I do not own Glee. I do, however, enjoy playing around in its brilliant universe every now and then.
Chapter One
"Gunshot"
(And So It Begins)
In the dim light of dusk, a streetlight flickered.
Under its yellow haze, a teenage boy in jeans and an expensive-looking jacket hustled down a leaf-littered sidewalk, his boots clicking across the pavement in a quick rhythm that echoed through the stillness of the air. Even with a heavy-looking leather bag slung over his shoulder, he held himself with admirably perfect posture as he continued his lonely walk down the street. Around him, houses stood silhouetted against the evening sky, lit from inside by warm glows that somehow did not seem to extend to their eerily deserted exteriors.
The boy's phone vibrated in his pocket, and he slowed his pace momentarily, struggling to pull it free. Still walking, he squinted at the bright screen.
hey nerd boy. how's life in the library?
The corners of Kurt Hummel's mouth tugged upward in a slight smile; he could just hear Mercedes' sassily mocking tone as he read the message. His fingers moved expertly over the tiny keypad as he typed out his reply.
just got kicked out by the librarians, unfortunately – closing time. i may, however, have just broken the record for number of books signed out at once.
His thumb had just swiped the 'send' button when something stopped him dead in his tracks.
A long, bone-chilling cry of raw terror punctured the night air, tearing the tranquil atmosphere in half. The scream was followed by muffled, hysterical whimpering intermingled with male shouting and the sound of something heavy being thrown. For a moment, Kurt could only stand still, paralyzed by a fear that sucked the very air from his lungs, because the noises were far too close for comfort. He stood frozen, a silent observer in a nightmare, as a pair of shadowy figures moved in a violent altercation in the darkened yard of the house to his right.
Everything happened very quickly from this point. In a split second, the screaming turned into a physical struggle that was hard to make out in the dark, there were more hate-filled words, a whimper, and then...
Crack
A gunshot rang through the night, leaving a silence that was almost deafening in its wake. Kurt's hand flew silently to his mouth as one of the figures crumpled abruptly to the ground. For a moment, he watched in stunned silence as the murderer let out a loud, guttural shout and aimed a savage kick at the rails of the porch.
And then, several things happened at once. Time seemed to pick back up again, and all of a sudden, the frightening reality of what he had just seen crashed into him. In the background, a faint whisper of sirens floated in on the night air, and the sense of watching everything from the bubble of a nightmare washed away, replaced by the dreaded knowledge that this was all very, very real. Kurt's breath returned in a gasping intake, and he was hit was an overwhelming urge to bolt. Adrenaline coursing through his veins, he took a few clumsy steps forward, and immediately felt his knees slam into something solid. A deafening clang exploded as the metal garbage can fell forward onto the pavement and rolled noisily down the slight incline.
"HEY! What the fuck do you think you're doing?" Rough, vicious words sliced the air, and Kurt felt his heart stutter as the armed man's attention turned toward him. In that moment, he was overtaken by a fear so powerful that it seemed to literally crush his lungs in his chest. He didn't even notice the swelling sirens and slamming car doors behind him. In his haze, he took a few steps backward and let out a sharp scream when he bumped into something warm. Immediately, a pair of arms wrapped around him and he was shoved harshly into the side of a police car.
"Get in and get down," a deep voice ordered, and a man in uniform flung the door open and guided him in, hand splayed across his back. Dumbfounded, Kurt did as he was told, sinking down in the worn leather seat and struggling to breath normally as the door slammed behind him. Outside, there was a cacophony of shouting mixed with the loud chorus of sirens.
Finally, the chaotic sounds began to dissipate, and Kurt swallowed. Hesitantly, driven by some eerie curiosity, he used his hands to push himself up into a straighter sitting position, rising until his eyes were just level with the window. He saw them immediately; not too far away, two uniformed figures held the man between them as they moved toward the adjacent vehicle. The prisoner, despite his handcuffs, was writhing in their grasp and shouting unintelligible words at the cloudy sky.
And then they were right next to the window, passing by. Kurt instantly shrunk down again, but it was too late – the man's eyes connected with his own through the tinted glass and widened in hostile recognition. He made a slight lunge toward him, scruff-lined face betraying a sort of insanity, and even the thick doors of the car could not block out the sound of his words as he struggled against the policeman's hold, eyes wild with madness.
The first half of his slurred speech was incomprehensible to Kurt, but what he understood at the end was more than enough to make him blood run cold as it reached his ears.
"I'm going to fucking kill you."
(Two Months Later)
"Not guilty?" Kurt's voice, heightened out of rage, echoed through the lavishly-furnished office of Jeremy Brant. "You've got to be kidding me!"
Beside him, his father rested his forehead against his hands. Burt Hummel looked completely worn – his shirt was wrinkled, his hat askew and his eyes weary beyond what was natural. "I just... don't understand what you're telling me," he croaked.
The two of them, having opted out of watching the trial, had been waiting in leather chairs for almost three hours to hear the final verdict. Jeremy Brant, a well-connected local barrister and an old friend of Burt's, had just broken the news to them, as promised.
