A/N: I'm kind of in the Halloween spirit, so I thought I would get a jump start with a re-write that was cute instead of depressing this time around xD Tell me what you think :)
Knock-Knock.
"Trick or Treat!" a chorus of high-pitched voices commands. Then silence consumes them as their tiny owners wait, bags and plastic pumpkins and pillowcases in hand, for the opening of the door. A heartbeat passes, then another, with no sound or movement from within. The young beggars shiver in unison when a stiff breeze winds its way through their ankles, causing the metal wind chimes hanging over their heads to toll. Finally, the door slowly creaks open, excitement rising to a fever pitch in anticipation of what comes next.
It's an old house, but a familiar one. A house that always has carved pumpkins sitting on the porch at Halloween and handmade wreaths hanging from the railing at Christmas. A house that generations of children have run up to and knocked upon for candy or with carols. Those children grow up and bring their own children back to visit its grandmotherly inhabitant, who never seems to age, and who always has a smile on her face and a tray of homemade candied apples wrapped in wax paper waiting for her guests.
The white-haired woman opens her door and steps out. She looks at the crowd of masks and made-up faces surrounding her, and gasps in mock fear.
"My goodness!" she says, putting a hand to her mouth. "Look at all these goblins and ghouls on my porch tonight! I don't suppose any of you like candied apples, hmm?"
"Me! Me!" the cries ring out. The woman reaches into her house and grabs the apples off their tray, skewered on sturdy wooden sticks decorated to look like ghosts and broomsticks. She hands them out one at a time to child and parent alike, receiving a grateful "Thank you!" with every one. And while she does, the woman peruses each child and comments on their costume – the hand-crafted along with the store bought – with nothing but the highest praise.
"What a spectacular Frankenstein you make, Tony! Your mother went all out this year!"
"Captain America? He was my favorite superhero when I was a little girl! And you definitely fit the role well, Amanda!"
"What an absolutely fetching Pikachu you make, Kevin! Your father brought your costume home all the way from Japan, you say? What a lucky little boy to have such an authentic costume!"
As the crowd thins, two final boys approach, having waited politely at the rear for their turn.
"Why, Finn Hummel," the lady coos, smiling at the boy in the glittering indigo tuxedo and cape. His hair is slicked back, his face painted white, and what looks like fangs drawn over his lower lip since the retainers on his teeth won't accommodate a real pair. "What a stunning vampire costume! Did your father make it again this year?"
"Yes, ma'am," the boy replies smiling wide, his red lips dripping fake blood at the corners.
"He did an outstanding job, just like he does every year. You're a fortunate young man to have such a talented designer at your disposal as your father." She hands him an apple and he drops it into his bag.
"Thank you, Mrs. Karofsky."
"You're very welcome." Her eyes bounce to the boy standing beside him. "And you – another scary vampire! But I don't think I remember seeing you before. What's your name?"
"Michael," the boy says, speaking with a pronounced lisp courtesy of the plastic fangs crowding his mouth.
"Here, Michael," she says, handing him an apple. "Thank you for stopping by so I could see your gorgeous costume. Give your parents my fondest regards."
"Yesh, ma'am," the boy slurs, trying his best not to spit. "Thank you, ma'am."
The boys wave goodbye as the kind woman closes her door. They turn together, stepping down from the porch, eyeing one another's costumes as if they're catwalk rivals.
"Stho, your father makesth your costumes?" Michael asks, looking Finn's glittery outfit up and down.
"Yup." Finn holds his head high and gives the boy a spin so that his cape twirls in the air – his favorite thing about the weighty fabric. "And what about your costume? It's pretty cool. Did your parents buy it? Or did someone make it for you?"
"It'sth vintage," Michael says proudly, his tongue tripping over his teeth. He holds the ends of his cape out, fanning the wings they make. "It wasth my father's from a long, long, long time ago, when he wasth a little boy."
"That's right, Michael," a raven-haired man says, receiving his son at the wooden gate. "It belonged to your ancient, elderly father, back before the invention of the wheel."
The man standing beside him chuckles, reaching a hand out to Finn as the boy walks through the gate. "Wow. That is vintage."
"Halloween only comes once a year, so why not pull out all the stops?"
"It really is an amazing costume, Mr. …"
"Anderson," Michael's father supplies, holding out his hand in greeting. "Blaine Anderson."
"Kurt," Finn's father answers, taking Blaine's hand and shaking it. "Kurt Hummel. This is my son, Finn."
Blaine nods at the boy in the sparkly cape, who is less concerned with the subject of adults' names than he is with comparing his haul to the boy's beside him.
"I think we've lost them," Kurt remarks as the boys dive head first into their bags.
