything seemed to be arranged with a startling degree of precision, individual pieces that should never have worked together creating an incredible aesthetic scheme overall.

Santana knew what she was doing. She knew that the little voice inside of her, screaming at her that this was a bad idea, that this was going too far, that this is the kind of thing that could destroy you all over again – you remember what happened the last time, was probably the voice of reason.

But when reason came up against her gut instinct, that little voice could pretty much go fuck itself every time. Not even a sense of self-preservation was enough to deter her from that.

Santana walked through the apartment slowly, taking in every detail she could. She ran her fingertips along the edge of a bookshelf, finding it pristine and utterly dust-free, and then peered down at the gorgeous record player in a vintage console beside it.  After shuffling through the records arranged to the side of the console, Santana selected one and let the familiar intro swell and crackle into song around her as she continued to examine the room.

She wandered over to the mantle of a bricked-over fireplace and examined the photographs neatly arranged there. There were numerous pictures of a tallish brown-haired man with pale skin and an unfairly pretty face, smiling next to a number of different people. There was a picture of the man next to an older man in a baseball cap, arms around one another and beaming happily from inside a tarnished silver frame. Next to it was a much older picture in a matching frame, of a small boy in a brunette woman's lap. The boy had the same face as the young man from the first picture, the woman's blue-green eyes shining forth from his own lovely face.

Santana continued along the row of pictures; there was another picture of the young man with the man in the baseball cap, the older man's arm around a woman his own age and a very tall boy standing next to them with his hands on the young man's shoulders. Next to that was a picture of the young man and another young man with slicked-back dark curls and honey-colored eyes, laughing together and looking absolutely and undeniably in love.

She glanced across several smaller pictures – most featuring the same people as those in the larger frames, a few new faces sprinkled throughout – and couldn't help but chuckle softly as her gaze fell upon the last two pictures on the mantle, slanted to sit slightly behind the others. In the first, the pretty young man stood in a fitted red and white athletic top bearing the letters WMHS across the chest and matching red track pants with white piping. In one hand he held a pair of red and white pom-poms, the other hand resting on his slightly jutted hip. He looked into the camera as if meeting a challenge, his chin raised and his eyes hard and daring and defiant. It was a professional school photograph, and at the bottom was printed a banner which read William McKinley High School Varsity Cheering, Lima, Ohio 2011. In the second picture, the young man looked a bit smaller and younger, standing in an over-sized off-the shoulder red sweater, football pants tight against his slim legs. He had a football tucked neatly under one arm and a helmet under the other, resting against his hip. Santana wondered how long he'd had to argue to forgo his jersey and padding for the official school picture before his coach had given in. At the bottom of this photograph the banner read William McKinley High School Varsity Football, Lima, Ohio 2010.

Santana smoothed her thumb over each picture in turn with a small, sad smile. “Sometimes we've got to make our own rules, huh, Hummel?” she murmured softly to herself.

“Man, did you see his ass?” Blaine continued, draining the last of the tiny bottle in the cup holder beside him. “Dave sure doesn't have an ass like that. His ass is flatter than a crepe.”

Kurt gave Blaine a much tighter smile than such a comment about Dave would usually earn him. “I'm sorry, I'm just really not in the mood for company right now,” he said. Kurt lit a cigarette and leaned back in his seat, taking a long drag. He raised a silent eyebrow when Blaine pulled one from the pack and lit it between his own lips as well.

“What do you think?” Kurt asked, leaning over to get a better look at the map in Blaine's lap. “We should really try and find a secondary route from West Virginia to the border – we'll need to research a bit more, but I think our best bet is to cross in Minnesota. It'll be too hard to be inconspicuous if we try to get there through Michigan, and we should try and avoid the major highways if we can.”

Blaine brought the map up to study it more closely, his cigarette dangling from his mouth.

“Well, it looks like if we continue on route 50 to Parkersburg, we can avoid dipping back into Pennsylvania, which seems like a good idea to me,” Blaine replied after a moment, plucking the cigarette from his mouth and exhaling slowly. “And that will lead us to route 56 heading toward Columbus...”

“No, I don't want to go through Ohio,” Kurt interrupted sharply. “Find a route that won't take us through there.”

Blaine looked down at the map and then back at Kurt. Kurt was staring straight ahead and sitting up very straight, and Blaine tried not to take an inappropriate level of interest in his friend's profile. Kurt always looked gorgeous, but this version of Kurt – chin lightly stubbled, hair messy, sleeves rolled up and shirt collar unbuttoned past his clavicles revealing freshly sun-freckled skin – well. Kurt pretty much looked like pure sex.

Blaine decided he should probably lay off the drinking for a bit if this was where it lead him. He forced his eyes back down to the map once again.

