A.N. Okay, so readers of my other fics will know that I am guilty of impulsive writing – i.e. when I should be focusing on established stories, I go ahead with a new idea adding to an annoying habit of slow updating. I have done it again. After watching 'Misery' for the first time I OF COURSE think of a Klaine version. And this is it. Brief plotline: successful author gets into a car accident and is taken by his 'number one fan' to nurse him back to health somewhere deep in the mountains. The fan, however, is (for a lack of a better word) a psycho and…well, I won't ruin it for those who haven't read Stephen King's novel or seen the movie. Basically this fic will take plot points from both sources and I'll be changing parts to better suit dark!Blaine and Kurt's personality.

Warning: Dark themes, profanity, violence, drug use, possible sexual content (haven't decided on that yet) and Blaine is not dapper – he is bad! So please don't hate on me if you don't like it!

Disclaimer: 'Misery' and Glee are owned by Stephen King and Ryan Murphy, not me. My contribution is simply mashing them together and throwing in my own twists.

Let me know if you like it!

The Life and Death of Darcy Brown

As the torn piece of paper fluttered underneath Raymond's corner filing cabinet, the oblivious detective wearily shrugged into his overcoat and dragged his briefcase from his desk. Shutting off the lights, he headed home for the evening. The scrapped remainder of Ms. Wickes suicide note was bound to be found one day, but today was not that day.

The rickety tap of the typewriter was like a bell from heaven to Kurt Hummel's ears as he carefully plucked out the final page. A quick scan over the paragraphs was more than enough of a proofread for him and he pencilled in the words 'THE END' at the blank space at the bottom. Thank God for copywriters, Kurt found himself thinking. He hated those days when it was he who had to go through his work with a fine-toothed comb and rejoiced in the fact that that particular burden-like responsibility was taken from him after his first bestselling novel.

The final page was settled on top of the rest of the manuscript, face down of course. He guessed that he'd written on about 450-500 pages of A4 which was more than his typical length. Obviously when you're so engrossed in a story it's easier to write more. And, God, was this story a release! The writing experience was nothing like that of the Darcy Brown series he was internationally famous for creating. Well, it may have been similar to the first novel, but it all went downhill by about book 3 and Kurt had been trying to recapture the excitement of writing he had since lost. Now, as he took the stack of paper and propped them into a tidy pile, he could not wipe the grin off his face. He felt like an accomplished author again. It was neatly inserted into his 'manuscript satchel', the very one which held he heaved around from publisher to publisher when he finished his first ever novel. It was showing signs of wear and tear but it was as sturdy as ever. He clasped it shut and left it on his desk as he scooped up his cabin's telephone and called up the main lodge reception just down the road.

'Hello, this is Mr Hummel from cabin seven. I was hoping you could- You have it ready? That's excellent! Yes, please send it all along. Thank you, sir.'

Down went the receiver and Kurt leaned back in his chair to do what he had been dreaming of doing since he arrived up here at Silver Creek; he relaxed. Closing his eyes he imagined arriving back in LA and handing the manuscript to his agent. She would breathe a sigh of relief, no doubt, and then he would be free to enjoy a month or so of rest before there would be less than timid knocks on his door asking when he could be expected to finish his next book. It would be stressful, he knew, but that was the price for literacy success and it was a price he was always willing to pay. The tap on his cabin door brought him out of his thoughts.

'Good evening, Doug,' Kurt smiled as he opened the door.

The ache-ridden boy flushed at the fact someone like Kurt Hummel knew his name. He rushed in and placed a silver tray down on Kurt's writing desk. On this tray sat a chilled yet unopened bottle of Dom Perignon champagne, one tall flute glass, and three separate candles, each with a single match wedged beside it. Kurt had seen better displays over the years but he was not the type of celebrity to nit-pick over nothing. 'So, it's that time again, sir?' Doug asked, his late-teen voice breaking.

'C'mon, Doug, I'm not much older than you. You can call me Kurt when you're boss isn't around.' Kurt assured his as he went about rearranging the tray. 'And yes, it is indeed that time again.'

Doug stood awkwardly by the window with his hands deep in his pockets. 'Mr Fraser could kill me, sir. He told me why you have this stuff – it's like a ritual or something, right?'

The fact the boy was still hovering about did bother Kurt, but rarely did Doug outstay his welcome too long. 'Hmm…more of a tradition.' He replied. 'The night I finished my first ever story I celebrated with a glass of this champagne and I lit some candles to calm myself. That story went on to be a best-seller in 19 countries so I try to recreate what I did each time I finish a new piece just in case it's the secret to my success.' Kurt knew how stupid it sounded, but Doug wasn't one he was worried about impressing so he just shrugged it off.

Doug, however, stared in awe. 'That's so cool, I mean, if I ever did something awesome like that I'd-' As Kurt's gaze turned to him the boy realised that maybe he should head back to the reception. 'W-well, I'd better get back. Mr Fraser probably wants more coffee. Goodnight, sir.'

