Blaine had stopped going to church after his parents died.

Before then, though, he'd loved it--especially midnight Mass on Christmas Eve, when he got to hold a candle like the grown-ups did. He'd loved how warm and beautiful the inside of the chapel was, how it smelled like incense and burning candles. It was well before he even rightly knew what sexuality was, much less his own, and everything was so much simpler. There, he felt like he belonged.

A drunk driver and a devastating crash changed everything, and Blaine stopped going to church. Its warm, sweet-smelling halls didn't feel welcoming anymore. They felt empty and cold, and he felt like God had lied to him.

Then he started seeing dead people, and he stopped believing in God altogether.

Sitting there across from a boy whose presence seemed to shake the world around him, he felt profoundly unsettled for the first time since he'd seen the ghosts of his parents in his bedroom twenty-six years ago. It was one thing to be faced with spirits he could chase away with pills-- It was quite entirely another to be stared down by a boy who claimed to be a servant of God.

Claimed to be. "No. I don't."

Kurt nodded. "Because you've never seen one?"

"Because they don't exist."

"You sound so sure," said Kurt, and he got to his feet. He moved toward Blaine and sat on the edge of the table, right next to where the older man was sitting.

Blaine shrugged and smiled bitterly. "To be honest, I'm not sure about anything anymore." The mirth left his face and he looked up at Kurt. "You didn't answer my question."

Kurt smiled, his eyes glittering. "I've been looking for you," he said softly. "For a long, long time. You're very special. That thing that you can do? No one else can do it. You're the only one. Trust me, I've checked."

"I know," said Blaine, sighing. "But I can't... It's too much of a burden, Kurt, you have to understand that."

"You think I don't know about pain?" said the boy, raising two finely arched eyebrows. "About suffering?"

"No, I-- I know. I just-- Please, Kurt, just tell me what you want."

Kurt moved a little closer, hitching his legs up so he was all but perched on the edge of the table. The pants were loose around his ankles, the sleeves of the sweatshirt hanging low around his wrists. He was so thin.

"I want you to find who killed me."

Blaine's brows tightened and he frowned at Kurt. "But your killer was caught. David Karofsky confessed to the murder a week after it happened. He's been institutionalized for twenty years."

Kurt's eyes flashed and he shook his head. "It wasn't him," he said fiercely. "He didn't kill me."

There was a long pause. "...What? They found DNA evidence--"

"I didn't say he didn't hurt me," said Kurt, and he looked away. He suddenly looked much
younger, and Blaine felt an urge to reach out and take his hand. He didn't. "He just wasn't the one who killed me. Someone else did, and you need to find them for me."

"Them...?"

Kurt nodded, drawing his knees up to his chest and wrapping his arms around himself. Blaine moved closer--and this time, he did reach out and touch Kurt, placing one hand on the boy's shoulder. Even underneath the warm sweatshirt, his skin felt ice cold.

"Kurt...what do you remember?"


It had been wet and cold. Frost was clinging to the grass, and his bare feet stung as he stumbled through it, running as fast as he could. They'd caught him, though. Hands had seized his upper arms and thrown him down, tying a cloth bag over his head.

Cold steel had pressed against his throat. "Come with us or we'll slit your throat right here."


"David appeared at my school one night, when I was walking to my car from a late rehearsal. He grabbed me and pulled me into his car, then took me to St. Teresa's. I managed to get away and run, but they caught me. They were waiting for me."


"Wh-what's going on? Where are you taking me? Who are you?"

They ignored everything he said. He stumbled along in darkness, terrified and disoriented, until they finally threw him onto the ground. Frost prickled beneath his body, soaking through his clothes, and he could feel mud between his fingers from where he broke his own fall.

The cloth bag was ripped from his head and he stared up at David Karofsky's horrified face.


"I didn't know who they were. They never showed their faces. They were all wearing masks, but I knew they were kids like me. The only voice I recognized was David's."

Kurt started shaking, and Blaine put his other hand on the opposite shoulder. "It's all right, Kurt," he said softly. "You don't have to tell me everything now. We can just--" He faltered. Did angels sleep? Kurt had taken a shower, sure, but he didn't seem interested in eating, and--god, this was complicated to a comical degree.

"I'll go," said Kurt softly, cutting Blaine off. "I'll go for now, but I'll come back. I won't leave for good until you help me. I can't leave for good."

Blaine frowned, taking his hands from Kurt's shoulders and stepping back. "What do you mean?"

Kurt looked up at Blaine, raising his eyebrows. "What do you think happens to people after they're murdered, Detective Anderson? They just wander around as ghosts until they get bored and decide to move on and rest? It doesn't work like that." He paused for a moment, his expression dark. "We're stuck here."

