2022
Nothing comes through The Breach in June.
Kurt finds a routine: breakfast, then hands-on training or work, lunch and a walk down to the beach, to get some air and sun. Then he's behind a desk for the afternoon, reading manuals and system specs until he's cross-eyed.
The best part of his afternoons at a desk, is when he gets an email out of the blue from a more senior J-Tech engineer in Anchorage, Mako Mori, saying that Isabelle had suggested she get in touch with him due to their shared interest in Jaeger design. Miss Mori's been tasked with overseeing a (currently under funded) Mark-3 restoration project. If all goes well, Gipsy Danger will be retrieved from Oblivion Bay and taken to Anchorage for repair and refit. Miss Mori is interested in Kurt's ideas.
Thus, they begin a regular correspondence, drafting and brainstorming and—as their work relationship grows—even daydreaming up a new Mark-6 project. Kurt sends her his CAD files, and she adds her own flourishes, modifications, and enthusiastic notes. Tentatively they name the Jaeger they're designing together Vector Neon. It starts looking like a machine that could exist in reality.
Then it's dinner, and then card games or trips to The Blue Rose or Skyping with his Dad and Carole or Mercedes. Or movie nights in the cafeteria. Or simply crashing early, because he rarely manages to sleep more than four hours at a time. His brain is too busy. The trips to the combat room in the small hours have become regular—three or four times a week. Life is good.
The first disruption to his routine comes about two weeks after his arrival, one absurdly early morning on the mat. He's finishing up, standing for a moment with his eyes closed, focused on his breathing, when gentle clapping comes from behind him. Kurt startles and turns. The flicker of fear is instant, but banished quickly. He hasn't forgotten where he is.
It's Blaine Anderson. "Sorry," Blaine says, and he raises his hands in the universal not-a-threat display. "I was passing by and saw you—you've got some nice moves."
Kurt blinks at the compliment. It's not that he's embarrassed, but he's aware of how much hand-to-hand combat training the Rangers get. He's not on the same level, and he doesn't need to be patronized. "I'm out of practice," he says. "I know this is pretty basic stuff."
The warmth and steadiness of Blaine's gaze remains unspecifically unsettling. Mostly, Kurt still doesn't know how to interact with Blaine. He becomes too self-conscious when Blaine's attention is on him. Too aware that Blaine is the first other openly gay man Kurt's met. Not that Kurt wishes to assume anything about Blaine's impressions of or intentions toward him. But he's never been looked at with this kind of frank appraisal by a man. "But you move well," Blaine says. "Strong and very precise." He sounds nothing if not wholly sincere.
"Thank you," Kurt says to the second compliment; it seems safe enough.
Blaine puts his hands on his hips and cocks his head. "So what brings a nice boy like you to a place like this at three a.m.?"
It's delivered with enough humor and self-awareness that Kurt's not sure if Blaine's actually flirting or just trying to be funny.
"Couldn't sleep," Kurt says, choosing a literal response. "Some nights I can't, and I just kind of need to move to get my brain to quiet down."
"I have a not dissimilar problem," Blaine says. "I'm on my way to the heavy bag." He makes a quick double punch to illustrate.
"Ah," Kurt says, unsure of how else to respond. Blaine is nice enough to look at with his sleep rumpled hair and casual white tank top, but Kurt looks at the floor.
After a silence long enough to rustle up discomfort, "Well," Blaine says slowly. "I'll let you get back to it then? Nice seeing you, Kurt."
Kurt looks up to watch Blaine leave the mat for the equipment room, "Likewise," he says lamely and too late, and he curses his own awkwardness.
The days pass, packed with learning and activity. On the run up to Romeo's next patrol—the second since Kurt's arrived—Kurt's assigned to help Daphne prep the Pons system in the Conn-Pod. It won't be part of his regular duties, but Cmdr Wright wants him to be familiar with all the systems. He's been looking forward to it all week, getting his hands on the more esoteric technology.
They run diagnostics on the Pons system and the Jaeger's AI; clean and replenish the neural relay gel; and go over the pilots' cradles, cleaning and lubricating, and making sure all the moving parts are in working order.
Kurt works on the left side—Finn's side—and can't banish his envy as his hands move over the mechanisms that merge the pilots' movements to that of the Jaeger. Each joint and gear, cool metal and smooth motion, has carried Finn into the fight. Which makes it an extension of Finn in a way. How well Kurt does this job is as important as all the others, but it's more personal. Daphne compliments him on the thoroughness of his work.
The last thing they do is check the levels of ambient radiation in the chamber. Daphne explains that though the shielding on the Mark-1 reactor has been improved, and the Conn-Pod is stored separately to minimize its exposure and saturation, they still have to monitor the levels carefully. "Quinn's overdue for a break," she says. "But she won't take one." It's a reminder that the Kaiju aren't the only dangers the Rangers face, particularly not in the first generation of Jaegers.
But recent setbacks, Kurt knows, have left the PPDC short on experienced pilots. A Jaeger like Romeo Blue, particularly with its service record, should have the downtime to be properly upgraded to a new power core, but with no new Jaegers to take up the slack—with fewer Jaegers standing—it's not just money that's lacking, it's time.
And as June draws to a close, Kurt can feel the creep of time tightening all around him, like a new skin on a drying drum head. Each day without a Breach Event draws the Shatterdome into a more acute awareness of the wait.
Every day, when Kurt leaves the hangar, he looks at the clock that tallies the days since the last Breach Event. Two months now without. It'll happen soon.