'Goodnight, Doug, and thank you.' Kurt chuckled as the boy threw himself out the room. He made a mental note to give the poor guy a good tip. He turned back to the tray. He only needed one match to light all three candles, so he pocketed the extra two. The candles were scented: the aroma of vanilla and lavender washed through his nostrils tenderly. Then, he turned off the cabin lights and popped the bottle of champagne. After filling his glass, he brought it to his lips and took the smallest of sips. It tasted sweet. It tasted like completion. It tasted of success.

[Four weeks previous…]

'What's that?'

Kurt lowered his gaze to the satchel his literary agent was referring to. 'An old friend.' Kurt replied as he gave the battered leather front a few affectionate pats. 'Back when I was a mere high schooler in Lima, I was rummaging through my dad's closet and it was just sitting there. Dad couldn't remember where it came from so I assumed it belonged to my mom. I had to take it – it was practically screaming for me.' A grin etched out across his face, he stretched himself out on the luxurious couch.

From behind her oversized solid oak desk, Miss Santana Lopez arched a brow. She continued pouring two glasses of wine until each glass was almost overflowing and, with well-practised balancing skills, she expertly manoeuvred herself around the room and up to her favourite client to hand him his drink without spilling a drop. She was no stranger to handling beverages. She sat in the armchair opposite the young man, flicking her deep-tan legs into a toned cross. She hummed 'It's nice, Kurt. It's got character.'

Kurt couldn't tell if she was humouring him as the small smile playing on her lips could mean any number of things. He chuckled as she sipped from her own glass. 'When I wrote my first book I carried it in this while I was looking for a publisher.' Together they shared a knowing look; they both knew of Kurt's struggles of getting published before Santana decided to take a chance on him. It was a lifeline and a huge risk on her part and Kurt knew that no matter how much literal money and popularity his books made her, he could never fully repay her for her kindness. Of course, Miss Lopez was seen as a snake in the industry so her true good nature was forever hidden beneath a mass of bitchy superiority and lash-like quips, only ever visible to Kurt – Santana's little prodigy-turned acclaimed writer. Kurt's smile faltered slightly. 'I was a writer then.'

'You're a still a writer now.' Santana corrected him with a stern look and a pointing finger.

Kurt tilted and shook his head. 'I haven't been a writer since I got into the Darcy business.'

'Not a bad business. It would still be growing, too.' His agent shot back as quick as a flash. She leaned forward and opened a folio which had been lying on the coffee table between them. On the first page, in a slotted pocket, was the stretched out cover of Kurt's debut novel. 'The first printing order of Darcy's Hope was the most ever – over a million.'

'Santana, please…' Kurt muttered, his face twisting into a soft grimace when confronted with folio. The front cover – the skilful illustration of the title character, Darcy, and a handsome other man staring longingly at one another from across a crowded gentlemen's club – used to fill Kurt with pride. Finally, a popular romance series with a homosexual character taking centre stage, handling society, relationships and sex in such a tasteful way that earned Kurt Hummel the title 'The Most Revolutionary Author of the 21st Century'. Everyone was shocked at how well Darcy's Hope was received, even revered, and its popularity went on to spawn no less than seven sequels. However now the illustration served as a bitter reminder of how Kurt backed himself into a literacy corner, stuck writing best-selling books he grew to hate. The name 'Darcy' was enough to put him off his food, and it worried him how little he came to care for the character which was the hero of people from all walks of life. The picture of a beaming Kurt on the back cover was taken back when he was a young nineteen year old riding the ecstatic waves of knowing he was a published author. Now, nearly seven years later, the sight of his debut piece made his stomach turn on itself in a mixture of detest and guilt.

Santana, however, ignores his pleas. 'Darcy Brown put you through college, earned you worldwide recognition, bought your dad and stepmother a grand estate to retire to, as well as three homes for yourself stateside and abroad, and secured front row seats to Knick games and all the runway catwalk shows Milan has to offer. And what thanks does he get? You go and kill him.' Throwing her hands up in the air, Santana tosses herself back into her chair and regards Kurt with an exasperated stare.

The guilty pangs are tugged within Kurt's heart but he keeps his expression resolved. 'Santana, you know I started 'Darcy' on a lark. You know me – am I the type of guy who writes romance novels? Do I sound like Danielle Steel?' Santana pursed her lips but remained quiet. Kurt gave a sigh. 'It was a one-time shot and we got lucky. I never meant for it to become my life. And if I hadn't got rid of him now, I'd have ended up writing him forever.' At that moment, their eyes both fell to the prototype of Kurt's most recent finished product: Darcy's Journey. The final chapter of the Darcy Brown legacy, due to be released in just over a month's time. Before then, Kurt planned to finish the story he had been planning out for over three years which would be, for all intents and purposes, dramatically different to anything he had published before: a gritty crime novel, complete with gory murders, disgusting underlings with even more foal superiors. Just thinking about it sent shivers up Kurt's spine. 'For the first time in years, I think I'm really onto something. Now, I'm leaving for Colorado at the weekend to try and finish this,' He tapped his satchel in reference to the half-written book within, 'because if I can make it work I might just have something I want on my tombstone.'

