Soft hands were in his hair, cool fingertips brushing down the back of his neck. Birds were singing outside; it must have been morning. Early morning, too early-- He burrowed his face into his pillow, too groggy to open his eyes, and slipped back into a light sleep. Between dreams and awareness, he felt breath against the shell of his ear, lips against his skin.

"I love you," a voice whispered. Sweet lips kissed his cheek. "Goodbye."

He mumbled, frowning in his sleep as the warmth beside him was suddenly gone. Chilly, he tugged his blankets more tightly around himself, and fell deeper into sleep.

--

"You seem happier."

Blaine looked up from where he'd been staring at his feet, and blinked at Rachel from across the room. "Huh?"

She rolled her eyes, laughing. "You seem happier. And I'm not just saying that to stroke my ego; you really are...brighter, somehow."

"Well great!" said Blaine, his eyes lighting up with mock-enthusiasm. "I guess I'm out of here, then!" He made to get up out of his chair, and Rachel mimed throwing her pen at him.

"Sit down," he admonished, though her smile lingered. "I'm proud of you, Blaine. So-- Have you adjusted to the medication, then? Fewer visions? Work going well?" She tilted her head slightly. "Or is someone special in your life?"

All of the above, thought Blaine. He shrugged. "Medication's been great. Haven't had much need for it, actually. Maybe the ghosts are bored of me or something."

Rachel laughed, then set aside her clipboard, leaning forward.

"I'm proud of you, Blaine," he said softly. "Really, I am. I won't let you off the hook, though. You know I'm always here for you-- Not just as your therapist, but as your friend. You know that, right?"

"I know," replied Blaine, then raised his eyebrow. "Can you give me love advice?"

"Not as your therapist I can't."

"As a friend then," said Blaine, leaning toward Rachel with big, dark, puppy-dog eyes firmly in place. "Please?"

Rachel sighed heavily. "All right. Off the clock, then."

"What flowers should I get him?" Blaine asked with a devious sort of grin.

There was a moment of silence, then Rachel gasped in delight, covering her cheeks with her hands. "I knew it! I knew it-- What's his name?"

"Ah-ah, not telling, Ms. Therapist."

"Fine," Rachel groaned, but she was still smiling. "And to answer your question, it is my professional opinion that you should get him ones that match his eyes. Unless they're brown--in that case, I'd go complimentary."

"Blue flowers," Blaine murmured, thinking for a moment; he hadn't seen many blue flowers before. If not blue then maybe white--white to match his skin. Yes. He smiled to himself, thinking about Kurt's beautiful white skin, about how much he'd loved just touching and smoothing his hands over it, about how Kurt smiled and purred in contentment when he did.

"Blaine." Rachel's voice brought him back.

"Yeah?"

She was still smiling. "I really am happy for you," she said sincerely. "Get out of here, okay? Go buy your man some flowers. I'll see you next week--or not."

Blaine felt a strange pain in his chest, but smiled at her anyway. He left and went straight to the flower shop.

--

Lilies and forget-me-nots.

Blaine felt like an idiot, a hopeless romantic, but he didn't care. He was smiling as he paid the florist, hoping he'd see Kurt when he returned to the apartment. It wasn't unusual for the boy to disappear now and then, but he'd hoped that would change after--

After what? Last night? He felt his face heat up and wondered when twenty years had been suddenly subtracted from his age.

He walked for a while and hears his phone go off. Thinking it was yet another text from Mike, rhapsodizing about his new daughter, he ignored it--until it kept ringing. Quickly he whipped it out of his pocket, holding it to his ear. "Detective Anderson speaking."

"Detective? It--it's me, Sugar Motta."

Frowning, Blaine stopped. He held one hand over the phone, trying to muffle the noise of the street around him. "Sugar-- Are you okay?"

The line was quiet for a long time, and for a moment Blaine thought the call had been lost.

"Sugar?" he repeated.

"I'm here," came her voice, tiny and afraid.

Alarmed, Blaine stepped into an alley, hoping to get away from the noise. "Sugar, what's wrong? Are you in danger? Is it something at school? If you think someone is listening you hang up and get somewhere safe, I'll get someone there right away--"

"I'm okay," she said, then sniffled. "I'm not in danger. Just--" He heard a distant voice call Sugar's name, and then she said, "I gotta go to class. Sorry for bothering you."

"Sugar--" tried Blaine, but she hung up.

