An escape to Paris had an incredibly romantic ring to it. The idea of wandering through the old streets and taking in true fashion and culture sounded wonderful and beautiful to the overworked and wholly alone. It was a way of taking sanctuary away from the horrors of everyday life—a way to hide away in a fairytale land filled with incredibly sexy accents and even sexier men.

Well, that's the way it seemed to one Kurt Hummel who had never left the United States of America. Being the lowly assistant to one of the biggest fashion designers in the world had its perks but left him horribly busy and gave him zero chances to meet any guys. So, the idea of slipping off to a land full of sensual men gave him something to really think about.

It was about three years into his job working for a very smart and stylish woman who had sort of taken Kurt under her wing when Kurt finally lost his footing. He'd been a scared little boy when she met him, just out of college and in New York for the first time ever, desperate for work—any sort of work. She trained him in her image and kept him busy. So busy in fact that his longest relationship had been with an anthropology/history student studying life in 18th and 19th century Europe. It lasted a total of three months.

The man had raved about the country and its origins, planting the seed of travel-lust in his mind. Kurt wanted to go to Europe, experience culture and true fashion. New York was fun but it wasn't Europe. He wanted to be surrounded by men with sensual accents and scandalous eyes and lean bodies. Kurt was desperate to leave.

When the chance to escape finally arrived he thought, "Why not?"

Everyone took notice that something was wrong with Kurt when it became evident that he had being as meticulous in his skin care regiment. He was overworking himself to the point that he no longer got his full eight hours of sleep and suddenly had dark circles under his eyes. No one said anything until about two weeks into this nonsense.

Kurt had been at his desk, desperately trying to get a hold of a specific type of fabric for his boss when the woman in question stopped before him and slapped travel brochures onto the surface. "Take two weeks off Kurt, I don't want to see you looking like this anymore." She waved a light hand at him in explanation, "I will cover the expenses as long as you promise to actually vacation and leave the work here. You need to be ready for our fall shoot in a month. It's going to be hard." Kurt tried hard to contain his glee until she wandered away. Once she was gone he snatched up the pamphlets and flipped through them; Italy, England, France.

When he finally decided where he wanted to go he made a goal of calling his family to alert them of his decision. His dad was more than just a little annoyed.

"Two weeks in France? Why? They're all snobs over there."

Kurt wrinkled his nose at his reflection in the bathroom mirror as he cradled his phone against his shoulder. "That's ethnocentric dad," He said, proud that he'd learned something from his ex-boyfriend.

"Whassat mean?" Burt asked gruffly.

With a sighed Kurt replied, "It means you make a generalized assump- never mind. As for why; why not?" He said, finishing up his nightly moisturizing routine and returning to his room.

"Do you even know how to speak French?" His dad asked.

"Yes dad, I'm fluent actually. Remember I took three years in high school and four years in college?" He knew his dad didn't remember but he was still proud of the fact and he wanted to show off his ability. It was well known that he couldn't exactly use his skills in America.

Burt grunted again, "For two weeks?"

With a tight movement Kurt settled in the chair near his bed. "Well, one week in Paris and then one week using the Europass to check out some of the other countries. It's all in the budget that my boss set out for me."

"And that's another thing," Burt started, "Your boss is paying for the whole thing? You sure this isn't like some sort of bribe for her to, y'know?"

Kurt took a moment to process before letting out a disgusted noised, "Oh my God no! Dad, she knows I'm gay and she's very married. This probably going to be the last vacation I'll ever take but it is so worth it. I promise to get you and Carole and Finn something really nice. Listen dad, I need to get some sleep; I have work in the morning. I'll call before I leave, I promise."

Burt was silent for a moment, "Fine, but promise me you'll be careful, okay Kurt?"

"Yeah dad, I will, I love you." Kurt said, letting a soft smile caress his lips.

"Love you too dad." He said, hanging up.

In a whirlwind of time Kurt found himself on a plane, jetting off to his fancy hotel in Paris. When he arrived Kurt was immediately surrounded by more culture than he could ever imagine. He wandered the streets with ease, getting stopped by men whose eyes raked down his figure in a most alluring way. Honestly, Kurt had never felt sexier. He visited the Louvre and the Eiffel tower, all the most popular tourist spots. He shopped for hours on end, practically living in some of the shops. He never wanted to leave.

It wasn't until one night when he stood at his balcony staring out over the streets of Paris that Kurt felt something tugging at him. It was a light tugging, almost like a child pulling at the fabric of his shirt. He cast a curious glance around the room, setting his glass of wine to the side. The place was empty but the moment he stepped away from the balcony he felt a tugging to his right and stepped in that direction.

Kurt followed stopped in front of his bureau where he'd set a bunch of travel guides for cities in France. One lay on the floor, open to a specific page and Kurt picked it up. The book was for the city of Marseille describing a bastide near the Jardin de la Magalone. Kurt read over it quickly and felt another tugging - only this time it came from his heart.

