AN: This is ridiculously AU and sort of different to anything I've written, mostly regarding tone. This is dark. It's meant to be dark. If you want fluff, it's not here. If you want nice smutty, romantic sex scenes, it's probably not here either.

Title: Toxic

Rating: M (Chapter 2 onwards)

Pairing: Kurt/Blaine, possible brief Brittany/Santana (but very brief)

Warnings: Sex, profanity (only occasional), multiple OC and canon character deaths, and oodles and oodles of angst. And non-human characters. And magic.

Disclaimer: The plot is mine, the characters aren't.

Spoilers: None.

Other comments: Kurt is a sociopath in this. Not an I like to kill people sociopath because that's actually more psychopathy anyway. Essentially, he can't empathise or sympathise at all, which means that the Klaine in this is going to be rather different.

Also, he's an assassin (as stated in the summary.)

Like I said, this is sort of different to what I usually write, so I hope I sort of pull it off (sort of), and any feedback is muchly appreciated. Thanks!

After

Here's something I realised a long time ago (till I met him) – something I've always known.

(Till he came along and made everything a whole lot more troublesome than it had to be.)

Life's too clean – white, like a fresh blanket of snow over an open plain; like a fresh tablecloth. Waiting for death's cold grip.

I know (knew) that there's no meaning to life except death.

Death…is it ironic that death is how I live? Should I care?

Do you?

Perhaps you believe – in the 'sanctity of human life' (he does).

But life can be bought, and so can death (something he never understands). And that's why I've never refused a contract.

It's not about the money (he'd laugh if I said that). It's not like I don't already have enough. Besides, this flimsy paper and pretty coins?

Meaningless.

They're a way of keeping count, sure. I can't recall how many cessations of existence I've borne witness to, after all. There might have been records, once upon a time, but I don't have them.

They're a way of keeping count, but they're also a reminder. A reminder that life can be bought, because death can.

Because all you need is a swish of steel…

…and the last one dies with a gurgle and a cough of blood.

Because we all die…

…human or not.

And then he came along.

(How troublesome.)

Someday (November 9, 2010)

A swish of steel and a spark of colour across the tattoos; and the last one dies with a gurgle and a cough of blood.

He picks up the man's gun, weighing it in his hand for a moment. Then he shakes his head, dropping it onto the body of its owner, lying slumped against the dirty grey wall of the apartment. As far as guns go, it's good enough, though the diamonds embedded in the trigger seem to him to be more than a little extravagant.

But guns have never been his thing, he supposes, as he lifts his foot up onto the squishy, stained couch cushion to retie the laces on his boots.

Besides, he supposes, just because everyone else is switching, it doesn't mean he has to.

This man had a gun.

Right now, his killer is wiping him clean with flicks of his fingers (because it would be a waste to dispense too much magic on a corpse), a flow of air sent as an afterthought towards the gun, wiping off any trace imprints of oil that might have been left from his grip.

Of course, when he'd stepped into this area of Hackney, rain whipping against his coat in a way only London ever seems to manage, he had realised fairly quickly that any law enforcers wouldn't be looking too closely.

The diamonds (and the papers, folded and crumpled and shoved into the back of a broken refrigerator) tell a different, but not exactly contradictory story. At the very least, they explain the five hundred thousand dollars this assignment was worth.

He doesn't know anything about this man – his name is stored in the back of his mind now, along with other things that have turned from information to mere data, now that he has no use for them. He was told, however, that no one will come looking for the dead man; that there would be no neighbour knocking on the door and disrupting his work.

No one cares.

But still; he hates mess; he hates leaving blood afterwards, and perhaps it's not their fault but people die so messily.

The whisper leaves his lips with just a hint of satisfaction, when the young man is devoid of blood, his own clothes clean and crisp: "Done."

Done.

"Nice work," he hears from behind his back, just before he hears the whistle of something long and slender whip through the air, aiming towards the nape of his neck.

But he's already started moving, pale limbs flashing as he pivots and ducks, one hand carving fire and arrows through the air to surge through the tips of slender fingers as his left drops to his thighs, re-drawing a sai from its leather sheath.

The magic doesn't meet its mark, stopped in mid-motion by a wall of water particles that diffuse the heat into nothingness as the man's dagger meets his blade.

"Well," that voice he'd heard before says softly, amusedly, "I'd never have thought that I could match the famous assassin."

"Never fear," he says calmly. "You didn't."

Because that fire-arrow hand is pressed against the other's chest, high enough to feel a heart thumping erratically below a thin shirt and warm skin, as his belt-dagger pricks an olive-skinned throat.

"Now," he says softly. "I'd very much appreciate it if you'd be so kind as to give me a reason not to kill you."

As he steps backwards, he licks the blood off the dagger.

It tastes oddly sweet, that usually copper tang of metal in the life-liquid replaced by the sugary deliciousness of magic.

Tasty.

That's Kurt's first impression of Blaine Anderson.