July is different. The time keeps ticking past, palpable and unsettling; the beat of each hour passes like the plink of a leaking faucet. Tick-tock, drip-drip. And so Kurt embraces the things he finds that do get him through the night.
Kurt continues waking sometime between 2 and 4 AM, dressing, and going down to the combat room to work through katas. Here, he has quiet and space. Sometimes the quiet is punctuated by the rhythmic thump-thuh-thump-thump of Blaine's fists hitting the heavy bag. But it's distant and separate—Blaine doesn't interrupt him again. It grows comforting, Blaine's presence. That somehow they're working in parallel, though they don't speak much beyond greeting each other when they pass in the locker room. It's a kind of silent, inferred connection, an increasingly easier one. Without Sam by his side, Blaine takes up space in a calmer manner. Kurt finds he prefers the nights Blaine is there to the ones he isn't.
And he discovers, they're not the only ones with nocturnal habits. The first time Kurt sees Quinn walking in the hall, her hair brushed loose around her ears and wearing a floor length green satin dressing gown with matching velour slippers. He says hello, she says hello, and that's it. He doesn't wish to disturb her night time walk. He doesn't see her every night he's up, and they never pause to speak. So it's a while before he understands, she's not simply walking, she has a destination: Finn's room.
Kurt catches her knocking lightly on Finn's door, hears the latch open, Finn's voice, warm and welcoming, and he turns away, quickens his step down the corridor to the elevator.
He's on edge when he gets to the mat. Tries to convince himself that he's not jealous. Or if he is jealous, he shouldn't be. He loves Finn, admires Quinn. They share something he can't understand. Whatever gets them through the night—that's valuable to them both and deserves his respect and acceptance.
Yet, he struggles to find focus and clarity. Tries to work through this distraction, tries to put it from his mind. The thoughts he can banish, but the uneasiness in his body is harder to shed. He pauses to catch his breath. Closes his eyes and listens to the even cadence of Blaine's punches. More grateful for them tonight than he's ever been. Opens his eyes and steps off the mat, goes into the gym to find the source of that steadiness.
"Um. Hi?" he says.
Blaine pauses, steadies the bag, and turns. His hair frames his face in damp curls, his cheeks are flushed, and his lips parted. His eyes widen. "Hey, Kurt," he says. "What can I do for you?" Blaine's not exactly smiling. Actually, he's not smiling at all; he looks too surprised. But his eyes and his body are open, asking Kurt as much as his words are. As if Blaine is here for Kurt, and he's just been waiting.
"I was wondering if—" The thought forms with the words. Kurt hasn't been wondering anything; he just followed an intuitive urge. "—you'd like to spar with me tonight?"
"Oh," Blaine says, brightens. He unstraps his gloves and picks up his towel. "I would."
Blaine unwinds the cotton wrap from his hands as they head to the mat. He rolls them up and sets them down on a bench. Wipes the sweat from his face, chest, and arms before loosely folding and placing his towel beside them. He takes off his shoes and socks, arranges them neatly under the bench.
Kurt catches himself staring and moves away, stepping on to the mat. He says, "It's been a while since I did this with anyone. The last guy I hit wasn't even practice."
"You don't need to hold back with me," Blaine says. He shakes out his arms and steps onto the mat facing Kurt. "I can take whatever you want to dish out."
Again, it sounds like Blaine's flirting with him, like this is a double entendre, like sparring is like sex. Blaine's smiling at him, like this is play. Like this is fun. It's never felt playful to Kurt. He's dumbfounded. Maybe this isn't a good idea.
Blaine must see his discomfort. "I don't know what kind of instruction you've had, but here, we're told, this kind of thing, between Rangers, it's a conversation, not a competition. We're not trying to hurt each other, but learn to work together. Give and take. Understand?"
"I'm not a Ranger," Kurt says.
Blaine shrugs. "You wanted to be, didn't you?"
It unnerves Kurt that Blaine knows this about him, when he knows relatively little about Blaine. Isn't sure he likes, either, that Finn talks about him to people Kurt doesn't know well. But the reflexive bristling, Kurt quashes. Blaine's not making fun of him. That he wanted to be a Ranger isn't a secret that needs to be kept here. He's not the only one.
"I did," Kurt says, and decides they've talked enough—with words anyway. He straightens and bows to Blaine to indicate his readiness to begin. "Shall we have a different conversation, then?"
"Do your worst," Blaine says, smiling. He falls into a fighting stance easily.
Kurt raises an eyebrow, lifts his chin. "I prefer to do my best," Kurt says archly.
"I'm sure you do," Blaine says, teasing. It's affectionate, not mean or mocking.
They begin. Blaine dodges Kurt's first punch, and Kurt blocks his reply. It's quickly clear that Blaine's style is different from his—a union of different fighting traditions—and Kurt always wondered what it would be like to face someone with different training. Over time, the uniformity in the dojo lent matches a certain kind of predictability. One of the reasons Kurt was able to leave it behind with fewer regrets. This is a new challenge. Refreshing.
They break apart after Kurt lands the first successful punch.
"Nice," Blaine says as they circle each other.
"You better not be letting me win."
"Not a chance," Blaine says, and he comes at Kurt.
Blaine is good—better than Kurt is, but, while he's not giving in to Kurt, he's not flaunting it. True to his word, they're conversing. It's like Blaine's letting Kurt find a rhythm. And Kurt is, himself, better than he expected to be. He hasn't had to think like this—in second by second tactical decisiveness, trusting his instincts and his body—for years now. It feels good. Better than good. As does the solid, concrete impact of each block and hit.
