Just a one-shot inspired by a photo of Chris Colfer looking mighty fine in a black hat
Undertaker!Kurt is in a graveyard watching a shrouded figure, Killer!Blaine.
Kurt eyed the dark figure cautiously as he made his own way through the graveyard, skulking behind the older stone shrines of large, weathered angels. He had come to recognise the character as a familiar presence, and he made peace with sharing the area. It was peculiar, Kurt thought, that the figure never seemed to mourn- only observe. Kurt felt drawn, unusually, with a fascination in the stranger.
A chill ran through the damp air, howling as it met the bare tress in the graveyard. Kurt inhaled the decaying scent of wet moss as he burrowed his hands into his pocket, continuing to trail the perimeter.
He was silent, or so he thought, as he watched the stranger make his way from grave to grave. He felt his own feet stop as the stranger came to a halt.
"Are you waiting for something?" Kurt's ears pricked. He was initially taken aback by the sound of something other than silence. His eyes focussed in on the figure he had been watching. He cocked his head to the side inquisitively, unseen through the darkness.
Kurt didn't hesitate to respond "For you to leave." He informed, his voice maintaining it's usual steadiness. The figure chuckled. Kurt watched carefully as the stranger turned from the grave he had been studying to face him.
Kurt could only make out his outline from where he stood, the figure's face still a black canvas.
"I was just about to do so."
The figure quickly turned on his heel and made for an exit. Kurt eyed him, his curiosity burning with their first exchange of words. He decided to seize the opportunity.
"Who are you?" Kurt called, before the stranger was out of ear shot.
In the distance the figure stopped.
Kurt cleared his throat, unsure whether the man would answer to another stranger. It was imperceptible to Kurt, but another smile spread across the figure's shrouded face. "Anderson." Kurt nodded, though the name conveyed nothing to him. Almost sensing the still wild fascination in Kurt, the figure continued to speak.
"I'm not here to cry for lost loves." The silky voice filled the area again, luring Kurt, forcing his attention. "I just appreciate the surroundings." Kurt felt a chill run down his spine, the hairs on his neck pricking as he absorbed the ice in the man's voice.
"Hm." Kurt mumbled to himself. Kurt took a couple of steps forward, hesitant. "I think we have that in common." The figure turned to face him again, and in the light of his new smirk Kurt caught only a sight of his untrimmed jaw line.
"For different reasons, I should imagine."
"Hm?" Kurt repeated, louder, inquisitive.
"Shall we say I have more of a... commitment to the departed here."
Kurt had edged forward again, unsure why he was so drawn to catching a glimpse of the man's face. "I am the undertaker here, I doubt that very much." The now familiar sound of the man's short, breathy chuckle filled the air.
"Mariah Brown. Twenty-one. Murdered," The man began unnervingly, causing Kurt's blood to run cold. He felt himself frozen as he watched the man pace slowly forward, towards him.
"Jenna Greeves. Twenty-eight. Murdered. Flannery McHale. Twenty-Two. Murdered." Kurt's breathing quickened as the man stopped mere meters from where he stood. He still couldn't make out the man's features but he was able to note the figure's curly brunette hair.
Feeling harrowed by what the man was saying Kurt felt himself sink back by a fraction into his large black coat. "...How do you know..." Kurt began but was cut off.
"I told you. I have a commitment to the departed here." Kurt's brow furrowed, not understanding, but he still felt the blood drain from his face- turning to ice. The man appeared pleased by Kurt's silence. He turned with a definite purpose, making for his leave. "I shall see you tomorrow, no?"
The figure's voice echoed through the grave yard, mingling easily with the howl of the wind and eerie shrieks from a far away raven. Kurt remained where he was standing, chilled by the encounter. Slowly, he skulked out, a new morbid anticipation emanating by the prospect of tomorrow night.