“Um...you want to get to Northern Minnesota from West Virginia without going through Ohio?” Blaine asked carefully, side-eyeing Kurt's still-stiff posture beside him.

The train finally appeared, whipping Kurt's hair against his forehead as it sped noisily past.

“It's not hard, Blaine,” Kurt snapped, raising his voice above the roar of the train and refusing to meet Blaine's eye. “We can just go through Indiana instead–”

“No, I know,” Blaine interjected quickly. “I mean, yeah, it's fine. It's just...you said you wanted the quickest way there using back roads and cutting through Ohio would save a lot of ti–”

“Blaine, you know how I feel about Ohio,” Kurt said, finally turning to face him. His eyes were hard with resolve. “We're not going that way.”

Blaine sighed. “OK, but...we're kind of running for our lives here, Kurt,” he replied as gently as he could manage, trying to stave off his own growing annoyance. “Can't you make an exception this one time?”

Kurt somehow managed to sit up even straighter, something Blaine wouldn't have thought possible without the ability to levitate. “Blaine. If you can't find an alternative route, give me the map and I will. But we are not going through Ohio. Understand?” His voice was beginning to rise in both pitch and volume, and if this weren't getting old so incredibly fast, Blaine probably would have withered under his glare.

“No, Kurt, actually, I don't,” Blaine answered, sitting up straighter in his own seat. “What – why don't you – how come you've never told me what happened to you there?”

Kurt turned away, folding his arms tightly over his chest and once again staring straight ahead. He clenched his jaw. “Look,” he said, and his voice was softer now, barely audible over the train. “Let me just say this: If a gay man shoots a probably-passing-for-straight man outside a shamelessly gay establishment, no matter what the...the circumstances, Ohio is the last place he wants to get caught. I just...I don't want to talk about it. Just find another route, Blaine, OK?”

Kurt was sitting just as straight and stiff, his eyes just as hard and determined as they had been moments before. But there was a change in them too, and a slight tremble to Kurt's voice that hadn't been there before.

Blaine knew his best friend well enough to know when he was on the verge of tears.

“OK,” Blaine answered softly. “Okay, we – I'll find another way.”

Kurt laughed, wrinkling his nose. “That's lovely, Blaine, but maybe you could find a different station? This one is...um...I mean, nothing against Garth Brooks, I'm sure he has many wonderful qualities, but–”

“Okay, okay, just give me a minute,” Blaine muttered with a smile.

Blaine fell back against his seat grinning when he found the station he decided to settle on. The second Kurt recognized the song, he burst into laughter.

“Oh my god, Blaine, this song right now – I don't know whether to laugh or cry,” he said, though he couldn't seem to stop smiling.

“Don't do either,” Blaine answered. “Sing.” He cranked up the radio until it was blasting across the wide plains and rolling foothills around them.

They sang along, voices loud and out of practice but still managing to blend together as beautifully as ever. Kurt's face looked almost relaxed and carefree, and he even reached up and gave Blaine a high-five at the chorus. Laughing, Blaine couldn't refrain from throwing in a bit of air guitar, just so he could see Kurt roll his eyes fondly.

“Oh!” the woman responded, her eyes widening as she took in the badge. “Yes, hold on.” But rather than seeking anyone out, the woman elected, much to Santana's horror, to yell across the room instead. “Trent! There's a police lady here to see you!” She bellowed, every head in the room whipping around to stare at the two women in the doorway. Over by the bar, a baby-faced man in a pinstripe oxford shirt seemed to pale considerably before handing the drink he was mixing off to another man and making his way over to Santana quickly.

Santana couldn't resist exchanging smiles with the pretty blonde again before walking over to meet him halfway.

“Hello, Mr...?”

“Jordan,” he answered nervously. “Trent Jordan.”

“Mr. Jordan, my name is Santana Lopez, I'm with the Pennsylvania State police department. Do you mind if I ask you a few questions? Perhaps we could find someplace a little bit quieter to talk?”

“Of course,” Trent said, glancing around to gauge customer reactions. “May I...ask what this is in relation to?”

“I just need to ask you a few questions about a Mr. Kurt Hummel? I believe he works here?”

Trent's eyes went wide. “Oh, no, is Kurt okay?” the hostess asked, rushing over to join them.

“I...we don't have any reason to believe he's come to any physical harm,” Santana answered carefully, “but–”

“Is he in some kind of trouble?” Trent asked, looking extremely worried. “Because Kurt – he's one of the best people I know.” The hostess nodded emphatically in agreement.

“Look – unless you want to discuss this here, perhaps we should–”

“Oh! Yes. Sorry. Follow me, please,” Trent said, sounding flustered. “Brittany, can you keep an eye on things here while I talk to the detective?”