Blaine felt his heart drop into his stomach and sink into it, surrounded, rotting. He thought about the ghost of Susan Langdon, and every spirit he'd seen before, trapped and bleeding and begging him to save them--he thought about his parents-- Christ, he'd chased them away, hadn't he? He'd taken pills to make them go away, when they couldn't go away, not ever--

He all but slumped down in his chair, looking stunned.

"I don't understand what you want me to do," he said in a flat voice, staring at the tiling on the kitchen floor. "These people you're talking about aren't on file. I already told you that Karofsky confessed."

"Then talk to him," Kurt suggested. The tone of his voice was firm, unrelenting, and Blaine could feel those eyes on him again. He didn't have to see them to know how icy they looked.

He'd been about to give up. He'd let this--this ability, this curse transform his life and he'd been through with it. Rachel had given him more pills, and it had almost been over--no more spirits, no more regrets, no more unfulfilled promises. For a moment, he thought he'd been free, but now...

His eyes moved over the form of the boy seated on the table, at those skinny arms and slender shoulders and brittle hands. Kurt had been sixteen when he died--sixteen when he'd been dragged into the woods near St. Teresa's, brutally assaulted and viciously murdered. Blaine thought about seeing him in the schoolyard, in that uniform-- He'd been a student, not yet released into the world, a little bird waiting anxiously for the moment to spread his wings and soar--until one horrible night, when it was all taken away from him.

Slowly Blaine reached out and took Kurt's hand. It was so cold, and it felt as if it would break if he squeezed too hard. He bit his lip, just looking at Kurt, at those eyes that shouldn't have been so hard. They should have been wide and hopeful, looking to the sky, filled with dreams.

"All right," said Blaine softly. "I'll help you. I promise."

Kurt's face lit up with a beautiful smile, and he reached out to hug Blaine again, This time Blaine let him, if only to keep the young boy (ghost? angel?) from seeing the tears in his eyes.

--

Renwood Asylum for the Criminally Insane was a three-hour drive from where Blaine was stationed, so he booked a hotel and made plans to travel there for the weekend. A steady, cold rain was streaming down his windshield as he drove to the asylum that Saturday, dark foliage blurring on either side, the sky slate grey. The road wound up the side of a hill, and he was the only one on it.

His phone rang. "Yeah?""

"Are you fucking crazy?"

Blaine sighed. "Hey, Mike."

"I just got your message. You're driving all the way out to that loony bin in the middle of nowhere for what reason? What are you trying to prove? Does the Chief know about this?"

"How's Tina?"

"She's fine. She had a few contractions last night but they stopped-- Why are you changing the subject?"

"I'm doing this on my own, Mike," said Blaine, just as the vast stone building moved into his line of sight through the sheet of rain. "Just like you said I should. Don't worry, all right? I know what I'm doing."

There was a pause and a heavy sigh. "Whatever. Don't get too comfy in there, all right?"

"Goodbye, Mike."

He slipped his phone in the pocket of his coat as he passed through the gates, making his way through security. As the guards checked his credentials he looked over the face of the building, an aged monolith straight out of a Vincent Price film. It was made even more menacing by the cold grey clouds around it, the sheets of rain that poured from all sides.

The inside was far more modern, all white walls and clean coats, and Blaine shed his own as he was escorted to the far end of the facility.

He paged through his files as he walked, trying to form a mental picture of the man he was about to meet, but it was difficult; Karofsky had been seventeen at the time of the murder, after all. Blaine's eyes examined the photo, seeing a tall and heavyset boy with sharp eyebrows, thin lips and dead-looking eyes. They didn't look like the sort of eyes a teenager should have had, he thought, and suddenly thought of Kurt. He felt a flash of anger he couldn't quite define, biting his lip until he found himself standing in front of the door to what looked very much like an interrogation room.

The man seated at the table within-- a security guard at his side--looked nothing like the boy in the photograph. The softness around his jaw was gone, replaced by square angles and hollowed cheekbones, surrounded by wiry facial hair. Dark circles hung beneath hollow-looking eyes, and he looked skittishly up at Blaine as if itching to get up and run.

Blaine took a deep breath, steeling himself, then sat at the table across from Karofsky. He looked the man dead-on, establishing eye contact.

"Good morning, David," he said amiably. "I'm Detective Anderson. I'm here to ask you a few questions."

He hesitated for a long moment, then looked up at the security guard. "Would you mind giving us a moment, please? Stand outside the door, maybe?" He winced as the tall man gave him a look, and waved a hand. "We'll only be a moment."

The guard hesitated then stepped outside, closing the door behind him. Blaine could see the back of his head through the small window, and he took another deep breath before facing Karofsky again.

