A/N: Thanks for the kind wishes – other than a few days without power, I'm fine. Sadly, the same can't be said for everyone in my town. Someone two blocks away from me drowned in the floodwaters. Just horrific.

When I was little, I used to be afraid of monsters. Before bedtime, I'd make my parents check both of my closets, and under my bed, and even behind my drapes. I was okay if the lights were on, but once they were off, it was as if I could sense movement in the dark, as if something sinister were slowly crawling toward me.

I tried to be brave. If Disney had taught me anything, it was that men were brave.

I was twelve when I encountered the most terrifying monster of all. I'd heard of Marco Castellano, of course. Everyone had. He was the legendary, untouchable godfather of the West Coast Mafia. We used to tell stories about him at slumber parties to scare each other. We imagined that his eyes glowed red when he was angry, and that he could shoot fireballs out of his palms.

In truth, Castellano's eyes were a light brown, and his hands were unremarkable, save for a few liver spots. He had white hair and a thick belly, and looked like someone's grandfather. I didn't even realize it was him at first, when he took out his gun and pressed the butt against a kneeling man's head.

Marco Castellano, with his placid eyes and his steady hands, would become the creature who haunted my nightmares. He was a phantom who could find me anywhere. I could never relax, not even in sleep. It was a waiting game, to see when and where he would finally catch me.

We take turns driving. Scott would, no doubt, prefer to be the one behind the wheel at all times, with me hiding in the trunk or something, but he accedes that we'll make better time if we split the drive. So every four hours or so, we pull over, switch places, and then get back on the road. We push 90 miles per hour for most of the drive. It makes me nervous until we pass several police cars without incident, and I realize Scott must have special plates on this car.

I'm not used to taking road trips without singing along with a bunch of mix CDs, or my iPod, or at least the radio. Scott insists on silence, though, so that he can keep an eye on the cars around us for any suspicious activity. He makes a series of calls on his cell phone, and manages to call in enough favors to get me a meeting with Marco Castellano.

I'm grateful, but at the same time, I'm completely terrified. I know now that Castellano's eyes don't glow red, and I know his palms don't shoot fireballs. But the reality is somehow even worse.

Just outside of St. Louis, when I'm driving in the left lane and rehearsing what I'll say to Castellano when we meet, Scott's cell phone rings.

"It's Morris," he says to me, after glancing at the screen, then answers it. "Yeah, this is Ward... What? ... He what?"

"Is it Kurt?" I ask, my heart rate picking up. "Is he okay?"

Scott has one hand pressed firmly against his mouth. At first I think he's upset. Then I realize he's trying to stifle his laughter. "Hold on, Morris, I'm going to put you on speakerphone." He pushes a button, and then–

"Yep, so I'm being held up," comes Morris' calm voice. "I'm the hostage of a crazed lunatic right now."

I look at Scott in terror, until we hear a shrill voice shout:

"This is not a joke! I am not afraid to use this!"

"Is that Kurt?" I ask, and Scott nods.

"Apparently he's wielding a ballpoint pen like a weapon and demanding to be taken to you right away."

"Oh, god." My heart sinks. "Let me pull over so I can talk to him." I take the next exit off Route 64, pulling into a gas station since we're running low on gasoline anyway. Scott and I switch places, and he goes inside to pay the gas station attendant and buy supplies while I get on the phone. "Morris?"

"Yup."

"Can I talk to him, please?"

"I don't know, Perfecto, I'm afraid to get too close to him," Morris says drily. "He might get ink on my shirt."

"Is that Blaine?" Kurt asks shrilly. "Let me speak with him!" There's a brief pause, and then: "Hello? Blaine?"

"Hi, Kurt," I sigh.

"Are you all right?" he asks anxiously.

"I'm fine, I'm with Scott, and we–"

"How could you do this?" Now that he's assured that I'm okay, he's in full Kurt Hummel Fury Mode. "How could you just leave me, without even a word? How could you, Blaine?"