When they finish, Blaine having scored four hits to Kurt's three, Kurt's equally breathless, bruised, and elated. "Thank you," he says, as they step off the mat. "I really needed that."
Blaine looks at him for a long time with a direct gaze. Kurt makes himself meet it. It's not challenging, it's not even searching. It's just looking, like he wants to see Kurt. "Anytime," Blaine says.
"Sure," Kurt says, nods, and sits to pull his socks on. He'll shower in his room.
"I mean it," Blaine says. "This is more fun with a partner than it is solo, you know?" This time, Kurt detects no innuendo or potential flirtation.
Fun. Kurt thinks, maybe, yeah, it can be. Tonight, this was fun. "I'll make sure to look for you next time," Kurt says.
"Ditto," says Blaine.
July twenty-fourth, the waiting ends. The alarm goes off at 4:57 AM local. Kurt's only been asleep for an hour. He rolls out of bed on autopilot, well-trained from weekly drills. He sheds his pajamas—leaves them on the floor while he hauls on his coveralls and shoes. He heads directly down to the hangar. Hears the news on his way. A Category III Kaiju, Taurax, is headed for the Philippines. Davao City is its predicted destination.
Mammoth Apostle is ready to go. Romeo's got his chest open today, waiting for the installation of the rest of his new bones to better support his Peres cannons. Both the Shatterdome's Marshal Tibideaux and Cmdr Wright worked hard to find the funding. Searched under all the sofa cushions in the land, Cmdr Wright had joked, to be able to implement his old idea to better manage the heat issues. In truth, some of the funding came through legitimate channels: a continuing resolution, brought before congress by his father and a bipartisan group of colleagues, passed. It grants funds to the US arm of the Jaeger program in the absence of UN funding. They're making the most of the windfall.
And while they've got Romeo's chest cracked open, he's getting a heart transplant: the long overdue installation of a new nuclear core for Romeo's generator. It'll swap the original strontium for plutonium oxide. It means the thinner shielding will be more effective, and the Jaeger's power supply will operate both more powerfully and more efficiently. They're going to do both jobs while Romeo's down. They're just waiting on another shipment of the superalloy struts from Ohio and the delivery of the new core. The high level of security around nuclear materials makes it a slow process.
Kurt shouldn't feel as much relief as he does that it's Elliott and Dani heading to the Drivesuit room, while Quinn and Finn sit this one out.
Down in the hangar, the massive doors of Apostle's bay roll open. A scatter of small clouds hang in the brightly lit hangar, fat with the early morning's humidity. The ocean breeze is cool; the predawn sky the color of oxidized lead.
Distantly, Kurt hears the shuddering whine of the Jumphawks spinning up. He helps the team perform the final check of Apostle's systems. Chase has gone over it with him every day, so though this is his first time, he knows exactly where to be and what to do. Doesn't have to think too much, just act. Makes sure all the lines are detached and scaffolding retracted, hydraulics primed. LOCCENT announces the countdown to launch. The Conn-Pod drops down, locks into its spot between Apostle's shoulders with a series of explosive snaps like gunfire, and the Jaeger animates. Its arms move in the ritual gestures to confirm the pilots and machine are synced. It always surprised Kurt how gracefully the machines move.
"Neural Handshake complete," the Jaeger's AI reports.
Mammoth Apostle nods its broad head, gives a thumbs-up, and rotates to face the sea. The docking platform rolls out into the pregnant morning darkness, and the Jumphawk formation, all noise and navigation lights, descends with the Jaeger's harness.
Movement at Kurt's shoulder. He turns to see Blaine, serious-faced as he watches Apostle. Kurt can still feel an especially tender spot on his ribs from their match two hours ago. He raises his voice and leans in toward Blaine, "Did you manage any sleep?"
Blaine shakes his head, no. Kurt offers a sympathetic grimace. Together they watch Apostle's lift-off, the Jaeger's silhouette a barely discernible shadow against the western sky, its shape marked by its anti-collision lights, blinking along the Jaeger's edges like a connect-the-dots drawing.
"Coffee?" Kurt asks.
Blaine nods and flashes Kurt a glance and tight smile, but his attention returns to the retreating form of Apostle, as if reluctant to let it out of his sight. His body turns, but his head lags. Kurt supposes Blaine wants to be one of the pilots. It must be frustrating, being the back-up. Always a bridesmaid.
Lightly, Kurt touches Blaine's elbow, and Blaine comes with him to the cafeteria.
Once they're seated with their coffee steaming in their stainless steel mugs, "Are you okay?" Kurt asks him.
Blaine closes his eyes and ducks his chin. Opens his eyes and smiles with more vigor, looks more like himself. "Yeah," he says. "Fine. Just—"
"Dude!" Comes from behind Kurt. It's Sam. He comes around the table and drops down beside Blaine, his back to the table and Kurt. He claps a hand to Blaine's shoulder. "You have family in Mindanao?"
Oh. Kurt swallows a too large, too hot mouthful of coffee too fast, winces.
"No," Blaine says, softly. "But, someone does. And, you know..." Blaine trails off with a scowl and a shrug.
"Yeah," Sam says. "Bad memories. Yeah." And he leans against Blaine's shoulder. Blaine closes his eyes again and tips his head against Sam's.