God, those eyes. Karofsky looked as though he hadn't slept in years.

"David," said Blaine calmly. "I'm not here to get you into trouble. I'm off the clock right now. If you cooperate, I could help get you a few more privleges around here, pull a few strings."

Karofsky didn't say a word. He kept staring at Blaine with those hollow eyes, like two holes in a dead animal's skull. Blaine wondered again whether he was wasting his time.

He took out the files and spread them over the table. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Karofsky's gaze flicker down toward them, saw him shift uncomfortably in his seat.

"That's right," said Blaine, and his voice wasn't so kind now. "It's about Kurt, David. We're going to talk about what happened to Kurt Hummel twenty years ago."

Those hollow eyes held an inkling of fear now, and Blaine chose a photo--an image of Kurt's body, pale and twisted and covered in blood--pushing it across the table toward Karofsky. The other man immediately turned away, looking sick.

"Why are you so reluctant to look at it?" Blaine pressed him, pushing the photograph even closer. "You did it, after all. You were the one who carved a cross into his back, pushed nails into his hands..."

He could see Karofsky's jaw clench and begin to quiver, and kept going.

"Tied up his arms with barbed wire and threw him upside down in a wooden casket... It took him hours to die, David. Hours of terror and bleeding and agony." His fingers curled on the table, tightening into fists, and he didn't even realize it. "He finally threw up and choked on his own vomit, before he could even bleed to death, and you--"

"I didn't."

Blaine stopped, fell silent, and gave Karofsky his full attention. The other man was shaking his head, looking distressed.

"It wasn't me. I didn't think they'd do that."

Utterly still, Blaine stayed silent, hoping Karofsky would elaborate. The other man had gone back to clenching his jaw, though, grinding his teeth together. Blaine steeled himself and kept pushing.

"Who, David? Who did that?"

Karofsky shook his head, and he looked near tears. He stared at the wall for a few long moments, then finally turned to look at Blaine, desperation in his eyes.

"I didn't know they were gonna do that. They didn't tell me. I--I just wanted--"

He faltered, and Blaine resisted the urge to reach out and shake him. "Wanted what?"

Breathing heavily, Karofsky stared at Blaine as if expecting to get sympathy. "I just wanted to fuck him."


It was lunchtime, and Dave stood in line, a friend at his side. He'd dropped his wallet, and the other boy had leaned down to pick it up. A photo had slipped out. Before Dave could reach down and grab the photo, the dark-haired boy held it up. "Who's this, Dave?"

Dave turned red snatched it back. "No one."

"Why do you have a picture of a guy in your wallet?" the other boy asked, eyes narrowing, and Dave shoved the photo--Kurt Hummel's class picture--back inside it. He paid for his lunch and quickly moved away.

The boy caught up with him. Dave glared as he took a seat next to him at the table, leaning forward and offering a sympathetic look.

"The hell do you want?"

"To help," the boy said. "If you have...urges, things that are paining you that you want to heal, offer to God...you should join the club I'm in."

The boy reached over and tugged up his sleeve, baring a tattoo on his wrist in the shape of an arrow.


Blaine kept his face carefully neutral, though his fingernails were digging into his palms now. "Do you know anything about the Ecstacy Club, David? I know that you were involved with them in high school."

Karofsky shrugged, but Blaine saw his eyes flicker. "Maybe. It was twenty years ago."

"How about that tattoo on your wrist? What made you decide to get one like that?"


"What suffering would you like to offer up to God today, David?"

Dave folded his arms on the table, looking miserable. The kids seated all around him were fixing him with their attention, and his face burned.

"There's a boy," he admitted, gritting his teeth. "He's always in my head. I know it's wrong, but I-- I can't stop thinking about him. He went to my old school."

"Is that why you transferred here?" asked the girl to his left, and he nodded.


"I just wanted to be normal," said Dave after a while, folding his arms across his chest protectively. "So I left my old school and joined their stupid club. I thought it would help me--" He faltered again, his lip twitching.

"Help you what?" said Blaine encouragingly, though he dreaded the answer.

"Get him out of my head," Karofsky growled. "Little fairy princess-- He'd walk around the halls of my old school like he fucking owned it, just flaunting how--how much a fag he was, how much of a freak..."

Blaine ignored the way the slur made him feel, listening intently as Karofsky finally began to open up.

"People would give him shit for it every day, and he'd just shrug it off. And the worst thing? He was so fucking nice to people, to his friends. So sweet. He was like a--" He squirmed again in his chair, his face red. "Like an angel."


