A Thursday evening, no less, which is really almost insulting. It isn’t in the dead of night, it isn’t with a cataclysmic explosion – not even so much as an earthquake or a disheveled Jeff Goldblum gesturing at a chart and hysterically saying to a panel of serious-faced businessmen that he “told you so”. It’s in a Pennsylvania hospital morgue at about five-thirty in the afternoon, when one of the corpses lying on the exam table suddenly sits up.

Truth be told, Kurt Hummel had more pressing issues that day.

“Yes. Yes, we’re all fine. Yes, I got Finn’s texts. All twelve of them.” This last was mumbled as an aside to Blaine, who snickered as he smoothly palmed the wheel to the left, steering the car around one of the many gentle curves in the highway. Kurt leaned forward, flipping open the mirror and grimacing at his reflection. Eight hours travel had done a definite number on his appearance.

“He said he’s flying into New York as soon as he can. Apparently there was some sort of mix-up and he did most of his Basic Training in Georgia?” Kurt shrugged, reaching up to try and coax his hair back into something resembling well-kept. It was no use, though. The static from squirming around on the seats all day had left him looking like a troll doll.

Snapping the mirror shut again, he did a little more squirming, legs aching from being cramped for so long. It was official – Kurt Hummel did not do travel well. At least, not car travel. Blaine, on the other hand, seemed perfectly content to drive and hum along to the radio and check his phone GPS every thirty seconds to make sure they were still heading in the right direction. Nevermind the fact that they’d been on the same road for the last hundred miles; it was better to be safe than sorry.

Opposites attract, maybe, but Kurt couldn’t suppress the soft smile at his boyfriend, who was obliviously looking straight ahead, keeping his gaze high and moving like a good driver and drumming his fingers on the wheel. His other hand was out the window, resting against the still-sun-warmed side of the Explorer and every so often matching drumming beats. His hair was loose and curling for once and Kurt had the sudden, wild, not-at-all-conducive-to-being-a-good-co-pilot urge to lean in and kiss where it brushed against the nape of Blaine’s neck.

But his dad was still on the phone and, dense in the area of male-on-male loving as he was, would probably discern that kissy sounds meant kissy actions. So Kurt focused again on Burt’s endless list of all the things to “be careful of/to”.

“Yes, dad, Blaine is being a very responsible driver. He slows and scans at every cross-street, comes to a complete stop at stop signs and yields to pedestrians, baby carriages and ducklings.” Burt’s reply was mildly indignant, but Blaine’s starry-eyed grin was worth it. “We’re going to stop in a half hour or so, probably, when we reach the hotel,” Kurt continued, glancing out the window at the dimly-lit scenery. It was close to eight in the evening, and the last bits of sunlight were stretching across the New York landscape, leaving everything warmly-lit and a little fuzzy, like a painting.

Ignoring the unfortunate tendency of his starched cotton shirt to wrinkle, Kurt curled up against the window, letting the music and the gentle rumble of the wheels against the road lull him into a relaxed state. “We’re meeting Tina and Mike and Mercedes at the hotel. I’ll be sharing with the girls,” he offered, half-teasingly. The relief in his father’s reply was audible, and Kurt glanced over to share an eyeroll with Blaine.

Shaking his head affectionately, Blaine turned off of the highway, heading down the side road that would lead to the cheap hotel they’d made reservations at. The road was even dimmer here, and eight hours in the car had probably left Blaine just as tired as Kurt, and he was humming softly along with the radio, covering a yawn. Only half-listening to his father’s chatter, Kurt reached out, resting a hand on Blaine’s shoulder and rubbing gently, mouthing the words “almost there” when his boyfriend glanced over and blinked sleepily.

Blaine nodded a little, going back to humming, the soft rich sound of his voice blending perfectly with the music and the sound of the car and the road, and it was almost like a lullaby, so calming and relaxing and –

– and then it wasn’t calming, then there was a sudden thump, a squeal of tires, an animalistic screech and –

“Shit! – shoot, sorry, Dad, sorry.” Kurt straightened up, heart racing as Blaine quickly swerved to the side of the road. His stomach lurched at the sickening sound of a flat tire, rubber smacking loosely against the road. But it wasn’t nearly as horrific as the moaning that was coming from whatever Blaine had run over. Kurt was still fumbling with his seatbelt and trying to calm down his dad’s frantic demands for an explanation by the time his boyfriend was out of the car and jogging out to the road. He let out another nearly-inaudible curse, biting his lip and craning his neck to try and see what they’d hit.

“Yeah, yeah, we’re okay, we’re fine. Blaine just hit a deer or a…mountain lion or something,” Kurt muttered, finally getting his seatbelt undone. The buckle smacked against the window as he flung the belt off, rolling his eyes at Burt’s reply. “No, that was a joke. We’re fine. Everything’s fine. I’ll call you right back, bye.”

Shutting off his phone (and deciding it was a good idea he hadn’t mentioned the flat tire, as that would’ve prompted even MORE irrational panic), Kurt hopped out of the car and quickly strode towards Blaine. “What’d we hit?” he called out, preparing himself for a grisly sight.

Blaine didn’t answer. In fact, he hadn’t moved since reaching the site of the roadkill, back stiff, shoulders tense, absolutely still and silent. Kurt frowned, reaching out automatically to rest a hand on his boyfriend’s rigid arm, glancing at the thing almost as an afterthought. “Honey, what’s –”

But his concerned question died in his throat, because the thing they’d hit wasn’t a deer or a dog or even a mountain lion, as he’d joked.

It was a human.