Notes:
This is a re-write. It's funny in a dark sort of way. I hope you enjoy it :D Contract killer!Blaine
The oven timer goes off just as Kurt positions a piece of lavender fondant over the second tier of a five tiered maple walnut cake – Burt Hummel's absolute favorite. But this version Kurt made with only egg whites to cut down on the cholesterol and applesauce instead of sugar. This way his father can indulge without going off his diet.
Kurt, too.
"Blaine! Honey!" Kurt calls, carefully laying the fondant down. He frowns when all that answers him is silence. "Blaine! Can you come in here and help me please?"
Footsteps clamor down the staircase that leads from the upper level to the living room. Half a second later, Blaine races in, dressed for dinner in slate grey slacks and a white, button-down shirt. The door swings on its hinges as he crosses the kitchen and grabs a set of pot holders hanging off the knob handle of one of the cabinets.
"Upper oven or lower oven?" he asks, dancing in front of the glass doors.
"Upper." Kurt sighs with deep, spiritual satisfaction as the fondant drapes perfectly. "The pinwheels are ready."
"You made pinwheels?" Blaine giggles with childish glee. "You know they're my favorite!"
Blaine slips the quilted pot holders on his hands and pulls the top oven door open. He breathes in as a wave of hot air sweeps over him, carrying with it the savory smell of filet mignon stuffed with feta cheese, sun-dried tomatoes, and spinach – a Kurt Hummel specialty. Kurt's pinwheels are a linchpin in their relationship. They end fights and mend fences. Kurt and Blaine celebrate every birthday/(anti)Valentine's Day/Christmas/Arbor Day with them. His pinwheels are one of the reasons Blaine fell in love with Kurt; not that Blaine hadn't been completely head-over-heels the moment he saw Kurt on that fated subway ride in Manhattan more than three years ago, but this dish – this delectable, mouthwatering dish – played a big part in winning Blaine Anderson's heart.
"Well, you said to pull out all the stops." Kurt grabs a dish towel off the counter and wipes a sheen of sweat off his forehead. He watches Blaine balance the cookie sheet of pinwheels, looking left and right for a place to set them down. Kurt gestures to the burner covers on the stove top. "This has to be the most elaborate Friday night dinner we've ever planned."
"Speaking of" - Blaine sets the hot tray down – "I have to run out really quick. I forgot to get something."
Kurt cocks his hip and tilts his head, crossing his arms over his chest, and Blaine knows he's in for it.
"Blaine Anderson! Everyone's going to be here in a little less than an hour, and I haven't even gotten dressed yet!"
"You'll pull it off. You're a miracle worker."
Blaine winks. Kurt rolls his eyes and returns to his cake.
"Fine, but if I'm covered in fondant when everyone arrives, I'll blame you."
"Please do." Blaine comes up behind Kurt and kisses down his neck. "Then they won't argue when I carry you away and nibble it off."
Kurt tries not to giggle, but he can't help it, the image of Blaine eating lavender-tinted fondant off of his naked body both erotic and hilarious … though hilarious is winning.
"Fine, fine." Kurt waves a hand to dismiss his boyfriend before he starts sucking on his neck and leaving marks Kurt will never have enough time to cover up. "Just be quick about it."
"Super quick. I promise," Blaine says, swatting Kurt on the ass as he backs away and heads out the door.
"And pick up another bottle of wine while you're out," Kurt calls after him.
"Red or white?"
"Red!"
Kurt sighs, looking down the length of his kitchen counter, piled high with half-decorated cookies, a pan of rising bread dough, and tray after tray of appetizers.
"Jerk," he mutters under his breath, returning to his task with a grin growing hot on his face at the thought of what else he could get Blaine to eat off his body.
Blaine slips on black leather gloves as he rushes down Broadway, cutting through back alleys and keeping to the shadows to avoid being noticed. But the cloak-and-dagger stuff isn't necessary. The sidewalks are packed with people too wrapped up in their own lives to notice another businessman in a long, black coat walking among the crowd. He keeps his coat collar popped and his eyes lowered as he weaves in and out of mobs waiting at the corners for the lights to change or huddled near a bus stop, gathered around the metal overhang to avoid the light rain that's started to fall.
The crowd thins in the direction Blaine's going, and he smiles.
Perfect.
He creeps behind a corner, ducking into a sheltered spot with a clear view of the store door. He sticks close to the brick wall and waits.
Any minute now, he'll get what he came for.
His mark is a jewelry store owner – a suspected terrorist sympathizer with possible links to Al Qaeda. Blaine doesn't know for sure. He didn't ask questions. He's not paid to know the details. Blaine accepted the job immediately when he heard about it. He felt it was offered to him as an act of providence. It answered a crucial question, one that he had been mulling over for months now.
