A/N: I don't know where this came from. I don't normally condone this type of thing but, d'ya know what? I don't care. I had the plot bunny running around and, after little to no prodding from Ash and some idea bouncing off of Emeline (that she wasn't aware was happening until the end), I decided to write the whole thing. It's angsty and a little sad. But it's Doctor Who!Klaine and it's sort of fluffy all the same and there's a shot of sugar in every cup of angst. Some subtle finagling of the sciencey-wiency stuff to make it fit but hey, you know what, it's not even that far off when you think of the fact that the Doctor is like 1000+ years old and has had 11 different bodies before this one so just deal with it. XD (Not to mention that if Mels was "focusing on a dress size" then, for the Doctor, this should be a cinch.)

"Blaine! Blaine, no baby, please stay with me." Kurt Hummel's long fingers wound into his boyfriend's. He pulled him tighter into his lap and applied pressure to the wound in his chest. "Come on, Blaine, the ambulance is on its way, you have to stay with me." He sobbed, rocking back and forth in the middle of the sidewalk.

The boy spluttered a bit, trying to form words. "Kurt…"

Tears streaming down his face, "No, shh," he cooed. "No, save your breath. There'll be time for that."

"Kurt," he urged, a bit stronger this time. "I love you." He winced a bit, fading in and out. "I've always loved you."

Kurt's motions grew frantic. "No, no. No no no, baby. You can't leave me yet. You're gonna be right here."

He shook his head weakly. "I'm not," he tightened his grip on Kurt's hand. "I can't stay."

The sirens whirred into earshot. "Dammit," he cursed. That was just like this God forsaken town. "Blaine, honey, I love you. Please, please hang on." His sobs became more violent with every passing second. "You have to get up. You have to answer me. The ambulance is coming. Do you hear it?" He rocked the boy back and forth. There was already so much blood. He knew it was too much. Still, he couldn't give up hope on Blaine. His Blaine. The man who'd been there for him through thick and thin and never stopped believing in him for one second of it. "Baby, please, come on."

Blaine let out a final, uneven breath.

—-

He'd figured it out years and years ago. After he wound up with those gold ringlets, he'd vowed that there would have to be a way to somewhat control what his next incarnation would look like. The TARDIS could pick up on the life force of a good human life going out from planets away and find it, absorbing the features and feeding them into The Doctor.

Of course, there was always some margin of error. For instance, this last time, he'd somehow managed to over-exaggerate all of the features in the process. Well, there wasn't always a lack of control and error so much as a lack of worthy candidates.

So here he was. Losing this existence again and taking on a new one. He'd lost Clara already and now he was losing himself, too. What a way to go.

The TARDIS ground to a halt as the gold light began pulsing strongly from his fingertips. He clutched at the wound on his side tightly. "Where'd you bring me in now, old girl?" He pulled the monitor closer to his teary eyes and brought it into focus for hardly enough time to recognize the outline of America before he couldn't stand anymore. Falling back into the chair, he mused "If this is anywhere near that damn lake with River, I'll never speak to you."

His breath grew ragged as the aura around him grew brighter and brighter before the entire process erupted. The doctor lay on the floor silently in his new form for a moment and then his eyes flew open revealing bright hazel eyes veiled behind long dark lashes. His hands flew to discovering his new body. He stood up, pulling the monitor down more. "Well, a bit shorter than last time and AMERICAN?!" He side stepped around the console and pulled down the mirror. "More curls." He slid his hand into the locks and pulled. "What did I tell you about the curls. These bad boys are getting cemented down."

—

The funeral home had already cleared out. Kurt and Burt sat at the foot of the coffin. "I don't know what to do without him, Dad."

The gruff older man didn't know what to say. He just held his son as he'd done far too many times in the young man's life. At 24, he'd been through so much more than even Burt could say that he had. But now, he was burying his husband of just barely a year. Not because he was sick or doing some dangerous job where they'd planned for this type of "what if", but just walking down the street. Eventually, he managed to spit out a weak, "I know you're expecting me to have some insight. But this is probably the hardest thing you'll ever have to deal with. And I'm here for you, but… when it was your mom, we'd had plans." Kurt looked up at his father with the same wide eyes he'd worn every time his father gave him life advice. "Kurt, we'd had months to figure out what needed to be done, and I had you to take care of and to keep me going. I don't know… I have no clue what to say besides that I still think about your mom every day, and not even Carol has changed that. Blaine will always be a part of you, kiddo." He stood up, pulling Kurt to his feet and walking him out to the car. "You know, they say time heals all wounds," he started, looking at the meager trail of cars, comprised entirely of Kurt's family and their friends. Entirely, that is, except one, who was sharing the limousine ride with them- Blaine's brother, Cooper. With a small smile to the man, they got into the car where sat Finn, Rachel and Carol. "Personally, though, I think that's horse shit."