It was late at night, and Dave held Kurt's photo in one hand as he lay on his back in bed. His other hand was down the front of his pants, frantically stroking himself as he studied Kurt's features in the soft lamplight.

He'd just finished when the door opened and his roommate stepped in. Horrified, he shoved the photo underneath his pillow and straightened up.

"Get out of bed, Dave," said his roommate, paying no heed to what he may have walked in on.

"The club is holding a special meeting tonight. You'll need your coat."


"They kept asking me about him," Karofsky continued. "Asking me to talk about him. I started to get pissed off. It was like--I was there to forget about him, but they wouldn't let me. They said it would help me heal, but it just made me worse. And then one night..."

Blaine leaned forward again, unable to help himself. "Yes?"

Karofsky's eyes turned dark again, sinking into his face. "They told me to go get him. Take him and bring him back to St. Teresa's with me. They promised they had a plan that would heal me, and hell--what choice did I have? I was going crazy." His big hands curled into fists, just as Blaine's were.


They pulled the cloth bag away, and Kurt looked up at Dave Karofsky's horrified face.

"D-David?" Kurt croaked, eyes flickering with recognition, and Dave looked around at the others, begging for an explanation.

"Now's your chance, David," came a female voice from beneath one of the masks. "We'll turn our backs. This is the boy that made you suffer, right? Take what's owed to you, what you've earned." She paused as she turned her back, and the other three followed suit.

"No one will hear him scream out here."

Dave was on his knees, hovering over the prone form of the terrified boy. Kurt listened in horrified silence to what the others had been saying, and the moment Dave drew closer he began to scream and struggle in earnest. Dave hit him, and he fell back on the wet grass, disheveled and dirty, tears streaming down his pale face.

He looked so beautiful. Dave started panting, staring down at those crystalline blue eyes, still so bright even in the darkness. It had started drizzling, and droplets of water fell upon Kurt's face, on his white skin. So beautiful.

Like an angel.

"Please David... Please don't," Kurt had started pleading, but Dave had already unbuckled his belt.


"They told me to do it," said Karofsky in a strained tone of voice. "They made me."

Blaine felt sick, and it took a surprising amount of willpower not to leave the room and tell the guards to lock Karofsky in solitary confinement and flush the key down the toilet.

Instead, he got to his feet, hands pressed against the surface of the table. He was a small man, particularly compared to Karofsky, but his short temper well made up for what he lacked in height.

"Who was it, David," he said harshly, staring Karofsky down. "Tell me names."

Karofsky's eyes were round with fear, and Blaine wasn't egotistical enough to assume that it was directed at him. "I can't," the big man said, staring at the wall.

"Why the hell not?" Blaine spat, his voice rising. He didn't care if the security cameras were recording him harassing a patient; as far as he was concerned, yelling at Karofsky was the only way he could keep from hitting him in the jaw. "Why are you protecting them after what they did to that boy, David? What you helped them do?"

"I can't," said Karofsky again, his voice gruff, and he turned away. It just made Blaine angrier.

"Goddamn you! Don't you think that boy deserves justice? Don't you think that's the least fucking thing you can do for him? You don't have a goddamn thing to lose-- Tell me, Karofsky!"

Karofsky opened his mouth as if to speak--and then suddenly, horribly, he began to drool. His eyes rolled back into his head as his body began to convulse violently, and Blaine sprang back in shock and horror.

"Help!" he cried. "Someone help!"

Almost as soon as he'd shouted the door flew open and a handful of orderlies rushed in, accompanied by the guard from before. The former moved to tend to Karofsky--who had fallen from his chair, spitting and convulsing--and the latter gave Blaine a look that clearly said Get the hell out of here. Blaine didn't need telling twice.

As ruffled and disturbed as he felt from what he'd witnessed, the greatest feeling he had as he left Renwood Asylum was a pervading sense of loss--a sense that he'd failed Kurt.

--

When he returned to his hotel room, Kurt was there. The boy was stretched across the bed, pale skin a stark contrast against the dark sheets. As usual, Blaine felt winded just from looking at him.

The bright blue eyes widened upon his arrival, and the pure hope they conveyed made Blaine's heart ache. The boy sat up, perched at the edge of the bed in that oddly catlike way that was rapidly becoming quite characteristic of him.

Blaine shed his coat and shoes, taking his sweet time in approaching Kurt. When he finally did, he stayed standing, unwilling to infringe on the boy's personal space in any way.

"Kurt, I..." he began, and saw the boy's shoulders droop at the sheer tone of his voice. "I spoke with Karofsky. He didn't tell me anything."

"Nothing?" said Kurt incredulously, and his eyes narrowed, cutting. Like glass. "What do you mean nothing? What did you ask him?"