Kurt is both curious and feels like an intruder. He stares down into his coffee and listens to the clanging of the cafeteria staff setting out the morning's hot breakfast. The smell of sausage spices and eggs mingles with the bitter coffee scent. Kurt empties his mug and considers heading back to his quarters to freshen up before he eats, now that he has the time. With Sam here, Blaine doesn't need his company.
"Hey?" Blaine says. He reaches across the table to touch Kurt's hand as Kurt braces himself to stand.
Kurt looks up.
"Thank you," Blaine says, smiles. His eyes are warm. "For the coffee."
Kurt lies in bed watching C-SPAN on his room's comm screen. His father's giving a floor speech, lauding the passage of the bill that's funding the North American Jaeger program through the end of the year, and asking for the inclusion of more money in the coming year's budget.
"This is a start," his Dad says, "A good one. My sons—you know my sons, one of them rides in Romeo Blue, the other helps keep 'im running—they tell me they're doing great things out there in LA, and up in Alaska too. They're hoping to bring Gipsy Danger back from the dead. How great would that be? Pretty great, I tell you.
But it's only a start. It's not enough. We all watched the news this week, saw how ANZAC's Striker Eureka took down that Category III monster, Taurax, like it was nothing. Saved one and half million people. Not a single casualty.
"Of course we all know it's not nothing, what these Jaegers and their crews do. We've seen our brave Rangers and their war machines fall to the claws and teeth of those monsters that keep coming, keep crawling up out of Hell like demons sent to destroy us all.
"So, it makes me wonder why we're content with having a dwindling corps of Jaegers around the world while the monsters keep getting bigger and stronger and smarter. Look at the news. You all know it's true. The tide is turning and we're just sitting on our collective ass with some kind of magical thinking, that a wall—a wall for God's sake—is going to keep us safe. Yeah. Really.
"Folks, I hate to break it to you, but a wall has never solved a problem. Even going back centuries to the last time a wall was actually useful—you know, the good old days of castles and knights and invading barbarians—the only thing a wall did was slow down the attackers long enough for someone else to come and save the town.
"Well, I'm telling you now—no one else is coming save us. The only people who can save this town is us and those brave Jaeger pilots taking the fight to the enemy. I say we ignore those who would have us cower behind walls in the vain hope that somebody else is going to come save us. Who's that supposed to be? Santa Claus?
"What I would like you all to consider is this: The best we've got shouldn't be a single four year old machine. Herc and Chuck Hansen—as excellent as they are—can't be everywhere at once with their one war horse. So I propose to you, that much like Australia and New Zealand did—independently of the UN funding schedule—we band together with our Pacific allies in North, South, and Central America and build a new American Mark-6 Jaeger.
"We've got the plans, we've got the people, and we've got the technology. All we need is the social and political will. I want to see funding the Mark-6 program a priority in this coming year's budget.
"Thank you. I yield the remainder of my time to the gentlewoman from Washington."
Kurt nearly gets on his feet and cheers.
Buoyed by the slow change in the political weather, Kurt helps complete the modest upgrades to Romeo Blue. The new structural lattice in Romeo's chest goes in with the upgraded core, and Romeo also gets a new loading system—at Miss. Mori's suggestion—to rapidly switch between ammunition belts. With more space in his chest, Romeo can carry more options, be flexible, adaptable.
And with his confidence boosted by his overnight sparring with Blaine, Kurt starts going to the combat room during the afternoons. First simply to watch and listen, and later, he accepts invitations to the mat to spar with others, accepts pointers and instruction from Brittany. Learns new moves.
The evenings are good too. For the first time in his life he has a group of friends. Even Sam, Kurt starts to appreciate. And there continues to be music. Not just karaoke at The Blue Rose (where Kurt cautiously begins to participate and finds an unexpected karaoke duet partner in Elliott), but impromptu jam sessions hosted in (usually) Dani and Elliott's shared quarters. Everyone brings snacks and drinks and pillows, and they crowd into the small space. Kurt usually perches on the top bunk between Quinn and Tina and they watch the procedings. Dani and Elliott usually start, with a guitar each. Someone nominates a musical style, and they run with it. Being Drift partners, their ability to improvise is astounding and uncanny. Then Sam or Blaine will start to sing—almost always humorous silly rhymes.
Brittany and Mike will dance, and Finn will drum on metal bowls and plastic cups with wooden chopsticks. Artie provides soulful back up. It lasts until there's too much laughter to carry on. And then it gets quiet, and they talk. Dani will curl up with Blaine and he'll braid her hair. Elliot will pass Sam his guitar and Sam will pick out gentle tunes to provide a soundtrack to the room's conversation.
No one talks about the future, that's maybe the strangest thing about it.
Kurt wonders if it's unreasonable for him to be this happy.
NOVEMBER 2022
November arrives and Kurt's's thinking about going back to Ohio for the holidays. It's been over a year since Finn's been home, and while Kurt understands that Rangers can't really afford time off, it'd be nice. It's been long enough since the last Breach Event, though, the Marshal is unlikely to grant Finn leave.
Then a Breach Event on the morning of the sixth. A Category III Kaiju codenamed Esceor heads up to St. Lawrence Island. Coyote Tango deploys from Tokyo. It arrives ahead of Cherno Alpha and Vulcan Specter and is destroyed with startlingly surgical precision by the Kaiju; both pilots die. Kurt feels like he's tempted fate by wishing for a clear month to go home with Finn.
The loss of Coyote Tango and her pilots casts a pall over everything. Romeo and Cherno are the last Mark-1's standing. No one says anything, that the next sortie for either Jaeger could well be its last.
