Warning: AU, adult themes, potential creepiness, mentions of death and bullying.
Disclaimer: I don't own it and I'm not making any money from it, this is pure entertainment.
Author Notes: Someone asked if this story would end in Klaine. So, just as a warning for any folks hanging out for a happy ending... this is the murderverse. Even if there is Klaine, it will not end happily.
.
As it turned out, popularity agreed with Blaine. The supposedly impromptu song and dance number in the middle of the cafeteria was an instant success that propelled him into the 'in crowd' seemingly within seconds. Suddenly people knew his name, and knew him as more than just 'the new kid' or 'Kurt's friend'. He was Blaine Anderson, part of the it group. And in that retrospect of walking down the hallway and being known Blaine found it hard to imagine that he'd ever been worried.
The pressure and stress from the morning before the performance was a distant memory. A long history as a nobody completely erased in the span of one four minute song. He decided then and there that Kurt was right about his past – no one from McKinley should ever find out. He was determined to never let it bleed through, to wear the confident and mysterious persona that had been created for him.
It was easy to fit in all of a sudden. Easy to wear the clothes that he'd picked out with Kurt over the course of several shopping trips. Smart-casual gear, things that made him look trendy without looking gaudy or like he was trying too hard. Being cool was effortless. And being met at his locker in the mornings was no longer a surprise.
He'd noticed before that Kurt had a tendency to hold court during the mornings the Cheerios didn't practice, but it wasn't until he'd found himself in the centre of that group several times over that he realised he'd somehow become one of its leaders.
That morning, almost a month after he'd sung Teenage Dream in the cafeteria, the group clustered between his and Kurt's lockers was unusually sombre.
"What's happening?" Blaine asked, a puzzled frown on his face. "Why is everyone so down today?"
"You didn't hear?"
"Hear what?"
"They found the last of the bodies," Tina answered, an odd note to her voice that was half reverent and half petrified. "A demolition crew found it before they tore down the building it was in."
"It was on the news last night and in the paper this morning," Finn confirmed, "my mom almost didn't let me come to school she was so freaked."
Blaine was about to comment that he hadn't heard anything about it when he heard a familiar voice scoff. "Please. Finding the body doesn't mean that anyone's in danger," Kurt said coolly, shutting his locker with more force than necessary so the slam came with an echo. "The killer is long gone and has been for the better part of a year. It makes no sense that he –"
"Or she," Mercedes interrupted.
"Or she," Kurt agreed, "would stick around any longer than necessary, especially after that rather in depth investigation."
"Unless he or she lived around here," Santana commented. "What?" she added when everyone looked at her. "I'm just saying. Six guys from the same school and nobody thinks maybe the killer lived around here? That guy totally knew what he wanted and how to get it. Only a local would know so much about the area."
"There's a lot to be said for research," Tina pointed out.
"Yeah," Mercedes nodded, holding her binder a little bit tighter, "the killer could be obsessive or something. Maybe he or she travels around all over the country and does the same thing all different towns. How would we know? We only know about it this time because it was six kids that went missing. There's nothing saying they don't normally just stay under the radar."
"It could've been a murder suicide thing," Finn piped up. "Like on CSI last night. He wasn't caught because he already killed himself, right?"
"Whatevs." Santana tossed her hair over her shoulder. "I still say they're a local and now that the last body is found you and Puckerman better watch that you're not next."
"Why would they be next?" Blaine jumped in this time before anyone else could open their mouths.
Santana gave him a disgusted look. "Don't you know anything about last year?"
"I was busy having a life," Blaine shot back, the words falling from his mouth automatically, "being as I'm not actually from here."
"The killer targeted jocks," Tina explained.
"The killer targeted bullies," Kurt corrected breezily. "And as fascinating as playing catch-up the new boy is, sorry Blaine, we're all about to be late to class."
The timely reminder came just seconds before the bell rang, proving Kurt's perfect sense of timing. The group broke up and went their separate ways, hurrying to get to class before they were officially counted as being late. Blaine left with them, looking back over his shoulder to watch Kurt slip confidently into his first class of the day.
Blaine just barely made it into his class before roll call. He sat in his desk surrounded by silent admirers who knew practically nothing about him and began to realise that he knew practically nothing about McKinley past what he'd learned in that one hour with his mother and Principal Figgins during his enrolment.
That was probably why he found himself in the middle of the school library during lunch, feeling a little bit like a detective as he sat in front of a computer screen and looked up the events of October last year.
There were a lot of articles archived on news websites, most of which gave the same general information. At first it was just a small notice about a local boy who'd gone missing. Then as the weeks wore on and more boys disappeared the articles got larger and more in depth. When the first body was found it graduated to a front page spread and the first reference to 'The Lima Killer'. The news articles dated November were the same, occasionally with new details released as the police discovered them.
