Blink
By: RavenHeart101
Summary: "Don't blink. Don't even blink. Blink and you're dead."
Disclaimer: I do not own Glee. I do not own Doctor Who. I do not own Blink. I do own this fanfic. Sort of. Maybe. Probably not.
A: N – For all you Puck/Blaine fans out there. This is for all of you. :)
Blaine really didn't have an excuse to be breaking into the tall, looming manor besides the fact that he was – maybe – an investigative journalist. Not that that was a reason for him to be breaking in at, what was it, three in the morning? But that was besides the point.
There was just something relaxing about a wide open space and something so historic as a house that had been barely visited ever since it's owner had passed away ten years ago. It wasn't as though there was anything special about the house either. It was just relaxing.
Blaine leaned back against one of the house's many marble angel statues. His arms crossed over his chest to try and alleviate some of the late night/early morning London chill, his hazel eyes falling shut involuntarily as a gust of wind blew by him. His light fall jacket fluttered around his arms, his sneaker clad feet brushing against the grass as his weight shifted and he lowered himself to the ground at the angel's feet. His arm wrapped around his knee, his cheek resting against the denim that covered his leg.
Honestly Blaine came to this house to think. And God did he need to think. His head thumped back against the cold stone, his hands trembling with the thought of everything that had happened that day. The slurs. The looks. The tears. The yelling. The pain.
A few tears slid down his cheeks at the thought of everything that had gone decidedly wrong since he left Ohio. For one, Kurt had left him for some theater nerd from NYADA. His father had cut him off. And then he had gotten this internship in London and everything had seemed great. Fantastic. Better than he had ever expected, even.
But then this had to happen. This day had to happen.
How easy would it be for him to take those sleeping pills he had in his bottom drawer and never wake up again?
God Blaine, get a grip on yourself. He shook his head to clear his thoughts, pushing himself up off the ground and pushing himself towards the house to grab his camera. Investigative journalism at its finest.
The manor was dark when he entered, just as it had been when he had left it before to sit in the court yard a bit. He tapped his flashlight against his leg, flicking it on and tilting his head to the side at the almost empty house. It really could have been beautiful if someone had taken the moment to take care of it.
Actually it was still beautiful. Just a different kind of beautiful. Vines curled through the doorways, windows had broken glass scattered underneath them, the paint was peeling off the walls and banisters. It was a tragic beauty.
Quickly Blaine felt the need to take pictures of it all. Take a picture of everything around him in this weird lighting. With the moon so high in the sky that it lit up the house just enough that the flashlight was scarcely needed, everything in the house had a haunting glow to it. His grabbed his camera off the side table, adjusting the light setting until it was just perfect and began snapping pictures left and right. First of the courtyard where he had just been – green surrounding around twelve angel statues all in a circle. Second of the rickety old staircase. The study. The door leading outside.
And then he was climbing up the stairs – not his first time doing so in the manor but certainly one of the most dangerous times he had. They creaked ominously under his feet but he paid them no mind, the camera strap banging against his thigh with every step he took. Until he stopped and looked into one of the completely empty rooms that he had the sneaking suspicion used to be a bedroom. The wallpaper was peeling off – as per usual in every room in the house – but there was something different about this room. Something different about the way the wallpaper was falling off. Almost as though it was doing so deliberately. Almost as though it had this secret it felt as though it so desperately needed to share.
He took another tentative step inside the room, holding the camera up to his eye and letting it flash towards the open window. A steady drizzle was starting to fall from the clouds and Blaine knew that if he wanted to get home without getting soaked he would have to leave soon but there was something drawing his attention to the room. If only he could figure out exactly what that something was.
And then he saw it. Out of the corner of his eye a piece of the wallpaper was curled down and a word was reviled. Blaine took another step forward, running his fingers over the paper after snapping yet another picture of the word. Or letter really. A "B".
His eyebrows furrowed and he bit his lip. Would it be wise for him to do it? To tear off that piece of paper just to see what was waiting underneath? It could be something completely irrelevant...
His hand ripped the paper anyways, his flashlight hanging in his mouth and his camera hanging from his neck. BEWARE.
A chill ran up his spine and Blaine glanced behind himself cautiously before facing forward again. Another letter peaked out from under the wallpaper and Blaine was beginning to think that this was all some sort of messed up prank or something. But he pulled it down nonetheless. Just to be sure.
THE WEEPING ANGEL.
He glanced out the window as the rain began to come down harder than before, swallowing forcibly. He felt as though he were stuck in some sort of horror movie. Blaine hated feeling like that.
OH, AND DUCK!
Confusion began to melt into his fear and a frown pulled at his lips. But he kept tearing at the paper.
REALLY, DUCK!
He paused for a second, wondering if he should continue whatever prank this was or go home to a nice warm bed. Blaine's curiosity got the better of him and his hand involuntarily reached out to peal at the next piece of wallpaper hanging down the wall.
BLAINE ANDERSON.
Okay now this was just creepy. The flashlight fell from his mouth, clanging to the floor and shinning against the wall. He took a cautious step backwards his heart beginning to pound in his chest. This wasn't right. Something about this just wasn't right.
DUCK, NOW!
Somehow – whoever it was that had planned this prank – knew exactly who Blaine was. But that was impossible. The wallpaper had to have been there at least fifty years.
He heard the window glass break before he saw it and, with reflexes he didn't even know he had, he dropped down to the ground, his knees clanging against the wooden panels beneath them and a rock bouncing off the wall and flying in the air. Right where he had been standing.
Blaine grabbed the flashlight with trembling hands and shone it through the window, expecting to see a person – see something – that could have thrown the offending object.
But no.
All that was there was an angel with hands covering its eyes, it's cold marble glittering in the rainy moonlight.
He turned back to the wall, frantically ripping at the paper now, his eyes rescanning over the part that was triggering some sort of reaction from him.
