A/N: Everyone's been so nice and understanding about the possible hurricane delay, so I wrote as fast as I could to give you one more chapter before the storm hits. Had to choose between responding to your kind reviews or writing more, and by the hyperventilating going on, I figured you wanted another chapter more than you wanted another very heartfelt thank you. Fellow East Coasters, stay safe!
I can't hear anything.
Kurt and Scott are talking together by the bed, and the other Marshal seems to be saying something to me as he layers towels over my vomit on the carpet, but all I can hear is a loud, persistent ringing in my ears.
I've literally never been this angry in my entire life. Not ever. The fury is building steadily inside of me, and I know that if Marco Castellano were here right now, I could snap his neck. I'd look right into his eyes as I dug my thumbs into his windpipe. I'd kill him without a second thought, and never suffer a moment of guilt over it.
They're looking at me now, all three of them, and I realize someone must have asked me something. I just shake my head dumbly.
Kurt rises from the bed and comes over to crouch down beside me. He speaks very slowly, one hand on my shoulder, and his words break through the fog.
"We need to leave now."
I just blink at him. We can't leave the hotel. There are hundreds, probably thousands of people out there with copies of Kurt's photo and thoughts of what they'd do with a million dollars running through their heads. They're out there, just waiting for us to leave.
"Blaine, we need to go," he says again. "I'll pack up our suitcases. Scott says we can stay together, but we need to be out the door in two minutes. It's not safe here anymore."
He stands and moves away, pulling out a suitcase as I murmur, "I wish you'd never met me."
"What?" he asks, piling clothes and shoes into the case.
"Nothing."
Kurt likes to tell me how brave and strong I am. He marvels at my courage and says how much he admires me. But as I sit on the floor and watch him, I know he's got it all wrong. This is a man who lost his mother to cancer as a child, endured years of violence just for being himself, lost his father to life on the run as an adult, now has a million-dollar bounty attached to his face... and he's packing our suitcases nonchalantly. I can't even manage to stand up right now, and he's bundling up our toothbrushes and shampoo bottles while humming a song under his breath.
"Kurt?"
He's at my side in a second, holding out his hand. "You ready, hon?"
"Thank you."
I can't stand on my own, but with his help, I manage.
We take the service elevator down to the ground floor and exit through the back of the hotel. Outside, Marshal Morris is idling at the wheel of another van. This one is white with a "Fresh Buns" banner on the side, and god help me, I love Kurt even more when he snickers at it.
The ride to the safehouse takes a few hours. Scott sits in the back of the van with me and Kurt while another Marshal occupies the passenger seat.
"We've got confirmation that Burt and Carole Hummel were extracted safely," Scott tells us. "They're on their way to–"
"Extracted?" Kurt's eyes get very wide. "What do you mean, extracted?"
"They're under our protection for the time being."
"What?"
"I'm sorry," Scott says. "I thought you would realize. Once your photo was attached to the hit order, we had to move quickly to protect your family. Otherwise, anyone who recognized you and wanted the million dollars could go after your family to get it."
Kurt looks as though he's been punched. "So what now?"
"They're going to a safehouse in Ohio to wait while we assess the risk."
"What about the tire and lube shop? My dad's business will go under if he's not around. Dad and Carole need that shop, they've got almost no savings."
Scott glances down at the reports. "Looks like Finn Hudson has assumed responsibility for the auto shop in your dad's absence."
"Finn wasn't extracted too? He's my stepbrother, he could be in danger."
"He doesn't live with your parents, and he's got a different last name, so his risk level is significantly lower. When he said he didn't want to go, we went through the standard precautions with him and he stayed in Lima."
"So will I be able to see my dad?" Kurt asks. "If we're both under protection now?"
Scott shakes his head. "The safest thing for your dad is to be far away from you right now."
After that, Kurt gets very pale. He doesn't say anything for the rest of the drive.
When I was twelve, my father and I decided to go fishing off a pier in the San Francisco Bay early one morning. We were hoping to catch seaperch, or maybe even cabezon. Instead, we watched in horror as two men were murdered execution-style on a nearby yacht. Dad grabbed my hand and we ran back to the car, driving home in a panic. When we got home, he and I argued for an hour over whether we should report seeing the murders. He argued that it wasn't safe; I argued that it was the right thing to do.
Eventually we got our stories straight and called the authorities. And our lives would never be the same. Neither would my mother's, or Kurt's, or Burt's, or Carole's...
Sometimes I think about all the lives that were destroyed by my stubborn sense of ethics, and I wish I'd listened to my dad that day.
The new safehouse is bigger than most. Kurt and I get a bedroom, as do Scott and Marshal Morris, and two more still lie empty. We glance at the big television set, but can't bring ourselves to turn it on. For the past week, all we've done is watch TV. It's lost its appeal.
Kurt finds a new spiral notepad lying on a table, and starts sketching fashion designs on the blank pages. He's good, really good, and I wonder how much it's killing him to have lost that part of himself. I watch him, and think about our parents, holed up and frightened in their own safehouses, and really...
Enough is enough.
I wander into the kitchen, where Scott is typing up a report of the day's extraction. "I need to borrow a phone," I tell him. "I need to talk to my father."
He regards me curiously. "Why?"
"It's important. I wouldn't ask if it weren't. Please."
Scott peers behind me, watching as Kurt picks up the notepad and disappears into the bedroom. "Give me an hour or so. I'll reach out to their Marshal and set up a phone call. Okay?"