"Baby, I–"

"Don't you 'baby' me. Don't you dare. I'm a grown man, and I'm your husband, and this is supposed to be a partnership. A partnership, Blaine."

"I know, I–"

"I didn't give up my family and my friends and my job and my home, just so I could sit in a safehouse with a complete stranger while you go gallivanting off on some dangerous adventure and get yourself killed–"

"I'm sorry," I tell him helplessly. "I didn't want to risk your safety–"

"Oh, but risking yours is just fine?" he seethes. "We're a team, Blaine. We're supposed to be in this together. 'Til death do us part, remember? If you risk your safety, then you're risking mine as well. Because if you die..."

He doesn't say anything for a long time, and I realize he's crying. "Oh sweetheart, please don't cry. I'll be careful, I swear."

"You'd better. Because if you die, I'll freaking kill you."

I smile fondly. "It's a deal."

He sniffles daintily. "So tell me where it is that you're going."

"I can't do that."

"Partnership, Blaine!" he shrieks again.

"I don't want to worry you. And if I tell you, you'll worry."

"Oh, yes, and telling me that just eases all my concerns, thank you."

"I will be under full Marshal protection the entire time. And the place we're going is under even tighter security than your safehouse is."

"You promise?" he asks weakly.

"I promise. Kurt, the only reason I'm doing this is so that you and I can be together, and that we can be safe. Us and our families." I look up to see Scott returning to the car, his arms laden with large coffees and bags of food. "Sweetheart, I've got to go. We're getting back on the road. I love you."

"I love you too. Let me talk to Scott for a second. Off speakerphone."

Scott gets into the driver's seat, looking at me quizzically as I hold out the cell phone. "Kurt wants to talk to you," I tell him. He sets the two cups of coffee into the cupholders, then hands me the bags before taking the phone from me.

"Hi, Kurt," he says. "What's up?" As he listens, his eyes slowly widen. Kurt speaks for a good minute or so, before Scott chokes out, "I understand." Then he hangs up.

"What'd he say?" I ask.

He starts the engine, looking shellshocked and a tiny bit impressed. "Holy crap. We could save ourselves the trip and just put Kurt and Marco Castellano in a room together. Kurt would scare the shit out of him."

We stop to sleep only once, at a motel outside of Topeka. It's not the worst place we've ever stayed; the beds look clean and the carpet doesn't smell. The complimentary toiletry kit comes in handy, too, since all I thought to bring was a change of clothes.

"You know, it's a good thing I'm not gay," Scott says, falling face-down onto one of the beds and not moving. "Or Kurt would be totally worried right now."

"No he wouldn't." I'm tired too, but unlike Scott, I'm taking the time to brush my teeth.

He flips over to look at me. "Sure he would. I'm hot."

"And I'm very happily married, and I have no interest in fooling around with anyone else. Kurt knows that." I pull out the floss and get to work, leaning over to look in the mirror as he narrows his eyes appraisingly at me.

"I wonder, though," he says.

"Wonder what?"

"If your meeting with Castellano goes as you hope, and you get him to call off the hit, will you stay with Kurt?"

I straighten up in shock, and I'm sure I look ridiculous with a long string of floss hanging from between my two back molars, but I'm too indignant to care. "Why on earth would you ask me that?"

"Well, think about it. You'll finally be free. You won't have to worry about always looking over your shoulder... having someone keep all your secrets... You could go for someone a little hotter this time."

I grab both ends of the floss, digging hard into my gums to keep from going over and hitting him. "What is your problem with Kurt? You've never liked him."

"I don't dislike him." At my humph of annoyance, he adds, "No, it's an important distinction. It's not like I hate him. He seems like a nice enough boy. I just don't get why you were so fixated on being with him–"

"Because I'm in love with him, idiot!"

"If you hadn't gone to New York to find him, your cover probably wouldn't have been blown. And Kurt would be going along his merry little life, not shut up in some safehouse. Was it really worth it?" He raises an eyebrow. "It's not like he didn't date while you two were separated. Did you about know that?"

"Of course I did."

"Really," he says dubiously, and I throw my floss away angrily.