A moment later Kurt found himself on his laptop, searching through the internet for train tickets to Marseille. He didn't even care that less than thirty minutes earlier Kurt had felt no need to ever leave Paris ever again—especially not to visit a city almost three hours away by train. But now everything felt different and he knew he just needed to leave.

In the morning Kurt packed a bag for three days and hopped on a train to Marseille. He slept the majority of the way there, only waking when he felt another tug at his heart. It hurt like the ache after a break up and the yearning after a new attraction. Kurt begged for the pain to stop and a part of him told him the only way to make it stop was to go to that bastide.

He arrived mid-morning and went straight to his hotel, leaving his bag. Kurt freshened up, showering to get the train smell off him then dressed in one of his best pairs of jeans along with his boots and a blue shirt that clung to him sinfully well and showed off the blue side of his eyes. Finally he added a scarf and was off.

Kurt slipped through the streets of Marseille, asking for help from passersby. They were kind and pointed him in the right direction. Apparently, the home he was looking for was well known. Finally he arrived at the building and the tug hit him so hard he almost doubled over in pain. One man stopped to help him but Kurt only wheezed a little before smiling and thanking him for his concern and went inside, the slow ache reverberating in his chest.

Just inside the front door was a woman who looked thoroughly bored. He spoke to her in fluent French, "One for the tour, when does it start?"

She barely glanced at him as she gave him he paid the entrance fee and gave him his tour guide book. "This is a self-guided tour. Do not touch the paintings or furniture because sensors will go off. Do not touch anything, this is not a hands on exhibit." She said mechanically as she gave him his change.

Kurt was annoyed at her curt manner but moved on into the house. Once he was allowed to roam free he found he was alone in the picturesque building.

The walls were lined with paintings from the 17th century to the early 20th. Plaques read out information about the time and the culture and spoke of the lady who owned the home, a widow when she arrived who was taken in and then later the house was willed to her. She ran it well and had a long line of wealthy and famous guests that filtered through. The woman, known as Madame Fabray, was healthy and often used strange methods of healing people that led some to believe she was a witch. When she died at the age of 36 she gave the house to a Scotsman who many claimed was her lover and he ran the house until his assumed death two years later. The man was only assumed dead because his body was never found. He never had an heir and instead had willed the house to the child of a prominent entertainer and singer of the time. Fabray had a contentious relationship with the singer, a Missus Berry from England but put up with her because many said Fabray had also had relations with Missus Berry's lover, Monsieur Puckerman—who hailed from the New World.

Kurt marveled at the depth of the rumors and claims that were hidden in this house. Each room was furnished a little differently, the lady Fabray's room being the most glamorous, garnished in red and gold imported from Paris. The guest bedrooms were all different colors and it was assumed that the guests were placed in specific rooms depending on what colors suited them the best.

As Kurt moved up the stairs to the second floor of the room he felt the light tugging again of a child's hand. It pulled him to a room at the far end of the house with a slightly closed door. He felt a tingle run through his fingers as he pushed open the room. Slowly Kurt slipped in and another tug wrenched his heart, causing him to grow woozy. His entire body ached and tingled, as if it was waking up from having fallen asleep.

Kurt wobbled a little before moving to sit on a tired looking little chair near the door. He knew he wasn't supposed to be sitting on the furniture but it was better than having someone find him passed out on the floor. As his head began to clear he glanced around the room which was less elaborate than the others. It was furnished in burgundy with a simple bed and bureau and a window. Something like a green plaid sash hung over a chair with a pair of well-worn work boots tipped on their sides. There were no plaques or electric lighting like the other rooms; only a candle sat on the top of the bed side table. Kurt wondered who had lived in this room or if this person was another, less prominent, guest.

Something at the window caught his attention and he slowly staggered towards it, staring out through the slightly warped glass. The landscape had changed. Things looked smaller and less new. And was that a carriage rolling down the street? Kurt pressed his forehead hard against the glass and tried to get a better look. Where were the cars and the people and was that woman wearing a bustle?

A soft cough startled Kurt and he jumped, spinning around to face the doorway. A man stood there watching him. It was hard to make out his features but Kurt could see dark curly hair and simple clothing—like something out of an old movie. "Is there something I can help ye with, laddie?" The man asked, his voice thick with a Scottish brogue.

Kurt tried to stand up tall but he suddenly felt very weak, like something large and constant was pressing down on him. "I am so sorry sir, I know I'm not supposed to touch things or sit on the furniture but I was feeling woozy and needed to sit down. I can just leave now. I am very sorry." Kurt moved to leave and stumbled a little and the man caught him by the arms. Quickly Kurt looked up and found himself staring into hazel eyes surrounded by tanned skin.

"Ye sure yer right laddie?" The man asked, carefully setting Kurt on his feet. Kurt nodded quickly, taking a step towards the door.