BEWARE THE WEEPING ANGEL.
LOVE FROM, THE DOCTOR (1969).
By the time Blaine makes it back to his flat he's about ready to collapse into bed. Only his brain's hyper charged and he sort of wants to go back to the manor. Only not alone. Blaine would never want to step foot into that place again by himself. Not after what had just happened.
Perhaps he was being a baby, but Blaine figured he had good enough reasons. "Rachel?" He called out through the flat, pausing to take off his scarf and hang it up near the door. He had been sharing a flat with dear old Rachel Berry ever since she had gotten that show out in London's premiere Broadway agency. He was the only previous member of anything that Rachel knew well enough to stay with in London and the two of them were close enough ever since his falling out with Kurt and her, inevitable, break up with Finn.
"Don't blink. Don't even blink. Blink and you're dead." The television called out from his living room. Blaine paused, his eyebrows furrowing again in confusion, a pang of terror flying up his spine. Rachel really watched some messed up shit sometimes.
"Rachel are you home?" He called out again. He sighed as the only answer he received was the man repeating the same line on the television. A man with a pretty nice suit on if Blaine did say so. He tilted his head to the side, feeling a few curls brush over his forehead, his eyes crinkling in thought.
"Don't turn your back, don't look away and – Don't. Blink." The man waved his hand at whoever was filming him and, Blaine had to admit, he had a damn good way of acting. A small wave of terror shot up his spine – just like it had all evening long.
He hid a yawn in his shirt sleeve, turning off the television as quickly as he could and tip-toeing his way down into his bedroom, falling into the bed with a large sigh, his head burying itself in his pillow and his eyes slipping shut.
When Blaine wakes up a few hours later it's to the smell of coffee and a note plastered on the refrigerator from Rachel saying that she was going to be out for the day and that he had gotten a phone call from Wes. With a sigh he sipped the coffee Rachel had so graciously left on his bedside table, humming at the taste. Just as he liked it.
A small smile crept up his cheeks, spreading to his eyes enough to shade them with an even gentler sparkle than usual. Rachel was a life saver. Letting her move in was probably the best choice Blaine had made in a long time.
His phone dinged with a warning that a phone call was coming in and, of course, who else would it be if not Wes. It was slightly scary how the older boy had managed to memorize Blaine's schedule down to a T. "Good morning Wesley." Blaine spoke in chipper terms, allowing himself to fall back onto his bed with a content sigh. Gone was the fear that had consumed him last night. It was a new day. It was about time Blaine started treating each day like this.
"Good morning yourself." Wes's clipped tones answered back. Blaine frowned. Obviously not everyone was sharing his enthusiasm over making it to another day.
"Well aren't you just a happy go-lucky Carebear. What's going on?"
"That manor you're obsessed with? Well we got this whole story on it. Missing persons arc and everything." Wes's voice held a sort of excitement Blaine hadn't heard in years – since Warblers practice actually.
"What's that old manor got to do with it?" Blaine mumbled out, taking another sip of his coffee and throwing his legs over the side of the bed, his hand rubbing against his eyes.
"There's apparently been a string of missing people. All connected to that house."
"So?"
"Get this, Anderson." Wes's voice sounded particularly proud of a moment and Blaine couldn't help the small smirk and raised eyebrow that it caused. "The previous owner? Didn't die ten years ago. She went missing."
"Missing?" Blaine was trying really hard to understand everything that was being said to him at the moment but, seriously, he had just woken up and, so far, Wes was asking him to do entirely too much thinking when he had so little coffee in his system.
"Yeah. So's this group of children or something. One day they were out playing by the manor. Ten minutes later, when the mother went searching for them, they weren't there. Nothing. Zip. Finte. Vanished into thin air." Wes laughed from the other line – a cynical sort of laugh. "Creepy, eh?" Blaine was silent, his brain finally catching up with him. "Blaine? You okay?"
"Uh... yeah."
"Great." Wes was relieved – obviously. He had some sort of overprotective tendency over Blaine for years. Not as though Blaine didn't already have an perfectly overprotective brother as it was. Not that Wes being Wes really bothered him or anything but sometimes Blaine just didn't understand what made it seem like he needed protecting. "I'll see you in ten? I'll bring some coffee."
And with that Wes hung up, Blaine sighing before falling back onto his bed. It was his day off. He wasn't supposed to go into work today because it was his day off. And he already had coffee. Not that he was going to tell Wes that. Free coffee was free coffee. Blaine was not going to be caught complaining.
Blaine would forever admit to taking pictures of Wes trying to climb over a fence. It was quite possibly one of the most hysterical things he had ever seen and he wasn't about to let the moment be lost in time. Wes glared at him as he finally swung his leg over the other side, ungracefully falling to the ground with a loud "ufph", his legs buckling under his weight and his dress pants subsequently being covered in dirt and dust. "Let's go investigate." Wes said with a clear and precise voice, annoyance seeping through the tone.
"Oh let's pose for a few pictures first, eh?" Blaine flashed another in Wes's face, laughing at the indignant look his friend was sending his way. "Come on, Wesley. Smile for the camera." As he aimed for another Wes grabbed the piece of equipment, tugging it out of Blaine's hands.
"I swear to God, Blaine. I will throw this camera." And he mimicked doing just that. But Blaine wasn't worried. Not only could he tackle Wes with no force necessary, but Wes was too good of a person to do that. Steal the camera and hide it away forever, however, was something that he could just picture his friend doing.
"Please don't. That cost me almost one thousand dollars." Blaine pleaded dryly, jumping up to try and grab the camera back when Wes held it above his head.
Wes raised an eyebrow at him before placing it back into his hands, cautiously of course. "Why would you spend so much on a camera anyway?"
