Watched Pretty Woman this morning and thought of this little gem. One shot for now to get it out of my system, but possibly I'll add some more. Warnings; Language, drugs, prostitution,

Strolling the streets of New York city at age 29 in leather pants and a sheer tank top, Kurt Hummel compared his high school dreams to his current reality. They were pretty different. He had expected to wear some strange and overly sexy outfits in the name of fashion and Broadway, but dressing like a slut so men would pull up to his corner and proposition him?

Nope. Hadn't seen that coming.

It had been a long night with no prospects. A lot of inquiries and cat calls, but nothing solid. It was getting dark, and chilly. It was the end of fall, and though there was no snow yet, the feeling was in the air. Kurt was cold, but resisted wrapping his arms around himself. Had to show off the goods, after all.

He felt a strange tingle when a blue truck pulled up next to him. The driver rolled down the window and just stared at his face for awhile. Even in the fading light, he wore sunglasses. His hair was messy, and his fingers wouldn't stop tapping on the steering wheel. After several long seconds he leaned a little out the window and looked Kurt up and down slowly. Kurt had to bite back his disgust and instead tried to smile. The last thing he wanted was deal with some addict.

"Get in." The driver ordered, and sat back in his seat, fingers still tapping on the steering wheel. Kurt hesitated, but at that moment he felt several raindrops, and hey, he could handle this guy. His knee high boots weren't just for sex appeal. They hid a small gun as well.

The inside of the truck was littered with fast food wrappers and empty bottles, only half of which were soda. The driver didn't look over at him, just pulled away from the curb, and headed down the street.

The truck stalled slightly at the light, but the driver quickly shifted. Kurt stared at him. He was tall - taller than Kurt's 5'10 and then some. His greasy hair was dark and his skin was really, unhealthily pale. He wore an old, battered hooded sweatshirt and baggy, stained jeans. Frankly, he looked like a broad chested Unibomber.

"Where do you want to go?" The driver finally asked him. Kurt gave him directions and they silently moved through the city streets. The only sound was the squeaking of the wipers and the rain on the windows. The strange tingling that Kurt had felt when the truck pulled up had increased tenfold. He discreetly let his hand drift down to his boot and reassured himself about what was in there.

They ended up in an alley Kurt knew well. The driver turned the truck off and sat back in his seat, waiting. Kurt waited, too.

"How much?" The driver asked. Kurt didn't answer him. After about ten seconds, the driver looked over at him. "How much?" He asked again.

"Who are you?" Kurt asked. The driver stared at him. Kurt caught himself and grinned vapidly. "I don't fuck without a name," he explained, making his voice breathless and flirty.

"…Adam." the driver answered after another long look. Damn, Kurt wished he would take off the glasses, but it wasn't necessary. He knew all he needed to know.

"Well, Adam. That depends on what you want, exactly."

"What do you do?"

Damn, this guy wasn't making things easy. Kurt took a deep breath and leaned across the trash strewn console. "Why don't you tell me what you want," he breathed in the other man's ear, "And I do it for you?" The other man turned his head so he was also breathing in Kurt's ear.

"Do you accept money in exchange for sex?" He asked. Kurt felt those tingles a hundredfold now and shivered in spite of himself.

"Who are you really?" Kurt asked him again. The two were still in the strangely intimate position.

"Just someone with a little extra cash looking for some fun."

"Bullshit." Kurt took a deep breath. There was a faint trace of deodorant, but mostly a masculine musk that wasn't body odor. There were the tingles again, but with a different edge. He'd always had a thing for GUY guys. A thing that was completely inappropriate right now, given the circumstances. "First of all, if you've ever driven this truck before, I'll eat the steering wheel. You keep stalling at lights and you had to search for the windshield wiper switch. So maybe you stole it except -" He reached down and gingerly picked up one of the balled up wrappers. "It takes weeks if not months to make a truck this filthy, yet there's no odor. Trust me, I know nasty car odors, I've been in enough of them. And the bottles? None of them are the same brand. Unless you or the owner threw a party in the last few hours, this isn't how the truck normally looks. But maybe the owner was up to something, and you stole from him for some quick cash. Except, if you're a drug addict then I'm the damn pope." He turned so he was looking at the other man's face, and saw himself reflected in the lens of the sunglasses. "Your face is pale, and your makeup person does a great job on those sores - they look real, even this close, by the way - but your hands are healthy. No sores or lesions or burns. And frankly, you smell nice. No drug addict smells nice."