"Shit."

--

St. Teresa's was nearly an hour's drive outside town, so he left immediately, stashing the flowers carefully in the passenger's seat of his car before thoroughly abusing the speed limit.

The school was just as remote and pristine as ever, and he entered through one of the side doors, trying to look as innocuous as possible. A pair of nuns walked by, and he was sure to give them his most charming smile as they passed-- They blushed and tittered, and then Blaine was alone. Quickly he whipped out his phone and texted Sugar, asking her to meet him in the abandoned lobby.

She arrived moments later, looking surreptitiously behind her as she walked, as if she were afraid of being followed.

Blaine put a hand on her shoulder. "Sugar, we don't have a lot of time," he said softly, urgently. "I need you to tell me what's going on in this school."

She bit her lip, shaking her head, and he squeezed her shoulder.

"I know something might be stopping you from telling me exactly what it is," he explained as quietly as he could. "But can you work around it? Can you tell me anything--A clue that might point me in the right direction?"

He heard footsteps approaching and shook her, suddenly panicked. "Sugar, please--"

Instead of speaking, Sugar reached down to tug at her sleeve. She turned her wrist, baring the arrow tattoo, and--Blaine held back a gasp--revealed a horrible mess of scars, as if she'd tried to cut the tattoo off with a knife. They were fresh, still an angry shade of red, and Blaine felt his heart break.

"Oh, Sugar..." he began, but he was cut off by a man's voice.

"Is something wrong, Detective Anderson?"

Headmaster Prewitt stood in the hallway, looking as steely and clean-cut as ever, and Blaine straightened up-- Sugar turned white at the sight of the Headmaster, tugging her sleeve down immediately, and Blaine bit his lip before ushering her away.

"Afternoon, Headmaster," Blaine greeted the other man with a smile, holding out his hand once Sugar had left. He drew it back when Prewitt didn't take it, his mouth forming a thin line.

"Is there any reason you're interrogating my students, Detective?" said Prewitt coldly.
Blaine's attitude changed completely. "I don't know," he replied crisply. "Is there any reason they're terrified of you?"

Prewitt's expression didn't change, but his eyes flashed. He took a step forward, appearing utterly composed, but Blaine was trained to notice everything--and he could pick up on the way Prewitt's lips twitched just so, the way he gripped his own wrist just a little bit tighter.

"I would like you to leave my school now," Prewitt said evenly, and his voice contained a hint of malice. "And do not return. And I will be talking with your superiors about this."

"Fine," Blaine replied in a voice equally as cool and threatening. "And I'll pull all the strings I can to turn this place over. You're hiding something, Headmaster. And I'm going to find out what it is before another innocent child is murdered."

He turned away without another word and left Prewitt behind him. He could feel the man's steely eyes on his back all the way outside, cold and brimming with barely-restrained fury, but he didn't feel a single trace of fear.

Prewitt was alive, after all.

--

Flowers first, Blaine told himself as he climbed the steps to his apartment. Blake after.

Blaine had spent the morning organizing his information about Timothy Blake--printing it, sorting it, and filing it carefully on his desk. It had been easy enough to find; Blake had a criminal record, after all, and was only out of prison due to parole (and an attorney who Blaine had later came to learn was named Sebastian Smythe).

He'd hoped Kurt would be waiting for him when he opened the door, but his apartment was empty. Disheartened, he walked into the study and set down the flowers on his desk--and realized a split second later that all his information on Timothy Blake was gone.

Alarmed, he swept through his desk, searching, convinced he'd misplaced it all--but with every moment that passed, he slowly began to accept what had happened.

Kurt. Kurt must have...

He was jolted to his feet by the sound of the buzzer. Who in all the hells-- He picked up the receiver and was startled to hear Finn Hudson on the other end. Concerned, he buzzed the other man in, and waited anxiously in the kitchen for him to appear.

Finn seemed to fill the entire kitchen when he entered in, still in uniform and clearly anxious. He took off his hat and smiled awkwardly at Blaine, shifting on his feet.

"Uh, hey," he said softly. "I just... I was in the neighborhood and thought I'd stop by... Is this a bad time?"

"No," Blaine lied quickly, shaking himself out of his discomfort. "Not at all, please, come in. I'm fresh out of beer, but I can get you some coffee if you'd like?"

"Yeah, dude, coffee sounds great," said Finn with a grateful smile.