Blaine shrugged lightly, slinging the strap around his neck, a smirk pulling at his lips. He grabbed Wes's arm, pulling him close, and turned the camera around to face them, snapping the picture as quick as he could and then breaking out into a run when Wes let out an indignant shriek. He stopped in the foyer of the house, bending over so that his hands rested on his knees to catch breath. Wes pounded in after him not ten seconds later, a glare on his face but joy in his eyes as he ran into Blaine, nearly knocking both of them over onto the floor covered in glass shards.
Wes stood up, pushing Blaine lightly as he straightened out, his eyes looking around them. "Why do you come here anyway?"
"I love old things." Blaine smiled gently in his direction, his fingers brushing lightly over the wallpaper, a fond tone to his voice.
Wes rolled his eyes at him, shaking his head and moving on to investigate. "You like them because they make you feel sad." Wes kicked at a rock before pushing open the door to the unused bedroom. "And what's so good about sad, Blaine?"
"It's happy for the deep people." Wes snorted, nodding at the stairs, Blaine leading the way. He stopped at the room with the writing on the wall, curiosity flying up his spine. Would the writing still be there? Was there more to it? Had Blaine imagined the whole thing? It was quite possible. Blaine wouldn't say that he was above imagining things.
He glanced into the room, the writing still as clear as day on the far wall. But Wes was farther down the hall, staring at the courtyard with a sort of caution to his posture. Blaine sided up beside him, snapping a picture from the doorway for good measure. Wes turned around to send him a warning glare but Blaine just shrugged him off. It was good material. No way was he about to let that material disappear. "A weeping angel." Blaine nodded down at them.
"There's a whole room full of them." Wes pointed at one of the rooms down the hall. "Bit creepy, really." Blaine couldn't help but agree. What he had found so comforting about their presence the day before was beyond him. Ever since the whole rock through the window incident Blaine was pretty sure he had gained some new found terror of statues. "I wouldn't put that anywhere near my house."
But Blaine was too busy noticing something he hadn't noticed before. The statue had moved. It wasn't a large movement but it was enough for it to be noticeable. "It's moved." His eyebrows furrowed and conflicting emotions pulled at his stomach. Stay. Investigate. Runaway.
To be honest Blaine wanted to runaway. But he had had enough of being a coward back in high school so he took a hesitant step closer to the angel. "What?" Wes's voice held a twinge of fear, but mostly confusion, his eyes darting to the statue and then back at Blaine.
"Since yesterday." He clarified, ignoring the way his friend's eyebrow raised at him.
"You visited this place yesterday?"
"I'm sure it's closer." Blaine ignored the question. "It's gotten closer to the house."
"You are freaking me out, Blaine." Wes's voice held an unvoiced warning for Blaine to cut it out. Only Blaine didn't particularly know how to do that since that fear was turning into so much more – it was turning into the almost blatant terror he had felt the night before, when he had seen his name written on the wall.
And when Blaine's face didn't change from its calculated confusion when he turned to Wes, Wes couldn't help the skeptical smile that crossed his features. Wes was a skeptic through and through. Always had been. Always would be. He was a kill joy to watch paranormal movies and shows with so Blaine tended to watch those with Rachel. She was good when they both got freaked out and ended up grabbing onto each other more than their pillows.
Blaine rolled his eyes at his own ability to over think things, walking back into the room with the real mystery. "How can my name be written here? It's impossible." He whispered under his breath, his fingers reaching out to trace the letters. The paint had sunk down into the wood, so it was obvious that the writing had been present for quite some time.
He jumped when a bell rang from the outside. That old bell hanging in front of the door. Wes turned sharply to look at him. "How could someone be ringing the bell?"
Blaine's wide hazel eyes were his only answer, the two of them trading looks before slowing creeping down the stairs, hoping beyond hope that they made no noise. Blaine took a step closer to the door, but Wes's hand on his arm halted him before he could step too far. "What are you doing? It could be a thief!"
"A thief that rings a doorbell? Seriously Wes?" Blaine fixed him with a stare before pulling his arm out of his friend's grasp and walking closer to the door.
"I think I'll just... stay... collect some evidence."
"Okay. You do that."
"Scream if you need me."
"Alright Wes." Blaine sent him a small smile of reassurance. He got it. Really he did. And he honestly didn't know where any of this courage to answer the door was coming from but Blaine wasn't going to let the moment pass when it came to him.
Blaine reached up to unlock the door, opening it to reveal a woman. Someone who looked completely out of place in the middle of the manor's ratty atmosphere. Something about her looked so familiar...
"I'm... looking for Blaine Anderson." The way she spoke, the mannerisms within that first comment made Blaine freeze. He blinked at her, trying to place the part of his mind that was telling him that he knew her from somewhere.
"This is him." Blaine chocked out.
The girl's brown eyes widened, a shocked look painting onto her face. Her hand shook as it held out a letter to him, stepping into the house. Blaine stumbled back some, but his eyes couldn't help looking down at the quite frankly stuffed yellowing envelope, the familiar script with his name written in plain cursive. Warning bells sounded in his head, his heart beginning to beat faster. "I was told to bring this letter to this exact place. On this exact date. At this exact time to Blaine Anderson."
Blaine wasn't particularly sure that he bought any of what the woman said, but he still accepted the letter with a small upturn of his lips. As was the polite thing to do. "That's old." He stated the obvious, since it was the only coherent thought running through his mind.
"It is old." She agreed. "I'm sorry, but you don't happen to have anything with a photograph do you? Like a drivers license?"
Blaine was thrown for a loop. Why in the world...? "Why do you need my picture?" Blaine was already digging through his wallet though, pulling out the press pass that he made sure to keep with him at all times because no way in hell was this woman getting anywhere near his drivers license.
"I just want to be sure that it's really you." She shrugged, taking the picture and studying it for awhile before deeming it worthy and handing it back to him with a smile. "I'm Tina by the way."
"Blaine... But you already knew that."