"Yes, just fine. I'll be going now." He slipped out into the hallway and stopped. Everything was different, even the wallpaper. The man came up behind him and settled his hand heavily on Kurt's shoulder.

"I think I should take ye to Madam Fabray," Kurt mind sparked at the name.

"Madam Fabray? You've got to be kidding me. This is a big joke. Play a prank on the American tourist, right?" He asked, whirling around to stare at the man. The fellow in question looked worried and now that they were in a better lit hallway Kurt could see the almond shape of his eyes and triangular shaped eyebrows that could do with a good plucking. He was a good three inches smaller than Kurt but stockier.

Dark eyebrows knitted together. "I was wonderin' if ye're American," He murmured before restating that Kurt needed to be taken to Madam Fabray. Cautiously he started trying to encourage Kurt to move forward but at that moment Kurt wrenched away from him and took off running down the hallway to the stairs and out the front door. In the back of his mind something made him realize that the girl at the front desk was missing… as well as the front desk itself.

Out in the street Kurt stumbled slightly against the cobble stone (that definitely hadn't been there earlier). He glanced both ways and found people in strange, old fashioned garb and coaches pulled by horses. Kurt's panic hit the ceiling and he sprinted down the street of this alien city. The buildings that he had passed on his way to the Fabray bastide were different now - newer and smaller, and the people he passed all dressed the same. Kurt didn't stop running until he reached the docks. His nose filled with the overpowering aroma of dead fish but he didn't stop until he reached the end of one rickety dock.

Before him floated a massive ship with large men stand onto and tossing barrels over the edge at even larger men down below. Kurt forced himself to calm and try to get oriented. Pulling his map from his back he tried to figure out how to get from the docks to his hotel. According to the map it said he needed to head to the left but the only problem was a house suddenly stood there, massive and solid, blocking his way.

Kurt felt stuck and terrified and let out a shriek as large hand collapsed on his upper arm. He looked up to find a brutish face leering at him. "You seem lost monsieur," The man growled out in French. "Such a pretty face, I thought you were a girl at first—but no respectable girl wears men's clothing. Unless she has a price on her head," Kurt gulped and tried to pull away. The man refused to let go and called to another brute farther down the dock who came storming towards them, all the while Kurt struggled against his captor's grip. "What do you think Andre? Male or female?" he asked tauntingly.

The other, Andre, sneered and reached out a hand to grope Kurt hard enough to cause him to cry out. "Male, definitely." Kurt struggled and kicked out viciously.

"Let go of me you fucking brute!" He screamed, pulling away as hard as he could. Kurt was sure he would have a bruise there later.

Kurt's captor laughed, "And a feisty one too. Too bad though. I could have had fun if he was a girl. But I bet he could catch a fair price in the Orient."

Kurt gaped at the men, "You can't sell me into slavery! It's illegal!" There was a beat of silence then the two men erupted into peals of laughter.

Andre, who probably weighed a good 150lbs more than Kurt, leered at him, barring yellowed teeth. "Who told you that? I've never had any tell me tha-" He stopped speaking and narrowed his eyes at the even bigger man holding Kurt. "Oi, what's wrong with you?"

Kurt almost asked what Andre meant but a second later the sailor holding his arms released him and fell to the ground face first. If Kurt hadn't been so scared he would have taken off running by now, but his attention was drawn to the dagger sticking out of his assailant's back. Andre was quicker than Kurt to respond and lurched for whoever had hurt his friend.

Andre reeled back a second later, holding his eye and howling in pain. His assailant launched another attack, punching him in the stomach with a solid fist before yanking his dagger from the man on the ground and grabbed Kurt's hand, yelling "Run!" Kurt recognized him from the Fabray bastide.

They dashed off, back down the street that Kurt had just come and didn't stop until the sounds of the dock disappeared completely, engulfed by the city. The strange man cleaned off his dagger with a handkerchief from his pocket before sliding it safely into its sheath at his hip. The sight of the dagger sparked Kurt's memory, "You just killed that man!"

Hazel eyes narrowed at him, "Nah, just knocked him out. If ye didn't dinna notice he was about to hurt ye something right. I saved yer life, ye ken," The man spit out, straightening his shoulders and looking rather miffed—as if he'd expected Kurt to thank him profusely.

Instead Kurt started to hyperventilate and freak out. "What the fuck is going on here? Is this some sort of practical joke because it is not funny."

The guy sighed, "I dinna ken what you mean by joke but there is no need for vulgar language, ye ken."

Kurt gaped at him, "Where the hell am I?"

"Marseille." His eyes narrowed once again, "Where are ye from laddie?" Kurt didn't answer him, instead he grabbed a newspaper by a passer-by and ripped it open for a date because this couldn't be real, it just couldn't. Finally his eyes stopped at the top of the page where a date was neatly printed.

Marseille, France. 24 Juillet 1811.

Kurt didn't recall hitting the pavement or his head hitting the cement. All he could see were those four numbers printed before his eyes; 1811.