The driver didn't say anything or move as Kurt pulled away and adjusted his tank top. Looking out at the rain, which was coming in sheets now, he took and released a deep breath. But when he reached for the door, the other man moved quickly and pulled his hand away, turning him back towards himself.

"Stay here," he ordered.

Kurt sighed. "Okay, maybe you didn't understand. I'm not going to have sex with you. I don't know who you are, but I want nothing to do with it." He pulled his hand away. "You've got that serial killer look about you."

He reached for the truck handle again as the same time the lock clicked. He shook it a couple times but it stayed locked.

Kurt had really hoped it wouldn't come to this, but it was why he came prepared. He made a move and pulled the gun out at the same time Adam reached towards his own hip. Cocking it quickly, Kurt aimed it at the other man's shoulder, as Adam

- flashed a familiar black booklet at him. FBI, the golden badge read, Department of Justice. The card on the other half had a picture, a number and a name, David P. Karofsky.

"Oh you're FUCKING kidding me." Kurt huffed, "Karofsky? Really?" He didn't move the gun.

"Put down the gun." Karofsky ordered him in a calm voice, not questioning how Kurt seemed to know him. Kurt glared for a few minutes, and thought about shooting anyway.

Reholstering the small black handgun, he grabbed a badge of his own and tossed it to Karofsky. He didn't have a fancy booklet like Karofsky, just a blue and gold shield with NYPD and an ID number. Karofksy, never taking his eyes off Kurt, pulled out a cell phone and quickly dialed a number. He asked a series of questions, and Kurt could tell when the other person revealed his name, because a slow grin spread across Karofsky's face and even with the stupid sunglasses still on, Kurt could tell he was gloating.

Karofsky hung up and laughed for a long time while Kurt tried to tell himself that pulling his gun back out was a bad idea. Even if he only hit Karofsky upside the head with it instead of shooting it. Finally Karofsky took off the glasses and wiped at his eyes.

"Wow," he said, "I can't wait to call Z and tell him I picked up a hooker and it turned out to be Princess Hummel."

Kurt's eyes narrowed. "Are you going to tell him you use his name as an alias, too?"

"Fuck yeah, he'll be flattered."

"And I'm not a hooker. I'm an undercover detective for the NYPD. I've never had sex for money."

"Yeah, I'll probably just leave that part out." Karofsky laughed again. "Jesus, I thought you were gonna prance around on a stage for the rest of your life. What the hell happened?"

"There's a lot of aspiring performers and very few parts," Kurt said between clenched teeth. He wasn't sure why he was bothering to sit here and explain to his former schoolmate. "How are you in the FBI? "

"What can I say?" Karofsky gave him a cocky grin that was eerily similar to the ones Noah Puckerman used to give. "I'm like a prodigy or something."

"And….you're in New York…why?"

"Drugs. Specifically, kidnappings related to. Why are you a hooker?"

"Murders. Specifically, related to young males."

"Why'd they pick you?"

"I look like the victims."

"Oh," Neither one said anymore. Technically, they'd already revealed too much about their respective cases and the other knew it.

"Well, this has been a delightfully wasted evening, but really, I must be going." Kurt opened the door. He knew for a fact his partner was waiting in a car at the entrance of the alley for him. "Enjoy our beautiful city and go home soon."

As he sashayed (because that was the only way to walk in those particular boots) away, he heard the other man yell out the window, "Nice seeing you again too. Hopefully our next date goes better!" Kurt paused, narrowed his eyes and thought about pulling his gun out. A set of headlights coming on at the entrance of the alley reminded him of witnesses and he started walking again.

The next morning, Kurt put his coat and satchel in his department issued locker and sat down next to his partner to wait for his daily meeting to begin.

Sipping his coffee, he nearly choked when his boss, Dave Karofsky and a Spanish woman entered the room. Karofsky saw him staring and winked.

Nope. This was not going to be good.