Title: A Puppet of Clay
Rating: PG
Spoilers/Warnings: None
Word Count: 1300 or so
Disclaimer: I don't own Glee. I'm only playing with the characters.
Summary: Spy!AU or something. Planes and passengers aren't the only ones coming and going at an airport.
A/N: For heyblaine, whose reaction to Chris Colfer's later photo shoot was one of the first I stumbled upon. I know it isn't much, but I hope you like it anyway?
Beta-ed by secret_chord25, without whom you'd wonder in which language I was writing. So thank you!
A Puppet of Clay
Sometimes it felt like Kurt Hummel spent his whole time in airports.
Or no, not Kurt Hummel - it was John Asper or Tyler Norman or James Serrano or anyone else, really. But not Kurt Hummel, never Kurt Hummel, for Kurt Hummel didn't exist.
Not anymore.
Because what could infiltrate anything, hear and see anything, disappear without leaving a trace, better than a ghost?
But no matter who he was - and right now he wasn't sure, still slipping into his most recent character, still testing out its breadth and working out the kinks - he was always in the same skin, the same bones and muscles, which was as familiar as the busy atmosphere of these wide, clear halls where nothing and no one ever lingered for long; not even him.
This body had learned to position itself to wait, calm and collected like a feline at rest, gracefully slouching but ready to dart away at a moment's notice, to disappear in the blink of an eye.
And here it was now, bracing itself on the top of the large concrete balcony overlooking the main hall of yet another airport, near the boarding gates. He looked perfectly at ease on the outside – a white high-collared shirt with its two top buttons undone and a black vest showed off his slender figure. On the inside...
Inside, he was still mostly a blank state.
Paul Clay. His brain was testing the words, the name, repeating it until it was imprinted in all of his cells and his ears perked up automatically upon hearing it. Paul Clay, thirty-four but not looking it, coolly professional and almost always controlled, but nervous about closed-off spaces after a bad experience in high school. He favored spicy seasoning in his salad and never gave a hint as to how much it burned; he ordered his coffee smooth and black, softened with the smallest drop of cream.
Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed a woman glancing appreciatively in his direction. He allowed his lips to curve into the faintest shadow of a pleased smile. Paul Clay would appreciate that kind of attention. Being straight and a gentleman, he was the best kind of seducer, effortlessly efficient and never subjected to the revenge of a slighted conquest. He would-
A loud cry interrupted his thoughts and Paul glanced over his shoulder, down at the main hall. His eyes landed upon yet another familiar scene – two men caught in an embrace in the parting hour.
"I don't want to go," the tallest one wailed dramatically, squeezing his - what? His lover? friend? Whoever he was, his only reaction was to chuckle and break out of the hug by stepping back, indifferent to his companion's dismay - and now that they'd parted, Paul could see his profile, and it was surprisingly young.
In that moment, Paul noticed he'd turned entirely to follow the scene, his interest piqued. (And ah, not exclusively straight, then. An opportunist, rather – a hedonist, ready to enjoy anything as long as it was pleasing to his senses and tastes, and wow, was that sight a pleasing one.)
The boy – and oh yes, he was definitely a boy, no matter how old he actually was; it was obvious from the clear innocence lingering on his face, from the careful way he'd obediently groomed his hair to match the formality of his dress shirt and dark slacks - that boy wasn't tall by any means; but he was well-dressed and even more well-built. From where he was, Paul could follow the strong line of his arms and the broad curve of his shoulders - not the obvious, bulging result of intense workout sessions, but the hint towards a regular, steady effort. A tennis player, perhaps? His overall shape wasn't sharp or slender enough to be a swimmer; polo, or maybe fencing, but Paul couldn't picture this boy partaking in any kind of violent sports.
And yet he could picture him doing so many things - singing, without a doubt, vibrating with music and life; ordering his coffee too dark and too strong just to have a reason to sweeten it with sugar and cream; hoping and dreaming, smiling... And for the first time in a long time - or for the first time ever, since he'd just stepped into existence – Paul indulged.
He indulged, for the shortest time, and slipped into another's skin, another's life; slipped back.
Because if Kurt Hummel had lived, if he'd been allowed to remain a boy... Oh, he could have met and liked a boy exactly like this one. And Paul Clay could picture it all – them meeting and shyly circling one another until the first word was exchanged, the first connection made, that would unravel everything else. He could see it and savor it as a pleasant dream. Nothing but a pleasant dream, nothing tainted with painful longing.
Because Paul Clay had never had other dreams that had ended up being so unreachable that they'd broken down. He had never felt the loss of every single hope, had never ached with the need to put things back together, to put everything back together, to make everything right. Paul Clay had never willingly died for that need, that want, that desperate wish.
So he enjoyed the small fantasy, full of coffee dates and shared smiles and unrealistic promises, until the boy was done talking quietly with his - what? lover, companion, friend? Or simply brother, for there was no kiss but another heartfelt embrace before they parted once for all. The tallest one, the oldest one, walked through the boarding gates, waved, and disappeared.
And Paul had already turned away, before the man was gone, before the boy could react - just in case his behavior had been nothing but an act for the sake of an overly affectionate brother. Because the boy Paul could have been, in another life, wanted to preserve that moment, that picture, wanted to keep it brief and perfect and undisturbed; and he didn't want to see for himself that maybe it wasn't real.
He didn't realize until much, much later that maybe, just maybe, he should have.
Blaine would never understand why Cooper had concluded that the best way to avoid suspicion and hide in the crowd was to be as obnoxious as possible. He for his part found that downplaying his age, appearing fresh and polite and optimistic and naive was far more efficient, and far easier.
As soon as his brother had disappeared through the boarding gates, Blaine fished his phone out of his pocket. He answered before the first (expected) ring was through.
"Sir."
"Son."
Blaine always felt a part of him snort whenever his boss called him that - after all, it was marvelous how much better they'd gotten along since they'd decided to keep things strictly professional between them.
"Everything's in place," he said quietly, turning to leave and letting his eyes sweep over the concrete balcony overhead. A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth when he saw that the man who'd been casually observing them had disappeared. He was good. "Target sighted and on the move."
"Call back in time for dinner."
"Yes, sir."
He hung up first, slipped his phone back into his pocket, and let the smile bloom on his face.
This mission was going to be a good one - he could feel it.
Maybe TBC. Reviews are loved :)