There's a public memorial service in Japan, with a delayed translation into English overlaid on the audio. The prime minister gives the eulogy and it's piped through to every screen in the Shatterdome, from the biggest displays in the hangar to the small comm screens in every crew billet.
Days later, they watch live at The Blue Rose in silence, as Coyote's wreck is carried into Oblivion Bay. Stacker Pentecost, the surviving half of Coyote Tango's original team and Marshal of the Anchorage Shatterdome, is there. With the broken Jaeger as a backdrop, he gives a different kind of eulogy to Gunnar and Vic Tunari, as well as to the machine itself. He talks about his late co-pilot, Tamsin Sevier and the beginning of the Jaeger program. He speaks of the other Mark-1 pilots and the Jaegers that have fallen. Calls for renewed determination in the aftermath of loss. Calls for the public not to turn away, not to feel complacent, not to ignore the sacrifice or underestimate what still must be done. "Lest we forget," he thunders, "the sacrifices of these brave Rangers who keep the monsters from our shores. We in the PPDC will continue to stand and we will continue to fight with all we have. To do anything less would be a dishonor to those who have fallen."
That evening, Kurt's hands are numb as he works on Romeo. He has to keep this Jaeger safe, for Finn, for Quinn, for the people they're protecting. For their family, for himself. He skips combat class and dinner. Keeps working, going over systems, over and over, finding the smallest variances outside perfect, repairing things that don't, technically, need repairs. Optimizing everything he's able to. Making this Jaeger as perfect as it can be. The tension and worry knot at the base of his skull and behind his eyes, a monster of a headache creeping upon him. He can't afford it. He reaches for his water bottle, but it's empty. He digs two red gel capsules out of the pill box in his breast pocket, swallows them down, dry and sticky.
It's well after nine PM when Finn brings him a tray from the cafeteria. The smell of the tepid food sours his stomach. "You need to take a break," Finn says from the door of the Conn-Pod. "You need to eat something."
Kurt knows they're running out of time, shakes his head. Finn grabs his hand, takes the inspection camera out of it. "Please?" Kurt looks at him. Sees Finn's eyes are red-rimmed and the lines of his mouth and brow are worried, sad.
Kurt stiffly unfolds his legs and stands. Finn helps him up. His head throbs painfully. Finn's probably right. "Okay," he says. Another Kaiju won't be coming through the Breach today.
"Some of us were planning to go down to the beach tonight, light some candles, say some words about Gunnar and Vic—kind of an impromptu wake, I guess. Do you want to come?"
Kurt shakes his head. He didn't know Coyote's Rangers or fight beside them or work on their Jaeger. "No, you go without me."
"Nah, Quinn'll be fine with the others. You and me can stay in together. I have an idea."
They end up in Finn's quarters, sitting side by side on Finn's bed, eating partially frozen cheesecake bars, drinking cocoa spiked with Frangelico-which Finn has because in Alaska it was a popular addition to hot drinks to warm up after training in the cold-and watching Disney's Beauty and the Beast "I've missed this," Kurt says.
"Me too," Finn replies, and he puts an arm around Kurt, pulls him against his side.
Kurt stiffens for a moment, and then, slowly, muscle by muscle, relaxes into Finn's embrace, and eventually drifts to sleep there.
Kurt's phone buzzes with a text while he's on his way to breakfast. It's from Mako: "Kurt! Check your email!"
He does and nearly walks into a wall. Funding for the Mark-6 is a go. They'll be laying her keel in Anchorage by the end of the year.
"OH MY GOD!" he texts back. She replies with a champagne toast emoji.
Quinn comes to lunch one afternoon with her eyes shot with red. She sits as straight as ever and tells them the news calmly, without so much as a quaver in her voice. At her routine physical, the doctor found a mass in her lungs. "It's not because of the cigarettes," she says, forcing a smile, but no one laughs. Quinn's being dismissed, with high honors, from her PPDC service to begin her cancer treatment.
Finn—and Romeo Blue—will need a new pilot.
That evening, after dinner, Kurt's on his way to his room to change clothes—they're heading to The Blue Rose tonight, a farewell for Quinn. She catches up with him outside the door to his quarters. She's swapped her flight jacket for a navy blue cardigan. It's wool with delicate rosette patterns across the breast. She wears it over a taupe, blue, and yellow plaid dress with a tailored bodice and a knee length A-line skirt. Cream tights and dark brown, lace-up ankle boots with a wedge heel complete her outfit. She looks young, like a schoolgirl.
But her gaze is as unflinching as always, and carries too much knowledge of pain for anyone to mistake her for a schoolgirl. "This may sound crazy," she says, "but hear me out, please."
"I'm listening," Kurt says.
"I want to nominate you as one of my potential replacements. Finn's agreed."
Shock freezes his feet to the floor, his hand on his doorknob. "What?" Kurt asks.
She doesn't repeat herself. "I understand your incredulity," she says, "but I want you to seriously consider it."
Serious consideration is quick and leads to just one possible conclusion: "I can't do it," Kurt tells Quinn a few hours later. They're sitting at the bar, just the two of them, a wooden bowl with a few broken pretzels littering its bottom sits between them. At the other end of the counter, Millie is pouring a tray of shots, equal parts bourbon and amaretto.
Quinn rolls her eyes at him and places a cigarette between her lips. She speaks around it. "At least sleep on it before making up your mind." She lights up.