"He went out with a guy from one of his fashion classes at NYU, and a soccer teammate of his roommate Eddie's, and a guy he met at an audition. One date with each of them. And nothing happened, not even a kiss."

"And you believe that."

"Yeah, I do. Because he would have told me if something had happened, especially since he knows I wouldn't have objected if it had. I left him, remember? What was he supposed to do, pine over me forever?"

"No, that was your job."

I stalk over to the other bed, pulling down the covers and getting in. "Look, I get it. You don't believe in young love, or soulmates, or whatever. You've made that perfectly clear over the years. But lay off the criticisms of Kurt. We've made a lifelong commitment to each other, and that's based on our contract, not the mob contract that's out on my head." I yank the covers up hard, adding, "Besides, even if I were single and you were gay, I still wouldn't touch your scruffy ass with a ten-foot pole."

He laughs to himself as I close my eyes and try to calm down.

Scott may be my protector, but sometimes I forget what an asshole he is.

The further we get west, the more sarcastic and snide he gets. I'm fiddling with the GPS, looking at the map to plot out the rest of the trip, when I realize the reason. Feeling a little snide myself, I give Scott a sidelong glance. "We're not far from Denver, you know. Isn't that where you and your family live?"

He keeps his eyes on the road, grunting in reply.

"I could drop you off there, if you wanted. You could spend some time with your wife, and Will..."

"I'm not leaving you without protection, Perfecto."

"Sure, no problem. I'll wait at your house for someone to come and relieve you."

Scott gives me an annoyed glance. "There aren't any Marshals stationed around here for a hundred miles."

"I can wait."

"Just... just mind your own business, Perfecto. I don't want to stop in Denver."

"I heard you Skyping with your wife every night when we were at the hotel. It didn't sound like you two are having any marital problems."

"We aren't," he says defensively.

"And your son sounds like a great kid."

"He is–"

"Then why don't you want to be with them?"

"I–" he bites back a reply, shaking his head. "You wouldn't understand."

"My dad and I have been separated for almost a third of my life," I point out. "I know what it's like to grow up without a father around."

"It's not that simple–"

"Why would you choose to do that to your own kid? He needs you."

"I can't protect him!" Scott bursts out. "You don't know what's out there, Perfecto. You think you do, but you have no idea. There are mobsters, sure, but there are also pedophiles, and serial killers, and child traffickers, and they're all out there, just waiting to pounce."

"So you leave him? How does that make any sense?"

"When I'm at home, I can't be with him all the time. And every time he leaves the house to go to school, or ride his bike, or play ball with a friend, I wonder if that's the time when he won't be coming home." He squeezes the steering wheel tight. "You wouldn't understand."

I nod, slowly. "How old is Will?"

"Don't." He grits his teeth. "Don't try to psychoanalyze me."

"I just find it interesting that you chose to leave him when he was three and a half, when the trial started."

"I said don't."

"Isn't that the age Billy Rice was when you met–"

Scott swings the car hard off the highway and onto the shoulder, where he shoves the gearstick into park and turns to me, his eyes blazing with anger. "When I say stop, you stop."

"What did you think, when you named your son after him?" I persist. "Did you think it'd bring Billy back? Undo your mistakes?"

"No, of course not–"

"So what, then, you're worried that you cursed him by giving him that name? Once Will turns eleven, once he's older than Billy ever got to be, are you absolved of your guilt? Is that how it works?"

"Fuck you, Perfecto. It's so easy for you, isn't it. Witness a crime, testify in court, and then let all of the rest of us pick up the pieces. Demand that we break protocol so you can go chase after some boy, demand that we break it again so that your precious boy can call his father, and again when you want to go make a deal with a death row inmate... it's your world, isn't it? The rest of us just live in it."

"Just drive," I snap, and he pulls back on the road angrily. "Let's go right past your house, for all I care."

"Go to hell."

"And stop calling Kurt a boy," I add. "He's more of a man than you'll ever be."

We don't speak for the rest of the drive, not even when San Quentin State Prison comes into view.