The apartment was chaotic.

"Why do we always end up with three pairs of socks without mates after we do laundry?" Blaine was hopping on one foot, tugging on the lonely aforementioned sock. He rooted through the drawer, but the matching one was nowhere to be found.

"Sock Troll; lives in the dryer. Real bastard," Kurt quipped; he was in as much of a rush as his counterpart, "Wear a different pair; you'll never find the other one. It's gone forever."

"Pessimist," Blaine glanced over his shoulder at him as he peeled the sock off.

"Realist," Kurt corrected. He glanced at the clock, "and realistically, I am going to be so late for this audition."

"Realistically you could have chosen not to come back to bed this morning." Blaine replied mildly, expertly knotting his tie in the bathroom mirror.

"Technically I never left bed; somebody pinned me to the mattress and had his way with me," Kurt threw Blaine a scowl over his shoulder as he flitted from the room to find his sketchpad. If the production team didn't like his acting, he was banking on them at least being interested in his costume designs, "You're like a very horny, naughty leprechaun."

"I'm going to ignore the possibility that that was a jab at my height and assume it was related to the fact that it's St. Patrick's Day. And maybe, it being said holiday, I just can't help myself," Blaine replied. He twisted around and pulled Kurt's back against him; running slow hands along his sides until he had his fingertips pressed into his thighs. He laid a hot, wet kiss just behind his ear.

Kurt melted into the contact for just a moment. Instinctively, his hand reached around to the small of Blaine's back, pressing him closer. But then he could feel the knot of Blaine's tie between his shoulder blades and he remembered they had places they need to be, "Blaine, stop that right now. You're not even Irish—you're Italian."

"I'm a little bit Irish," Blaine mumbled, his teeth grazing the edge of Kurt's ear.

Kurt couldn't stifle the moan; he quickly caught himself and shoved at Blaine to get away, "Do not do the ear thing; that's just mean."

"I thought you liked that," Blaine raised an eyebrow; straightened his tie.

"Correction, I love that, and you know better than to use my weaknesses to your advantage. We need to be on time today."

"You're absolutely right," Blaine bobbed his head quickly.

"Don't mock me." Kurt snapped; he snatched a gauzy scarf from the closet and slipped it around his neck.

"I would never dream of it," Blaine replied coolly, "I am merely in awe of how punctual you are. It's really an admirable trait; résumé worthy, even."

"Blaine, I mean it," Kurt snarled, glowering at his fiancé's reflection in the mirror.

Blaine straightened up from where he was leaning in the doorway; smirking, "What's the matter, am I upsetting you?"

"You know damn well that you are totally pissing me off," Kurt gave the scarf around his neck one last adjustment, "I hate when you do that teasing thing."

"Do you hate when I do the teasing thing because you're offended?" Blaine took a few steps into the bathroom, "Or do you hate it because it gets you so hot and bothered that you really, really want to fuck me right now."

"Blaine." Kurt clenched his fists, his voice one flat warning note. But it was true: he was beyond sexually frustrated, but he was also beyond determined to not let Blaine know that.

"I'm not saying you would," Blaine held up both hands, feigning innocence; he made to turn away but then paused, "that might mean making you late, and, like I said, your punctuality is absolutely breathtaking."

That did it. Kurt wheeled around to smack a hand against Blaine's chest. He gave him a good hard thwack, but then he was unbuttoning his shirt so fast he was pretty sure he just sent one of those little pearl-colored buttons flying through the air to some desolate corner of the bathroom where it would remain as lost as Blaine's missing socks. He crushed his mouth against Blaine's; not really caring that he couldn't quite catch his breath.

Blaine was faster and more agile. Kurt's shirt was off, the scarf abandoned on the floor, and his skintight black jeans were already being slipped down off his hips.

"Blaine, we really, really don't have time for this," Kurt panted, but it was only out of habit that he spoke at all. He knew he had no hope of walking away.