"No, I can't. Quinn, I'm sorry, but even if I had the training—"
"I've seen you fight. You know the Jaeger as well as anyone, and better than most. More than that, you know Finn. So what exactly do you think you're lacking?" she asks him.
"Experience." It's true, but it's not the reason he's declining, so it feels like he's lying. He sets his jaw with determination.
She flicks an eyebrow up and tilts her head dismissively. "In this business, everyone lacks that at first. Finn would bring enough for the both of you, and you would learn quickly with him. He's got, not just his own experience, but mine and Santana's-even some of David's. It forms a kind of aggregate over time, in the Drift."
"You don't understand. I can't go into the Drift with Finn."
She looks at him, takes a long drag from her cigarette. The tip flares and burns to ash, starts to crumble before she can tap it off in the ashtray. She exhales the smoke slowly and blinks at him like a cat. "I believe you can. I'm confident the two of you are compatible, and that's the most important factor."
"It's not that," Kurt says. "Surely Sam or Blaine—"
"Are not likely to be nearly as compatible with Finn. They're good together, but needlessly separating a pair of pilots with their level of Drift rapport would be foolish. They could pilot Romeo together, sure. They likely will take a few patrols with him while Finn selects a new co-pilot, but you know as well as I do that the preference is always for a Ranger team with at least one combat experienced pilot going into an actual fight. Finn will get a new co-pilot, and I believe the best option is you."
"I'm not," Kurt says. "Please believe me. I can't be."
"Self-doubt doesn't suit you." she says.
"You don't know what you're talking about."
"Then what is it? A secret? Something you're ashamed of or scared of?"
Kurt goes cold, and then he goes too hot. He can't meet her eyes.
"You shouldn't doubt Finn either," she says. "He loves you, more than you can likely imagine. I've felt it in him. There's nothing you could do or say that will change that. And I know you love him too."
Kurt nods. Can't speak. Sips his drink—a Dirty Shirley tonight, with cherry Heering and vodka added to the usual ginger ale and grenadine. Millie still gives him extra cherries. Seven bob in his glass. It's not an omen. Lucky Seven lies in Oblivion Bay, but Herc Hansen still fights, piloting Striker Eureka with his son, Chuck. Kurt can't remember what happened to Herc's brother. Scott, was it? He was dismissed from the PPDC, no reason ever given publicly. Kurt wonders if it was something like a mass in his lung. The world is strange and cruel. Kurt concentrates on breathing evenly to slow his galloping heart.
When she speaks again, Quinn's tone is gentler, and she lays her hand over his forearm. Her short fingernails are painted the same color taupe as the color in her dress. "Maybe you think you love him too much, is that what you're afraid of?"
He blinks and bites into his bottom lip. Not a conversation he expected to be having. Definitely not with Quinn. He bows his head: it's the closest to an acknowledgement he can make.
"It's not a bad thing, if you do."
Kurt frowns, confused.
"Love," Quinn clarifies. "It's what makes the Drift strongest."
Fighting with love. He's heard other Rangers say similar things in interviews. He assumed it was romanticization of a necessary, psychologically uncomfortable process. Maybe it's more than that. "That's why you and he, uh."
She nods. "When you share the Drift with someone often, it can be hard to be apart from them, or hard to be alone. Sometimes the connection lingers, and it feels..." She closes her eyes. "When it's good, it's a kind of safety, and a longing. For me anyway. I never wanted to let go." Her smile turns self-deprecating. "It wasn't always sex."
Of course he suspected, but hearing her say it so frankly, he blushes. The tacit implications of what she's telling him don't cohere. The intimations aren't soothing or persuasive. He couldn't tolerate—
"There's no need to be jealous," Quinn says. "I care about your stepbrother, and he loves me in the way he loves people, but I know now, he's not for me."
"I'm not jealous," Kurt says quietly. "I'm not anything. I just can't do it. Finn is too important to me."
"If that's true, then you'll want him to have the best person possible at his side, and I believe that could be you." Her eyes are suddenly bright with unspilled tears. Her lipstick color has worn off, pink smudges around the rim of her wineglass. Her bare lips twist. "It's not like I want to be asking you to do this, Kurt. I wanted so much to be his Juliet," she says, and Kurt knows she's talking about Romeo as much as she's talking about Finn. "It matters to me that Finn has the best person possible at his side. Right up till the end. I wanted it to be me."
"I'm sorry," Kurt says.
"Don't be," she says, and she smiles tremulously, and something more peaceful glows in her eyes. "But I think—I hope—this may be better. I'm going home for treatment. I'll be with my sister and her family. I'll see Beth."
Now that he's here, Kurt's not entirely sure he should be. Dr. Emma Pillsbury, PPDC Psychologist, sits in a blue wingback chair with a tablet and stylus in her lap. Her orange skirt and yellow cardigan are the brightest colors he's seen in the Shatterdome. A large enamel daisy is pinned at her throat. "Please, Kurt. Have a seat," she says, looking up at him with brown eyes so large they'd look more at home on an anime character. He hasn't seen a counselor since he was a child.
He sits down on the sofa opposite the chair. A teddy bear is tucked into the corner next to him. A therapeutic prop no doubt. He tries smiling. Dr. Pillsbury smiles back.
"You understand this is an informal session, Kurt? I'm not evaluating you today."
"Yes, I understand."
"All right, then," she says. "I understand you're having difficulty with a decision."
"Everyone wants me to put myself forward to pilot Romeo Blue with Finn, and I don't think I can."