"Everything I was legally allowed to ask him, and then some." Blaine gave up and sat down on the bed beside Kurt, dragging his hands through his hair.

"And what did he tell you?"

Blaine looked over at Kurt, hands falling into his lap and curling into fists again. "He told me what happened. What he did to you. And he said that there were four people there that night."

"I know," said Kurt, his voice high and distant. "I remember four. I remember their voices."

"Well, the good news is that we know they were all St. Teresa's students," said Blaine, angling his body slightly toward Kurt's. "We can do a thorough investigation based on Karofsky's claims, see what we can come up with."

He reached into the pocket of his coat and took out his tape recorder, brandishing it. "It's all right here, see? So it wasn't a total loss. At least we have something to go on now."

Kurt had gone quite silent. Blaine tilted his head slightly, regarding him.

"Could I take a shower?" Kurt asked before Blaine could say another word. Blaine's eyebrows lifted; Kurt had taken three showers today already. He nodded, though, and Kurt gave him a brief smile before disappearing to the bathroom.

Blaine tried to understand. It wasn't as though Kurt needed to shower. Maybe he just wanted to get warm; his skin was always so cold, after all. Then again, he thought, maybe Kurt was just trying to wash off dirt that never seemed to go away.

--

Blaine slept fitfully that night.

The dream had started almost immediately. One moment he'd been lying on his back in bed, a still-smoking cigarette butt by his side, and the next he was on his feet and tugging on his coat. He'd left the motel, walked out into the rain, got into his car and drove. The winding road disappeared before him, and he was back at Renwood Asylum within a half hour.

There were no questions asked and there was no hesitation. He strode purposefully through the halls and managed to convice the orderlies to let him in to see Karofsky one more time--he flaunted the evidence, abused his badge, practically extorted them. It all seemed to exist somewhere he wasn't, even though his body was moving.

No-- His body wasn't moving. Someone was moving it.

He stepped within Karofsky's room. The man hadn't been sleeping; he was sitting on the edge of his bed, hands folded as he stared at the floor. Upon hearing the sound of Blaine's footsteps, Karofsky's thin eyebrows knitted together and he rose from the bed.

"The hell are you doing here?" he demanded, looking both angry and apprehensive. Above him, a security camera shorted out and went black.

Blaine said nothing, just walked a few steps forward. All of a sudden Karfosky's expression changed. The anger and confusion were gone, replaced by something much more complex--terror, regret, anguish, and something horribly like longing.

"You...how..." Karofsky fell to his knees.

Blaine opened his mouth to speak, but a voice came out that was not his own. it was high and melodic, soft and sweet yet cold. Chilling in its innocence, its lack of pretense.

"Hello, David."

"You... Kurt," Karofsky sobbed. "You can't be... You're dead, it can't-- I'm going fucking crazy, being here, I've gone fucking nuts--"

"Shhh," Kurt (Blaine?) whispered. His expression was calm and detached as he observed the shrunken, cowering man on the ground at his feet, but his eyes were cold and utterly unforgiving. "It's all right, David. Everything's over now."

Karofsky looked up at Kurt, his face horribly pale, and shook his head. "Jesus... You're really here? It's really... God."

Two big hands found Kurt's hips, and Karfosky slumped forward, his forehead resting against Kurt's abdomen. "I'm so sorry. Jesus-- You know I didn't mean for them to do that, Kurt. I didn't want them to. I never wanted-- Please, you have to believe me."

Kurt didn't move. He just stared down at Karofsky with those chilling eyes, unblinking. "I know, David," he said softly.

"You--you do?"

"I do."

Karofsky's hands fell from Kurt's hips and he let out a sob of relief, shaking his head. "God, I knew you wouldn't-- We knew each other, right? I wouldn't kill you. I didn't kill you. I took the rap for it, 'cause I felt so bad, you know? I didn't think they'd--"

"David," said Kurt coldly, cutting off Karofsky's babbling. "Do you know why I'm here?"

Falling silent, Karofsky looked up at Kurt again, his expression oddly childlike as he shook his head. Kurt took a step forward.

"I'm here so you can tell me the names of my killers," he continued, his voice deadly-sweet. "You'll tell me, won't you David? Because you feel so bad?"

Karofsky's face turned paler, his sunken eyes even more pronounced then before. "I can't," he said in a tiny, frightened voice. "I can't, Kurt, they-- They did something to me. I can't say their names, or..."

Kurt pressed his lips together, pushing back his frustration. He tilted his head, giving Karofsky an expression of mock-understanding.

"I think you can try," he said soothingly. "Just try, David. You love me, don't you?"