"They've got about ninety pounds of chocolate between them," Blaine says. "It was bound to happen."
Kurt watches as the boys divvy up their candy, but he can't help narrowing his eyes curiously at the handsome man tousling his son's hair. "If you don't mind my asking, does Michael attend Matthew Shepard Elementary School? Because Finn goes there, but I don't think I've seen you or your son before."
"Is that so strange?" Blaine asks, his grin becoming tight, but not terribly so.
"No. It's just – we're a small community. Everyone here knows everyone else, that sort of thing. I think I would have remembered bumping into you at the last PTA meeting, Mr. Anderson."
Blaine's lips curl into a smooth grin at the way Kurt calls him Mr. Anderson. "Is that so?"
"Yup."
"Ah." Blaine bobs his head, looking suddenly sheepish. "Well, to be perfectly honest, we're not from around here." He gestures to the neighborhood as a whole, which gives Kurt the opportunity to catch a glimpse of his left hand.
No wedding ring.
"Gotcha." Kurt winks, wondering why he's acting so flirty when he'd resolved to grow old alone not three months ago, right after his husband left him and their son for another man. "It's no secret that we're one of the few neighborhoods in Lima that gives out full-sized candy bars and real popcorn balls, not that stale, store-bought crud, so we get a lot of outsiders here." Blaine's lips quirk, almost in shame it seems, and Kurt rushes to elaborate. "N-not that we mind, of course. It's nice to see some new blood around here."
Blaine smirks, then sputters a laugh, and Kurt turns wide eyes on him.
"Wh-what?" he asks self-consciously, realizing that his previous attempt at flirting may be crashing and burning the more he speaks.
"Nothing, nothing," Blaine says. "It's … you're kind of cute when you get flustered."
"Oh," Kurt squeaks, his cheeks rapidly becoming the shade of one of Mrs. Karofsky's candied apples. "I am? I mean … am I? Oh …"
"Actually," Blaine interjects when Kurt's unfinished sentence stumbles to an undignified halt, "we're not here because of the candy. We can't eat it."
Finn, totally engrossed in his conversation with Michael, catches that last part. His head snaps up, jaw dropping to the ground with utter and morose disbelief written all over his face.
"Don't eat it?" he moans, disappointed on his new friend's behalf. "Why not?"
"I'm on a special diet," Michael says, staring forlornly at his pregnant bag of sweets.
"A special diet?" Kurt frowns, looking from Michael back to his father.
"I adopted Michael from an orphanage overseas," Blaine explains, glancing down the street at a new wave of trick-or-treaters headed their way, checking the distance between them and other possible prying ears. "He has a rare, blood-borne illness that their hospitals were not equipped to handle. My family, however, has spent generations studying this disease. Since I have no spouse or other children of my own, I was more than happy to invite Michael into my home and give him the care he needs."
"But … is he okay now?" Kurt asks, gazing at the boy's pale face and round, dark eyes with concern.
"There is no cure," Blaine says, watching the way Kurt looks at his son, the sincerity in his expression, "but we're managing it the best we can. We have the support of my family's foundation, and that gives me an exceptional amount of freedom." Blaine puts a hand on Michael's shoulder and gives it a squeeze. "It helps when you don't have to worry about things like money. I feel awful for those parents whose children have to battle serious illnesses without the benefit of a disposable income."
"Aren't you the lucky one?"
Blaine ducks his head, his sheepish smile from before making a comeback. "It's old money, sitting in the bank, doing nothing but collecting interest and dust. I like that I can put it to good use."
Kurt looks up when Blaine does. He meets deep hazel eyes that catch the surrounding street lights and flickering Jack-O-Lantern candles in such an unusual, mesmerizing way, as if with a single blink Blaine could read Kurt's mind, or hypnotize him into doing his bidding. Kurt shivers. Blaine notices. He grins deviously, and Kurt laughs.
He's letting the magic of the evening get to him, and Blaine apparently knows it.
From the corner of his eye, Kurt sees Finn yawn. He pulls up the sleeve of his sweater and checks his watch.
"Oh my goodness! Look at the time. When did it get so late?"
"We're not going home already, are we?" Finn asks, fighting back a second yawn.
"Already? It's after ten o'clock! Grandpa will want to see you in your costume one last time before he goes to sleep. Besides, you're just about dead on your feet, kiddo, and I can't carry you all the way back to the house."
"We'd better be heading out as well," Blaine says, wrapping an arm around his son's shoulders and holding him close.
"Do we have to?" Michael asks, sulking into his father's embrace.
"I'm afraid so."
"Oh, alright." Michael turns to Finn, who yawns again, his eyes beginning to droop. "It was nice meeting you, Finn."