With a deep sigh, Brant dropped the folder he had been carrying onto his desk and splayed his palms across its surface, leaning heavily onto them. "Just got the call from Hanaway," he told them. "They took your testimony into account, Kurt, but pleading insanity was a good move – Judge Reynolds dropped the murder charge."
"That's completely ridiculous!" Kurt burst out. "Of course he's insane – that's what makes the whole thing so terrifying!"
Burt brought a hand down onto the table sharply. "This... this psycho murders his wife, and then threatens my son, tells him he's going to kill him, and he just... gets away with it?" His face was one of complete and utter incredulity. "How does that happen?"
"Listen, Burt," Brant began, taking a seat in the elaborate chair behind his desk. "I'm with you, but there was some very compelling evidence to suggest that this guy was completely nuts. Apparently, Reynolds is sending him to a facility here in Lima where they deal with mental illness."
"Here. In Lima," Burt repeated, his tone deadpan. "You've got to be kidding me, Jer."
When the barrister only shook his head slightly, Burt looked around the room wildly for a moment, as though flailing for some hope that this was all a crazy hallucination. Finally, he stopped moving and looked Brant straight in the eye. "I don't want that monster anywhere near my son," he said, his tone deadly.
Brant nodded solemnly. "I know. Here's the thing – according to Hanaway, this place, St. Bernadette's, is being shut down in February. When that happens, they'll send him out-of-state."
"Why don't they just send him away now?" Kurt cut in. He was curled up on the chair with his arms wrapped tightly around his body. "Why wait until February?"
"From the sound of things, he gets a grace period so that his family can sort some stuff out." Brant shook his head and exhaled. "I didn't get all the details, but it's an unusual situation."
There was a moment of silence where everyone seemed to digest what they were hearing. Kurt, whose eyes were full of fear and wetness, hugged himself even tighter as he stared hard at the wall opposite. Beside him, Burt clenched and unclenched his fists on a unceasing loop, looking as though he wanted to throttle someone. Brant removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes, looking pensive.
"And there's nothing we can do?" Burt finally asked, his voice gravelly.
Brant lowered his head. "Sorry, Burt. Victims can't appeal a not guilty verdict."
Silence. The depression in the air was almost suffocating.
"Right, well... thanks for letting us know anyway, Jer," Burt finally offered, rising from his chair. Wordlessly, Kurt followed suit, and his father placed a hand on his shoulder as they walked out of the office.
Jeremy Brant stared at their retreating figures for a long moment with a deep frown on his face. His fingers tapped on the mahogany surface of his desk several times as his mouth straightened into a contemplative line.
Finally, he seemed to make a decision. In a swift motion, his hand shot for the phone on his desk.
(A Proposition)
When Kurt and his father arrived back home, the door flung open before either of them could even touch the handle. Carole stood framed in the doorway, looking anxious.
"How'd it go?"
"Our legal system is a joke, that's how it went," Burt responded, storming across the threshold.
Behind him, Kurt walked silently into the tiled entrance hall; he hadn't said a word since they had left the lawyer's office. Even now he simply stood there, listening vaguely as Burt relayed all the details to Carole, making angry, sweeping gestures with his hands. In his hollow daze, he noticed Finn standing awkwardly in the hallway, mouth hanging open slightly in a blank stare. He caught his eye.
Finn shut his mouth, but still managed to look totally stunned. "Dude, that sucks," he offered.
Carole, hearing this exchange, turned toward Kurt with an expression of concern that could almost be described as motherly. "Kurt, I'm so sorry."
Kurt nodded microscopically to acknowledge their sentiments. When he finally spoke, his tone was eerily calm. "Thank you for your condolences, everyone, but I think I just need to be alone right now," he monotoned. And with that, he turned and walked dully down the hallway, brushing past Finn and leaving silence in his wake.
When he reached his room, he shut the door and sunk down onto his bed, leaning forward to remove his shoes. His heart felt heavy. It was clear to anyone who knew him that Kurt Hummel had not been quite his usual self in the two months following the incident. He had been quieter, somehow, and seemed to have lost that superior air that had once been his trademark. Admittedly, things had been improving as the events of that night were pushed further and further back by the growing buffer of time. But now, the memories were resurfacing, and Kurt felt the pressing weight of anxiety on his chest.
With a deep exhale, he dropped down so that he lay flat on his back.
"Kurt!"
That was Burt's voice, travelling faintly through the closed door.
"Kurt?" he called again. "Can you come here for a minute?"
Slowly, Kurt sat up. His head hurt. "Coming!" he shouted back, sliding off of the bed.
As it turned out, his father's voice had been coming from the entrance hall. Kurt's eyes registered surprise when he turned the corner and found Burt and Carole talking to a dark-haired man he had never seen before.
Noticing him, Burt gestured towards the stranger. "Kurt, this is – "
"Agent Young, FBI," the man interrupted in a deep voice, flashing his badge with a deadly serious expression. A millisecond later, his face broke into a goofy smile. "Sorry, I always get a kick out of that. The name's Dean." He extended a hand, which Kurt shook loosely, still looking quite taken aback.
"Why don't you come in and have a seat?" Carole offered.