She laughed quietly under her breath. "Well... Here goes, I suppose." She nodded at the envelope in his hands. "Funny... after all these years. Finally getting rid of it."
"Who's it from?" Blaine's curiosity was getting the better of him... again.
"That's a long story, actually." Tina rubbed at the back of her neck, her blue flats scuffing at the wood beneath her feet.
"You mean... give me a name." Blaine demanded as fear began to take over curiosity. Something about this just wasn't right. Something was warning him that this wasn't right.
"Wesley Cohen-Chang." Blaine started, nearly dropping the letter and literally dropping his camera, happy that he had thought to put the strap around his neck when it simply bounced against his chest. "But listen, he told me to say something about a Nightingale."
Blaine's heart sped up. That was a code word that the two of them had used ever since Dalton. Nightingale means danger. It means get out. It means something is going to happen and you better be damn ready for when it does. The door from upstairs slammed shut and the two of them jumped. "Wes?" Blaine's voice was frantic and if this was some kind of prank Blaine was going to wring Wes's neck.
"Wes... Yes. Wesley Mitchell Cohen-Chang." She assured him with a look on her face. Blaine knew that look all too well. It was the "you're insane" look.
"Is this a joke?" Blaine demanded, anger and hurt soon erasing the fear.
This wasn't funny. Wes knew what he had been through. Why in the world would he think it would be funny to pull some shit like this? Blaine suddenly wanted to punch a hole in the wall.
"Joke?" Tina sounded offended. Well screw her. Blaine didn't care.
"Wes is this some kind of joke?" Blaine turned his back on her, starting back up the stairs. "Very fucking funny, Wesley." Blaine nudged open the bedroom door with the warnings, expecting to see Wes cowering in a corner, a laugh being stifled by his hands.
Only what he was greeted with was complete emptiness. No one was there. "Wes? This isn't funny!"
Blaine rushed back down the stairs, nearly crowding Tina into a corner. "Who are you? Why are you here?" He demanded.
This wasn't funny anymore. Whatever joke this was it wasn't funny. "I made a promise." She insisted.
"To who?"
"My grandfather." Tina took a deep breath. "Wesley Mitchell Cohen-Chang."
Her face held such sincerity that Blaine was almost inclined to believe her. "Your grandfather?"
"Yes." She insisted. "He died. Twenty years ago."
Blaine let out a tiny, incredulous laugh, pushing away from her and thumbing open the letter. Only to find pictures. Old pictures. The historic kind of pictures that Blaine had seen in his mother's keep sake. Only they weren't normal old pictures. Oh no, they housed plenty of pictures of someone who looked very much like the Wesley Mitchell Cohen-Chang that Blaine had just spent the last twenty minutes with. "So they're related?" His brain was trying to match up reason upon reason of how Wes could be in those pictures and be somewhere in the house with him too. But that was the only logical answer Blaine could come up with. They were related. They had to be related. Because there was no way in hell that Wes was both with him, and in 1920. No way.
"I'm sorry?"
"My Wes. You're grandfather. They have to be related. They look almost identical."
Only Tina didn't answer besides her confused look.
Blaine unfurled the letter when it was obvious that he wasn't going to get an answer from her, sinking down onto the steps when it clicked in his mind just who's handwriting he was reading. Of course he would recognize it. He had only seen it for years now.
My dear Blaine Warbler,
If my granddaughter has done as she's promised, than, as you read this, it has been near minutes since we last spoke... for you. For me, it has been over sixty years.
The third photograph is of me and my children. Oh you've missed it, Blaine. The youngest is named after you, of course. Who else would he be named after? He even looks like you sometimes. Only vaguely more Eurasian.
Blaine felt tears well up in his eyes. This was wrong. This was all wrong. "This is sick!" He glared up at Tina, wiping furiously at the hot liquid that was beginning to pool from his eyes. "This is completely sick." He threw the papers on the ground, turning and running back up the steps, calling for Wes the whole time. "Wes! Wesley?"
Only to receive no answer.
He came to a stop at the top of the staircase, staring up at the statue in front of him. That angel statue hadn't been there before.
Fear clawed at his throat and he forced himself to swallow, stepping closer to another doorway. Only for there to be another angel statue guarding that entryway, this one's arm covering its eyes instead of its hands. Distinctly he heard the sound of wings flapping – louder than he had ever heard it before – and he quickly turned towards where he had heard them. Only to see yet another angel statue standing in the window where it hadn't been before.
His breathing was beginning to become erratic. BEWARE THE WEEPING ANGEL! The warning stuck out in his mind and he felt his eyes almost unwilling to pull themselves away from the newest arrival. But he forced himself to turn back, heaving in a deep breath, his eyes being pulled down to the key suspended in the angel guarding the doorway's hand.
Blaine heaved in another deep breath, kneeling down to get a better look at it. The creeping sensation that someone was looking at him clawed at his back and he had to shut his eyes for a moment to remind himself that breathing was a good thing. He glanced behind himself once more, happy to see that the other two angels had stayed where they were before turning back to the key.
Maybe it had something to do with what was going on. Maybe it was just another mystery of the old manor. But either way he ripped it from the angel's hand, a brief dust flying from where it had been clenched. There was something about it...
He heard a car door open and close and his heart leaped into his throat. "No! Tina, wait!" And he rushed down the stairs to meet her before she had gone anywhere. Something was telling him that he needed that letter.
Blaine nearly slipped at the bottom the staircase, his hand coming in contact with the familiar feel of paper. He glanced down, happy for a moment that Tina had thought to leave the letter behind.
If this was a joke it was at least well thought out. He had to give them credit where credit was due. Maybe he'd see if Tina had another clue for him. Maybe Wes was trying to get Blaine to hone is investigation skills or something like that (he ignored the voice in his head that told him that he was being insane) and ran through the door to catch her. Only to be too late.