"It was nice meeting you, too."
"Do you guys …?" Kurt starts, not eager to see this captivating man disappear so quickly. Kurt would stay out all night talking to Blaine and his adorable little boy if he could. Their lives sound so fascinating. But he has responsibilities, and they take precedence over his social life. "I know you said you aren't from around here …"
"We're in Westerville," Blaine says, anticipating Kurt's question. "About two hours, give or take, as the bat flies."
"Oh," Kurt says, as disappointed as Finn was over Michael's destined-to-remain-uneaten candy. "That's … quite a distance to travel for candy you can't eat."
"We're visiting family," Blaine explains. "Family that we've been looking into visiting more often, maybe even move closer to, so … we might see you around?"
Blaine looks at Kurt through long, dark lashes, and Kurt nods, because if that question implies what Kurt hopes it does, the answer is definitely yes.
"Who knows? We might end up being neighbors."
"Possibly," Blaine replies, his voice a vague promise. "But either way, perhaps I could take you out for a bite?"
"I'll take you up on that." Kurt tries his best to remain calm as he reaches into his back pocket and pulls out his wallet for his business card when all he really wants to do is leap into the air and scream Yes! He knows times have changed, but he honestly thought he'd have to resort to making a Grindr profile before he would even find a guy willing to go out for drinks with him, not necessarily because he's a single dad, but because he chose to move back to Lima, of all places - not exactly the hub of the dating scene for eligible gay bachelors. But the first gorgeous man he meets is not only a single dad himself, but a wealthy philanthropist, and drop dead gorgeous? What lottery did Kurt suddenly win, and why didn't it kick in years ago?
The second Kurt slides his card out Blaine takes it, slipping it from between Kurt's fingers and tucking it into his inside breast pocket. Kurt watches with a smile, his insides fluttering as if the butterflies that have been held captive there throughout his entire marriage had miraculously learned how to fly again.
"I'll give you a call," Blaine says.
"You do that." Kurt raises his hand and waves goodbye, backing away and pulling Finn along with him. Blaine waves back, turning down the street with Michael in tow, his bag of candy tucked under his arm.
Blaine and Michael weave their way through several tides of children still out and about despite the late hour, racing up to houses and knocking noisily on doors.
"So" - Blaine smiles down at his son – "did you have a good time?"
"Yesh." Michael reaches up and spits into his hand the false teeth that had been covering his real fangs all night. He shoves them into his treat bag, glad to be rid of them. "That was a blast! Finn and his dad are really nice. Don't you think they're really nice?" Michael asks, bouncing on the balls of his feet with every step.
"Yes, they definitely were. Very nice." Blaine looks over his shoulder, employing his supernatural vision to spot the father and son walking in the opposite direction down the street. Kurt looks behind him as well, biting his lower lip as if he knows he's being watched. Blaine eyes the dent Kurt's teeth make in his skin. If his heart were still beating, it would be racing out of control by now. "And luckily ..." Blaine puts a hand over the pocket with the business card safely hidden inside "… we'll be seeing them again … very soon." They walk against the flow of revelers, ducking down a dark street with no lamps lit, no decorations on the porches, no trick-or-treaters anywhere to be seen.
"Really?" Michael beams over the prospect of seeing his new friend again as Blaine leads his son deeper into the shadows.
"Absolutely. Here." Blaine stops beneath a cluster of trees beside an empty house-for-sale. "This looks like a good spot. Are you ready to give it another try?"
Michael stops beaming and sighs. "I guess so," he says, fidgeting with the handles of his bag.
"What's wrong? Why do you look so upset?" Blaine asks, relieving Michael of his bag and setting it on the ground.
"I'm not as good at it as you are."
"It takes practice. You'll get the hang of it eventually," Blaine promises, and with that, he changes – body shrinking, proportions readjusting, skeleton metamorphosing, all in the blink of an eye. Transforming into a bat is effortless for Blaine. He's had over a century to practice, after all. Michael scrunches his nose and holds his breath, concentrating the way Blaine taught him. After three failed attempts, he manages the feat, but with a little less finesse than his father. But even though he's only done it about a dozen times, he makes a handsome young bat, and Blaine knows that once Michael completely accepts his true nature, he'll become a powerful vampire. Still, two vampires do hardly a coven make. It would be nice, Blaine thinks as he pictures Kurt in his mind where he is right now, walking up the steps to a single-family dwelling at the far end of the neighborhood, to bring a few more vampires into the fold.
Some new blood, as Kurt so aptly put it.
Father and son circle the quiet neighborhood once to stretch their leathery wings, then take to the air, disappearing into the night.