A few seconds later, the four of them were seated in the living room – Kurt, Burt and Carole sitting across the long sofa and the visitor sitting opposite them on the adjacent couch.
"So I got a phone call today from a friend of mine – Jeremy Brant," Dean began. "Told me all about your situation, Kurt," he looked toward the boy, "and asked me if there was anything I could do about it."
Burt's eyes quirked open in a look of questioning. "Jeremy said it was hopeless," he pointed out, glancing sideways at Kurt. "He said we couldn't appeal the verdict."
Dean nodded. "That's right," he replied slowly, leaning forward and placing his hands on his knees "... but I had something a little different in mind. A diluted version of the WPP, I guess you could call it."
"WPP?" Carole repeated, puzzled.
"Witness Protection Program," Dean clarified, and Kurt's looked slightly startled. "I'm not talking changing names and moving to another country," the agent added hastily, reading his expression.
Burt raised his eyebrows. "What exactly are you talking?"
"Now, this isn't standard protocol," Dean seemed to feel obligated to mention, "but it wouldn't be the first time we've done it. I've been in touch with one of our Manhattan-based agents, and he's on board to have Kurt come out and stay with him until this place is shut down in February."
Despite the situation and all the negativity attached to it, Kurt felt something light up inside of him at the mention of New York. A dream city. His dream city.
"It wouldn't be anything too drastic," the agent assured them, "just something to keep him away until this guy's well and truly out of the picture. It's completely up to you."
Burt and Carole were looking at each other with expressions of concern. There was an extended period of silence.
"I don't know – this all seems kind of... unbelievable, to be honest," Burt finally spoke.
"Understandable," Dean replied mildly.
The elder Hummel reached up to adjust his hat. "Be straight with me here. Do you think it's necessary?"
"Honestly?" Dean folded his arms. "From what I've heard, I don't think there's a very high chance that this guy is actually after Kurt. He's clinically insane, after all – he may not even remember him from that night," he reasoned. "But..." he paused. "I do believe in the whole 'it's better to be safe than sorry' concept. And if Kurt's going to be living in fear for four months here, then that's not a good thing."
Hesitantly, Burt nodded. "... Kurt?"
The boy glanced up, distracted from his own thoughts about the matter. For a long moment, he said nothing. Then, finally:
"Alright, I'm not saying I want to, but if I were to do this... what exactly would it entail?"
(Kurt and Burt)
The last of the sun's rays floated through the window and covered Kurt's bedroom in a layer of misty gold as he finally managed to squash his suitcase shut. Letting out a breath of relief, he flopped onto the ground beside it and sat there for a moment, eyes trained on the dusky sky behind the framed glass. Apparently, despite his best efforts, it was not physically possible to stuff his entire wardrobe into the one oversized Luis Vuitton suitcase that he had planned to take with him to New York. Thus, another couple of bags had been unearthed from the basement in order to accommodate his colossal clothing collection. It had been a lengthy struggle, but four hours, three suitcases and a possible hernia later, Kurt had somehow managed to make it work.
A mere three days had passed since Agent Dean Young's visit, and already things were rapidly spinning into motion. It seemed that the moment Kurt had decided to go ahead with the insanely spontaneous plan, some magician had clicked their fingers and everything had started changing all at once. Dean had done a commendable (and clearly well-practised) job of answering all of Burt's concerned-parent questions ('Will he be going to school?', 'How often will he be able to contact us?' and of course 'How much is all this going to cost?') Apparently, Kurt had been enrolled in a all-boys private school in Manhattan called 'Dalton Academy' (which he was rather nervous about, to be honest). While he was forbidden from bringing his cell phone with him to New York, the FBI would be arranging frequent Skype calls back home in order to keep his family in the loop. Most surprising of all, however, was the news that they did not have to pay a single cent for this entire operation. ("Are you sure you're actually an FBI agent? Are we being punked here?) Just as Dean had said, they were treating the situation as a dimmed down, temporary sort of Witness Protection Program.
The only part that Kurt felt any sort of real resentment over was the strict command he was under not to tell anyone outside of his immediate family what was going on, or where he was going. As far as anyone knew, he was going to stay with his Aunt Marigold in Kentucky for a few months. The only people privy to the truth were Burt, Carole and Finn, who had been warned by Agent Young not to tell a single soul at McKinley (apparently, his stepbrother didn't give the impression of being a particularly great secret keeper). With every lie he'd told at school over the past couple of days, Kurt had felt a wave of guilt within his stomach – especially when he had had to tell Mercedes that he'd dropped his phone down a sewer and wouldn't be able to answer any of her phone calls for a little while. As if his conscience hadn't already been eating him alive, Rachel and Tina had organized a little party in Glee Club earlier that day to bid Kurt farewell for his trip to "Kentucky". There had even been a cake with frosted bluegrass and an artistic marshmallow rendition of the Kentucky Derby, which Rachel had bragged to anyone who would listen that she had made completely from scratch. Somehow, Kurt had managed to smile through almost-tears as he shovelled down the marshmallow horses that might as well have been made out of deceit. Goodbyes were hard, but they were almost unbearable when you were lying to your friends.
"Kurt?" His door creaked open a little, and Burt stuck his head inside. "You all set?"
