They stopped for lunch at a diner in rural Pennsylvania, a truck stop on the route between New York City and Lima, on their way to visit the grandparents for the holidays. They filed into a booth, arguing good naturedly about booster seats and milk versus juice and whether macaroni and cheese was an acceptable lunch even though that had been dinner last night.

They’d just gotten their drink orders in when Kurt noticed the man staring at them. No, not at them, directly at Kurt himself. The man was sitting alone a few tables away. He was tall, burly, and overweight, with a scruffy reddish brown beard and overgrown hair, and his eyes were boring straight into Kurt’s head.

Kurt caught Blaine’s eye and then tilted his head the tiniest bit to the side toward the man, so Blaine could see what was going on. He cursed himself for letting the kids choose a booth instead of a table. If the man walked over to confront them, there would be no escape except right past him. “If he gets violent, just take the kids and run,” Kurt whispered. And then the man was walking up to them and Kurt and Blaine stared at each other, terrified.

“Excuse me,” the man said shyly. “Are you Kurt Hummel?”

Kurt’s eyes widened and he looked up at the man towering over their table. Kurt was not famous enough to be recognized. Blaine was a Broadway star and occasionally got recognized in public, but even he was far from a household name. Kurt, on the other hand, never got asked for an autograph except sometimes by a pleasantly obsessed opera fan at the stage door after a performance.  So, maybe this man was someone he used to know? Someone he’d gone to high school with?

“I’m sorry, do I know you?” Kurt asked.

“No, no, not at all,” the man said, blushing. “I … um … I’m a big fan. Of your singing, I mean. I … uh … mostly I just stick to country music but I found your album in this dollar bin of used CDs about a year ago and I picked it up because the photo of you on the cover was … um … interesting. And then when I listened to it, your voice was … well … it was like nothing I’ve ever heard. I listen to it all the time. In the truck. When I’m on the road.”

Kurt smiled. “That’s so nice to hear, thank you,” he said kindly. “I don’t have many fans out there, honestly. That CD didn’t sell well enough for me to ever do another one.”

“That’s a shame,” the man said. “Could … would you autograph it for me? It would make my day, really. I could just run out to the truck and get it?”

“Sure, absolutely!” Kurt said.

The man rushed out the door, and Kurt and Blaine both collapsed in relieved laughter once he was out of sight. “Oh my god!” Kurt moaned.

“What’s so funny, Papa?” Colin demanded.

“Nothing, Colin,” Kurt said, leaning over to hug him. “He’s a very nice man, that’s all.”

The man returned a moment later, fumbling with the CD case and a black sharpie. He handed them both to Kurt.

“What’s your name?” Kurt asked him.

“Pete Shepherd,” he said, blushing again. He seemed to notice Blaine and the kids for the first time. “I’m so sorry to interrupt you and your … friend. Y’all off on a boys’ trip? Camping?”

They usually tried to be subtle outside of New York, but Kurt decided all at once that it was safe. “My husband. And our kids. We’re headed to visit the grandparents.”

Pete’s eyes widened. “Well, I’ll be! I know it’s … some places … but not anywhere I’ve ever … it must be … nice. I’m sorry, god, what the hell am I saying, I’m so sorry to intrude.”

Kurt looked straight in his eyes with a friendly smile. “It’s okay, don’t worry about it. And yeah. It’s nice.” He looked back down to write on the CD cover, next to his own picture: For Pete. Courage. Kurt Hummel.

-----------------------------------------

“He’s totally been jerking off to your picture for the past year,” Blaine said that night, grinning.

“Shut up.”