"Okay, first of all, tell me who everyone is," she says.
It's not as bad as Kurt feared, talking with Emma (she insists he use her first name). Her kindness is genuine, and she's easy to talk to. As they speak, she helps him to rediscover his old ambition, put to bed so many years ago now, to pilot a Jaeger. The opportunity is before him. How has fear overwhelmed his excitement at that? "Being a Ranger used to be the only thing I wanted to do with my life," he admits.
"It sounds to me," Emma says in the second half of their hour, "that your reluctance has little to do with your confidence in your abilities or your desire to fight."
She's not wrong, and Kurt can't find new ways of trying to express reservations without telling her the truth: "I've been in love with Finn since I was thirteen. I'm scared of what will happen if we Drift together and he finds out."
Emma nods solemnly, and she offers no judgement, only a question: "What's the worst thing you can imagine happening?"
"He'll be angry and disgusted and never want to speak to me again."
She keeps nodding. "And, as well as you know Finn, how likely do you think it is that he would respond that way?"
Kurt bows his head. "Not very. Quinn did tell me I was wrong to doubt him."
"One factor that can make it challenging for two people to become Drift partners," Emma says, "and it's well documented in the literature, is unresolved sexual shame. Feeling guilty for those kinds of feelings."
"Really?"
"Even Caitlin Lightcap and Sergio D'Onofrio in the earliest days of the program struggled with this issue. You're not alone."
"They piloted the prototype, Brawler Yukon, together, killed the first Kaiju."
"Yes they did."
"Okay," Kurt says. He remembers something else Quinn told him, about Blaine having unrequited feelings for Sam. Clearly, it hasn't harmed their partnership.
"It's not insurmountable," Emma says. "Especially not between two people who are as close as you and Finn. Would you like some advice?"
"Sure, why not?"
"Tell Finn how you feel before you make a decision. That way you get to do it on your own terms."
"We're going home for Thanksgiving," Kurt says. "Maybe I can find an opportunity then."
"That sounds like a wonderful idea, Kurt. At home, where you'll both be feeling safe and relaxed. Getting away from the urgency of the Shatterdome will benefit you both."
Returning to Lima, the town is so small and stagnant. It's like he's been gone for a lifetime and somehow traveled back in time. They drive past the old Dairy Queen on the way home from the airport. It's closed for the winter. The same faded posters hang in the windows, and nearby, the same shabby hair salon sits shuttered and vacant. It all feels disconnected from his life. Familiar but alien.
"They say you never really can come home," Finn says.
"Yeah," Kurt says. "It's so weird."
Yet, pulling into the driveway in their rental car, the comfort returns. Home is still home, and here, Kurt does notice differences, like the magnolia they planted the first spring Carole and Finn lived with them has doubled in size, and the curtains in the front window are new.
His Dad and Carole come out the front door with big smiles and laughter and hugs. "Oh my gosh, you're really here. Look at you both!" Carole says.
It's a lentil 'meatloaf' for dinner. His Dad explains he and Carole are trying a vegan diet ("But don't worry, we're still having turkey!") to keep his heart healthy. It's just as good as Kurt's memory of her traditional recipe, and the mushroom gravy on the mashed potatoes is delicious. The spinach and orange salad is new, and there's no sign of macaroni and cheese. Dessert is a chocolate silk pie made with tofu.
After dinner, they sit around the coffee table with hot spiced cider and play a game of Clue. Emma was right. By the time Finn's declaring that it was Mrs. Peacock with the wrench in the ballroom, the urgency of the Shatterdome is remote, and the comfort of home surrounds him.
Still, it takes Kurt until the night before Thanksgiving to wrangle his courage. It's after eleven when he goes upstairs and knocks on Finn's door.
"Come in," Finn calls out.
So Kurt lets himself in. Finn's on his bed, tapping through something on his tablet. Kurt looks at the walls. Remembers rolling on the Cool Aqua paint, roughly this time of year, back when the feeling he intends to confess was new. He'd come out to his Dad in this room. Perhaps this is the right place for such disclosures. "What's up?" Finn asks.
"I need to tell you something," Kurt says. "It's important."
"Okay." Finn sits up, puts his tablet face down on the mattress, and gestures for Kurt to join him. "Let's talk."
Kurt shakes his head. "Thank you, but no. It's not really a conversation. I just need to say something, so you know it."
"All right," Finn says, frowns in confusion.
Kurt takes a breath. "Do you remember how we met?"
Finn's frown deepens. "I thought you said this wasn't a conversation?"
"It's a rhetorical question." It comes out snippier than Kurt means it to.
"Why are you mad at me?"
"I'm not," Kurt says, and he hears it in his voice. He does sound angry—defensive anyway. Why can't he be softer in a moment like this? He's feeling like a child again, here, in this room, with these familiar feelings so far out of his control. Maybe it's not the right place. But he's already committed himself this far. He takes a breath and makes himself lower his voice. "I'm not. I'm mad at myself. I'm sorry. Let me try again."
Finn pulls his legs into a loose cross. "The parking lot at school," Finn says. "That's how we met."
"I know," Kurt says, and maybe it's the way Finn's smiling at him, fond with the shared memory, but Kurt does feel softer then. The events of the memory are not worthy of affectionate recollection, but their first meeting is. "Ever since then," Kurt says. "Since that day, I've been in love with you."
Finn's frown vanishes, but Kurt can't tell what that means. "Okay," Finn says.
It seems too easy, so Kurt adds, "I don't mean like a friend or like a brother."