Kurt let out a long breath. "Not really." He chuckled humorlessly and glanced up at his dad.
Slackening his grip on the doorknob, Burt nudged the door open with the flat of his hand and stepped across the threshold, a strange sort of expression on his face. "Listen," he began, and Kurt was immediately sure of where this was headed – it was only about the gajillionth time, after all. Sure enough: "Are you sure you want to do this?"
"Yes." Kurt didn't hesitate. Because underneath the incredible amount of nervousness, a fragment of excitement burned. "I think it's the right thing to do." Biting his lip, he glanced upward again. "Do you?"
Burt raised his eyebrows. "If it's what you want, then as far as I'm concerned, it's the right thing to do."
Kurt responded with a fleeting smile and picked at a loose thread on one of his suitcases.
"Nervous?" Burt queried.
"Very."
"I'm nervous for you," his father told him, and then let out a breath of shaky laughter. "Just... don't get into any trouble, alright?"
"Dad, you know me. I'm practically cursed." Kurt's tone was heavily sardonic. "... But... I'll try my best."
In this tiny window of silence, a faint trace of the doorbell could be heard.
"That'll be Dean," Burt announced, although they both knew this already. The agent had arranged to take Kurt to the airport and see him off.
Kurt swallowed – whatever nerves he had been feeling before had just multiplied exponentially. "Right, well, I'll get my stuff," he announced, rising to his feet.
"Kurt." His father's tone stopped him in his tracks. Burt was staring at him with a swarm of emotions on his face; he seemed to be having a hard time phrasing what he wanted to say. "I'm... proud of you. For doing this."
For some reason, this statement caused tears to prickle in Kurt's eyes. "Thanks Dad," he croaked. Then, he silently crossed the floor and wrapped his arms around his father, burying his face in his shoulder. "I'm going to miss you," he said, the words muffled through the cotton of his shirt.
"I'll miss you, too." Burt tightened his grip on his son. "Be safe, okay?"
A moment later, as they manoeuvred the three overweight suitcases down the hallway to meet Dean, Kurt felt a swelling sense within him of something ending. But right there, overshadowing it, was a feeling that something new was about to begin. Outside, the sun sunk lower on the horizon, covering the world in stripes of pink and gold.
(New York)
"Ladies and gentleman, we are approaching our descent into New York. Please remain seated with your seatbelt fastened and switch off all electronic devices. All hand luggage must be stowed either in the overhead lockers or under the seat in front. Thank you."
Skin prickling, Kurt sat up a little straighter in his seat and glanced out the window. Beneath him stretched a twinkling mass of city lights that burned brightly in the darkness. Even from the air, New York City seemed to beat with a pulse of energy, lights contracting and expanding as tiny cars raced through the streets below.
The flight had been short, but it had felt like hours and hours of sitting on the edge of a precipice and just waiting to fall in. The cocktail of apprehension and excitement that was coursing through Kurt's veins merely grew more potent as the plane fell lower in the sky. His stomach kept dropping, though he wasn't sure if it was from the descent or simply his nerves. It was only when the wheels of the plane finally touched the runway with a slight bounce that he noticed his hands were curled tightly around the armrests on either side of him, the knuckles turning an ashen shade of white.
"Well now, did they land the plane, or were we shot down?" The little old lady next to him quipped, noticing Kurt's anxious face. She sent him a reassuring smile, which he returned halfheartedly; there was no point in trying to explain the real source of his fear to her. Minutes later, the seatbelt sign flickered to black, and there was an immediate rush as passengers rose to remove their bags from the overhead lockers. Kurt remained seated amidst the chaos, heart thudding against his ribcage. Dean had assured him that the agent he would be staying with, Paul Anderson, would be waiting at baggage claim to pick him up, but the stress of flying alone for the first time and meeting this man were strong forces, and his uneasiness was growing.
Eventually, the mass of bodies began to filter out of the plane, and Kurt managed to calm himself down enough to rise and pick up his carry-on, which had been stowed safely at his feet for the entire trip. (There was no way anything by Marc Jacobs was going to go in one of those overcrowded luggage compartments.)
The walk from the arrival gate to baggage claim was far too short. Kurt didn't feel prepared at all when he rounded the corner and saw the spinning carousels and mobs of people interspersed with trolleys and suitcases. He slowed his pace, tightening his grip on the strap of his bag, and scanned the crowd. For a minute, he was simply a lone figure, lost amidst the chaos as people milled around him in every direction.
Then, he spotted it. A simple, white square of paper with 'Kurt' scrawled across it in black marker. Unlike Agent Dean Young, with his laid-back mannerism and youthful grin, the man holding the sign fit the FBI agent stereotype to a tee. He was tall and brawny, with greying brown hair, a square jaw and solemn, deep-set eyes. His suit was impeccable, and Kurt's first thought was that he must sleep in it, because it was impossible to imagine this man wearing anything else.
Taking a deep breath, he made a beeline for the sign-bearer. "Hi," he greeted him. "I'm Kurt."
The man looked a little taken aback by the pitch of his voice, which didn't surprise Kurt; that was a fairly common reaction. What was unsettling, however, was that those deep-set eyes raked over him painfully, roving from his tight jeans to his slate grey button-up to his carefully styled hair, and then narrowed.