As the limousine pulled out, Kurt just stared out the window. The man with the strange violet pen light wouldn't have even caught his eye if not for the lightly gelled curls. Sadly, he shook the thought from his mind, knowing that it wasn't possible. He turned away, bracing himself for the tearful car ride out to Jersey for the burial.

—-

"I'm not done yet, this can't be good," The Doctor mused. "Why does this always happen?" The box started shaking again. He dropped the monitor again and saw nothing. "Nothing making the Phone Box move. That's never a good sign. Never never never. In a thousand years, 'nothing' is always something much much worse." He stepped outside, surveying the alley and laughed, leaning down to pet the scared dog that had, apparently, been nearby when he landed. "Well that's not a statement I can make anymore is it? Sorry, poochie."

He re-entered the TARDIS with a smile. Perhaps this would be one regeneration cycle he'd make it through without any interruption. Plopping down into the chair, he couldn't help but laugh, remembering the way Rose had screamed when he'd lost his hand on Christmas. Or, better yet, Donna's reaction when Jack had brought it back.

It was never ideal, but the worst of it was over. He just had to spend some time coming back around. He'd already decided that, since there was nearly six inches height difference between his last incarnation and his current self, not to mention the blaring American accent, that he'd have to go for a more Americanized look, all except for one thing that he just couldn't manage to rid himself of- the bow tie. He'd settled on a pair of dark jeans and a purple golf shirt for the time being, leaving the tie undone around his neck. He was beginning to doze off when he heard it. The TARDIS was moving again. "Woah, where are we going, Sexy?"

He scrambled along the controls, trying to take back over. When everything stopped again, ran for the door, trying to figure out what exactly was going on. He opened it before realizing he didn't have his sonic. He reached the console and popped it out, triggering it once or twice. "Violet? A violet sonic. Really?" He shook his head, going back for the door. "I'm beginning to think you did this on purpose."

There was a line of cars outside. He ran along them, pointing the light at each. All human, all unhappy. A bunch of unhappy twenty-somethings, that's never good, especially in a city. When he reached the front of the line, it clicked. It was a funeral. He flashed the sonic at the church, scanning for anything that would have pulled him to it, anything distinctly troublesome. But there was nothing. Nothing at all.

He stood beside the building for a while. When they finally brought the casket out, he flashed the sonic at it a few times. "Hmm…" he mused, turning around and heading back for the TARDIS. "What was that reading?"

—-

Kurt dropped his clothes unceremoniously to the bathroom floor, not caring about wrinkles for the time being. He slid himself into the hot bath and sighed. He wasn't surprised at how hard the day had been, but he was surprised at how he didn't feel like sleeping. Granted, it was only eight o'clock, but still. He'd been up since five and hadn't stopped since. He had hoped the water would help, but every noise in his empty apartment had him jumping. If he didn't think it was Blaine, he could only think it was that man and he didn't think he could help it.

"People get shot all the time," he thought. "That's our world. It's a shame, but it's true." He smoothed some soap over his arms. "But why Blaine? And why did he have to step in front of me? He never learns." The thought shook him. "Learned. Past tense. Blaine is past tense now." He slid his head under the water for a moment and then sat back up, rubbing his eyes and leaning forward.

The fire escape outside his window clanged against itself, causing his slender frame to jar closer to the cool tile of the wall. "I can't do this," he said, pushing himself out of the tub. "I need to go somewhere."

After he dried off, he slid into a pair of jeans and one of Blaine's old sweaters, breathing in the residual scent of his cologne. He stuffed his cell phone and wallet into his back pocket and, without a second thought to his appearance, he headed out into the crisp fall air.

As he wandered out of their apartment onto 34th street, he didn't notice the stares from the doorman and the people he passed on his way to work every day. It had only been a few days and he already had stopped paying attention.

