Title: a storm whereon they ride

Disclaimer: not my characters; title from Byron

Warnings: mentions of murder

Pairings: Kurt/Blaine

Rating: PG13

Wordcount: 605

Point of view: third

Prompt: Prompt: Any, any/any, Music makes you lose control


Kurt understands that Blaine is impulsive. Really, he gets it. And Blaine devours true crime books, so he should know how to avoid the stupid mistakes that get people caught.

One of those stupid mistakes is killing in your own neighborhood.

It's simple: don't kill in your own neighborhood and don't go so far it's obvious you're avoiding your own neighborhood. There's a giant radius to pick from, and Blaine should know better.

Hell, Kurt knows that Blaine knows better because they are old hat at this. They've been partners in every way for coming up on five years now, and Blaine had been doing it for four before that.

So such a stupid mistake...

"She lived one floor above us!" Kurt hisses while the police investigate Marigold Thompson's apartment. She'd been found in the basement by a custodian, bludgeoned to death. "What the fuck were you thinking?!"

Blaine shrugs. "I just… you weren't here, and I was listening to 'My Boy Builds Coffins,' and her TV was blasting.

Kurt stares at him in disbelief. "That's your excuse?" he demands. "Really, Blaine? Fuck." He grabs at his hair, quickly looking around the apartment to see if anything needs to be straightened before the police knock on the door to interview them.

Everything looks clean. Nothing is written down. Kurt doesn't keep anything incriminating in the apartment.

… well, except for his idiot boyfriend. How could Blaine be so stupid?

"New rule," Kurt orders, turning to face Blaine and grabbing his chin. "Don't kill anyone who lives within a mile of us. Clear?"

Blaine nods, unable to meet his gaze. "I'm sorry, Kurt. I just… couldn't help myself. She was blasting infomercials."

Kurt closes his eyes and massages his temples. "Go take a shower," he says. "Where are your clothes?"

"I dumped 'em yesterday morning on the way to work," Blaine replies, heading for the bathroom.

"There are cameras in this building," Kurt says. "I can't even…" He wants to scream, but he can't draw any attention while police are upstairs trying to figure out who killed a harmless old lady.

Something will have to be done. Maybe make sure to always play at least once a month? No, too frequent. Kurt absently chews on his left thumbnail while arranging the decorative pillows on the couch. Every four months? That'd be three a year, maybe more if two at a time. Surely that'd be enough to keep Blaine sated. And maybe special treats for birthdays and their anniversary…

Yes, that sounds goods. He'll amend the rules after this whole FUBAR is taken care of.

Kurt doesn't realize he's humming 'My Boy Builds Coffins' until someone knocks on the door. Two detectives stand there and the older one says, "I'm Detective Donaldson; this is my partner, Detective Carrow. May we come in, sir? We have some questions about what's happened."

"Yes, of course," he says, stepping back. "I heard – it's awful." He closes the door behind them and asks, "Would you like anything to drink? My boyfriend's showering, if you need to ask him something, too."

Detective Carrow says, "I'll take some water. Also, we will need to speak to your boyfriend, too."

Kurt nods and hurries to the kitchen. His mind is racing; he was working late two nights ago, when Blaine killed the old lady. His alibi is airtight. But Blaine…

Such a stupid mistake, honestly.

"Here you are, sir," he says, handing the detective the cup of water. "I'll go get Blaine."

Blaine doesn't need an alibi, if nothing connects him to the murder, if he never becomes a suspect.

Besides, there have been some hooligans lurking around lately.