"You're Kurt Hummel?" he asked, as though to double check. His gaze was critical.
Kurt nodded, feeling slightly uncomfortable but holding his head high.
After a noticeable pause, the man extended his hand. "Paul Anderson," he said curtly. The handshake lasted about a millisecond before Paul broke away. He cleared his throat. "Let's get your bag."
(First Sight)
The trip from the airport was one of the most uncomfortable car rides of Kurt's life. After squeezing all three of Kurt's bulky suitcases into the trunk of a shiny black SUV, Paul had taken a seat behind the wheel and refused to say a single word for the remainder of the journey.
Kurt couldn't help but wonder if he had done something to offend this man, and kept racking his brain for an instance where this might have occurred. For the life of him, he couldn't figure it out. They had barely exchanged two words, after all. There was one thought that kept resurfacing, but it was one he didn't want to dwell on. No, he would give Paul Anderson the benefit of the doubt – weren't New Yorkers supposed to be more open-minded than that?
In the stilted silence, Kurt watched the hustle and bustle of New York City at night as it whooshed past the car window. Everything was colourful lights and silhouetted crowds and eclectic outfits, and for the first time, it began to sink in that he was actually in New York. Despite the rough start, he felt excitement rising. This, he knew, was without a doubt where he wanted to be one day. Images of Broadway and Breakfast at Tiffany's raced through his mind.
Unfortunately, these thoughts led to Rachel, and he felt a weird pang when he remembered their pact to visit New York together for the first time. Well, so much for that, he thought. He could just imagine his ambitious friend's jealousy if she knew where he was right now. But desperate times called for desperate measures – surely she would understand.
Kurt's mind wandered as they crossed over into Manhattan, but he continued to stare idly out the window, eyes drinking in the elaborate architecture of the buildings. They must have been driving through the Upper East Side, he decided, judging by the sheer scale and extravagance of most of the dwellings. It came as a huge surprise when Paul slowed the SUV to a halt right in front of one of these establishments – a towering townhouse made of a light material that almost looked like marble in the night – and turned off the ignition.
"Well, here we are," he said, opening his door.
Raising his eyebrows, Kurt followed suit, stepping out onto the clean pavement and immediately allowing his eyes to train up the tall face of the building. It was at least three stories high, with large picture windows, swirling embellishments and several well-maintained shrubs at the base – the kind of place that was probably worth a fortune.
"Come on in," Paul said, his tone blunt and detached. "I'll have Roger get your bags later."
He led the way across the sidewalk and up a small set of steps that gave an impression of grandeur despite its size. Kurt's jaw dropped when the enormous door swung open to reveal a spacious, high-ceilinged foyer featuring a twisting staircase that rose elegantly into the darkness above. The furnishings were classical, set upon gleaming hardwood floors, and the walls were covered in beautiful pastel-toned paintings that were similar in their very distinctive style. The air smelled like cool designer fragrance with faint overtones of warm home cooking.
"Paul? Is that you?"
A gentle voice floated into the foyer, and a petite woman stepped out of an adjoining room. Her black hair fell to her shoulders, framing a kind face with soft, dark eyes that immediately zeroed in on Kurt. There was a moment where her eyebrows rose a notch and she shot a quick, apprehensive glance at Paul. It was gone in a second though, and her face broke into a warm but subdued smile.
"Oh, hello," she extended a hand, "you must be Kurt. I'm Evelyn, Paul's wife."
Kurt noticed she spoke with a faint accent. With a polite nod, he grasped her hand. "Yep, that's me. Nice to meet you."
"Likewise," she responded. "Are you hungry? Dinner's still in the oven, but it shouldn't be too much longer."
"Yeah, that sounds great."
"Chase here yet?" Paul cut in.
Evelyn nodded. "He and Delilah are upstairs with Blaine." She swivelled her head. "Kurt, why don't I go introduce you?"
"Oh." Kurt tried to hide his surprise, but it showed through crystal clear on his face. No one had warned him that this man had children. He blinked. "Okay. Sure."
Evelyn smiled and gestured for him to follow her up the winding staircase.
Kurt made to follow, and then paused. "Um, by the way, I really appreciate everything that you're doing for me." He'd been waiting for the opportune moment to drop this necessary thank you, but as it turned out, that moment did not seem to exist. It came out a lot more awkwardly than he would have liked.
Evelyn, however, merely smiled sweetly; the expression lit her face with a warm sort of glow. "It's not a problem, hun," she said. "We're happy to help."
The reaction displayed by her husband was a complete contrast in its coldness. He offered nothing but a curt nod and then said: "I'm going to go clean up for dinner," before turning on his heel.
"He's had a long day," Evelyn offered as she and Kurt made their way up the stairs a few moments later. "Please don't take it personally."
Rambunctious conversation and loud laughter met Kurt's ears as they reached the upper landing. The source seemed to be a room at the very end of the hallway, where the door was slightly ajar and a stream of light was pouring out from the crack.