The man on the ground--once so big, so strong, so in command--let out a sound like a frightened animal, covering his face with his hands. He began to rock back and forth, sobbing and shaking his head.

"I do. I do, Kurt, I love you so much...so fucking much..."

"Then tell me."

Kurt lowered himself to his knees, to Karofsky's level, and tilted his head to look the other man in the eye. Karofsky stared for a long moment, then opened his mouth. Instead of words, however, blood began to spill from his lips. He gagged, doubling over, and his body began to convulse violently.

Despite this, Kurt did not move. "Tell me, David!"

"Lis--" A wave of blood gushed from Karofsky's mouth, sweat gliding down his reddened face. "Lisb-- Lisbeth--" The words were once again cut off as he vomited another round of blood, and Kurt could see more begin to gush from the man's ears and nostrils.

"Say it," Kurt hissed. "Say the name, goddamnit!"

"Lisbeth!" Karofsky cried, curled on the floor in agony. It seemed as though every breath was causing immeasurable pain, and the words were like bullets fired deep within his organs. "Lisb--oh God, oh Christ!--"

"Finish!"

"Lis-- Lisbeth Frankel! Oh, Jesus--" Karofsky fell forward onto the ground, sobbing in a pool of his own blood. He curled there like a wounded animal--a bloody, wretched mess--and Kurt got to his feet.

"Thank you," he said simply as Karfosky rolled onto his back, gasping for air. "That should do for now."

"P-please... Kurt..." Karofsky tried helplessly to roll onto his side, reaching for Kurt's foot. "I need help... I'm... I feel like I'm d-dying, Kurt--"

Kurt stepped out of Karofsky's reach, disgusted. He turned to leave.

"B-but Kurt, I... I did that for you, I said I didn't mean f-for that to happen, I-- I didn't kill you, Kurt..."
Kurt was silent for a long moment--and when he looked down at Karofsky's bloody form, there was something like fire in his eyes.

"I was crying," he said softly.

Karofsky looked up at him helplessly, and he took another step forward. The room's dim lighting stretched his shadow across the far wall, and two large shapes seemed to form at its back. They stretched wide, spreading across the wall like ink.

"I was crying for my Dad."

"No, no-- Please don't, I want-- I want my Daddy, please!"

Another step. "I begged you to stop but you didn't. You held me down and did it anyway." Another. "I cried and screamed but you did it anyway, David."

Terror was written on Karofsky's face where there never was before. He'd been frightened before, certainly, but this was different. This was the fear of something unimaginable, something beyond the tiny world he lived in. This was fear of something that didn't exist in his lifetime--it existed in what waited for him when it was over.

"Oh God...no... Kurt, I'm... I'm sorry... Oh God, have mercy..."

There was nothing calm or collected about Kurt's expression anymore. He stared down at Karofsky with utter contempt, pain and fury twisting his face into something both beautiful and horrifying. As he stepped toward Karofsky, the bleeding started anew--but this time, it came from Karofsky's eyes. The man wailed, touching around his eyes and staring down at his bloodied hands in horror.

Kurt was close now. As Karofsky sobbed and clawed at his face, Kurt got to one knee and regarded him. He was silent for a long time, merely observing the misery before him, and then he opened his mouth again to say one final sentence.

"I was a virgin."

Karofksy's eyes burst in their sockets.

The small room was filled with the sound of screams as Karfosky rolled on the ground in agony, and Kurt got to his feet again. His voice was raised now, shouting over the anguished howls.

"Go to Hell!" he cried, tears streaking his own face as he watched the man die. "Go to Hell, you animal!"

The screams turned to pitiful gasps for air, and then it was over. The lifeless body of David Karofsky lay slumped on the floor, eyeless and still oozing blood, and Kurt got to his feet. He turned away, leaving the corpse behind as he silently left the room.

He left the asylum and drove to the motel, and Blaine Anderson woke up in bed. There were tears on his face.

--

Bent over the motel room sink, Blaine splashed one more handful of water over his face for good measure. Christ, that dream... Even with an ability like his own, he'd never experienced a more vivid nightmare. Taking a deep breath, he raked a hand through his hair before leaving the bathroom and shuffling back toward his bed.

Kurt was gone. Blaine had no idea where the boy went to when he wasn't busily haunting him, but he was grateful for the small reprieve.

At least he thought he was.

Reaching over to the bedside table, he grabbed his wallet and held it above him as he lay on his back. He examined the photographs within--his eyes lingering on one in particular--and felt an odd pain in his chest. He'd felt grateful for Kurt's disappearance only a moment ago, but now--
It would have been nice, perhaps, to wake up from that nightmare and have someone there on the other side of the bed to comfort him.