The killer used a knife, Blaine read, and first subdued the victims before driving them to a remote location to kill them. Of the bodies recovered all of them showed signs of head trauma. The killer was suspected to be in his twenties or thirties, physically fit, and of above average intelligence. Blaine also found an interview with a police psychologist that theorised that the killer would most likely be working class, stuck in a job that he finds menial. The inherent violence of the crimes implied that the killer was angry, possibly choosing his victims as a proxy for himself as a youth. The lack of sexual elements or other indications of excitement ruled out the presence of a paraphilia. (He had to look that word up on Wikipedia, and marvelled that the school didn't block the content of the page.)
In December the investigation surrounding the disappearances seemed to come to a standstill. Every so often an article would pop up, but in general the news didn't have much to say. By January there was nothing. And then, finally, an article about the newly interred memorial out the front of the school. This last article was accompanied by pictures of each of the victims, including the one who's body had yet to be found.
The photos were small, simple portraits like the kind found in school yearbooks. They showed smiling young men with broad shoulders and football jerseys or letterman jackets. Suddenly he could see why exactly Finn and Puck might fit the bill for potential victims. Both of them were tall, both were jocks. Only one of them was described as ever being a bully.
Blaine frowned at that, wondering if Kurt's statement earlier held any truth. He remembered something Brittany had said about Puck setting fire to things and tossing kids in dumpsters. If Puck had been that bad then how bad had these kids been?
And more importantly, if Puck had been that bad then why would Kurt have started dating him?
To be honest he spent more time puzzling over that last question than he should have. Enough time that when he eventually made it to glee that afternoon he was beginning to realise an embarrassing, potentially dangerous fact. He may be developing a crush on Kurt. And if he didn't keep it low key then it could potentially lead to damaging his still so new popularity. It wasn't so much that he was worried about coming out, not now anyway. No, the real problem was what Kurt himself would think about it.
Blaine resolved to keep it on the down low. Just in case. He didn't want to risk losing a good friend over something like a high school crush.
He arrived at the choir room that afternoon just this side of early, when the room was still empty enough that he had his pick of chairs. Blaine chose a seat in the back row and dropped his bag on the chair beside his. He greeted the others as they arrived, feeling like a somebody when they seemed to choose their own seats based on where he was sitting. Only two more chairs in the back row remained empty – the one with Blaine's bag and the chair beside that one.
The empty chair was filled first. Puck walked into the room alone, stirring up a cloud of concern that he flat out ignored in favour of slumping down in the back row. Blaine opened his mouth to voice a greeting but was cut off before he could get the first syllable out; "Dude, if you're going to ask me if I'm ok I swear I'm gonna have to light something on fire. I'm that sick of people asking."
Blaine held up both hands. "I was just going to say hello."
"Oh. Fine then." Puck slumped even further down in his chair, arms crossed over his chest. "Hello."
"Puck," Tina piped up from the row in front of them, "are you sure you're –"
"Fire," Puck repeated. "I've got a lighter, like, right here."
"Puck." The warning came from Mr. Schuester, who entered the choir room with a folder tucked under one arm and Rachel hot on his heels. "Come on, I thought we were past the whole fire thing."
"Not if people don't stop getting on my nerves," Puck muttered rebelliously.
"It may be getting on your nerves," Mr. Schuester said, putting his folder down on top of the piano, "but it's out of friendship and concern. And I have to admit I'm a little concerned to be hearing about behaviour I thought was in the past."
"It is in the past," Puck insisted over the heads of the rest of the choir, who weren't even pretending not to be listening, "I'm just sick of being the freak show. Nobody's gonna come kill me, so everyone should just get over it."
There was something so final about that statement that everybody did seem to 'just get over it'. At least for the rest of the practice. Nobody said a word about murder or potential kidnap, which meant that Puck kept his threats of fire to himself. Blaine couldn't help but wonder if the other glee kids were just making a big deal out of nothing... But then he remembered that the events of last year weren't actually a whole year gone.
His only consolation was that he definitely wasn't the killer's type. He was too short, played no sports, and had never bullied anyone in his life. Even if the killer did come back, he was safe.
.
.
Puck lit out after practice like a cat with its tail on fire and didn't stop until he was sitting in his truck in the parking lot of a supermarket. He glared at the wheel, his hands tight on the faded, cracking leather. He'd thought they were past all of this crap. This scrutiny. Judging from the day he'd just had? It was like they were back at the start, right back when Kurt had first suggested it might be a good idea to 'tone it down' and fly under the radar.
He'd taken the suggestion to heart, recognising the value of not being in the spotlight.
If you do the right research you'll find that serial killers tend to stick to a pattern. They develop a set of behaviours, a psychological fingerprint. They refine their techniques, their competency might grow, but the patterns remain the same.
Puck had done his research and he knew this. He could even see it in himself, smart enough to recognise that he enjoyed the killing more when it happened a certain way. He preferred it up close, preferred the use of a knife, a blade that he could feel sinking into flesh. He preferred it to be personal, but was smart enough to know that it couldn't always be.
Classes these days were an exercise in sensibility and a filler for his time. Between November and January he'd managed to drag his C average up to a solid B+, a respectable set of grades that had his teachers patting themselves on the back and his mother looking at him like she thought he'd finally turned his life around.
But Puck was concentrating on school because it was the smartest thing for a guy like him to do.