"NO! Die die die! Crap!" A frustrated male voice rang out loudly, mixed with what sounded like a rapid pressing of buttons and an evil female cackle. "Blaine, we're banding together next time and taking her sorry ass down."
"That's what you said last time, Chase. Clearly, we failed."
"Well, maybe if you stopped playing Jigglypuff and chose someone with actual—"
"Knock, knock," Evelyn said, sticking her head through the door. "He's here, guys."
Three heads swivelled as Kurt shuffled into the room. A dark-haired male and a girl who looked to be in their early twenties sat side by side, blinking at him in that typical sizing up, first sight sort of way. Sitting nearby was the final occupant of the room—a teenage boy who appeared to be around his age...
Oh.
Kurt's eyes widened for a moment, because this boy was, well, very attractive; dark curls, thick lips and hazel eyes framed by huge fans of long, thick eyelashes. He was sitting cross-legged on the floor, long-sleeved sweater fitting his form with classical elegance and a video game controller held loosely in one hand. It was only after a moment that Kurt realized that those eyes were staring fairly intently back at him. He swallowed. Vaguely, he realized that Evelyn was introducing him, and tried to focus.
"... and this is—"
"Blaine," the attractive teen interjected, rising to extend a hand with a gentle smile on his face.
His hand was warm, and Kurt smiled back. "Hi." God, his eyes were spectacular.
"Blaine's a junior too – he'll be showing you around Dalton tomorrow," Evelyn supplied, and Kurt felt a strange rush of anticipation at the thought.
"Great," he managed to respond, if a little vaguely.
"You'll love it," Blaine assured him; he spoke confidently in a voice that was smooth and melodic (the musical geek inside of Kurt felt the need to point out). "It's a really good school."
"Good to know." Embarrassingly, his voice came out a little higher than usual, and he coughed a little to clear his throat. "I'll admit, I'm a little nervous."
Blaine offered a reassuring smile. "You'll be fine; trust me."
"I have to go check on dinner," Evelyn said. "Kurt, we'll get you all settled in after we eat, alright?"
The moment her footsteps faded, the older boy turned to Kurt with a crooked grin. He bore a vague resemblance to Blaine, though he was good-looking in a more unusual way. His hair was straighter and more of a jet black shade, his face more angular. It was his hazel eyes that held the likeness, though the comparative darkness of his hair made them appear more green than brown against his skin. "So," he said conversationally, "you're the one who's going to be living in this hell hole for a few months, huh?"
"Way to instill him with confidence, Chase," the girl (Delilah, Kurt recalled vaguely) commented, leaning over him to grab a gummi worm from a mostly depleted package. For the first time, Kurt really got a look at her, and what he saw was mildly surprising: a freckly face, a toffee-coloured vintage dress and a long, wavy mass of dirty blonde hair that tumbled down her back, highlighted by a thick streak of bubblegum pink. Two pieces of chunky purple plastic hung from her ears. "Here, sit down." She patted the beanbag next to her, encouragement in her cat-like eyes.
As he lowered himself primly into the soft chair, Kurt raised his eyebrows, looking thoroughly incredulous. "Hell hole?" he repeated. "You're crazy. This place is like something out of Gossip Girl."
Chase laughed at this, though the sound was wry. "And trust me, it's just as fucked up."
Blaine, who had been sizing up Kurt out of the corner of his eyes, frowned. "Listen, I hope Dad didn't said anything... unpleasant on the way here."
"He... didn't really say anything at all, actually." Kurt cocked his head. "Why?"
"Nothing," Blaine replied. "Just... he's not the friendliest person in the world."
"He hates me," Delilah threw in casually as she tore the head off of a gummi worm with her teeth.
"How come?"
"Who knows. Apparently, I'm not good enough for Chase. Or something."
Chase snorted. "But luckily, we don't really give a fuck what my dad thinks, so it's all good." He reached over and grabbed her hand, and Kurt was momentarily taken aback by how open they were all being with him.
Awkwardly, he cleared his throat. Then: "So you two are brothers?" he asked, just to clarify, eyes flicking back and forth between Chase and Blaine.
"Unfortunately." Blaine smiled. "But don't worry, you won't have to put up with him twenty-four seven. Chase and Dee live on the West Side – they're at Columbia. We only get the pleasure of seeing them about once a week."
"Columbia," Kurt repeated, impressed. "What are you studying?"
"Architecture," was Chase's response. He nudged Delilah in the side. "And Dorky McNerdbrain is on a full academic scholarship for the Chemical Engineering program."
Delilah made a face. "Dorky McNerdbrain?" She turned to Kurt very seriously. "I apologize for his complete lack of social skills," she stage whispered. "Sometimes it's best to just let him believe that he's funny."
"Oh please, I'm hilarious," Chase replied, and Delilah shoved his shoulder so roughly that he fell sideways off of his beanbag.
As Chase struggled to right himself, Blaine shot Kurt a look that said Don't worry, I think they're crazy too. Kurt smiled, marvelling at the way his heart seemed to beat a little faster merely with the knowledge that Blaine's eyes were on him. And then, suddenly fearful that his attraction was blatantly obvious, he jerked his eyes away and forced them to focus on something, anything...