"So we'll make it quick," Blaine murmured into his neck. He traced kisses down his clavicle, his chest. He sank to his knees and took up the trail right where he left off: the base of his sternum, his abdomen; the exposed line of his hip.

"Blaine, you need this interview, you need—" Kurt had no idea why he was even pretending he thought he could stop Blaine once he's decided he wants something.

"I need you," Blaine replied; a lascivious smirk played at his mouth as he ran a finger along the edge of Kurt's underwear, "And in case you'd forgotten, Mr. Hummel; I am very good at what I do… and you have always been so very, very timely."

Kurt was late to the point that he showed up at his audition panting for breath, his hair disheveled, and one boot untied. He dropped his sketchbook down by the door and a copy of his resume and headshot on the table in front of the casting director and the other two men at the little folding table, "Sorry I'm late—I um… sorry."

The casting director looked him over; his expression bored, "Go ahead then."

Kurt did his best to even out his breathing; smooth his hair with a quick rake of his fingers through the tangled locks. Frazzled or not, he delivered his lines perfectly. He and Blaine had practiced until they were drilled into his head without any hope of escape.

The rooms other occupants did not look particularly impressed. Kurt contemplated dropping his drawing portfolio down on the table to show off before he was shoved out the door.

"Any particular reason you're so late—" the man on the left picked up his résumé to squint at, "Mr. Hummel?"

"I, um… couldn't find my socks?" Kurt wanted to take the words back the second they were out of his mouth. He was Kurt Hummel, the Queen of witty remarks and scathing commentaries, and all he could come up with for an excuse was lost socks?

The men at the table stared at him cynically. The one on the left took a long drink from his coffee cup.

Kurt knew that look: we'll let you know; sorry, you're not what we're looking for; blah blah blah. He was tired of that look. He flitted his fingers through his hair and rested a hand on his hip, "Okay, you caught me. I didn't lose my socks; I was getting an amazing blowjob from my boyfriend."

The man on the left choked on his coffee. The casting director only raised an eyebrow.

"Now if you'll excuse me," Kurt plucked his portfolio from the floor and made for the door, "I am going to go home to said boyfriend. Thank you for your time."

As he walked down the street, dodging around the already drunk and avoiding eye contact with a man painted with green glitter, he mentally kicked himself. Brash. Too brash. But… it couldn't be undone now; there would be other auditions and other casting directors and choreographers to grovel at the feet of for a two-line role. What he needed now was to go home, shower, and find Blaine's lost shirt button.

Blaine shifted in his seat and glanced at the clock. He had been late, but his potential boss was later. He'd been waiting for nearly half an hour next to a woman in a gray pants suit. He wondered absently if they were interviewing for the same job. He was going to squirm in his chair again when he mentally kicked himself.

Kurt said don't fidget. It makes you look nervous and unfocused.

He sat up a little straighter and tried to hold still. The secretary glanced up and smiled at him.

"Are you a lawyer?" The woman beside him suddenly piped up.

Blaine turned his attention to her, a little surprised she was choosing to speak to him after nearly thirty minutes of silence, but he was happy for the distraction from the butterflies in his stomach; he smiled, "I'd like to be. Currently I'm a nanny."

"Did the kids make you that or did I miss the memo on some new men's fashion trend?" She nodded down toward Blaine's hand.

He glanced down at the pipe cleaner ring and chuckled; he twisted it around on his finger absently, "No and no; just… a gift from someone."

"Someone special?" She queried.

Blaine had unwittingly led enough women the wrong direction to know the look on her face, "Someone very special."

She didn't look terribly disappointed; her eyes moved from his hand to his face, "Hmm, lucky girl."

"Guy," He corrected automatically.

One eyebrow rose just a little, "You're—Really?"

Blaine smiled and shrugged, "Guilty as charged."

She appraised him a second time before smiling at him again, "I guess all the good men really are gay, then."

Blaine laughed, "Hey, I know some fairly decent straight guys, don't get too down on them."

She tucked a stray piece of auburn hair behind her ear and eyed him thoughtfully before getting to her feet and moving toward the front desk, "Sharon?"

