A/N: I'm writing as fast as I can, but a hurricane is heading our way, and we may have several days of power outages, which could delay updates. Fingers crossed that the hurricane changes course! Huge, huge thanks to Allison for being a sounding board.
On our fourth day at the hotel, I wake alone.
It's happened every morning since we got here. Kurt and I go to bed holding each other, and he extricates himself from me once I've fallen asleep. Twice, I've awoken in the middle of the night to the quiet, agonizing sounds of him swallowing his sobs on the far side of the bed.
I can't begrudge him his time to grieve leaving his father. Burt has been a constant, unwavering source of support in his life – for far too many years, he was the only support Kurt had. And now Kurt's been essentially left an orphan.
When I raise my head to look around the room, I spot him sitting over by the window. The shades are still pulled down and tacked tightly, so there's no view of the outside to see. But he's looking at them blankly all the same. I wonder if he's reconsidering the choice he made, to stay with me.
Witness protection, life on the run together from the mob... it all seems exciting and romantic in theory, like one of those spy thrillers Carole loves to read. The reality is so much bleaker. There are days, weeks, possibly even years spent without seeing the sun. There's the ever-present tension and fear. The paranoia that creeps up on you, makes your skin prickle uncomfortably and your eyes catch glimpses of shadows that aren't there.
People like to think of themselves as their own distinct entities, like islands. They don't realize how much of our identities are based on our surroundings.
Take Kurt, for example. He seems like the most individual person you'd ever meet. But then you look more closely and start to realize how dependent he is on the people and places around him. Like how secure he is in his sexuality, because of the acceptance of his father, and Mercedes, and Rachel, and even his old college roommate Eddie. Like how creative and special he seems, because of his flair for fashion. Like how funny he is when he's mocking Rachel's taste in clothes and men, or Finn's ability to dance or, you know, walk.
But once you take him out of his world, what's really left that makes him him? How secure will he be in his sexuality, when everyone who supported him when he came out is suddenly gone? How creative will he seem when he can no longer work in the fashion world, or even wear clothing that makes him stand out in a crowd? How funny can he be about people he's never allowed to mention in public again?
I sit up in bed, wrapping my arms around my knees and watching him. The guilt is back, stronger than ever, for what I've done to him. I could have let him keep living his life in New York, and never seen him again. He could have found someone else. He could have been happy. He could have slept through the night without waking in terror when a floorboard creaked nearby.
"Morning," he says, noticing that I'm up.
"Couldn't sleep?"
He shrugs, then sighs. "Where should we go today?"
"What are our options?"
There's a sheet of hotel stationery on the table beside him, and he picks it up, squinting to read his own handwriting in the faint light. "We could take a historical tour of colonial Williamsburg, go house-hunting in Milan, follow a tagged group of whales out of Maine, or join a team that's scaling Mount Everest. Which do you prefer?"
"Oh, Milan, no question."
Kurt nods in agreement, then climbs onto the other bed, grabbing the remote control off the nightstand and switching on the television set. The episode of House Hunters International has just begun, and we settle down to watch it. I wish he'd come back into our bed and snuggle with me, but I understand why he doesn't. When your world is reduced to a couple of rooms, the sense of claustrophobia can be unbearable.
"I always wanted to go to Milan," he murmurs, watching wistfully.
"We'll go someday."
"Sure we will."
"We will. I promise."
"I believe you."
I can't even tell which of us is lying.
Every day, a new Marshal arrives to relieve the old one. First it was Morris, then Walters, then Morris again, then Stevenson. Scott doesn't ever leave, though. I used to think that it was because one Marshal had to protect the witness at all times, without ever getting a break. Then, when Scott lived in our safehouse for the entire year and a half of the Castellano trial, one of the other Marshals confided in me that it was Scott's choice entirely.
"You should take a break," I tell him on the fifth morning. "Go home, see your kid for a couple of days. You have a kid, right?" It's a rhetorical question; I know he has a kid. His name is Will, and he's ten. Scott missed two of his birthdays during the course of the trial.
"It's easier to oversee operations from a home base," he claims.
Every night, around eight o'clock, he Skypes with his wife and son.
Every night, his son asks him if he'll be able to come home soon.
I awake in the middle of our fifth night at the hotel to find that Kurt is awake and sitting in the other bed, watching television. A quick glance over at the digital clock on the nightstand tells me that it's 3 a.m. At first, I debate whether to pretend to continue sleeping. Then I see the images he's watching on the TV.
"Kurt?"
He turns toward me guiltily. "Oh, hey. Sorry if I woke you."
"Are you really watching a documentary on the West Coast Mafia?"
"Uh..."
"This isn't a good idea, baby," I say gently.
"Don't they say you should know your enemy?"
"Yeah, but watching a video about all of the horrible, violent crimes they've committed over the decades..."
"I found out something very interesting, though." There's a strange glint in his eyes. I can't tell whether it's just the reflection from the television, but it feels ominous somehow. "Did you know that Marco Castellano's nephew is a United States Senator?"
"Kurt-"
"His name is Victor Allen. Marco's sister is Senator Allen's mother."