I nod. "Thank you."
When I go into the bedroom, Kurt's already put the notepad on his nightstand, and is lying in bed under the covers. His eyes are closed, but I can tell he's not really sleeping. He's just not in the mood to talk with me about all of this. Switching off the light with a sigh, I leave the bedroom and go into the living room to wait.
About an hour and a half later, Scott comes in and silently hands me his cell phone. I press it to my ear.
"Hello?"
"Perfecto?" Dad's voice is anxious. "Are you all right? Our Marshal said something had happened."
"I'm fine."
"And Kurt?"
"He's fine too. We're at a safehouse for the time being."
"Good." I can hear murmuring in the background, and then my mom's voice comes on the line.
"Honey, you're both okay?"
"Yeah, Mom, we're fine."
"Thank god."
"I need to talk to Dad privately, though, I'm sorry."
"It's fine; I just needed to hear your voice."
Dad gets back on the phone as I walk into one of the empty bedrooms. "What's up?"
"A new hit order was released," I say quietly, moving to sit on the bed in the far corner of the room. I turn my back to the doorway and drop down to a whisper. "They've upped the bounty on my head to a million dollars and released an updated photograph."
"Shit." Dad blows out a long breath. "Well... maybe it's time to get some plastic surgery. I know you've been resistant to it in the past–"
"The photo isn't of me, Dad. It says my name, but it's a picture of Kurt."
"Christ." There's a long silence, and then he says, "You know why they'd do that."
"I know."
"The Castellanos don't think for a moment that Kurt is Perfecto Sanders."
"I know, Dad." I pinch the bridge of my nose and force myself to breathe slowly. "They're trying to draw me out of hiding. They think I'll expose myself to protect my husband."
"What are you going to do?"
"Well, that's why I called, actually. You know that thing that happened, that we never talk about?"
"Perfecto," he whispers. "No."
"I can't keep doing this, Dad. I've spent more than half of my life on the run from the mob. They've separated me from my parents, threatened my husband's life, endangered everyone I know... it needs to end, now. I need to finish this once and for all."
"We had an agreement," he reminds me desperately. "It's too dangerous. We don't know how he'd react."
"What's he going to do that he hasn't already done?" I argue.
"Perfecto–"
"I need to do this, Dad. It's the only thing that might work. I'm just calling you because... well, there's the other part that needs to be done. If this is going to work, I need to have the security system in place. I need you to make a recording of what really happened, and put the tape in a safety deposit box. Give the key to your Marshal, and tell him to open the box if anything happens to either of us."
He doesn't answer at first.
"Dad?"
"I should be doing this, not you," he says, his voice tight. "I'm your father, I'm supposed to protect you."
"You've protected me just fine over the years."
"Right," he says, huffing out a humorless laugh. "Right."
"I'm still here, aren't I?" The unspoken for now lingers in the air. "Besides, I'm twenty-five years old. I'm a man now, and it's time I stopped acting like a child. I need to step up and take control of my own destiny."
"I understand," he says. "I'm so proud of you, son. I wish I could take some credit for the person you've become."
Suddenly, I know how Kurt must have felt when he had his last conversation with his father. The struggle to sound strong when my world is crumbling around me... I can't keep it up much longer. "I love you, Dad. I love both of you."
"We love you too, Perfecto. Please be safe. Remember that Kurt needs you, and so do we."
"Bye." I end the call and slump forward, cradling my head in my palms.
"So," comes a voice from the doorway. I turn quickly, startled, and see Scott standing there. "When do we leave?"
"We aren't going anywhere," I tell him archly, rising to my feet and walking past him, heading for the closet by the front door. My black peacoat is hanging there, and I pull it out, remembering just how cold San Francisco can be in November. "You're staying at the safehouse, and you and Morris are protecting my husband."
He snorts. "You really think you can get a meeting with Marco Castellano without my help?" At my surprised look, he rolls his eyes. "I'm not an idiot, Perfecto. This is my job. I'm put on every case that involves the West Coast Mafia, and there's never been a hit order like this one on a witness before."
"I don't know what you mean," I claim coolly.
"A thirteen-year contract on your head? One that not only still exists after Castellano's conviction, but had its reward suddenly double out of the blue, more than five years after the trial ended?" He looks at me pointedly. "That's not a revenge hit. That's a silencing hit."
I look away, swallowing. "I'm not telling you anything."
"I wouldn't expect you to." Scott raises his hand, dangling a set of car keys. "So again, when do we leave?"
There's a moment of indecision, before I blurt out, "Now."
He nods with a slight smile, goes over to the couch to murmur something to Morris, then heads out the front door.
I walk softly into our darkened bedroom, where Kurt is finally fast asleep, his legs tangled in the sheets. He looks so peaceful, and I think about how I might have woken him in another life. Instead, I reach for his spiral notepad on the bedside table and flip open to a fresh page, scribbling a note to him.
It kills me not to kiss him, but I can't chance waking him. He's safe here. I can't put him in danger by bringing him with us.
The sound of a car engine starting up outside gets my attention, and I rise to my feet, setting the pad back on the table and tiptoeing over to the door. I take just a moment to look back at him, wanting to remember him this way. The faint light from the hall is enough to show the smooth lines of his lovely face, and the curl of his long fingers around the pillow, and the thick letters on his pad spelling out, I'll never say goodbye to you.