He walked down the block to Macy's and the blessed 24 hour Starbucks that lay inside. He pushed the button for the 6th floor. He could have sworn that he heard Blaine yelling for him to hold the elevator. Leaning against the wall, he pressed for the doors to close. He knocked his head against the cool wall and felt the heat in his face building up again. He couldn't cry. Not here. Not in public. He breathed a couple of times, slowly, willing the tears not to fall. The electronic chime sounded and he headed for the dark liquid he so desperately needed.

The barista was a pleasant girl, probably in college, the same one that had been getting his late night coffees since he and Blaine moved into their apartment. "The usual, Kurt?" He smiled and nodded, wordlessly handing her his credit card. When she gave it back with a concerned glance, he just moved down the counter to wait for his drink. She brought the cup down to him and turned back quickly. He turned to walk away. "Mr. Hummel?" The girl called after him, proffering a second cup. He stared at it for a moment before walking back to take it.

He sat down at his normal table in the corner and stared at the pair of cups carefully. He reached for the cup marked Skinny Mocha but decided that, even though it wasn't his drink, he'd take the Drip, just to taste Blaine on his lips one more time.

—-

The Doctor walked through the ground floor of this bizarre department store, looking for something to eat. Apparently, he was in the part of time where things closed at night. Pity. "Hold the elevator!" he exclaimed, nearly reaching the metallic doors. "Hey, hold the doors." The occupant merely leaned forward and the doors rapidly shut. "How New York. Fantastic." He debated bringing the elevator back to the ground, but decided that might cause some alarm.

He propped himself up against the shelf, rolling the sonic around in his pocket. "Violet. Why not pink?" he asked incredulously, still hung up on the color. When the elevator stopped, he slid the device from his hand and zapped the button, bringing the cart straight back down. He got inside and flashed the buttons inside, taking him straight up to the sixth floor.

When he finally made it to the floor, he sighed, heading for the counter, waiting patiently behind who he could only assume was the local who had closed the doors on him. When the young man walked to the end to receive his order, the barista asked if she'd gotten it right.

"Get what right, dear?" he asked, a bit confused.

She stared at him incredulously. "Your order. Your husband. Skinny mocha and a medium drip?"

The doctor's eyes grew wide and he looked around, spotting the man who was now staring sadly at the two cups. "Oh, I'm not… he's not my husband."

"Oh, sorry… partner. Geez, Blaine," the girl laughed. "I thought you guys got married like last year?"

"Nope," he turned around, deciding that he wasn't going to get what he needed, "And my name is not Blaine, by the way.

Kurt winced every time he heard the name. He wanted nothing but to fall into the coffee and not come back to whomever the barista thought was Blaine. Still, the curiosity got the better of him and he caught a glimpse of the same glossy curls from earlier that afternoon. Hardly knowing what to do, he reached out and touched the familiar broad shoulders and sort of forced the man to turn around.

"Excuse me," the Doctor said, beginning to get very confused, indeed. "May I help you?"

His hazel eyes shone brilliantly. Kurt stepped back, surveying the man in front of him. It was his Blaine. But how could it be. He'd seen… The casket and the burial. It had all happened not twelve hours before. He'd seen it. None of that mattered, though, as he burst into hysterics, flinging his arms around the man's neck, taking fistfuls of him in for his own. He plunged himself for the man, kissing him hard on the mouth, drinking in the mouth he'd been wanting for days.

The Doctor was taken aback by it all. When Kurt finally pulled away, all the poor Doctor could manage was an astounded "Oh, okay. Hm. Yes." He blinked a few times before saying "That was nice. Pleasant. Actually bordering on really good. Could we try that ag…" but he was cut off. The taller man flung himself at him again. "Oh, okay, we're hugging," he laughed, "This could have gone a lot-" Another interruption, this time by a swift slap to the face and Kurt running away. He rubbed his cheek, stunned, before running off after him. "More running. Wait. Please wait," he called after Kurt, wishing that somehow his sonic had a freeze setting.

Kurt had no intention of stopping. He, suddenly, had all of the intention in the world to curl up in bed and not ever leave his apartment again. "You're dead," he called over his shoulder, pushing the button for the elevator repeatedly, wondering if there were ever any reclusive designers. Suddenly, becoming the J.D. Salinger of fashion sounded incredibly appealing.

"Clearly I'm not," he answered, propping himself coolly against the wall. "You know, that's not going to call the elevator any faster."

And there it was. This had to be Blaine. He said that to him every day. Every god damned day. This was some cruel joke. "Blaine, this isn't funny," he nearly cried, facing him, arms folded.