A day (or the like) passes

"You really are as good as they say," he murmurs, and Kurt hums in acknowledgement as he sips from his hot chocolate, flimsy paper cup warm against his hand. He's mildly annoyed that the barista didn't think to put their order into real mugs, till he remembers that this café doesn't do that anymore (because washing up is really that much of a hassle.)

How troublesome.

"I am," he replies, more for something to say than because it's necessary to actually verbally recognise the fact. As Anderson (no, Blaine, because that's what the other man told Kurt to call him) smiles and, raising his plastic knife and fork, cuts away another small piece of ham and cheese croissant, Kurt examines his face and features.

He is European, and classically so. Darker-than-hiss-but-still-pale skin and hazel eyes, coupled with a very light accent that he identifies as Romantic and a name that, after reading it off the business card he offered him, massaging his neck, cannot be anything but French, tell Kurt enough. At least, they tell him more than what he particularly cares to know.

They're the same height, when he has his boots on – so he's tall. He tasted Blaine's magical strength in his blood. Substantial; but predictably, less than his. Enough, however, that he felt no surprise when Blaine informed him, towards the start of their meeting this morning, that he used to work with the U.S. Central Magical Intelligence Agency.

Suddenly, Blaine looks up from his croissant to stare directly at Kurt. "I also speak Italian, Spanish and Arabic – in case you were wondering," he says mildly. "I harbour a fondness for Harry Potter that I simply can't shed, I sing when there's no one around, and don't tell anyone but I'm a lot less skinny than I look."

Kurt sips again from the hot chocolate, and notes with regret that the cup is at least half-empty.

"It's all in the black, you see," Blaine continues, when he doesn't say anything, and Kurt's eyes flicker towards him. "Um…because you were looking. Err."

He looks at his new manager calmly. "I see," he says, once again because he has a feeling Blaine wants him to speak.

The other man raises an eyebrow. "Well, well," he says very softly under his breath, "just like they said," and he doesn't know if Blaine's aware of the nature of Kurt's physicality (somewhere in the bottom of Kurt's profile), but he hears every word.

Slight confusion rises within Kurt, and as always, he finds himself uncomfortable with the feeling.

He likes to know what he's doing, and what's happening around him, and today isn't staying within that nice, comfortable box.

"May I ask what happened to your predecessor?" is what Kurt comes up with, partially because he's genuinely vaguely curious and because he thinks that they're having what he's heard is called a 'conversation', and he's not entirely sure what to do about it.

Kurt didn't particularly mind his old manager – a tall, lanky man with an awkward walk and aura that belied his strong, muscular arms and speed. They used to sit at this café – not outside here, where passer-bys could stare at Kurt's clothes in surprise and at his bare, bony shoulders in shock and sometimes-disgust – but inside, in a corner where the agent could hand him the documentation and appropriate payments without worry.

He remembers the waitress whispering to one of her colleagues – about how attractive and nice Finn Hudson was. (Kurt couldn't really say, though if he were forced to proffer an opinion, it would be that he finds the man seated before him to be more generically 'attractive' than the other.)

Blaine waves a hand dismissively, a dramatic mannerism that he associates by assumption with his French heritage. "Oh, you know, what usually tends to happen to types like that."

"I don't understand," Kurt replies, and the black-suited man laughs.

"Oh, la mort," he sighs, "elle vient toujours – mais un peu plus vite pour des certains, if you understand."

As was probably in Kurt's profile, he speaks most main languages with a certain amount of fluency. So he understands the words. "I see."

"Christ," the man murmurs, standing to brush crumbs off his suit jacket, "you're as cool as they say, Mr Hummel."

"Ah," because he isn't quite sure of the intention behind that statement – the emotion indicated was too ambivalent for his comprehension, a mix of admiration, amusement (which seems out of place) and a few other things. "'Kurt' will suffice, by the way," he adds, once again more for something to say than for any other reason.

"Right. Sorry."

In the silence that follows, Kurt drains the last of his hot chocolate, making a mental note to ask for the larger size the next time. The taste of chocolate is pleasant to him, with a sweetness that reminds him somehow of the scent and flavour of magic.

"What is the job?" Kurt asks.

Blaine frowns. "Pardon?"

Kurt finds himself thinking that, though this new employee of the agency is rather more aesthetically pleasing than the previous, they might be forced…to let him go…if he continues to act the way he is.

The thought of that possibility, as he thinks back on Blaine's bizarre and unexpected behaviour and conduct during their conversation, inspires a quiet and strange mix of approval and discomfort within him that unfortunately raises the pitch of his next words. "The reason we are meeting today? The new contract?"

"Oh," Blaine says calmly, taking another bite of his croissant. "Sorry, I should have told you. There isn't one."

It takes Kurt approximately 3.08 seconds to process the words shaped by those full red lips that remind him strangely of rose petals, cut neatly in half for tea preparations.