I shake my head. "I know what you're going to say."
"What if we went to meet with him?" he says, pushing on excitedly. "I'm sure the Marshals could set something up for us. We could talk to him about the trial, and the hit order that's out on you and your dad. Maybe he could call Marco in jail, and - "
"It's not going to happen."
"I know, I know, the documentary said that the senator isn't close with that side of the family, and basically pretends not to know them. But still. We could convince him, I know we could. He has a record of supporting gay rights, and if we were to meet him in person - "
"Kurt." My voice is too sharp, and I can hear one of the Marshals stirring in the next room. I drop back down to a whisper. "It's not going to happen. He would never meet with us. And even if he did, he wouldn't want to offer any assistance."
"But -"
"Trust me. I know about the senator, and I know he has no interest in helping our cause. Especially now that he's running for governor and distancing himself even further from the Castellano family." Kurt's face falls, and I sigh. "I'm sorry. I know you're just trying to come up with a solution."
"There's got to be some way to fix all this," he insists in a small voice. "I just know it. We'll find a way. And then life can go back to normal."
I give him my most convincing smile, and choose not to mention that for most of my life, this has been normal.
On the eighth day, I can tell something's wrong.
Scott and the Marshal du jour are whispering in the corner of their room, bent over a laptop together. Kurt is immersed in an episode of What Not to Wear, seemingly oblivious to the suspicious behavior going on next door.
The tension has been growing over the past several days, ever since Scott got an unsettling report. A team of agents had been moving around our neighborhood methodically, finding and removing security footage that might have captured my face, and then they made a discovery.
The security tapes from Dooley's Pub were missing.
There were all sorts of explanations floating around. There were claims that Dooley's security manager, Ralph, was old and forgetful (a fair assessment, in my experience) and might have misplaced the tapes. There were unconfirmed accounts that a couple of heavily muscled men had been seen talking menacingly with Ralph a few days ago. No one knows exactly how it happened, but the tapes are gone now, and the implications are grim.
When Scott appears in our doorway, I can tell right away that something has happened. Something very, very bad.
"What is it?" I ask him.
His expression changes, as though he's trying to appear casual. "I need your wedding bands," he tells us.
I look over at Kurt, then back to Scott indignantly. "You've got to be kidding."
"It's not a request, Perfecto. I need the rings."
"Do you have any idea what Kurt and I went through to–"
"We're making sure that you two aren't seen together for the time being," he interrupts. "That could imply to the Castellano hitmen that we've separated you. If you're seen still wearing your rings, it means that you're still together. Makes a bigger target on both of your backs."
"You think they know about me?" Kurt speaks up. I can't read his expression.
Scott pauses. "Just... just give me the rings, guys." Neither of us makes a move to take our wedding bands off, so he looks at me significantly. "What do you think would happen if your ring ever fell off, Perfecto? What if the wrong person found it?"
"It's never fallen off before," I argue stubbornly. "And even if it suddenly did fall off, how exactly would that be any different from you taking it away from me now? Either way, I'd be without my wedding band."
"Your wedding band that's engraved with the name Hummel, you mean? What do you think Castellano's men would do if they got a hold of it and saw that name?"
It's all he has to say. I'd never put Burt or the rest of Kurt's family at risk. I pull the ring off without a word, handing it to him. Kurt follows suit.
"Thank you." Scott hesitates again.
"What's going on?" I press. "Something's happened."
"Look... I know this is hard," he says, "but we're going to need to separate you two for a while."
Kurt and I gape at each other, aghast. "You can't do that!" I nearly shout. After all we've endured together, the idea of losing Kurt again is simply unimaginable. "That's not an option, Scott. We have to stay together."
"It won't necessarily be forever–"
"Not necessarily?"
"You're just in a lot more danger when you're together–"
"I don't see how," Kurt says shakily. "If this is about those missing security tapes..."
"It is," Scott admits.
"... then I'm willing to take that risk."
"You're not the one who–" Scott stops, pressing his lips together hard. "Look, I'm trying not to scare you two."
"Yeah, well, you're doing a bang-up job of it," I shoot back.
He looks away, taking a deep breath. "The truth is, the game has changed. The Castellanos have upped the bounty on your head significantly. And now, thanks to the stolen security footage from Dooley's Pub, there's an updated photograph going around the internet with the new hit order."
We take a moment to process that new information, before Kurt speaks up.
"So we change Blaine's hair again. Get him a nose job, colored contacts, have him grow a beard or something."
"It's a little more complicated than that."
There's a strange suspicion growing in the pit of my stomach. I hope to god I'm being paranoid. "Scott, just... just show us the hit order."
He finally nods, disappearing back into his room and returning with the laptop. Kurt clambers off his bed and onto mine, and we lean over the screen together, peering at the image as it loads. And then we see it. Kurt gasps and covers his mouth in horror. I freeze, then bolt from the bed, making it halfway to the bathroom before vomiting on the carpet.
It's a huge poster, with thick letters spelling out "One Million Dollars Cash for the head of Perfecto Sanders. Recent photo of the target below."
Underneath is a recent and very clear photograph of Kurt's face.