He'd talked it over with Kurt one night, two weeks after Karofsky's murder when the lack of planning started to feel strange. He'd gotten used to solving problems, to thinking a lot and putting time into working on the details. Schoolwork, Kurt had told him, would help keep him occupied. It would also have the handy side-effect of removing him from the list of McKinley's no-hopers, lifting suspicion and getting those in authority to get off his back.
It was working. Oh so well.
Too bloody well.
He didn't know how long he'd been sitting there before his phone rang. Set to silent it buzzed in the pocket of his jacket, barely loud enough to hear. One white-knuckled hand slowly pulled itself from the wheel and dipped into his pocket to retrieve the phone. He answered without looking to see who was calling.
"Yeah?"
"I hope you haven't gone off to do anything stupid," Kurt's voice poured into his ear, sarcasm hiding the hint of worry Puck knew would be there.
"I'm sitting in the parking lot outside some store," Puck replied, his reassurance grudging. "I'm not gonna do anything stupid."
"Good. My dad's working late tonight and he's obviously buying into the general paranoia because he's demanded that I invite someone over 'to be safe'."
"Yeah right, and I'm sure you had nothing to do with that."
Kurt ignored him. "So I'd like you to pick something up on your way over. Chinese, perhaps? In celebration of past deeds."
A quick pause while Puck pulled out his wallet and checked his current supply of cash. "You got it," he answered finally. "Give me about an hour."
It took him a little less than an hour to retrieve the takeout and get himself to Kurt's place. He stood on the front step for just a couple of seconds before the door opened – he hadn't even needed to knock. "Here," he said, stepping inside and holding out the takeout, "you like the duck, right?"
"Magic Li's," Kurt observed, taking the bag from him with a smile. "How sweet of you to remember."
"How could I forget our first date?" Puck joked, throwing an arm around his boyfriend.
As always, like all of his visits to the Hummel house, eventually they wound up in the basement, Puck lying casually across Kurt's bed while the other boy sat at the vanity table. It was always comfortable down here, whether they were talking, making out, or in the casual silence of two people who know each other well.
Right now they were silent, Puck watching Kurt apply moisturiser to his hands and face, a process full of delicate motions and careful flutters of eyelashes. Puck saw it as an outward manifestation of the care Kurt took to never let anyone know what he was really like. All of the careful movements, the application of a cold white cream, a way to solidify the mask Kurt wore in public. He was about to comment on the way it looked when something beeped and Kurt picked up his phone.
"Hm."
"What?"
Kurt started typing something into his phone. "I invited Blaine over for a movie night this weekend. Apparently he won't be able to get here before six if we do it on a Saturday. So... I think we'll change it to Friday and he can come here straight after school."
Puck frowned. "Blaine," he repeated dryly.
"Yes, Blaine." Kurt put his phone down again and turned to look at the other boy. "He's not any competition for you, believe me, so you can put that frown away thankyou."
"Come on," Puck scoffed, "like I'd be worried. I just don't get what you're doing with him. This whole mentor thing you've got going. What's up with that?"
"Aren't I allowed to have friends?" Kurt replied in that airy way he did when he was about to be particularly stubborn or difficult about something. "Blaine is a nice boy."
"He's a dork."
"Are you jealous?" Kurt asked, pointedly turning back towards the vanity mirror. "I think you're jealous. You don't like someone else taking up so much of my time."
"I just think you haven't figured this all the way through." Puck sat up properly, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. "You're forgetting how close you can let people. As in not."
"I have close friends," Kurt argued, keeping his tone neutral. He put the lid back on a pot of moisturising cream and carefully placed it back in its drawer. "Mercedes, for example. Tina. Even Rachel, on occasion."
"That's different," Puck insisted. "That's girl talk."
Kurt rolled his eyes. "You are vastly underestimating the inclusiveness of 'girl talk'."
"Plus they know you," Puck continued as if he hadn't heard. "They knew you before you had a big secret to keep."
Kurt sighed. He stood and walked across the room to the nightstand beside his bed. He opened the second drawer, dumped the decoy magazines onto the bed, and pulled out a handful of battered photographs and pictures printed on computer paper. "I already had a secret," he said, dropping the pictures onto the bed one by one. "A secret I never, ever told anyone. Including Mercedes. I know how to handle secrets, Noah."
Puck picked up one of the photos, instantly recognising it as one that he'd given to the other boy. He turned it around to show Kurt the close up of a dead girl's head and shoulders. "And if he finds out anyway?"
Kurt snatched the photo back. "Then you kill him, ok? Is that what you wanted to hear?" Kurt took a breath and started picking up the photos to put them back in their hiding place at the bottom of the drawer. "If he ever finds out," Kurt said calmly, "then you take care of it."
"Just like I did before."
"But until then I need you to trust my judgement." Kurt shut the drawer and sat down on the bed beside his boyfriend. He bumped their shoulders together, reached over to twine their fingers together. "Do you trust me, Noah?"
"More than anyone."
Kurt leaned over to kiss him. "I trust you more than anyone," he agreed quietly. And, even more quiet; "Sometimes more than myself."