Distinctly ashamed of himself, Blaine closed the wallet and set it back down next to his gun. He finished off the cigarette butt that had waited in the ashtray there, and finally closed his eyes.

He woke up to the sound of his phone ringing.

It was still dark outside--bright blue, the barely-there light of dawn. Groggy, Blaine reached around for his cell phone and pressed it clumsily against his ear.

"Hello?"

"Blaine!" came Mike's voice loud in his ear, making him wince. "I'm in the office and this just got in-- Dave Karofsky was found dead in his room this morning."

That woke Blaine up. He sat up in bed, one hand raking through his curls as he stared at the wall in disbelief. "What?"

"That's not even the most fucked up thing, Blaine. They said last person in his room was you. What the hell were you doing there so late? What do you think you're playing at?"

Blaine got to his feet, genuinely distressed. "No, Mike, they've got it wrong, I wasn't--"

"They have it all on record. You barged in around midnight demanding to see Karofsky, they couldn't get a word in edgewise. Their security camera malfunctioned right after that, so they have no way of knowing the exact time of death. Listen, they might try to pin this on you--"

"Mike, I'm telling you, I wasn't--"

"--but there's nothing on Karofsky's body that suggests homicide. He died of internal injuries--his eyes literally burst in their sockets, and he had a heart attack. No evidence of physical trauma, no fingerprints, no murder weapon... They've got nothing, Blaine, but if I were you I would get your ass back here and start talking. Right now."

Speechless, Blaine nodded before he realized Mike couldn't see him. When he spoke his voice was soft, stunned. "Uh--yeah. Okay."

"I mean it, Blaine. I don't know what's gotten into you, but you better stop all this crazy shit before you get fired or worse."

"Okay. I know."

There was a pause. "You're my best friend, Blaine. I'm worried about you, okay? Come home and let's fix this."

Blaine simply hummed in reply as he got dressed, tying his tie while he balanced the phone on his shoulder. He heard Mike sigh again, and then they said goodbye.

Half-dressed, Blaine stood before the mirror in his bedroom, staring at the phone in his hand. He then looked up at his own reflection, and saw an expression of utter confusion and horror there. For a moment his eyes reflected nothing but panic, but comprehension slowly began to dawn within them.

It hadn't been a nightmare.

--

Being on the other side of an interrogation was utterly bizarre. It was quite fortunate that Blaine was who he was, as he had an excellent lawyer and the full support of the Chief and everyone else at the precinct. The Chief kept insisting on what a fantastic agent he was, and Blaine had the record to prove it.

Lying wasn't easy. He stopped denying that he'd visited Renwood that night, and made it very clear that he'd left before Karofsky had died. With no evidence to the contrary, he was released with an apology to top off his guilt.

He was supposed to call Mike and explain to him how everything went, but he didn't. Instead, he drove straight to his apartment, exhausted and angry.

When he arrived he stood in the kitchen, listening for any indication that he wasn't alone. He was greeted with silence, and he sighed in frustration and raised his voice.

"Kurt? Kurt, if you can hear me-- Come where I can see you. We need to talk."

Silence. Blaine cursed under his breath, then went to the refrigerator for a beer. He pried it open and straightened up, taking a long drink, and the sound of a voice nearly made him spit it back out.

"You shouldn't drink so much."

After carefully swallowing his beer, Blaine turned to see Kurt standing in the kitchen doorway. The boy was dressed in a long, loose-fitting sweater that fell to his knees, and it slipped slightly off one shoulder as he walked toward Blaine.

"I watch you, you know. You go through lots of beer. Busch, right? My dad used to drink that kind."

Blaine took another drink as if to spite Kurt, gripping the bottle tightly. His jaw was set, his dark eyebrows drawn tight in surpressed fury.

Kurt looked confused. "Are you...angry?"

Unable to help himself, Blaine let out a bitter laugh. "Am I angry," he repeated, his tone derisive. He set down his beer on the counter, the sound of glass hitting granite echoing through the kitchen.

He wheeled on Kurt. "Why do you sound so surprised? Do you think I'd be happy with you after what you did?"

Kurt's face fell and he looked genuinely hurt. "I just--"

"You just what? Accidentally possessed me? You had no right to do that, Kurt. No one has any right to do that. It was terrifying, and-- Christ, Kurt, I nearly lost my job! I could have been thrown in jail!"

"I didn't think that would happen!" Kurt replied defensively, his eyes hardening. "I didn't intend to kill David, I just--"

"You just thought you could barge in there and do what I couldn't," Blaine said darkly. "As if you have any idea what you're doing. You're sixteen, Kurt--"

"Don't!" said Kurt shrilly. "Don't say that!"

