Peter Anderson had readily agreed to spend the night, Carole had given him pillows and a blanket for the couch, and Finn and Carole had each gone to their own rooms to leave them with some privacy. But for her, the bedroom was too empty. Each creak in the house or other little sound made her think that Burt was coming up the stairs to join her. His feet were always so cold when he got into the bed and he always made that soft half-grunt, half-sigh as his head hit the pillow and she always rested her hand on his hip, which was so perfectly shaped for it.
Tears leaked from her eyes again as she imagined him awake, thinking of her, missing her, missing their nights together. She was physically longing for him as well, hungry for the intimacy of kisses, hands and lips and eyes absorbing each other, opening entirely to him and feeling him inside her. Was he feeling the same hunger and same despair? Hope could be a terrible thing when it offered itself only elusively.
There was a tiny, tentative knock at the door; her heart seemed to jump into her throat before she recognized it as a knock and not the door opening. She got up and opened the door. Finn was there, looking even more miserable than he had during the day.
"I wasn't sure if you were awake," he began, and she interrupted, "I couldn't sleep, either, come on in, sweetheart."
"I'm so scared, Mom. I want to try to be strong and keep thinking of ways we can get them back, but it feels like the only thing I'm really doing is missing them and being scared. What if we don't see them again, even with Peter helping us? It took him years to find Blaine. Something might happen to them before we can..." He sat on the bed just like he had when he was younger.
The answer she'd given herself to the same question didn't satisfy her, but it was all she had to offer. "If we don't, we'll find ways to go on. It won't ever stop hurting, it never does, and we'll never forget them or stop wanting them back, but we do go on. I did it after your father died. I could do it and I know that you can, too."
She could see that the words were just as empty to him. "Yeah, but you hadn't lost two people then. We've lost both of them, and that's even worse."
"I wish I could say that it isn't, baby. But then every time I wanted to give up, I looked at you and saw how much you needed me and how you'd just light up when you saw me, you'd grin and hold your arms up. We've still got each other, Finn, and we have friends and other people who care and who will help us. We're never as alone as we feel, sometimes, we just don't always see the people who are around us and loving us and helping us."
Kurt thought that he had been lonely before, but his isolation at school had been trivial by comparison, a paper cut versus an amputation. Even in the moments when he'd felt doubts about coming out to his father, he knew he had Mercedes; if his dad had kicked him out or rejected him, she would have insisted that he stay with her, encouraged him, wouldn't have let him feel alone. But now his world was confined to a cell and his limited human contact to the people who were preparing him for sale like a groomer might prepare a dog or a horse.
He'd been afraid before, too, when cornered by bullies, but even then, he knew that it would go only so far. But now he was terrified, for himself and for his father. The staff had asked him questions about his medical history. If they asked his dad about his, would they decide that his dad's heart condition meant that he wouldn't be profitable? Had he maybe already been killed for his other organs? At his last checkup, the doctor had said that the rest of him was in good shape, his kidney and liver functions were just fine, his lungs were good. Or had his dad had another heart attack?
Kurt had pleaded for news of his father every time he saw somebody. Most of them just shrugged, one or two bothered to say that he was probably in some other facility.
He was terrified for himself, too. The very best he could hope for was to be the proverbial bird in a gilded cage. But for that, he'd have to pretend to be docile, grateful, and probably affectionate or even loving. Could he even make himself do that?
Even now, he hated having to pretend to be resigned to what was going to happen to him, to have decided that cooperating was in his best interest. He could tell that he had no realistic chance of escaping from where he was now. The wall of his cell that held the door was a one-way mirror and when they took him out for anything, he saw that there was always a guard walking up and down the long hallway, looking in each cell as he passed. As far as Kurt could guess, it took him about twelve minutes, but even if he found a way out of the cell during the interval, he had no realistic way of finding his way out. But he might find a chance later and he had to keep hoping that and working to it. Right now, that meant making sure that they didn't expect trouble from him.
He knew that he was going to be sold soon. That morning, he'd been brought out to a room where three people were waiting for him, a photographer/make-up artist and two people who were writing a description of him for an auction catalog.
The only things he'd liked about his shape was that it was healthy and could wear couture and for his face, he only liked his complexion. His eyes were too watery, his eyebrows were too light, his mouth was too pointy, his hips were pear-shaped, and his hair color verged on mousy. Those were the things he saw when he looked in the mirror and let himself be critical.
But the way that they talked to one another about him as they took the photographs and wrote the description was entirely different from his own self-talk. They praised his legs, eyes, complexion, and hair, and after they made him take off his clothing, even the rest of him. They talked about him as though he wasn't even capable of listening, except when they gave him an order, "Sit there." "Turn to the right." "Take your clothing off." "Get onto that bed and lie down." "Stop that crying and go wash your face at the sink."