Blaine ushered him into the living room to sit, then bustled about making coffee. He prayed the visit would be quick-- He needed to find Kurt, to track him down and stop him before he did anything rash. Hunting Timothy Blake was supposed to be Blaine's job--what in hell had convinced Kurt that he could do something like that on his own?

He entered the living room with two steaming cups, and found Finn seated on the couch with his hands knotted together. Blaine strode forward and handed him a cup, and he smiled gratefully.

"Sorry for just showing up out of the blue," Finn said awkwardly. "I just-- You know, I never had a chance to thank you. For running me to the hospital that day, for sticking around and stuff. And-- I mean, I know I was pissed about it before, but the stuff you did for Kurt's case was cool, too. You're a good guy, you know? And--"

He froze in mid-sentence, his eyes glued to the love seat. They'd transformed almost instantly--unsure but warm to dark and hard with unchecked anger. Confused, Blaine followed his gaze, and his blood ran cold.

Finn was on his feet, striding toward the love seat to yank the small bear from where it had been buried between the cushions. He thrust it at Blaine, furious.

"Where did you get this?" he cried. "You tell me right now-- Where the fuck did you get this?"

Blaine threw up his hands, utterly pale. "I don't know, I have no idea what--"

"It's Kurt's bear!" Finn roared. He towered over Blaine, and seemed twice as big in his anger. "It's Liza! He was buried with it-- How the hell did you get this, you sick fuck?"

"Finn, you need to calm down," said Blaine carefully. His heart was racing, and his mind was clamoring for a way out of this. There really wasn't any, short of telling Finn the truth, and-- "Please, I can explain..."

"You'd better fucking explain," said Finn in a tremulous voice, and tore out his gun from the holster on his belt. Blaine went cold, taking a step back, terrified. Finn was emotional enough to use that gun without thinking, Blaine knew it, and Christ what was he going to do he had no other choice--

"Kurt left it there," Blaine blurted out, the edges of his mind blurring and vibrating as his gaze went right through the barrel of the gun to the bullet hole in Daniel's forehead. "He stays here with me, Finn. I've seen him, I've talked to him--"

"Are you fucking insane?" Finn cried, thrusting the gun at Blaine. His expression was twisted up in anger and pain, and there were tears in his eyes. "Christ, some sick fuck rapes and kills him and now you--you're--"

"It's not just him," Blaine kept going, plowing forward in a desperate plea for his life. He didn't understand it at all; it wasn't as if he had any reason to live.

Just give it up, came a voice through all the static in his brain. He'll pull that trigger and you'll finally rest. You'll finally be happy. You can see Daniel again, tell him you're sorry--

His body seemed to think differently. "I see them all the time," he continued. "The dead. Ghosts. It's how I have such a good track record in the field, Finn, and why I re-opened your brother's case, Finn, because I see him--"

"Shut up!" Finn was closer now, and the barrel of the gun was just brushing Blaine's hairline, and something was shrieking in his head-- "Shut up, you fucking lunatic--"

"Karofsky didn't kill Kurt, Finn!" Blaine shouted as cold sweat poured down his neck. "It was a group of students from St. Theresa's-- Lisbeth Frankel, Robert and Ellen Callahan-- You heard about their deaths, didn't you? All apparently natural, all occuring within a week of one another-- It's not a coincidence, Finn! If you'd just let me explain--"

Pain exploded on the side of his face before he even registered that Finn had moved at all. Blaine found himself sprawled on the floor, staring at the ground, just as he had when Kurt had hit him with the beer bottle only nights before.

Finn pulled back his fist and holstered his gun. "I'm done with you," he said in a deep voice that was so terribly cold and pained that it turned Blaine inside out. He heard the man's footsteps as he started to walk away, and couldn't bear to watch him leave.

Instead, he whispered one last thing. "He wants you to stop blaming yourself."

The footsteps stopped. "What?" Finn snapped, sounding tense.

Blaine straightened up, brushing away blood from where it was dribbling from his split lip. "He told me you quit football after he died. That you gave up all your dreams of being an actor. He said you wanted to become a cop so you could find his killer and shoot him yourself."

Finn was crying. "Shut up," he repeated, though softer this time.

"The night before Kurt was taken," Blaine continued, "you were late picking him up from school. So you blamed yourself. You blamed yourself for so long, but Finn, it's not your fault. And Kurt never blamed you."

