Title: Don't Wanna Be Lonely (1/?)
Rating: T for violence
Word Count: 1,868
Summary: For a prompt on the angst meme. Blaine Anderson, a patrol officer with Lima PD, is intrigued by a persistent case. When he rescues a broken little boy, can he resist his loneliness?
He wasn't supposed to do this. The first thing they taught you in academy was not to get attached to a case. He knew, he had always known, that it would only make the hurt worse. So why, exactly, was he parked across the street from this normal, average looking house in an unmarked car? Blaine sighed, shaking his head and running a weary hand through his thick hair. He blinked heavily, taking another long gulp of his coffee, which was embellished with three extra shots of espresso. He shouldn't have agreed to this; he had been on patrol for thirty six hours previously. But…another twelve couldn't hurt. Besides, there was just…something odd about this case. There had been repeated noise complaints from the neighbors, all during the night, but every time an officer was sent out, everything appeared to be perfectly fine. After six complaints (and an unpaid fine), the chief had requested an officer to stake out the house. While it was unlikely, in the chief's eyes, that anything was wrong, he'd rather give an officer a night of sleep deprivation than make these repeated house calls.
So, here he was, exhausted and weary. Of course, Blaine loved his job. His job was his life. He didn't date or go out with friends, instead focusing all his free time to volunteering and doing over time. It was, obviously, the reason he had won rookie of the year so many times. Now that he was a patrol officer, though, he found himself without that camaraderie that came along with the rookie years. Rookies stuck together, and therefore became close knit friends. But when a person graduates from rookie status, things change drastically. People get sent off to different departments, some can't handle the stress and leave, and almost all of those who stay on as patrol officers become so hardened and dedicated to their job that no one has the time or stamina for nights out at the club after work anymore.
There were, understandably, times that Blaine wished he could go out and date. He didn't care about the sex; he just wanted a companion. He wanted someone to come home to, to depend on him. It seemed outrageous that after having civilians depending on him all day long, he would want another person to take care of, but honestly it was what he loved. Besides, it wasn't often that those civilians were grateful for what he did. He yearned for someone to just tell him, for once, that things were going to be okay and that he was doing a good job. Sometimes, in this field, the depression took over. It had set in early on in his rookie years, which wasn't abnormal. When the storm clouds hit, though, they hit hard. There were often times that he wondered if doing this was worth it. Was he making any difference at all? What always brought him out of it, however, was that moment when someone looked at him and he could see that he'd changed something for them. That made every instant of pain and exhaustion worth it.
Blaine gave a jaw cracking yawn, glancing up at the house again, then the digital clock on the dashboard. He picked up his radio, pressing down on the transmitter button. "23 hours, Brighton, all clear," he spoke tiredly into the phone, waiting for the crackle and his partner's voice responding.
"Roger that, Anderson. Let me know if you need a coffee run," Brighton's voice hissed through the radio, but even before the crackle faded out, Blaine's grip tightened on the device as he stared eagle eyed towards the house in question, which had just emitted a rather violent sounding crash.
"We may have a situation, Brighton. Stand by," he spoke tersely, clipping the gadget to his belt and getting out of the car, checking his holster and shutting the door near silently. He kept to the shadows as he stealthily crept towards the house, edging right along the bushes and attempting a glance through the window. Yelling was easily heard now, an outraged voice that was clearly inebriated sounding through the silence of the night.
As Blaine peered through the window, he was astonished and horrified by the sight he saw. It wasn't a new sight, per se, but it never got easier to see a bear of a man standing over someone so much weaker than he, in this case, a small child that Blaine swore was no older than six. The cowering boy was obviously malnourished and in pain, bruises clearly visible all over his practically nude body. Only rags covered him, barely holding together enough to cover his groin. As soon as he saw the fist reign down on the powerless child, he knew he wasn't taking the fruit from the poison tree as he dashed to the front door, banging it open with enough force to fell a tree.
"Police! Get away from him!" Gun held securely before him, Blaine stepped into the living room, eyes flickering between the burly man and the scrap of a child. It was only then that he saw the chain attached to the boy's neck, stretched taut…and he wasn't even a foot out of the doorway of a tiny coat closet. Blaine mentally swore, averting his attention back to the man, who was grinning in quite a feral way at him, obviously given false security from the alcohol poisoning his mind.
"Or what? Gonna use that pretty little gun?" The man smirked, showing off a nasty set of yellowed teeth.
"Don't tempt me," Blaine snarled with his eyes on fire. He might be short, but he was stocky, and when he was angry, no one got in his way. He moved a step closer, and then froze as the man flicked open a gleaming pocket knife, putting it to the child's neck, just above the collar where the jugular was located.