"Shit!" He kicked out at the dirt, running down the long driveway leading away from the manor. He needed answers. There had to be some way he could get some answers.
An hour later Blaine finds himself in a cafe a town over from the one the manor was in, re-reading the letter that was so obviously from Wes with less fear than he had the first time. It was beginning to rain out, but that was only typical of London. But it didn't help matters in cheering him up.
I suppose that unless I live to an incredibly exceptional old age I will be long gone as you read this. Don't feel sorry for me, I have had a good and full life. I've loved a great woman. I've been a great husband. I've been loved immensely in return.
You would have liked Natalie. She was the very first person I met in 1920.
Blaine wiped at the tears slowly leaking from his eyes, holding out the picture that went along with that part of the letter. A wedding picture. And the woman – Natalie – really was beautiful. A stunning blonde with a wide smile. Completely European. And Wes... Blaine had to stifle a laugh because Wes was wearing a top hat and a bow-tie. Blaine had a feeling that he was wearing both as more than just because it was the fashion then.
To take one breath in 2007, and the next in 1920 is a strange way to start a new life. But a new life is exactly what I always wanted.
Blaine couldn't read anymore, his elbows falling heavily on the table and the tears cascading down his cheeks. His shoulders quaked at the thought that this was very much real. Wes was very much gone. And he wasn't coming back.
Just like everyone else.
Only this time it was worse. Blaine couldn't explain it, but there was something about this time that made it worse. Maybe Blaine was blaming himself – if he really took the moment to think about it there must have been something that he could have done. Denied Wes the chance to see the manor, perhaps. Or made him come answer the door with him... Blaine wasn't sure.
Either way Blaine knew there was something that he must do.
He pulled up beside the graveyard (the only one even close to where they lived and he prayed that he was in the right place), a bouquet of flowers banging against his legs with every step he took. Until he found it.
Wesley Mitchell Cohen-Chang.
Blaine dropped to his knees before the grave – before where his best friend was buried – and felt the tears well up again.
1902 – 1987
"Told them you eighteen you lying piece of shit." A small laugh pull itself from Blaine's lips as a few tears leaked down his cheeks, his fist almost immediately flying up to wipe them off. He ignored the fact that his skin was sensitive, wincing a bit before putting his hand back on the flowers.
He decided to just leave them there, the smile disappeared from his face. Blaine trudged his way back to his car, falling into it with a sigh and scrubbing his hand down his face in a tired manner.
My parents are gone by your time so really the only person you have to tell is David. You know how to reach him. I don't know what you're going to tell him but I'm confident you'll think of something. Just... tell him I love him. Sounds cheesy, yeah, but he's my best friend besides you.
Blaine could practically hear the words in his head but he payed them no mind, turning the key in the ignition and driving back home. If there was anything he needed at the moment it was a nice warm bath and a pint of ice cream. And maybe a musical or two to drown his sorrows in.
Rachel wasn't there when Blaine got home, which he silently thanked whoever was watching over him for. Blaine wasn't quite sure that he could put up with her overbearing nature at the moment. Briefly he considered calling up Cooper and talking about how much it hurt but he decided against it. How would he explain it anyway? "Sorry to call you so late, Coop but my best friend is in 1920 and I just visited his grave!" Yeah because that would go over so perfectly.
He pushed the key into the lock, entering the flat and leaning heavily against the door. Murmurs from the television floated into the entryway and Blaine couldn't help the small spike of exhausted fear that climbed up his spine. He hadn't seen Rachel's car in the garage... "Rachel?" He tried.
"Try again." He jumped at the decidedly male voice that was defiantly not Rachel.
"Who are you and what are you doing in my house?" He spoke lowly, slowly and with wide eyes. He reached out for something to use as a weapon, only coming into contact with his camera. He supposed that could be used as some sort of weapon. Not that he was going to smash it over the guy's head or anything (it had cost him almost one thousand dollars) but he could always take a flash picture right in his face and then kick him or punch him as the light distracted. Yeah. That sounded like a great plan.
A deep chuckle sounded from the living room, a shadow appearing in the doorway, moving steadily closer to him. "Calm down, Anderson. It's just me."
And Blaine was all prepared to go ninja on him or something. His finger was posed on the "capture" button. Only he stopped. Because it was Noah Puckerman that was standing in his doorway. Not some creepy guy or something. Not that Noah Puckerman wasn't creepy enough as it was. "What the fuck, Noah." Blaine visibly deflated.
Noah Puckerman was some sort of stalker or something. And maybe the two of them had a little something going on but Noah was obviously there to visit Rachel and not him. Not that Blaine blamed him or anything but at that moment he could really use a hug. Any sort of hug. He didn't care if it was from some homeless guy down the street. "What's gotten you so wound up?" Noah leaned against the side table, watching as Blaine took off his jacket and hung it up in the closet with a fond sort of smile.
Blaine shrugged lightly, jumping when Noah's hand touched his lower back and immediately wanting to just crawl into a hole and die of embarrassment. "It's just... been a really rough day." He spoke lowly, allowing himself to be lead into the living room and dropping down onto the couch.
Noah lived, primarily, in the States still. He stopped by London every once in a while when his job permitted it – he's said that he loves it in Britain more than once but Blaine's not entirely sure he believes him. But the two of them had grown somewhat close ever since Rachel moved in with Blaine because, obviously, Rachel was the only person in London that Noah knew so it would only make sense for him to stay with them. "Looks it." And if Noah spotted the tear streaks he wisely held back any sort of comment.
Blaine let his head fall into his hands, feeling the need to either start crying again or fall back into the couch and never move again. He settled for neither, it seemed, since Noah was busy wrapping an arm around his shoulders and bringing him to rest against his chest.