Santana shook her head in tired disbelief but, knowing Kurt was set on his path, decided to just be the supportive friend. She finally admitted a smile and raised her glass. 'I'll drink to that.' Kurt chucked and together they clinked their way into celebrating the life and death of Darcy Brown.

[Four weeks on, at the lodge]

The morning of Kurt's departure from Silver Creek, the young author found himself snagged between his blankets. The cabin was freezing and the heating was only just kicking into gear. He waited it out a few hours before he dared leave his bed. Outside there was a fresh layer of snow, bringing the height up to almost three feet. The ploughs had already been out that morning and there was a relatively clear road leading from the lodge down the mountains. Kurt supposed he should try and leave before more snow decided to fall.

With his typewriter, suitcase and satchel safely in his '65 Mustang, Kurt paid one last visit to the lodge reception to sign out, return his key and pay his bill. As usual, Mr Fraser had been 'delighted' with his presence in cabin 7 and made Kurt promise to return soon. Knowing it was a promise he'd no doubt keep, Kurt agreed. It was only after discreetly slipping a fifty into Doug's unsuspecting hand that Kurt started his car and began making his way down the twisted mountainside. It was a two day car journey to L.A. from this place, and an oldie like the Mustang was probably not the most reliable or comfortable mode of transport to do such a journey but it was all part of tradition. Besides, all he needed was music on a drive like this. He didn't share this fact with the world, even his own father, but Kurt was quite the singer.

The mountains were truly breath-taking, and Kurt had been admiring them for almost four weeks from the window of his cabin but suddenly the slopes, the turns and the damn snow seemed far less beautiful. 'Damn-damn-damn…shit…' Kurt rarely swore but now he was cursing himself for not taking note of the weather before leaving the safety of the lodge because if he had he might have stayed an extra night in cabin 7. Snow was coming down heavy now, almost like there were people on top of his car pouring it all down onto his windscreen from never-ending buckets. The wipers weren't moving fast enough to clear his vision; he had to take snippets of the road and memorise the degrees of the turns. So far, it was going okay. Although how he was going to keep this up for another six miles was another qu-

'Shit!' Kurt exclaimed. A deer had leapt into his path simply out of nowhere. Unable to think straight, Kurt veered off to the side to avoid collision. Like a flash to his left, the deer ran past him up the hill, but it soon became obvious to Kurt that his safety was not as assured as the deer's was. There was a large bump on the road. Kurt's foot was pressing down painfully on the brakes and his hands jerked the steering wheel in the other direction in the hope that maybe he could curve-skid it to a stop. However, another bump – this time a lot more violent than before – was quickly followed by…nothing. The car was freefalling. The wipers cleared the windscreen just in time for Kurt to see the last of his vehicle leave the safety of the road and he could do nothing more than gape in horror as the car turned on itself into a long and deep trench of snow. A few trees bashed it one way then another. It turned over once. Twice. Three times. Four-

By the time the car had come to a halt, it was upside down. The engine had knocked itself out on impact. Its framework had been bashed so severely that the door handles probably wouldn't work anymore. However, Kurt didn't try. He couldn't. Bleeding all over, Kurt was unconscious.

Out in the forested area of the mountainside, a pickup truck pulled in. It had been driving down the same route Kurt himself had been following mere moments before. A door opened and a pair of booted feet landed with a crunch on the roadside. The driver made his way down the ditch on foot and came to a stop by the overturned car. Several seconds passed as the vehicle was examined. One gloved hand wiped at the driver's side window and through the steamed up glass an unconscious face was visible. The pickup truck driver pulled out a crowbar from the many bundles of clothing currently protecting his body and he thrust it deep into the car door's latch. Many moments of wedging later, the stranger prised open the door. Flakes of snow trickle inside and land on Kurt's bare face and lashes. He can't supress a shiver even in his unconscious state.

The stranger considered him carefully before finally noticing the satchel on the passenger seat. He reached over Kurt and slid it out, tucking it into his zipped up coat. He then gently hooked his hands under Kurt's arms and pulled him out of the destroyed car and onto the ground. A moment was spared to throw a blanket over Kurt's shivering frame before he was hoisted up over the man's shoulders. The man in question would later return for Kurt's belongings, but at that moment the focus was getting the unconscious young man up to his truck. A minute later and the pickup truck could be heard roaring up the mountainside.

Back in the ditch, the Mustang was already being showered with snowflakes. In less than a day the car would no longer be visible.

A.N. Well? I really hope you guys like it so far - Please review with your comments!