"Come any closer and I'll slit his throat."
The words made Blaine's blood run cold. "Drop the weapon," he said, his voice dangerously quiet and menacing. "Drop it or I'll shoot. Your choice." When the glinting blade showed a bead of blood, Blaine didn't even hesitate, his aim right on target as a quick bullet sank through the man's chest like a knife through warm butter. He rushed forward, quickly kicking the knife out of the man's hand and dropping to his knees before checking his pulse, relieved to find none whatsoever.
Immediately after, he glanced over to where the boy had been, only to find that he had retreated back into the closet, almost invisible in the darkness. Fumbling with his radio, he called for a crime scene team and an ambulance before hooking it back to his belt and kneeling just outside the closet.
"Hey," he whispered. "My name's Blaine. I'm a police officer, I'm here to help you," he said gently, not reaching out, not just yet. "Can you tell me your name?"
The tiny child peered up at Blaine, his eyes shockingly bright in the darkness. "K-Kuwt," the raspy little voice sounded, lisp quite prevalent. The sound made Blaine smile softly, warmly.
"Well, hello there, Kurt. How old are you, kiddo?" Blaine watched curiously as Kurt's brows furrowed, a tiny lip pouting out just slightly as he thought about the question.
"I-I d-dunno," he stammered, voice just barely above a whisper. Blaine tried to keep the shock on his face to a minimum, instead just giving him another calm smile.
"That's okay, buddy. We can find that out for you. Can I get those chains off you?" he asked hopefully, trying to appear as non-threatening as possible.
Kurt was very hesitant, but after a few moments of deliberation, he gave a wary nod, watching Blaine's every move critically as he inched forward. Blaine examined the collar, his blood boiling at the sight. It was a classic choke collar, often used on large dogs that were violent or uncontrollable. It was clearly wreaking havoc on the poor boy's neck, which was practically mangled and obviously infected. Thankfully, though, it didn't seem to be embedded into the skin, allowing Blaine to carefully unfasten the complicated latch and lift it gently from Kurt's neck.
"There we go," he murmured soothingly. "That's better, huh?" Kurt didn't respond, but seemed quite relieved without the weight of the collar around his neck. Blaine could hear the ambulance approaching, and looked Kurt directly in the eye. "Buddy, people are here to take you to the hospital to make you better. Can I pick you up and take you outside to meet them?"
Kurt, dazed, gave a slight, slow, wobbly nod, seemingly not really caring what happened at that point. Blaine couldn't blame him-the poor kid must be in total shock. Blaine reached out, ever so gently gathering the boy's small frame into his arms, holding him securely to his chest. The feat wasn't a hard one by any means, the boy couldn't have weighed more than fifty pounds soaking wet. Standing on weary legs, Blaine stepped over the felled body and grasped a worn, homemade blanket off the back of an armchair, for once not caring about the fact that he was disturbing a crime scene. He wrapped the soft material around Kurt's lithe little body, holding him with one arm so he could carefully cover and cradle his head against Blaine's shoulder. With soft, soothing words of praise, Blaine made his way out the front door, holding him even tighter as if he could protect him from the openness of the outdoors.
"Anderson!" Blaine was relieved to hear his partner's voice as the taller man got out of his patrol car. "Holy shit, is that a kid? What the hell happened?"
Blaine glared. "Yes, Brighton, he's a kid, a traumatized one at that. Keep your mouth shut," he muttered as Andrew got close enough to hear him.
Andrew Brighton was, by no means, the smartest guy in the world, but his heart was in the right place. Out of everyone at the precinct, Blaine had to say that he was closest to Brighton, which wasn't unusual seeing that they had been partners for almost two years now. The man was practically the opposite of Blaine; he was constantly playing practical jokes and all his free time was dedicated either to dominating the closest club or ravaging yet another random woman in bed. He was a good officer, but didn't always take his job seriously, and lacked quite a bit of tact.
Blaine sighed quietly, instinctively swaying back and forth a bit with the boy in his arms. "Brighton, take care of this mess, will you? I'm going with him in the ambulance, poor kid is terrified," he murmured, arms fastening even more protectively around the small child. He could hear the tiny whimpers Kurt emitted, and it sent a painful jolt through his chest. As he climbed easily into the ambulance, he knew he was already doomed. This boy had a death grip on his heart, and Blaine had no plans of prying those spindly fingers away. "Don't worry, little one. I won't let anyone hurt you anymore."