He found his distraction in the form of the entertainment set-up, currently on mute, that was sitting in the corner of the room. "Is that a Gamecube?" he marvelled. A quick flick towards the screen, and then: "Wait, is that... Super Smash Melee?"
"Correct." Chase tossed him a controller. "Wanna join? Maybe you can help us take down the Master."
Delilah cracked her fingers and reached for her own controller. "I wouldn't count on it."
"I didn't even know these things were still in existence," Kurt said, admiring the familiar screen layout and revelling in the nostalgia that came with it. He and his father had played the game a fair bit in his younger years—Kurt more for the limited character customization options and colourful background designs than the actual fighting, but still. It had been something to bond over, and that was all that mattered.
"I found it at a thrift store," Delilah explained. "Five bucks for the game and the console."
Interest piqued, Kurt turned toward her and raised an eyebrow. "Impressive," he said. "And that's coming from someone who's practically a professional thrifter."
Excitedly, Delilah clasped her hands together. "Really? I think we're going to be great friends, Kurt. I'll show you all the best spots to shop in the big apple."
Chase shook his head slightly as he turned up the volume on the TV. "Be warned, when she says 'all the spots' she means it. It's a compulsion." He dropped the remote and exchanged it for his controller. "Remember how to play?"
"Sure, it's only been a decade or so..."
Blaine laughed; the sound was almost musical. "It's sort of like riding a bike," he said. "I don't think anyone forgets how to play SSB."
Kurt grimaced. "I don't think I ever really knew how to play in the first place," he said, fingers moving over the controller as he set his character to his old standby, Kirby. "My strategy was always just press-as-many-buttons-as-possible-and-hope-for-the-best."
"Sadly, you'll probably still beat me," Blaine said, and then: "Chase, are you playing Bowser again?"
"Bowser is bad-ass, okay? And like you can talk, Jigglypuff. Talk about single-handedly promoting every gay stereotype in existence..."
And just like that, Kurt's eyes widened and the sound in the room all but faded out as he examined Blaine's profile with a new kind of vision. So... Blaine was gay. Huh. Strangely, even his fine-tuned, military strength gaydar hadn't picked up entirely on that one.
Not that it really mattered or anything, considering he probably had a boyfriend. And now Kurt was staring at him. Yep, he was definitely still staring. He needed to look away now...
"Ready?" Chase queried, thumb poised over the start button.
This shook Kurt back to reality. "Wait," he said, flicking the colour change button on his controller. "I have to be the blue Kirby."
"Why blue?" Delilah asked.
"Because the blue Kirby is clearly superior to any other Kirby."
Chase shook his head. "Kirby and Jigglypuff..." he scoffed. "Guess I'm taking on Dee on my own here."
The game started and he promptly fell off of a cliff, leaving Blaine and Kurt to fly happily overhead.
Smugly, Blaine smiled. "Puffballs unite! Take them down together, Kurt?"
Blue eyes met hazel ones, and Kurt felt his lips curve upwards. "You bet."
(A Revelation or Two)
After dinner, which had turned out to be a formal, mildly uncomfortable event, Delilah went searching for her purse and then shrugged on her coat—a vintage-looking tweed affair with a preposterous number of buckles.
"Leaving so soon?" Evelyn queried as she emerged from the adjoining kitchen.
"Yeah, thanks a lot for dinner, but my dad has chemo tonight—I'm meeting him at Sloan-Kettering."
At this, Elaine nodded, her eyes betraying a hint of empathy. "Alright, all the best, Delilah."
"Thanks, Mrs. Anderson. And nice to meet you, Kurt. You haven't seen the last of me, I promise."
Kurt smirked. "I hope not, I'm still determined to beat you at least once."
"Don't count on it. But I stand by my shopping offer. Bye, Blaine."
"See you," he said, raising his hand in a casual salute.
Chase opened the door for Delilah and followed her out into the night, letting it latch softly behind him.
"Now, Kurt," Evelyn said, "let me show you where you'll be sleeping."
"It's alright, Mom, I've got it," Blaine interjected.
"No, really, Blaine, that's—"
"Mom, seriously."
She looked behind her briefly and pursed her lips. "Alright, fine." A pause, and then: "Anita made the bed this morning, so that should be all set. Remember the uniform. And show him the bathroom—don't forget to find him a towel."
"Got it. Come on, Kurt." With a small smile, Blaine turned and headed up the polished staircase, taking the steps two at a time. Kurt followed along silently as he led the way to the very end of the hallway and grabbed the handle of the only closed door on the landing.
"Welcome," he said with a flourish as he swung it open.
Eyes wide and inquisitive, Kurt followed him inside. It was a reasonably spacious room with hardwood flooring and simple furnishings, and he decided right off the bat that he was in love with the colour palette. Dark blues and mahoganies wove their way into various elements, offering visual unity to the overall composition without creating monotony. He noted his suitcases sitting neatly in the corner. Experimentally, he grinned and dropped down onto the plush-looking bed. "Bouncy," he commented.
Blaine laughed. "Waterbed. Just don't jump on it, unless you want to unleash the second coming of Noah's Ark." He grimaced, eyes cloudy with painful remembrance. "Chase and I already learned that one the hard way..."