"Stop--"

"He's sorry," Blaine pressed on. "He said you fought the night before-- You'd said you wanted to join the army and he begged you not to. He's sorry, Finn. You should live the life you want--"

"But I'm not!" Finn cut him off, and Blaine finally looked up at him. The tall man was leaning against the far wall, his hand pressed against his mouth as he struggled to hold back his tears.

"I'm not," he repeated. "You're right, I-- Fuck, I wanted to be a cop so bad so I could find that bastard, but-- We did find him, we locked him up, and I feel nothing. Kurt's still fucking dead and the last thing I said to him was to leave me the hell alone--"

Slowly Blaine pushed himself up and started walking tentatively toward Finn. When it was clear that Finn wasn't about to hit or shoot him, he gently lay a hand on the other man's shoulder.

"You're a good brother, Finn," Blaine said softly. "And you can still help Kurt."

Finn looked up, incredulous. "I'm still not saying I believe you," he said uneasily, his hold on Liza tightening. Blaine took his hand from his shoulder quickly.

"Rachel knows," he said quietly. "She was the only one, up until now."

"About Kurt?" said Finn, confused.

"No, about--my ability." Blaine moved over to the couch near where Finn was standing and lowered himself into it, feeling weary. "That's why she prescribed those pills for me-- So I'd stop seeing them. No one in the force knows, not even Mike, and Finn--"

He turned his head slightly, looking at Finn imploringly. "Don't tell anyone else. Please, this is complicated enough without my secret getting out."

Finn still looked troubled, like a man who wasn't sure if he were being mocked or not. Blaine had a headache.

He left the couch in search of aspirin, and returned with a large bottle and an ice pack for his split lip. Finn had moved to the couch, and frowned when Blaine re-entered the room.

"Sorry," Finn mumbled, looking contrite.

Blaine shrugged. "It happens more often than you think." He lowered himself onto the couch beside Finn, carefully holding the ice against his lip. Finn reached over to open up the bottle of aspirin for him.

"I won't tell anyone," Finn said carefully. "But I'm confused. You said I could still help Kurt. What did you mean?"

There was a pause during which Blaine popped three aspirin and carefully swallowed them with his coffee. He shuddered a bit before continuing. "I meant what I said. One of Kurt's killers is still out there. And I think he went out after him all on his own."

Finn's eyes were very wide. "So he's like--a ghost? Is he see-through and stuff?"

Blaine sighed heavily. "Finn, I'd love to explain all this to you another day, but I'm kind of pressed for time right now." He looked earnestly at the other man, his eyes weary. "You want to know how you can help?"

Finn nodded.

"Cover for me," said Blaine. "At the precinct. I need to-- I have to find Kurt. He's out there, and he needs my help."

"I can go too," said Finn, rising to his feet.

Blaine shook his head. "No, it's-- It's too conspicuous. I need you to do this for me-- No, for Kurt. I'll explain everything once this is said and done, but for now I just really need your faith in me. "

Finn was quiet for a while. He stared down at the bear in his hand, looking conflicted. Blaine was moving, tugging his jacket back on and grabbing his keys off the desk. He didn't look at Finn again until he was at the door.

"I'll do this with or without your help," he said softly. "I just-- It'll mean a lot to Kurt. I know it will--"

"Shut up about Kurt," said Finn sharply. "I-- Fine, I'll do it. But--" He rose to his full height, towering over Blaine, but he still seemed very small in that moment.

"Tell me one thing," he said softly. "Is Kurt suffering?"

For once, Blaine had no idea what to say. For all he was hiding, he still hated telling outright lies. Still-- Finn had been in so much pain for so long.

"He's going to be all right," he answered softly. "And he doesn't hurt anymore. The...the pain of his death, he doesn't feel it anymore. So that's...good."

Finn was quiet. Blaine looked up at him long enough to see him nod.

"Help him," the taller man said softly. "I don't care how-- Just help him. Please."

"I will," Blaine promised. Without another word he tugged on his jacket and walked back out into the cold, and he had no idea what he was leaving behind.

--

Rain was streaking down in buckets, flooding over the windshield as Blaine drove as fast as he could down the highway. It was quite deserted; he was following a truck route, and it was well past rush hour. The sky was a tired, deep grey, forming a tight tunnel the road.