And that was another thing. Him and Noah sort of had this... thing... going on between them ever since Rachel had locked them out of the flat on Noah's second visit. Blaine didn't know how to classify it but every single time Noah visited they would hook up. And every single time he left Blaine would hate himself just a tiny bit more than he already did.
The video that Noah had been watching un-paused and Blaine couldn't help the way his body flew straight out of Noah's grasp because that he been playing on his television the night before. "Exactly how long have you been here?" He asked Noah sharply, not expecting much of a response.
"A few days. Why? Didn't Rachel tell you?"
"No..." Blaine shook his head slowly, his eyebrows furrowed and his concentration on the man on the television.
"Yeah, yeah, people don't understand time. It's not what you think. It is-." Noah surged forward, pausing the video.
"Doesn't surprise me. Maybe she's trying to keep us apart." He commented lamely and, obviously he wanted to talk. Only Blaine didn't really want to talk about anything. He wanted to go to sleep.
"Well she did walk in on us the last time." And Blaine really didn't want to think about that. "I don't particularly blame her. Who is this guy?" He gestured at the television.
"Sorry." Noah rushed to excuse. "The pause button keeps slipping. I think you need a new remote."
"Last night you had this on." Blaine ignored his dig at his electronics. "Talking about... Blinking."
Noah settled back into his seat, his arm straying from Blaine's shoulders to his back. "Yeah. I was just checking if they were all the same."
"If what were all the same?" Blaine let out a small laugh. "What is this? Who is he?"
"Easter Egg."
Blaine chocked a bit at the response, turning towards Noah with an incredulous look on his face. "What?"
"Like a DVD extra. You know how on DVD's they put extras on stuff? Well sometimes they put on hidden ones. And they call those Easter Eggs. You have to go looking for them, follow a bunch of clues in the menu screen." Noah smiled at him, running his hand up and down Blaine's back in what was meant to be a soothing manner.
But Blaine knew Noah and he knew what he wanted when he moved his hand that way while talking in that tone of voice.
"-Complicated." The man on the television said. And Blaine had to give him props. It was complicated. Everything was just too complicated right now.
"Sorry." Noah pressed paused again. "It's interesting, actually. He is on seventeen different DVD's." He pointed at the screen. "There are seventeen totally unrelated DVD's all with him on them. Always hidden away. Always a secret. Not even the publishers know." Noah shrugged, his hand coming to rest on Blaine's neck and rubbing a bit at the tension that was obviously there. "It's like he's a ghost DVD extra. Just shows up where he's not supposed to be. But only on those seventeen."
Blaine's curiosity was definitely spiked now. "What does he do?"
"Just sits there, making random remarks." Noah paused for a moment, his movements slowing down. "It's like we're hearing only half a conversation. We're always trying to work out the other half."
"When you say 'we' you're talking about-"
"People I work with."
"That you're not allowed to tell me about."
"That I'm not allowed to tell you about." Noah smiled gently at him, teasingly even, his hand tugging at bit at the nape of Blaine's neck and pulling him closer, their lips meeting almost seamlessly. Blaine's heart leaped at the connection, his hand flying up to cover Noah's and his eyes fluttering shut against Noah's cheek. They both breathed in deeply, Noah pushing him down a bit so that he was being lowered over the couch.
"People assume that time is a strict progression of time and effect," They jumped apart, Noah's hand reaching out for the pause button but Blaine grabbed it before he could reach it, "but actually from a non-linear, non-subjective viewpoint it's more like a big ball of wibbly-wobbly... timey-whimey... stuff."
"That's hard to understand, that sentence." Blaine noted absentminedly.
"It... got away from me, yeah."
"That was weird." Noah said slowly, sitting up and pulling Blaine with him, his hand on his waist.
"You can hear me?" Blaine questioned.
"Well I can hear you." The man on the television answered seriously.
"Okay... that's enough!" Blaine rushed to press pause on the remote, his heart pounded hard in his chest. "I've had a long day and I've had enough!"
Noah stared at him for a moment, his teeth gnawing at his bottom lip and he eased the remote from his hands. "Relax... He can't actually hear you. He always says the same stuff." Blaine felt like crying. Instead he shook his head sternly and pressed his lips together tightly, trying to blink away the tears. "Seriously, Blaine... what's going on?"
"Wes is gone." He said miserably. "He was there one second and now he's gone." His voice sounded as though he was already crying but Blaine had had enough of crying to last him a life time but it hurt. Oh goodness did it hurt. He felt as though this rather large chunk of his heart was ripped out and brought somewhere where he could never get it back.
Noah pulled him into a hug, his arms crossing over his waist and hand pressing Blaine's head into his shoulder. "Like missing gone?" He questioned softly, resting his chin on top of Blaine's curls. He nodded against his shirt, the tears leaking out of his eyes and his hands fisting into the fabric underneath his cheek. He heard Noah's breath catch. "Have you gone to the police?"
"And tell them what?" Blaine sniffled, not even bothering to lessen his tight hold on Noah.
"That Wes is missing."
"But there's more to it! It's not like he's just missing. He's never coming back."
"How do you know? Did he leave on purpose?" Noah pulled back slightly, staring down at Blaine. Blaine who probably looked disgusting as heck right now. His face was most definitely all blotchy, his eyes were probably horrendously red, and there was absolutely no way he looked even the slightest bit attractive at that moment.
He sent Noah an look that screamed out his answer. "Why would he leave on purpose?" He snapped. Noah raised an eyebrow at him.
"I'm sorry..." He gently pulled Blaine back down into his embrace. "Then how do you know he's not coming back?"
"It doesn't matter." And, thankfully, Noah asked no more questions because Blaine still didn't have any answers.
Blaine sighed, twirling is spoon in his coffee the morning after. He had barely gotten any sleep without being woken up by nightmares of evil marble angel statues. His head felt heavy and his eyes were drooping but Blaine couldn't afford to sleep. And he definitely couldn't afford to take any more sleep medication – he was almost out and he wasn't due for a refill for a few weeks.