The secretary looked up at her apologetically, "You know he would see you right away if he could, he's in the middle of—"

The woman waved a hand through the air, "It's fine; I know. Do you have a piece of paper for me to leave him a note?"

The secretary—Sharon—quickly tore a piece of yellow paper from a legal pad and handed it over with a pen. Blaine glanced at the purse abandoned in the chair beside him. It was a Marc Jacobs bag that he figured had to cost more than a month's worth of rent for his and Kurt's apartment. He also figured Kurt would be worked into a frenzy of fashion lust if he saw it.

Blaine watched while she scrawled something down quickly and handed it back to the secretary. She pivoted on her heels and made for the door.

"Um, miss?" Blaine looked unsurely between the purse and the woman whose name he had yet to learn. He really needed to get better at introductions; he felt like he had a chronic problem of getting twenty minutes into a conversation with a stranger before awkwardly blurting out his name.

She turned to him and waited for him to speak.

He pointed toward her seat, "As much as I'd love to bring that home to my boyfriend, I'm assuming you'd like to take it with you?"

Her eyes widened and she dashed back to the chair to scoop up the precious bag, "Oh my God, I can't believe I almost left it."

"Neither can I," Blaine smiled good-naturedly.

She slipped the strap over her shoulder and gave him another smile, "I'm sure it won't be long before your boyfriend will have more designer bags than he knows what to do with."

"Why's that?"

"Honey, if someone as bland looking as Robert Kardshian could charm a jury, can you imagine the kind of damage you could do in a court room? Firms pay good money for that kind of capacity."

Blaine felt his cheeks redden, "Hopefully the guy doing this interview feels the same way."

"I have a feeling he will; good luck," With a quick wink, she disappeared out the door.

Blaine checked the clock again; now forty minutes late… he was grateful for having had the chance to straighten his tie and catch his breath from the near-sprint to the office, but the wait was beginning to border on ridiculous. Maybe he wouldn't get the chance to be interviewed at all… Oh well, there would be other interviews and he would have the chance to drown his sorrows tonight with Kurt, Rachel, and Finn when they went out for St. Patrick's Day drinks.

"Blaine Anderson?" The secretary called out.

Blaine glanced around the empty room. Other than the woman, he had been the only other person in the waiting area since his arrival, so he wasn't entirely sure why the secretary felt it necessary to call out his name, "That's me."

"Mr. Delaney will see you now," She blinked at Blaine over the tops of her reading glasses.

He felt a rush of nerves as he got to his feet and he was suddenly very aware of the button missing from the bottom of his shirt. Act confident and you'll be confident. Another little bite of wisdom Kurt had offered him. He rolled a shoulder to get rid of the tension in his back and strode toward the door. He knocked and waited to be called in.

A man sat behind a plain looking desk. He was staring down at a creased piece of paper when Blaine entered; stacks of paper lined the wall and cluttered the corners. The man was rather striking, Blaine couldn't help but note; silvering hair; icy blue eyes that had looked up from the paper in his hands to scrutinize the boy in his doorway. His smile was the only thing that relaxed Blaine, "So, you're Blaine Anderson?"

Blaine quickly stepped all the way into the office and offered a hand, "Yes, sir. Pleasure to meet you Mr. Delaney."

The older man shook his hand firmly, "Have a seat, Mr. Anderson."

Blaine took one of the empty chairs on his side of the desk; he sat up as straight as he could. This man reminded him of someone…

Robert Delaney turned his attention back down to his desktop. He plucked a folder from the wooden surface. Blaine recognized it; it was the one he'd dropped off with the secretary nearly two weeks prior housing his resume, test scores, recommendation letters; anything that might make him look desirable as an employee. Robert flipped through the sheets, "Impressive."

"Thank you, sir," His father. Yes, that was it. Mr. Delaney reminded Blaine of his father. The thought didn't comfort him.

"Says here your reason for leaving your last firm was 'moral disagreements'."