"I'm not Blaine," he said, straightening up a bit and noting his own sense of importance. "I'm the Doctor."

He pursed his lips, nodding. "Very funny. God, I can't believe you'd do something like this. I…" he stopped, remembering the hell of the last few days and how many times he'd lain his fingers on the cold, dead skin of his husband, of how much blood had spilled over from him. As the doors crept open, the pair of men stepped inside. "How did you manage it, Blaine?"

"I'm not Blaine," he repeated, becoming exasperated. "I'm the Doctor."

"Blaine," he snapped, "Your job title is not your name. How many times do I have to tell you that? I don't walk around calling myself the Designer, now do I?" A momentary silence ensued as the elevator reached the ground. He reached instinctively for the other man's hand, changing his mind mid-reach and grabbing him by the arm. "Come on, I'm taking you home where we can talk about this rationally."

"Excuse me, but who are you?" The doctor asked, wanting nothing more or less than a real, honest answer to explain some of the bizarre things that had happened since he stepped foot in this building.

That, however, was not something he'd be getting from Kurt Hummel-Anderson. "Oh, so from dead to amnesia, I think I can handle the latter." He let his hand fall to the Doctor's. "Let's go, we'll get you fed and everything will be fine. I don't know how I'm going to explain this to everyone." He shook his head and pulled him toward the exit.

The Doctor stopped, not dropping Kurt's hand. "Look. Kurt, that was your name, right?" He aligned the boy so that he could lock eyes with him. "My name is not Blaine. My name is the Doctor. If you come with me, I'll prove it to you." With a tug, they were off at a run, trotting down Seventh Avenue in the middle of the night.

They zigged and they zagged. They dodged passers-by, taxi cabs and the occasional stray. They turned here and there and finally, they stopped. In an alley.

Kurt's heart jumped into his throat, racing. He didn't normally go down any alleyways, but after last week, he'd vowed to never do anything blatantly dangerous and stupid. Here he was, anyway, following this stranger wearing his husband's appearance into a dark alley.

With a smirk, the doctor turned back to Kurt and leaned against thin air. He snapped his fingers and against his shoulder appeared a blue police box. The New Yorker's eyes grew wide. How did he do that? It was like something out of a dream. This couldn't actually be happening. He looked around to see if anyone else were there to have aided in the illusion. When he didn't find any, his search returned to the Doctor.

He smiled, loving the reactions already. He jerked his head to tell him to open the door and Kurt obeyed.

And that was it. Kurt's mouth fell open and he rushed forward, running his hands over the console and staring around in awe. He couldn't believe it. With as huge as this room was, there appeared to be cavernous hallways. He ran toward one and the lights activated, one by one brightening a space bigger than the hallway of his building.

Turning back, he let out a disgruntled shriek and headed for the door, only to find it closed with the Doctor sitting cross-legged in a chair, staring at him with a childlike grin.

"You're out of your mind," he accused. "I'm calling the police." He headed for the door.

"This is a Police Box," the Doctor said, sticking his arm in front of him. "You could do it from here." He reached for the phone inside the door and smiled. Kurt froze. He pushed away the man's arm and ran off. He hardly got a few steps away before the Doctor had caught up to him, spinning him back. "Kurt, stop." His breath caught in his chest. This had to be Blaine. It had to be. No one else had ever done that to him. This was like a scene from every fight they'd ever had. "Come inside and talk to me about your Blaine. Maybe I can explain." It was uncanny. For someone who was so much Blaine, he was so much older. So much more than that.

"What's there to explain?" Kurt yelled frantically. "He's dead. He's my husband and he's dead." He crossed his arms and pointed at his own chest. "I put him in the ground this morning. Twenty five years old and shot dead in cold blood." Tears burned his eyes, threatening to break free. "It was supposed to be me," he squeaked. "The guy grabbed my bag and my stupid fucking husband stepped in front of me to save me like he did every God damned day of my life and now," he gasped, losing his cool, "And now, here I am and here you are. Him." He reached for the man in front of him. The man he'd known since he was seventeen years old who looked back at him, now, like a stranger. "You are him and I buried you. Him. This morning." He shook his head, pulling back his hands. "I buried him this morning. The only member of his family that even thought to show up was his brother. That's it." He ran his hands through his hair and finally deflated. "And you're here and you're him. " He managed to calm himself. HE took a few deep breaths and closed his eyes. "How?" When the doctor didn't respond, he clarified, "How are you him?"