Kurt let out a low whistle. "Sounds like a catastrophe."
"I don't think I've ever seen so much water indoors in my life; we had to replace the entire floor and ceiling. My dad wouldn't speak to us for weeks. Not that that was really out of the ordinary, but..." He trailed off.
"Your dad," Kurt said, cautiously, "I don't think he likes me very much."
A sigh. Blaine seemed to consider something for a minute, and then surprised Kurt by sitting down next to him on the bed. "Kurt... listen. Without making any assumptions this early in the game, I..." He seemed to change his approach. "The thing is, my dad has this... aversion to anything that's not all about football and cars and... well, let's put it this way—I'm pretty much the disappointment of the century as far as he's concerned." He sighed, and clarified: "I'm gay," and there was something in his innocent, hazel-eyed stare that made Kurt's heart skip a beat. "My dad's never really been able to accept it, and so you can imagine that when you came along, he probably couldn't see past the hair, and the clothes, you know?" He backtracked hurriedly: "Not to make any assumptions—"
"It's okay." Kurt shrugged. "You can pretty much smell it on me, I know."
Blaine blushed a little—or was it Kurt's imagination? "Anyway, I guess what I'm saying is that it's my fault, really, and I'm sorry you have to wear my dad's and my problems like this..."
"Hey, you shouldn't be apologizing for anything," Kurt said. "And remember, I'm from Ohio. I'm used to this sort of thing, believe me."
Blaine smiled gratefully, and then the two boys stared at their feet for a few moments.
"Anyway." Blaine snapped to his senses, springing off the bed. "Bathroom's at the end of the hallway—you can take a shower whenever. Oh, and I almost forgot, hang on." He left the room briefly and returned carrying a neatly pressed stack of clothing and a fluffy bath towel, the latter of which he deposited on the dresser.
"Ta-da, what do you think?" He laid the uniform down on top of the bed covers so that Kurt could get a good look at it.
"Oh god, is that a blazer?"
"Yep. And it's all yours. You're an official Dalton boy starting tomorrow, remember?"
Kurt grimaced. "How could I forget?"
"Hey, don't be nervous; we're not too weird."
"I find that sentence mildly concerning."
Blaine brushed his comment away. "Well I'm not weird, anyway. And I'll stick with you, so don't worry."
Kurt smiled. "Alright, well, thanks."
"I'll see you in the morning then. Anita—she's our housekeeper—will wake you up at seven." He paused before heading out the door. "Take my advice on this one... you want to get up on her first wake-up call. Her methods get progressively worse and worse the longer you sleep in."
"Duly noted."
"And my room's right across the hallway if you need anything."
"Alright... Thanks, Blaine."
"No problem. Night, Kurt."
As Blaine left the room, pulling the door closed behind him, Kurt sat still for a minute or two. Then, he realized that he was wearing a semi-smile that probably looked completely ridiculous, if not a little creepy, and attempted to force his face back into some semblance of normal. Finally, he glanced to his right to size up the uniform again. Picking up the blazer, he walked over the mirror on the vanity table and held it up to his chest. Hmm, not bad, he decided. Navy was definitely one of his better colours. Somehow, he found himself spacing out and imagining how Blaine might look in this uniform, with the blazer hugging his chest snugly...
...And then he dropped the offending piece of clothing back onto his bed as though it were on fire, annoyed with his brain for even going there. He'd barely been here four hours and he was already developing a crush someone. Even for Kurt, that had to be some sort of record.
He then proceeded to rummage through his suitcases for a pair of pyjamas and his moisturizing supplies, which turned out to be a surprisingly difficult venture due to the sheer volume stuff that he'd brought. As he pulled things out and tried to get organized, he found himself absentmindedly singing under his breath.
Something has changed within me,
Something is not the same,
I'm through with playing by the rules of someone else's game...
Unbeknownst to the singer, on the other side of the door, Blaine Anderson had frozen with his hand on the doorknob to his own bedroom. Silently, like a perfect statue, he strained to hear the melody, marvelling at the smoothness of the voice, the perfect pitch...
Slowly, a smile began to creep across his face.
A/N: Hi, and welcome to Manhattan Skies! First things first: Let's not concern ourselves with whether or not the underlying concept of this story is actually realistic... I do not claim to be any sort of expert on the FBI or the Witness Protection Program or anything like that. I just thought it would make for an interesting plot, so here we are. I hope I can do at least a partially-decent job of pulling it off.
As I'm sure you have gathered, the story is an AU. It will centre around Kurt and Blaine and life in New York, as well as several original characters who you have yet to meet. Currently, it is plotted out as having twenty-two chapters—my little attempt to mirror a season of Glee. I don't know how often updates will be (life of a university student - need I say more?) but I will try my best to keep them frequent.
I really hope someone out there can get some enjoyment out of what I write. :) If you want to leave a review telling me your thoughts or criticisms, I would love that. Otherwise, just enjoy!
Next time: Kurt experiences his first day at Dalton Academy and all the insanity and drama that goes with it. Blaine and his fellow Warblers are scheming to recruit new members in hopes of bumping their numbers up for Sectionals, and Kurt just may be their newest target.