This job gave him the perfect opportunity to get something that he needed.
Blaine stands stock still, eyes darting from the door, to the alley, to the street, to the buildings all around. He remains hyper-aware of his surroundings - the homeless man asleep in the alley across the way, the bodega owner on the corner sweeping his stoop, two kids riding bikes who seem way too young to be out so late. He hears the bells on the door jingle and he knows the time has come.
He counts in his head, ticking off the seconds, what's left of his time here in the alley …
… what's left of a stranger's time on earth.
Footsteps approach, unhurried, shuffling slightly on the pavement, stopping for a second when the shop owner checks his pockets for his keys, and then starting again. Blaine sees an arm swing forward and he pounces, locking on to an elbow and securing a hand over his mouth before the startled man can even think to scream. Blaine drags him kicking and cursing down the alley till they're far enough from the street to avoid being seen. Blaine isn't too concerned with the tenants of the apartments nearby. From what he can tell, the decrepit buildings house immigrants, addicts, and elderly on fixed incomes - people who are rarely inclined to talk to the police.
Blaine tosses the man up against a brick wall, trapping him in a space between two large dumpsters. The man blinks into the darkness, and Blaine waits for his eyes to adjust so he can see his face clearly.
"Mr. … Mr. Smythe?" the man stutters in confusion. Blaine grins like the apex predator he is at the sound of his mark calling him by his pseudonym, the name of his nemesis in the game - an old friend from high school who Blaine is more than certain calls himself Mr. Anderson when he contracts out. "Was … was there something else you n-needed?"
"Yes, actually." Blaine opens his coat. He pulls out his concealed Glock, taking a dramatic moment to fit a silencer to the barrel. The man swallows hard as Blaine stares at him amused, twisting the silencer slowly until it threads completely.
"I … I don't understand." The man looks from the gun to Blaine, and back to the gun.
"There's nothing to understand," Blaine says. "I'm going to kill you. You're going to die."
The man steps back, stumbling into the wall behind him, and his knees give way. He slides to the ground, his entire body shuddering uncontrollably, fear welling in his dull, brown eyes.
"P-please," the man whimpers. "I s-swear to God, I did nothing wrong!"
"I don't know your God," Blaine says with a shake of his head. "But if I'm here, then chances are you did something to deserve it."
Blaine aims his gun. The man makes a pitiful, choked sound.
"I have money," he sniffles, bargaining with what little time he has left. "You can have it. All of it. Anything you want, I'll give to you. I'll …"
The man cowering on the filthy cement, pleading for his life, gets cut short by a high, lilting melody coming from somewhere in the vicinity of Blaine's pants. Both men freeze and stare awkwardly at each other. The tune continues, then repeats, and in spite of literally looking death in the face, the shop owner chuckles.
"Is … is that from the musical Wicked?"
"Shut it!" Blaine snaps, reaching into his pocket with his free hand to find his phone. "That's my boyfriend's ringtone. It happens to be his favorite song."
Blaine's eyes flick to the screen. He notices the man on the ground out of the corner of his eye making moves to run. Blaine waves his weapon in the man's face and points it at his head.
"Don't get any ideas," he warns, "I'm faster than you think," and glances back at the screen.
From: Kurt
You're the one that invited everyone we know in the world over here and you're late! Where the hell are you? You're in huge trouble, mister! Get your ass back here NOW!
From: Kurt
Don't forget the wine.
"I won't forget the wine," Blaine grumbles, shoving his phone back in his pocket. The shop owner sees an opportunity. Using this distraction, he rushes Blaine and grabs for his gun. Blaine anticipates it. He knew the man would. They always do. Without flinching, Blaine fires, putting a bullet neatly through the man's skull, right between his eyes. But instead of falling straight back, the man spins oddly, teetering on his heels. He lurches forward on twisted ankles and lands on Blaine, covering his neck and shirt in blood as he slides down Blaine's body.
"Ugh!" Blaine groans, hopping out of the path of the dead man dropping to the cement. "Damn it!" Blaine looks at his shirt, the spatters and smudges of blood trailing down to his slacks. "Shit, shit, shit!" Blaine kicks the dead man's shoulder in frustration. "How am I supposed to cover this up?" he asks, as if the corpse will suddenly wake and start brainstorming options.
"Fuck fuck fuck …" Blaine chants as he struggles with the body, lifting it into the dumpster with a grunt and tossing it inside. He's not worried about the bullet lodged in the dead man's skull. He knows the police will dig it out and trace it, and when they do, they'll find it belongs to a Glock 23, just like his, owned by Clarissa Mildred Porter of West Fargo, North Dakota, an 89-year-old lady who passed away three years ago, and whose personal protection weapon was never recovered after her death.