A huff of laughter from Finn. "Yeah, I get that."
"You're not... mad?"
"Why would I be?"
"Disappointed?"
Finn shakes his head. "Definitely not. Maybe... more, kind of, relieved?"
"Relieved?" Kurt blinks at him.
"Yeah," Finn says. "Will you come sit down now?" He pats the bed, and—oh, god—that's too much, to even think about being physically that close now.
"Um?" Kurt says. In his chest, his heart feels like the cubes of Jell-o in the fruit salad Finn's Aunt Mellany and Uncle Dan will be bringing tomorrow.
"Were you planning on telling me that and just leaving?" Finn asks. When Kurt hesitates to answer, Finn shakes his head and teases. "A rhetorical question."
"I didn't think you'd want me to stay," Kurt says. "May I sit in the chair?" He waves his hand toward the armchair next to Finn's desk.
"Sure."
Kurt sits, crosses his legs and arranges his hands in his lap. None of his mental rehearsals got him this far. He didn't expect Finn to receive the news with this level of comfort. "Why are you relieved?" he asks.
"Because it means I didn't imagine it."
"Wait..." Kurt says slowly. "Are you telling me you knew how I felt about you?"
"Suspected, maybe, a few times?" Finn says. "But, for a long time, especially when we were younger, it seemed... wrong to assume."
"The times you suspected," Kurt asks, curiosity outweighing tact, "Did it bother you?"
"No," Finn says. "When you were still a kid, I thought it was sweet. You kept insisting you didn't want a boyfriend, so I figured it wasn't anything serious. Some little crush. I don't know. I liked that you liked me. It made it easy to get you to smile, and you were always so serious, I figured you needed to smile more."
That seems reasonable. "And later?" Kurt asks.
"Later..." Finn's voice goes softer, quieter. "The way I'd catch you looking at me. It made me feel, um." Finn flushes pink. "Really good? Sometimes I'd wonder."
"That night in your truck," Kurt says.
"Watching the Perseids?"
"Yes," Kurt moistens his lips. "The way you looked at me when—" And oh, god, is he crying?
"You said you'd settle for a kiss from a boy who cared about you."
Kurt nods and wipes his eyes with his sleeve cuff.
"I did think about it," Finn says.
Kurt tries to swallow the sob that breaks in his chest. He wasn't wrong. He hugs himself and closes his eyes. He feels immensely sad, and he doesn't know why. "Why didn't you?" he asks.
"I couldn't be sure. Whether you really did have feelings for me, and if you did, whether I could mean it the way you'd want me to if I did it. I mean, I liked girls—I like girls. I thought I was straight, so it's not like I wasn't confused, and I knew you'd never want my pity, no matter how well-intentioned. And plus, we're stepbrothers, which I know is technically not, like, actual incest, but it's still—"
"Weird?"
"Yeah, weird," Finn says. "And I was leaving, so it could only have been a mistake, I figured. So I didn't."
"All of that was going through your head?" Kurt asks.
"Shocking, I know."
Kurt laughs and sniffs. "I had no idea."
They share a comfortable silence. The shift of things between them is a palpable skew on Kurt's reality. A whole new perspective through which to filter his past as well as process his present. The future, he won't dare touch.
"Did you ever get that kiss?" Finn asks him.
"No," Kurt says, and it comes out too sharp and too rough. The sickly wash of memory of the one kiss he did get turns his stomach cold. Fresh tears swamp his vision, and he shakes his head. "No. I got a very different kind of first kiss."
"Hey," Finn says, concerned. He slips off the bed and drops down to kneel in front of Kurt. "What happened?"
"Karofsky," Kurt grits out. "He cornered me in the bathroom, and he—"
"He kissed you? That's why you kicked his ass?"
Kurt nods and covers his face with his hands.
Finn swears, bitterly and colorfully. "Why didn't you tell me?"
"I didn't want you to worry or think I couldn't take care of myself."
Finn rubs Kurt's shoulders. "Hey," he says. "Look at me."
Slowly Kurt unpeels his hands from his face. Finn looks almost stern. "None of us is an island," Finn says. And then, one at a time, he takes Kurt's wrists and draws them apart. He lets go and touches Kurt's face, wipes the tears from Kurt's cheeks with his thumbs. "Okay?"
Finn looks into his eyes and smiles until Kurt smiles back, nods, and replies, "Okay."
And then Finn's leaning up and he's looking at Kurt's mouth and moving his hand to cradle Kurt's jaw and—
"No," Kurt says softly, but alarmed. "Please. Don't." He pushes Finn gently back.
Finn looks confused. "No?"
"No," Kurt says and he shakes his head. More tears come.
"I just..." Finn says, a little helpless, a little chagrined. "Wanted to make a better memory for you."
"I appreciate that," Kurt says. "I do. But it's too much, and you can't just do something like that. You have to be sure."
"Okay," Finn says, smoothing his palms down Kurt's arms over and over to soothe. "Okay. How about a hug instead?"
"Yeah," Kurt says, and Finn pulls him into his arms. Kurt feels small and limp. He can't stop crying.
Finn rubs his back and says, "Man, that must've been a lot of onions."
And just like that, Kurt's laughing instead of sobbing. Laughing with the tears and feeling so grateful and so off kilter and so very very tired. Eventually he disentangles himself from Finn's embrace, wipes his eyes and smiles. "Thank you," he says. "But I'm going to go to bed now."
"Yeah, big day tomorrow," Finn says.