"It doesn't matter," Blaine growled, taking another step forward. "What you did was--" He raked a hand through his hair, trying to find the words to describe how horrifying it had been--to be forced out of control of his own body, reduced to a mere bystander as his eyes and mouth and feet were yanked around as if on strings...

When he looked at Kurt, the expression he saw was complex. The boy looked remorseful, but there was something in his eyes that looked very much like betrayal.

"You promised you'd help me," Kurt said in a low voice, attacking Blaine with his eyes again--and Blaine hated it, hated the way this boy made him feel. The guilt was terrible, and it just made Blaine all the more angry.

"I did!" he shouted. "But I didn't consent to have you use my body like that-- Don't you get it, Kurt? You of all people-- How is that any different from what Karofsky did to you?"

The kitchen was filled with ugly silence, and Blaine's stomach dropped. By God, he couldn't have found a stupider thing to say. Christ, why had he said that--

Instantly remorseful, he reached out a hand toward Kurt, shaking his head.

"I-- Kurt, I'm sorry, I..."

The damage had been done. Blaine had one more look at Kurt's pale, horrified face before the boy turned and left the room. Cursing, Blaine followed him--but there was nothing.

Kurt had gone.

--

The fireplace was ablaze, and Blaine finished his sixth beer. He set the empty bottle down, staring into the flames as he retreated somewhere in his mind.

He remembered the first ghost he ever saw. It had been a child, a little girl, with long black braids and pink galoshes. It had been a year after his parents died, and despite everything he'd remained a fairly light-hearted child--odd, perhaps, unique in his personality and interests, but happy.

A few kids had been bullying him that day, and he'd ran off to the park to skip stones across the lake. The little girl had joined him, and after a while she'd held out her hand for him to take. 'Come on,' she'd said. I'm going to show you something.'

Delighted to have made a new friend so easily, he'd eagerly grasped her hand and followed her. She'd led him through the nearby woods, along a twisted path until they reached a clearing.

It was filled with gravestones.

Blaine had looked at the girl in confusion, and in doing so noticed something he hadn't seen before-- A single stab wound was on the side of her neck, short but deep, visible when she'd tossed one of her braids behind her back. Blaine had been horrified, but he hadn't ran away.

She'd looked so sad.

'My mommy's here,' she explained. I want to go see her really bad, but I can't yet. My daddy doesn't know I'm dead. He knows the bad man took me, so he's still looking for me. I want him to stop.'

She'd looked over at Blaine pleadingly. 'Could you tell him for me?'

Blaine's memories were cut short by a distant sound. He got to his feet and stepped out of the living room, wandering toward the hallway, and he heard the sound grow louder as he drew closer to the bathroom.

Crying.

Tentatively he opened the door, and found Kurt. The boy was slumped on the floor, clearly sobbing, his back to the door. Blaine bit his lip and drew closer, not wanting to startle him.

"Kurt... Look, Kurt, I'm so sorry... I shouldn't have said that, it was so fucking stupid, I-- Kurt?"

He'd circled around Kurt just enough to see the boy from the side--and he froze. There was blood. It was all over the boy's hands, soaked through his clothes-- Frantic, Blaine moved forward, grasping Kurt's wrists gently to tug them away from his face. Panicked visions of what might have happened tore across his mind, and none of them made any kind of sense, but then he realized it--

It was coming from Kurt's eyes. Kurt was crying blood.

The boy let out a whimper and looked up at Blaine, who quickly snapped out of it. "Okay... Shh, it's okay, I've got you," he murmured, putting an arms around the boy and carefully lifting him off the floor. God, he was freezing. Blaine carried Kurt over to the shower and carefully placed him inside before crawling in himself and reaching over to turn on the water.

The hot water cascaded on them both, and Blaine went about washing off the blood as thoroughly as he could. The water soaked through his clothes, and his hair hung in sodden curls around his eyes, but he didn't care-- He needed to get Kurt clean and warm.

The blood just kept coming, though, and after a while Blaine gave up. He dropped the wash cloth he'd been using and instead gathered Kurt in his arms, holding him and rocking him on the shower floor. The boy clung to him in return, crying into his shirt, soaking him with blood.

"It's gonna be okay," Blaine whispered, and he wasn't sure if the wetness on his face was water or tears. "I've got you. I'm gonna help you, all right? We're gonna find them. I promise, Kurt, I promise."

Kurt just nodded, not saying a word, and Blaine closed his eyes.

"Can you tell my daddy for me? Please?"

"I don't know how. I've never done that before."

"I'll go with you. I'll hold your hand. I just wanna see my mommy again... Can you tell him? Please?"

There was a long pause, and then...

"Yeah. I will. I promise."