Not that Blaine killed her.
No women or children – that's a rule he lives by.
Diabetes and a long standing love of cigarettes and bacon killed her. He just ended up with her gun.
Blaine doesn't leave the neighborhood the way he came. He still sticks to the shadows, but now he has to jump a few fences and cut through a couple of sketchy-looking backyards to make his way back to Kurt's house in the East Village unseen.
Blaine loves Kurt's little house. It's more of a cottage, with vines trailing up the aging brick, its enclosed patio shrouded by the overhanging branches of a few large trees, completely obscured from the sidewalk not fifteen feet away. Blaine can't even count the amount of times they've made love beneath those trees in broad daylight, outside the notice of parents walking their kids to the daycare down the street, and college kids rushing by on their way to NYU.
Blaine loves how turned on Kurt gets doing something taboo.
The house is nestled in a fairly exclusive neighborhood. Kurt swore once that he saw Michelle Williams walk by with her daughter Matilda, and even though both men agreed that they love her work in Brokeback Mountain, they were far too eager to get started on round two to throw on their clothes and find out.
Blaine looks at his ruined clothes and curses. How is he going to explain this to Kurt?
Blaine tiptoes to the back door, eyeing the sidewalk and the front of the house, watching for signs that their friends saw him approach from the side street and are running out to meet him. He opens the door and peers into the kitchen. Loud talking and boisterous laughter coming from the living room tell him that everyone they invited over for dinner tonight showed up. There's no way he'll be able to sneak past them without being seen. He opts for the stairs in the back of the house that lead up to the second floor balcony. They're vintage - cast iron and in need of some repair, so they're going to squeak like a motherfucker. But hopefully everyone is too distracted with catching up and Kurt's delicious cooking to notice. He backs away, heading out of the kitchen on his way to the door as Kurt bustles in from the living room carrying an empty tray.
"Oh, great! Blaine!" Kurt gushes, putting down the tray on the nearest empty surface and rushing forward to greet his boyfriend. "You're back! I …" Kurt stops dead, coming to a halt so suddenly that he trips over his own feet at the sight in front of him: Blaine -his clothes, his skin, his disheveled hair, spattered in blood. "I … I …" Kurt raises a hand to his mouth, his jaw dropped, eyes widening in horror.
"Kurt …" Blaine raises his hands, inching forward slowly, preparing for the chance that Kurt might run off "… I can explain."
"You're … you're covered in bl-blood!" Kurt's eyes rake over him from head to toe while, in his mind, he searches for the right words to express his feelings, his confusion, his anger. "You … you … you idiot! Blaine!" Kurt advances, icy blue eyes threatening to slice him apart. "You knew we were going to have a house full of people! Why did you have to go and take a job tonight?"
Kurt glares at Blaine's soiled clothes, and the smears of blood around his collar, staining his neck. He recoils with disgust and a disapproving shake of his head.
"For Christ's sake!" Kurt laments in a whisper harsh enough to cut glass. "Did you hit him over the head with a sledgehammer?"
Blaine opens his coat and lets Kurt see the Glock in his holster. Kurt tuts. He takes his dish towel and wraps it around Blaine's gun, shoving it in the trash can concealed beneath the sink for the time being. He gives Blaine another once over, Blaine's face fighting to look repentant, but darkening with lust at the way Kurt fusses over him. Kurt throws his hands up in exasperation.
"And you forgot the wine."
Blaine snickers, leaning in to kiss Kurt's neck, seeking out that spot that makes Kurt forgive everything.
"But I promise I brought home something better."
Blaine's lips barely brush Kurt's skin when a hand to his chest stops him.
"Not now," Kurt smirks. "We don't have time. Go upstairs. I'll cover for you."
"What about my clothes?" Blaine asks, watching Kurt do a last second tidy in the kitchen, pausing to wash traces of blood off his hands.
"They're ruined," Kurt says definitively. "I don't have enough pre-treater in the world to get all that out. We'll stick them in the incinerator and get you a new outfit tomorrow."
"Really?" Blaine asks, blown away even after all these years at how nonplussed Kurt can behave under pressure.
"Of course." Kurt turns at the kitchen door and gives Blaine a wink. "You look hot in it." He pushes through and returns to the gathering with not a single chestnut hair out of place.
Oh yeah, Blaine thinks, a smug smile on his face as he walks out the door and hurries up the stairs, patting his pants pocket and the tiny ring box it holds. He's chomping at the bit for later tonight when he gets the chance to give it to Kurt. I am definitely marrying that man.