"Yes, sir, I—"

"I didn't ask for the nitty gritty on it, Anderson; don't offer details that aren't required. Didn't you learn anything in law school?" He glanced over the top of the white sheets to look at Blaine.

"Apparently nothing useful," Blaine felt a hot blush forming in his cheeks.

The man across from him chuckled, "No one ever does. So, Mr. Anderson, you tell me: why should I hire a twenty four year old kid with a pipe cleaner wrapped around his finger to work in this firm?"

Blaine resisted the urge to look down at his hand, "I don't think I need to go into a long list of prerequisites; you have my resume right in front of you, so I won't bore you with those details. I'm good at what I do, sir. I'm dependable; I'm loyal, and I will push papers and fetch coffee for as long as I need to so I can prove that to you."

Mr. Delaney folded his hands on his desk, "Is that it?"

"That's it."

He studied him for a while longer before leaning back in his chair and giving Blaine a funny smile, "My wife was quite taken by you."

"I beg your pardon?" Blaine blinked; his careful poker face melting into confusion. Suddenly he remembered the woman in the waiting room. The quickly scribbled note. He glanced down at Robert Delaney's desk and, sure enough, there was a framed picture of the two of them together, "Was she the woman sitting in the lobby?"

"One and the same; quite the lady, isn't she?" Robert grinned, eyeing the picture as well.

"We had a nice chat," Blaine mentally kicked himself for assuming she had been a client.

"So I've gathered; she is also in possession of an almost supernatural ability to discern things about a person's character," Robert sat up straighter again and Blaine did the same, though he was already sitting so primly in his seat he wasn't entirely sure he could make his shoulders any stiffer, "I trust her judgment completely, Mr. Anderson; it's a rarity that she's wrong."

Blaine's neck was tense, but he didn't dare relax into his seat. He wasn't sure how to respond to the comment, so he bobbed his head up and down in consensus.

Robert's face remained stern as he slid a piece of yellow paper across his desk.

Blaine looked down at it uncertainly but didn't move.

"Don't just sit there; read it." Robert waved an impatient hand toward the sheet.

Blaine picked it up and read the scrawled message.

'Hire the kid in the waiting room. He's gold.'

When he looked up again, Mr. Delaney was watching him; an amused smirk playing at his mouth, "What do you think. Kid; can you prove her right?"

"Yes, sir." Blaine felt almost breathless with hope.

Robert Delaney broke into a full smile, "Do you think you can show up on Monday with a shirt that isn't missing a button?"

"Absolutely," Blaine nodded his head up and down quickly, "Of course."

Robert stood and Blaine quickly mirrored the action, nearly tipping his chair over in the process. Robert shook his head and chuckled to himself, "Stop back up at the desk; Sharon will get you the paperwork you need. Can you handle being here by seven next week?"

"I'll be here at six," Blaine felt dizzy with excitement.

"Don't kill yourself just yet, kid, we'll put that enthusiasm to good work," Robert extended a hand over the desk, "Welcome to Delaney and Cohen, Blaine."

Blaine shook his hand quickly and reminded himself a hug would be inappropriate, "Thank you so much, Mr. Delaney, you won't regret it, I promise."

"I'll hold you to that," Robert chuckled again, "Go on then and get out of here. Shouldn't you be celebrating the day with the rest of the New York twenty-somethings?"

"I've definitely got something to celebrate now," Blaine backed out of the doorway, "Thank you, again, sir."

He gathered up the stack of forms from the front desk and, as soon as he was sure Robert Delaney would have no chance of seeing him from his thirteenth floor window, he broke into a jog—he couldn't help himself; he had to get home to tell Kurt.

Sequence.

The idea hit him so suddenly he let out a yip of excitement. Kurt yanked the faucet to the right and stumbled from the shower. He had developed the habit of stopping any and everything he was doing to cater to his moments of inspiration. Well, almost anything; he'd never abandoned sex. A solo shower, though, he was more than willing to desert without a second thought. He wrapped a towel snug around his hips and ventured out to the bedroom where his sketchbook and pens were residing.