He had to wait in the room while they finished the description and heard them occasionally trying a phrase out loud or working together to get the wording right. The part of him that could still comment cynically on the world around him noted that in any other context, hearing those kinds of words about him would have been so gratifying that he'd have remembered them with pleasure for months. "You'd be hard put to find a more graceful sculpture..elegantly shaped...slender body, pure coloring, eyes more meant to look into than to see with, agile and flexible, as you can see on the videos from his performances...a rarity, sure to become one of your most prized possessions with a delight for every sense."
Back in his cell, after letting himself cry out his fear and humiliation and anger, he reminded himself that he could do this, he could get through this with his head held high and never resigning himself to being a slave. He had to remember something Carole told him: Sometimes in your life they will piss on you and you can't do much to stop it, but never let them make you believe it's just raining.
Peter turned over again on the couch. It was perfectly comfortable for a night's sleep, but his thoughts were far less so. He had already called the detective firm and got them onto finding the Hummels and called Monica, his Director of Special Projects, and told her that he'd found Blaine and could even legally bring him back home so he didn't even need the documents she'd made up, but that he'd need different sets of papers for at least two more people. He'd need one set documenting purchases of a father and son, another set of papers for a free father and son, and yet another for two unrelated people. He'd also need her to set up additional funds ready to transfer in case he was able to buy the Hummels openly.
Bless her, she had responded with a heartfelt burst of gratitude, including tears, that he had found Blaine and that he was recovering from his ordeals, and a lengthy scolding that despite her mature beauty and intelligence she was not actually an omnipotent goddess and did he really think that she was capable of doing all that in twelve hours and why did he hate her that he was trying to kill her? She ended by calling him "Mr. Anderson" and added a reminder, in case he needed one, that she only called him that when he was at his most unreasonable. He'd felt tremendous relief at her outburst, since it meant that she was already mentally on the task and talking to blow off tension. She was only silent and non-abusive when she truly thought she couldn't do something. For a woman who had never even had a parking ticket in her fifty-five years of life, she had a remarkable flair for forgery, lies, and plotting.
It was the detective work that worried him. Admittedly, his brother's murder and Blaine's enslavement were political acts and so more covered up than usual, but it had still taken years and several different approaches. There wouldn't be much of a data trail at all since Kurt and Burt Hummel were newly enslaved and slaves were never sold by names, only numbers, which were randomly generated at each point of sale. This allowed for more "discretion" in purchases and protected the buyers' privacy, so nobody would know if a politician who claimed Christian monogamy regularly purchased nubile youngsters, or if a business leader who said that Buddhist temperance and mercy was his underlying principle in life and business had a high mortality rate among his slaves, or if somebody who publicly condemned child slavery as the fault of religion only bought children.
Still, finding Burt Hummel would be the lesser challenge. As a mechanic, he'd likely be sold for a moderate price locally and might immediately be added to a company's asset sheets. The firm had said that they'd start searching those at once and start other investigations in Ohio and the adjoining states. They were already searching auction online listings and private sale catalogs.
Kurt Hummel would be far more difficult to find, and to Peter's dismay, Blaine had blushed and been flustered when he talked about Kurt, in a way he hadn't when he spoke of Finn, Burt, or Carole. The additional depth there wasn't just gratitude to the one who had found and saved him and brought him home. He'd guessed early on that Blaine was homosexual and when he was sure of it now, he was upset only because most of Blaine's owners had been men and the hell that sex had been would inevitably mean some trauma when he fell in love and love became physical. But if they couldn't find Kurt before he was sold to somebody who used him sexually and if that user were a man, it would hurt Blaine even more. If they found Kurt and he returned Blaine's feelings, then as poetic as the thought of the two of them healing one another was, the reality would probably be far messier.
His thoughts not allowing him peace, he disentangled his legs from the blanket and walked over to Blaine's door. It was open enough that he could watch him sleeping and as he did so, he reminded himself that no matter what, he'd still found his nephew and that when Blaine had needed it most, he'd found kindness and love.
AN:
What would you like to have happen now? I have about three different scenarios roughed out in my head but none of them is presenting itself as the one, so it's up to you all.
Are Kurt and Burt both rescued? If Kurt is rescued, is it before or after he's sold? Do the Hudmels end up leaving with Peter Anderson and Blaine (if the rescue is illegal, for example), or do they stay in Lima? If they stay, does Blaine choose to stay with Kurt or to leave with his uncle?