Then a thought struck him.
Blaine fingered the key resting on the kitchen counter top, his eyes sliding over to the old envelope with his name written in Wes's nearly perfect handwriting. Determination started fueling in his stomach. Hadn't he made a vow to himself to never idly sit back and let things happen again?
With that thought in mind Blaine grabbed both the envelope and the key, throwing his mug in the sink and running out of the apartment, grabbing his jacket off the hook and yelling out a goodbye to anyone who was listening.
He was going to the police.
Because that was the only logical thing he could do.
It was raining again, which really wasn't all that surprising and Blaine didn't bother giving himself the time to think about a reason why he was going to the police. He knew that he even thought about what he was doing he would back out. And that wasn't something that Blaine felt as though he should be doing.
The station wasn't too far from the apartment and it really wasn't far enough for him to need the car. So he jogged to the building, getting just about soaked in the process. But, honestly, Blaine didn't care. He had a plan, maybe not the best plan but a plan all the same.
Blaine waltzed over to the front desk, running a hand over his wet curls to plaster them off his forehead and leaning over the edge to speak to the officer behind it. He was an older man, his hair graying and his face a mess of angry wrinkles. He definitely was not a happy man. "Excuse me? I was wondering where I could report a missing person."
The man stared up at him, a sort of malice in his eyes. Blaine had seen looks like that before in London. Just because he was American meant that he was no more than a tourist in their eyes. "Who's missing?"
"My friend, Wesley Cohen-Chang."
"Uhuh, and how exactly did he go missing?"
And now came the hard part. Blaine took a deep breath and rattled off the story, watching as the man's face filled with more and more disbelief. "Look I know it sounds crazy."
"Try it from the beginning again." The man ordered him and it was obvious that he didn't particularly believe Blaine, but Blaine wasn't about to leave and not have anyone even slightly take him seriously.
"Okay, so there's this house, a house that's been there for years, falling apart. Down by the estates. You've probably seen it." A look of recognition crossed over the officer's face and he looked over at Blaine with wide eyes. "Wester Drumlins."
"Wester Drumlins?"
"Yes!"
The old officer stared at him for a moment before standing up from his seat. "Wait here for a moment." And then he walked away. Blaine wasn't sure what exactly that meant but it had to mean something. A relieved sigh passed through his lips, his body slumping against the desk before he straightened himself out, his hands falling into his jacket pockets.
Him going to the police was a smart thing wasn't it? It meant that things could finally start making sense, right? Oh Blaine wasn't so sure but he felt as though he was doing something that he was supposed to be doing. And, either way, at least he was doing something instead of sitting at home and moping the whole damn time.
Blaine glanced out the window, and his heart seized at the image in the window. An angel statue, it's eyes covering it's face from view. He stood frozen, paralyzed in what was obviously fear.
He blinked.
And then they were gone.
No way, no way, no. Fucking. Way. He stumbled forwards, nearly flattening himself against the window and squinting out it. They had been there! Clear as day! His heart pounded in his chest, his breathing becoming almost erratic. Maybe he had imagined it? "Okay... relax..." He told himself quietly, turning away from the window as footsteps drew nearer to him.
A taller man made his way over to the desk, dropping a file down onto it. "Hey. Wester Drumlins, that's my case. Can't talk to you now, I don't want to be late for my newest case, so if... you'd just..." The man trailed off as his eyes took in Blaine. A smile tugged at his lips, his eyes raking up and down Blaine's body appreciatively before settling back onto his face. "Hello."
Blaine nearly blushed before settling on a small, amused smile of his own. "Hello."
They maintained eye contact for a little while longer before the man leaned over the desk and tapped a woman on her shoulder. "Marci, can you tell them I'm going to be late for that... thing?" He waved in the direction of the file and the woman nodded with a small exasperated look. Blaine almost felt the need to apologize to her but he shrugged it off, tucking a stray curl behind his ear.
"I'm Detective Sebastian Smythe." He held out his hand in front of him, a tiny smirk over his lips.
"Blaine Anderson." He offered, taking the offered hand in his own before letting go and sliding it back into his coat pocket.
Sebastian lead him over to some of the waiting chairs, gesturing that he take a seat before doing so himself, leaning forward and clasping his hands in his lap. "So what is this about Wester Drumlins?"
"My friend's gone missing." Blaine supplied. "We were... we're investigative reporters and we were running a case on the old house... one second we were both there and the next it was just me. I... I got a letter from some woman – Tina, I think her name was – and it was from Wes-"
"And Wes is your missing friend?"
"Yeah." Blaine blinked down at the hand resting on his linked hands, he carefully maneuvered them out from under Sebastian's, settling them on the arm rests of his seat. "Anyway, the letter from 1920. And there are these pictures in it... And they're obviously of Wes." He wrestled the envelope out of his pocket, allowing Sebastian to open the letter and look at the contents before taking a newly creased picture out that was of Blaine and the rest of the newspaper guys (and Rachel... God Rachel was always just there) from the Christmas party. He pointed at Wes.
"There's a really tight resemblance, I'll give you that..."
"And then I go to the graveyard and I find one with his name on it saying that he was born in 1902 and died in 1987..." Blaine shrugged uselessly, leaning back in the seat and taking the letter when it was offered back to him. "It makes no sense."
Sebastian studied him for a moment with an eye that obviously belonged to a detective before standing up and gesturing that Blaine do the same. "Come with me."
"All of them?" Blaine looked around the garage in amazement as the lights blinked on.
"All over the last two years, yeah." Sebastian nodded in confirmation. "They all still have personal items in them and the couple still had the motor running."
