Notes: I got this idea when I was making cupcakes earlier (because I can't bake without remembering 'to bake you cookies at least twice a year' and Blaine (and/or Darren) being the adorable jerk he is and dissolving into a puddle of emotions). Folks, you ain't never read anything so bittersweet.*
SPOILERY WARNINGS for references to character death (which I swore I would never write but my brain hates me so) and most probably inaccurate medical knowledge about dementia and arthritis. Also I swear in the end notes so watch out for that.
*This is probably untrue.
I'm not surprised to find Blaine puttering around the kitchen, humming. He's wearing the apron his brother gave him for his thirtieth birthday. It's decorated with a map of New York City. He pretended it was a rubbish present but a few years ago he always used to say how it reminded him of when he was young and in the city for the first time.
He doesn't do that any more, except for his handful of good days. This isn't one – Blaine's still wearing his pyjamas and his grey hair is a mess, and on his good days he insists on styling it and getting dressed properly (even if he does need help with his bow tie) and he looks so much like when he was a teenager.
"What are you singing?" I ask. He stops everything and looks at me. His eyebrows furrow, and then he shrugs and resumes slowly whisking the mixture.
"I'm not going to bed," he says. "I'm baking cookies."
"Are you sure you're not in too much pain to be doing that?" I ask. "Your arthritis—"
"My arthritis can shove it," Blaine grumbles. I stifle a laugh. "I'm baking cookies."
"Why?"
For a moment, Blaine falters. "I . . . promised," he eventually answers. He stops whisking again and looks at me, his eyes wide with confusion. "Didn't I?"
I smile at him gently. "You did. Do you remember?"
Blaine's eyes lose their focus and he grips the bowl as tightly as his swollen fingers allow. I watch him carefully – he's been having more fits lately. But now, he just swallows heavily and comes out of it. His brows are pulled upwards and he looks sad and scared.
"No. I forgot . . . What did I forget?" He blinks a couple of times and then looks down to the mixing bowl in his arms. "Oh! Cookies!" He grins at me. "Thank you, um . . ."
"Morgan," I remind him.
He nods and then resumes him humming and stirring, even doing the occasional spin to draw a laugh out of me. I lean against the wall next to the fridge. I should probably at least offer to do the heavy work for him – my job is to make the rest of his life as easy as possible – but the last time I did that he threw an egg at me. And forget trying to make him not bake these cookies – he's only screamed once, but that's the preferable reaction when the other is giving all the other residents and staff sneers and glares for the next week.
He told me once, before the dementia started making him forget things, he promised his husband he would bake him cookies at least twice a year, and he's not going to break it just because Kurt's not here any more. Baking cookies was just one of the many things Blaine did to honour his memory, although it's one of the few that's stuck around, and it's especially important on today of all days.
I stay in the room while Blaine finishes making the dough and have to remind him to dollop it on a tray before he puts it in the oven. He doesn't let me help wash up or take the cookies out of the oven, but he does let me get a Tupperware container from the cupboard because the handle's too low.
"Do you think Kurt will like them?" he asks, his eyes shining in a way that makes him look so much younger than his ninety years. His fingers brush against his cane repetitively – nervously, I realise – and he seems to be holding his breath. "I want to surprise him at his locker tomorrow."
I know better than to try and take one. A couple of the other residents grumble about how they don't get to taste the delicious smells from the kitchen but Blaine just ignores them. I don't know what happens to the cookies but the container always comes back empty.
I smile and snap the lid onto the box.
"He'll love them."
A relieved, happy smile blooms across Blaine's face and, if it weren't for the grey hair and wrinkles, I'd almost think he were sixteen again. I suggest that it's time for Blaine to go to bed and he hums in acquiescence . He picks up the container almost reverently and tucks it in his arm, and as I walk him to his room, he sings a random song by the Beatles.
End notes: Fuck me, writing this and listening to a Yiruma playlist on YouTube was not a good idea. I did have a few alternative situations to this premise (1. Kurt had an early death and the 'I' is Blaine's second husband who knows all about Kurt; 2. Basically what I wrote except Blaine didn't have dementia/Alzheimer's; 3. An AU from 4.04 set a few years later where the 'I' is Blaine's boyfriend and he doesn't get a) why it's so important Blaine bakes cookies and b) why he isn't allowed any) but this one hurt the most so obviously it was the one I had to write. (Dammit, Elin.) I was going to write them all but I don't have it in me.
I chose the name 'Morgan' because it's a unisex name, so no one feels left out of the heartbreak, girl, boy, or genderqueer. I did consider making hir Blaine and Kurt's kid but then this would have got just a lot longer and a lot less poignant and also changed the focus from Klaine to how the kid feels and, just, no.