The truck stop came into view, and Blaine swung into it-- He couldn't see Kurt yet, but he could feel him, that subtle light that drew him in and never let go. He turned on his hazards and stepped out, wrapping his coat tightly around him as the rain assaulted him on all sides.

Kurt was standing underneath the awning, looking small and frail and otherwordly, a pale white thing in the middle of smothering grey. Blaine removed his coat and wrapped it around Kurt's little shoulders, drawing him in.

"Why did you go without me?" he murmured. Kurt's mouth opened to reply, but then a blinding light flooded their vision as a truck pulled up next to the building.

"You all right, buddy?" a man's voice called down. "That your car on the side of the road there?"
Blaine looked up and saw the grizzled face of Timothy Blake looking down at him in concern. He stepped forward, blinking rain out of his eyes.

"Engine problems," he replied, shouting over the sound of the rain. "And no cell reception out here. Think you could--"

"Give you a lift?" Blake finished for him. "Sure thing. Hop in."

Blaine resisted a glance at Kurt as he climbed up into the truck, shaking water out of his hair. He sat in the passenger's side on the long seat, with Kurt in the middle. Blake shifted gears and began to drive, cutting through the downpour.

It was silent for a while, then Blake spoke up. "Triple A is just a few miles up here. What are you doin' in the middle of nowhere like this anyway?"

There was a brief silence, then Blaine replied in a carefully measured voice, "Not sure. Maybe looking for someone cute to pick up."

Blake laughed. "Nice and honest," he replied. "Well, ain't many out here, I can tell you that."

"Yeah?" Blaine continued in that careful tone, reaching slowly into his pocket. His hand wrapped around the gun there, squeezing it lightly. Kurt was staring intently at Blake, his eyes unblinking.

"I'm going to kill him," said Kurt softly. "You should look away."

Blaine didn't. He kept talking. "I've been dying for a cute little piece of ass. Where do you find it, man? None where I'm from, I'll tell you."

"Mm, man, you gotta look in the right place," Blake laughed. "Like the high schools. There was one--man, won't forget it. Sweet as hell, pretty white skin, blue eyes... I mean, I ain't no queer, but you should have seen this kid. They don't make 'em like that anymore, let me tell you--"

"Blaine," said Kurt urgently, his voice rising. "Look away--"

"Tell me about it," Blaine continued, his voice slightly raised. "About him."

"Man, it was years ago!" Blake laughed, and he shrugged. "Kid ended up dead, god knows what happened. But I would have loved a crack at that. Real innocent, sweet, you know?"

"Young?" Blaine asked between gritted teeth.

"Teenager," said Blake, and he licked his lips. "Looked younger, though. Probably no hair on him." His fingers tightened on the steering wheel, and he licked his lips. "Sweetest little things, definitely a virgin. It's too bad that psycho Karofsky got to him, I'd have loved to rip apart that kid's tight little--"

"Blaine!" Kurt shrieked.

If Kurt was planning on doing anything, he didn't get a chance to. Blaine's gun was out in a split second, and he fired one shot right into the side of Blake's head.

Blood and brain splattered the windows, and Blaine heard Kurt shriek as he reached over the grab the wheel and steer the truck as best he could. Vomit rose to the surface of his throat as Blake's body rolled onto his lap, and he tried to ignore it as he managed to steady the vehicle long enough to park it.

He began cleaning up the crime scene as swiftly and efficiently as possible, stashing Blake's body in the woods nearby. It took a long time, and he feared Kurt would be gone when he returned--but he was there, still seated, a look of absolute shock on his face.

"Why?" he whispered. "Why, Blaine?"

Blaine turned the ignition and began to drive. He was quiet as he parked the truck at the stop and guided Kurt outside and into his own car. The rain had slowed, but its descent was still relentless, washing everything away.

He turned the ignition and began to drive. For a while there was no sound but for the pattering rain, and then Blaine was the one to speak.

"You have enough blood on your hands," he said softly. "No more. It's done now. You'll never have to kill anyone again, Kurt. You can go now."

Kurt was quiet. For a while he thought Kurt was still shocked by Blaine's actions, but then he spoke again.

"I'm still here," he whispered. His voice was so small Blaine had to lean slightly to hear it. When he did, his blood ran cold.

"Blake's dead," Kurt continued. "All of them are dead. So why am I still here?"

Blaine didn't speak. He couldn't think of a single thing to say.

Kurt just kept repeating it.

"I'm still here, Blaine. I'm still here."