By the age of twenty-three, Blaine Devon Anderson was already a renowned detective in the Lima Police Department, and was famous throughout the office for his keen eye for evidence, highly developed skill set (everything from interrogations to physical combat) and above all, his magnificently expansive collection of bow-ties, which never seemed to be the same twice.
In fact, after only four years of being in the force, Blaine had easily climbed the ranks as though the ladder wasn't even there, and at the age of twenty-two he set up a separate operation division dubbed the 'Warblers' which specialised in discrimination crimes, and every which manifestation of prejudice and hate crime.
He even had his own office; clogged full of paperwork, files of previous cases and, beside the window, a rather large, neat desk. You could tell a lot about the type of person Detective Anderson was just by his desk. He had a small bottle of cologne, a bottle of anti-bacterial gel and a box of tissues tucked neatly into the corner of the desk, which showed he cared a great deal about hygiene. As well as this, he had a large station full of pens, animal pencils and all other bits of stationary, including but not exclusive to a pink highlighter and a tiny roll of tape. Underneath his desk was a somewhat hidden bin, which was full nearly always with 'cronut' wrappings, and the occasional half-eaten treat which, despite being his preferred confectionary choice, was often discarded in a hurry as Blaine rushed off to fight crime – his job always came first.
His job always came first. That's what people said.
Sure, his last boyfriend broke up with him by text because, for three weeks running, Blaine was investigated the death of a black woman who was stabbed repeatedly by a white-supremacist, but, that wasn't Blaine's fault, was it?
He was doing something, for once in his life, that was important to him and that he was important in. Hate crimes have, on some level, followed Blaine throughout his life, and he has the scars from an attack in high school to prove that it is such an issue. He was proud of his Warblers; they were finally making a difference in reducing prejudice related crimes in Lima, and he hoped to expand his initiative across the rest of Ohio, and perhaps even further.
Plus, there were always other boys, right? In fact, he had a date with a cute teaching assistant that very evening.
It was nearing the end of Friday, it was getting to be somewhat dark into a typical winter night, and of course Blaine had found himself in the same position as usual – wearing a bowtie, a relatively plain white shirt, a pair of black trousers, and slung over his chair was a thick winter coat, and a scarf. His feet were on the desk, showing off his expensive shoes, and in his hands he caressed a cronut.
If cronuts were men, they'd be Channing Tatum in a suit – each layer as inviting and crisp as the next, until once he's naked, the result is incomparable. His washboard abs are as luscious as the chocolate filling, and both of the, Blaine suspected, tasted magical.
Blaine took the heavenly treat in both hands, and brought it too his mouth quickly, scoffing it quickly as though his Channing Tatum was about to be stolen by an onslaught of screaming girls.
Luckily, he finished eating in perfect time, as when his receptionist burst through the door to reveal news on a new case, the only trace that 'Channing Tatum' had even been in Blaine's room was a small droplet of chocolate dripping out of the detective's lips.
His assistant traced her lips with her boney finger, and wordlessly warned Blaine of the chocolate. He whipped it away.
A little lost, he fixated his gaze on his assistant.
"Can I, urm, help?" he asked awkwardly.
"Yes, we've had a call about a homicide in alley beside the…
(She checked her notes)
"…strip club across from the Gap, about ten minutes away."
Blaine, from research of course, knew the name of the strip club, but, felt this wasn't the time to input.
"I'll get right on the case tomorrow morning," he said softly, having to bite his lip beforehand to prevent his urge to drop everything he had cleverly planned to rush and investigate. A single ball of sweat dripped from his brow as he tried his best to supress his desires.
His assistant furrowed a brow.
"Nick rather insisted that you take a look tonight…"
"Well tell Nick that if he's forgotten that I have plans this evening and can't work, then, that's really his problem," Blaine suggested as he put on his coat, scarf and black hat, and made for the exit.
The assistant stood there quite bewildered. Blaine never turned away work.
"…and that's when I said 'Hey, put down the gun or I'll slap you around the face with it!'" Blaine exclaimed as his finished telling his date his story.
Lucky Detective Anderson; he just had a date with a six-foot-something, muddy-brown-eyed hunk who was lovely in every possible sense of the word. He treated Blaine to dinner at a rather fancy restaurant and offered to walk Blaine home in the chilling, frosty November evening.
Blaine had had only a few successful dates in his many years, and refused to let this one fault like the rest.
As they walked, the superiorly heighted date with a rather boring name like Jake or Jack or Jay or something similar, put his arm around Blaine, and they hug-walked passed a closed Gap. Blaine recognised the Gap before he noticed the police-cars with flashing sirens, the 'do-not-cross' tape and the ominous ambulance that appeared to be a rendezvous for nurses and doctors who all scuffled around a rather hidden body-bag.
"Oh. Wow. Fuck, what happened here?" Jack (or was it James?) said to Blaine worriedly.
"Murder."
Blaine could only speak that, because like Spiderman, he had a tingling sense in him that he needed to spring into action.
"Look, J…babe," exclaimed Blaine, not giving much attention to the person he was talking to.
"I need to go…I should've been here two hours ago to help…I'm terribly sorry,"
The date in all his six-foot-something glory, dumbfounded by how rude Blaine was being, and how second-best he felt, bit his tongue and accepted defeat.
"Oh, okay then…I'll call you sometime?" he asked, no, begged. He liked Blaine but, Blaine seemed far too preoccupied with heroics to care.
"Yeah, sure."
James/Jay/Jake/Jack leaned down, and went to press his soft, almost ruby-red lips against Blaine's. Blaine turned his head, so that the kiss was planted onto his cheek, and Blaine smiled half-heartedly, before rushing over to the crimescene.
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