"What?" Is this what is described in books as being 'at a loss'? Because if so, he would prefer not to be.

"I just thought it would be nice," Blaine continues in what Kurt's starting to find an infuriatingly passive tone, swallowing before finishing his sentence, "for us to…how do they say it? 'Get to know each other'?"

Thankfully, this 'at a loss' sentiment fades after another 1.66 seconds; but unfortunately, it's gone only to be replaced by a burning, fiery anger that surprises her with its intensity.

With a surprising amount of difficulty, Kurt manages to calm herself down into a mere seething annoyance.

"Very well," he says, making sure to show slight frustration rather than seething annoyance in his tone and facial movements. "Then I must take my leave."

Blaine looks across the table at Kurt in calm surprise as he leans down to pick up his bag. "I'm sorry," he says, with an infuriating steadiness that threatens to stoke the smouldering embers of irritation back up into a fully-fledged rage. "Did I offend you at all?"

It takes him 2.79 seconds to realise that the low, rough growl comes from his own throat (a conclusion aided by the mix of scared and curious stares directed at him by other patrons of the café.

"How dare you waste my time?" he says softly, trying to get back down to a verbal expression of slight frustration; but there's that compulsively coincidental tightening of his vocal chords which unfortunately and somewhat embarrassingly raises his voice a little higher than before.

Other customers of the café turn to look at them, and Kurt knows without looking that those gazes are filled with curiosity, and more than a little fear.

But the infuriating and possibly insane Blaine– who only looked at him with admiration and slight amusement, even as blood flowed from the cut in his neck the night before, and is there something wrong with him? – merely raises an eyebrow, smiling slightly up at him.

Because striking Blaine in public would cause no end of admonishment from the agency, Kurt pushes himself away from the table and onto his feet, sprinting down the street as, behind him, he hears an exaggerated sigh and a soft but carrying "Wait!"

Really, Kurt thinks as he watches him continue to search through the city streets and back alley, he doesn't know why he's bothering to expend thought on this fool.

Besides, the man appears to Kurt to be quite lacking in any sort of mental faculty; though Kurt manages to lose Blaine and the searching pulses of sense magic he sends out after a mere 7 minutes and 55.8 seconds (he's not paying enough attention to quite capture the second decimal point) the manager continues to search (futilely) through the city streets and back alleys.

Good, Kurt thinks but doesn't really feel, when Blaine gives up with a sigh and a smile that only curves one side of his lips (rendering his face rather oddly asymmetrical), 32 minutes and 9 seconds later.

Curiosity, Kurt reflects as he walks through the door of her apartment, deactivating the fire-formed dragon that serves as a paltry security device only a few short minutes after it first attacks him rather than indulging in his standard ten minutes of play, is so tiresome.

Three days later

Tonight is an easy kill – a young girl-child, alone in a large mansion in India. Kurt normally likes children, because they're mostly too scared to scream or run. Women – now, women are annoying, because shock always turns into a high-pitched squeal that hurts his ears ever so.

But for some reason, he's simply not…right. He's not sure why, and perhaps that's what makes him almost decapitate the girl, rather than simply cut her throat in a way necessary to induce death.

When Kurt drops the body to the floor, he stares at it for a long moment, uncomfortably aware of the fact that he perhaps enjoyed that more than he should have – not the taking of life, but the way by which it happened.

No.

After all, enjoyment isn't what Kurt seeks when he does this.

This is the last assignment given to him by the other manager, which means that Kurt really can't explain just why it's this Blaine Anderson that refuses to leave him alone in his mind.

That night

His iPhone screen flashes and the interesting chords of Bad Romance ring through his study. He's only been back in New York for an hour and seventeen and a half minutes (give or take a few seconds), and the flight was long enough that he's almost feeling mildly fatigued, back muscles sort of strained.

"Oh, hey, Kurt," he hears right before he hangs up on Blaine.

The fact that this is probably the first time he's ever hung up on anyone sends a strange twinge of discomfort up his spine, lingering in his shoulder-blades.

The phone rings again.

"What do you want?"

Blaine laughs, for some ridiculous and incomprehensible reason that shouldn't irritate him but does.

"Alright, well, I've got a job for you."

That makes him relieved, for some bizarre reason. He knows what's happening when it comes to assignments. Assignments are straightforward and, except in very strange cases, don't tend to laugh at him.

"Kurt."

Kurt frowns. It's a single-word statement, with no upward intonation to indicate a question – to indicate anything, other than a simple statement of his name.

Finally, when the silence 'stretches on' (a rather inaccurate but strangely appropriate concept) he says tentatively, "yes?"

"Sorry for before."

Later, when, clothes folded neatly on the edge of the bathroom sink, he steps into the shower and lets his wings unfold from his back to allow the feathers to soak in the cool water, he finds herself wondering just how three words can cause a muscle reaction that sees his cheek muscles tighten and his lips curve upwards, as though to smile.