The Doctor snapped to attention, eyes wild with excitement. He'd never had to explain this to anyone before. Not this part at least. "Simple, really. He died doing something heroic, saving you, and my TARDIS here picked up on it, feeding me his genetic code as I… well, that's a story for another time."

"No." Kurt shook his head and stood his ground. "A story for now. What do you mean feeding you his genetic code?"

He exhaled slightly. He didn't like to have to explain this right away. He didn't like to explain t at all, really. "Well, I was dying you see. Well, sort of anyway…" He maneuvered his head to the right a bit and reiterated, "Well, not really but I was injured to the point that my body couldn't live on." Kurt stared at him incredulously, but the Doctor, used to that sort of response, forged on. "When that happens to me, I sort of change. This is actually my first time being American," he mused. "I'm very old. Older than you can imagine. I'm a traveler by trade, but what I end up doing is getting involved in the affairs of planets and cities where alien races are…" He paused, the idea forming itself in his brain. "Why don't you come with me?"

"Come with you where?" He looked around for a car or a bat-plane or something else that could move. He was beginning to think he could believe anything.

The Doctor smiled. This was his favorite part. "Anywhere you'd like. Anywhere there ever was or ever will be." Kurt merely stared at him. Maybe not anything. "Far off planets or here, in this spot, thousands of years in the future." He folded his arms. The doctor mirrored, taking a wild guess at the man's interests. "Opening night of Gypsy?" Kurt's eyes widened, breath caught in his chest. Still not the right response. The Doctor had another guess though. "Perhaps go back and pop in for tea with Coco Chanel?" The jaw drop, that was what he was looking for. His mouth curled into a self-satisfied smile and he turned back to the TARDIS.

Almost as quickly as it had opened, his mouth was had snapped shut. He watched the Blaine-looking stranger walk away. "Okay," he called with an incredulous laugh. "You're definitely not Blaine."

The Doctor clapped his hands together and spun back toward his new friend, realizing that he wasn't following. "As I've been trying to tell you." He grabbed Kurt by the arm and led him a few more steps toward the blue box. "What sold it?"

Kurt followed, almost too easily. "Well, for one, Blaine would never have walked away from me like that." He began to protest, but was momentarily halted by a finger pressed to his lips as Kurt bounced to a stop, digging in his heel. "Two-" his expression turned grave, "He'd never tease me about Chanel."

"Oh, well," the Doctor scoffed, throwing his hands in the air. "That was a horrid selling point because," he leaned in confidentially. "I wasn't teasing." Seeing a light switch on in Kurt's mind, he gave a friendly giggle, wrapping his arm around him and escorting him into the TARDIS. He deposited his companion into the chair and started swiveling knobs and flipping switches. He called over his shoulder to Kurt. "Come on then, give me an estimate on the time frame. She had quite the expansive career."

The designer crossed his legs, searching his brain for a moment before responding "October 1926."

"Ah, the original Little Black Dress. Quel chic!" He twirled around the monitor and found himself face to face with an unimpressed Kurt. "Okay, fine." He made a mental note to limit the French with Kurt.

The young man's expression softened. "Just, promise me something-"

"What's that?" He asked calmly, busying himself at the controls.

Kurt moved to make sure that he was situated clearly in front of the Doctor, propping himself on a stretch of console that looked a bit more lived in, as though people had done the same several times before. He knitted his fingers into the fabric of his jeans, unsure how to ask this. "If you were dying when you came here but Blaine's genetic code or whatever saved you, you're not going to die anytime soon, right?" His clear blue eyes watered a little as he caught his breath faintly.

The Doctor looked back at him with the same hazel eyes he'd trusted since the first day on the stairs at Dalton and said in that same familiar, comforting voice, "Not as far as I can tell."

He moved to speak but couldn't find the words. Instead, he stood and wrapped the Doctor tightly in his arms, unsure if this was okay but not really caring. "I can't hold this body as it dies again," he whispered tearfully.

When the two men separated, he held Kurt at arm's length for a while and pondered him. "I can tell I'm going to be fond of you," he concluded.

As he went back to his controls, Kurt overheard the Doctor mutter something about having to give someone named Jack a call. He wondered for a moment if he perhaps meant a famous Jack or another like him. Instead of letting it take over his curiosity, he watched the body he knew so well fairing actions so very foreign to him and breathed, "Oh, you're going to be the death of me, you are."