Blaine feels shock and that keen sense of curiosity that he remembered oh so well from the few intense investigations he's had as he walked deeper into the garage. His eyes widen as he takes in the sights of empty cars upon empty cars. It's all so surreal. "So for the last two years the owners of all these cars have driven up to Wester Drumlins, parked outside and just... disappeared?" His voice held a note of uncertainty.
They stepped farther into the garage and, under this light, Blaine had to admit that Sebastian Smythe was rather handsome. He found himself blushing at the thought. Good going Blaine. Check a guy out when your best friend is missing. Blaine's eyes fell onto a large blue box sitting in the middle of the open space, his eyebrows furrowing he ran his fingers over the key in his pocket. "What's that?"
Sebastian snapped out of his studying of Blaine to follow his line of sight. "Ah, the pride of our Wester Drumlin's collection." He winked at Blaine, walking the two of them close enough so that he could read off the words "Police Box" that were painted in black and white block letters at the top. A 1950's police box? Wasn't that just a bit unusual... "We found that there too. Someone's horrible idea for a joke, probably." Sebastian shrugged, a smile tugging at his lips as Blaine ran his hand over the wooden box, his eyes immediately finding the door handle. "Can't even get in it." He noted dryly as Blaine tried the handle, only to step back in disappointment, a frown marring his features. "It's an ordinary lock, but nothing we've found fits it."
Blaine's finger brushed once more against the key in his pocket and he wondered, for a moment, if that key – the key that he had found dangling from the angel's hand – would fit. He shook of the crazy thought with a shrug. "That's not the big question." Sebastian proclaimed, standing in front of the box and blocking Blaine's view. "You're missing the big question."
"Alright..." Blaine let his eyes wander back to the officer. "What's the big question?" He had the strangest feeling he was being flirted with...
"Will you have a drink with me?"
Blaine flushed, heat rising into his cheeks. "I-I'm sorry?"
"Drink." Sebastian smiled at him in an almost predatory way. "You. Me?" He made a show of checking his watch. "Now?"
"Aren't you on duty, Detective Sebastian Smythe?" And oh my he was flirting. Why was he flirting? Blaine didn't even particularly like this man.
"Nope!" Sebastian shuffled closer to Blaine, walking passed him and closer to the garage exit. "Clocked out before I left. Told them I had a family crisis."
Blaine nearly choked at the audacity – even if it was horribly flattering. It had been awhile since anyone had tried to go on a date with him. Sex with Noah wasn't exactly the same sort of thing as a date – as someone being genuinely interested in him. "Why?" He couldn't help the baffled laugh.
"Because life is short and you are hot." Sebastian stated with a shrug of his shoulders, leaning closer so that he was nearly whispering into Blaine's ear. "Drink?"
"No." And there he went... playing hard to get. Blaine didn't have the slightest clue about what was going on with him. He turned around to walk away, his jacket swaying behind him.
"Ever?" Sebastian called out from where he had been standing, a teasing edge to his voice. It was like he knew just what Blaine was doing even when Blaine didn't know what he was doing.
"Maybe." Footsteps poured in from behind him and Blaine stifled a laugh with a small cough, Sebastian's hand grabbing onto his arm and his eyes wide with eagerness.
"Phone number?"
"Getting a bit ahead of yourself, aren't you, Detective?"
"Sebastian. I'm off shift." Sebastian reminded him.
"Aren't you just." He made up his mind swiftly, biting a lip and observing the taller man for a moment before wiping out his wallet and pulling out his business card from work.
"Is that your phone number?" Sebastian leaned forward on his toes as Blaine scribbled down his number on the back.
"Just my phone number." Blaine clicked the pen back into itself and slid it into his back jean pocket. "Not a promise. Not a guarantee. Not an I owe you. Just a phone number." He handed Sebastian the card with a small teasing smile, his hands sliding back into his jacket pockets as he walked towards the exit of the garage.
"I'll phone you tomorrow!" He called after him.
"Uhuh."
"I may even phone you tonight!"
"Have fun with that."
"Definitely going to phone you hot guy!"
"Definitely better!" Blaine called over his shoulder when the door to the garage shut, a laugh passing through his lips. Did he really just do that?
He sobered after a moment, though. Because Wes was still missing.
He sighed through his nose, the smile slipping off his face as the rain continued pouring down as hard as it had before.
Blaine was halfway across the street before he decided to try the key in his pocket on the police box. What harm would trying do? He had found it in the old Wester Drumlin's house so... there was a slight chance, anyway...
He ran back across the street, yelling out an apology to a passing car that honked its horn at him and ran back into the police building. Blaine ran all the way back to the garage, throwing open the door and both hoping that Sebastian was still there and that he had left by now. Only what he was met with was complete emptiness. The key felt heavy in his hand and a large gust of wind was coming in from the open garage door at the other end. That door had been closed when Blaine had been in there not two minutes ago.
But, what was worse, was that Sebastian wasn't anywhere in sight.
His brow furrowed in confusion around the same moment that his phone started ringing. Blaine wrestled it out of his pants pocket, his nose scrunching up at the unfamiliar number. "Hello?" He gasped into the receiver, slipping the key back into his pocket.
"Blaine? It's Sebastian." The voice sounded different than the one he had just heard. Older. Much older.
"Sebastian where are you?" An involuntary smile pulled over his mouth.
"Westminster Old Care Home."
"What?" Blaine slipped the key back into his pocket. "Where?"
Sebastian repeated the location. "Please... just come visit me."
As Blaine made his way out of the garage he absentmindedly noted how the police box was missing too.
End Part One
A: N - So how is it? What everyone who voted for was thinking about? Part Two will be up... sometime. This was already immensely long. I was going to make it into one huge one shot but I decided against it. 20 pages in Word is enough for now. I have to rest this muse. :D
But, yes, it is going to be Plaine, or Bluck, or Puck/Blaine, or whatever else you call it. It may become Faberry as the possible one shot series continues. I'm not sure if it will or not (even though it'd be ridiculously fun).