Chapter Thirty-Seven

Aiden tiptoed into the garage, his feet bare, clad in the mesh gym shorts and Avengers t-shirt that he slept in. The garage was warmer than the rest of the house, but he was on a mission, so he ignored the slight discomfort. He squeezed around his dad's car, then around Blaine's, making his way to the far wall, where miscellaneous boxes were stored on a shelf: holiday decorations in various clear plastic containers; a few packing boxes of Blaine's filled with things he and his dad didn't need duplicates of in the house; two grey and black plastic filing boxes with documents that Aiden was pretty sure he wouldn't understand.

Then, he spotted it on the bottom shelf—which, he considered, was really just the floor, with the wooden shelves built above it. There was a navy blue Rubbermaid container. Aiden quickly pulled at it, and noticed the silver duct tape on the top. Written on the tape in black permanent marker were four letters that Aiden was looking for: "ALEX". Without hesitation, Aiden yanked at the box, dragging it along the concrete floor a few feet. Then he sat down and popped off the top.

Aiden sifted through the items. A few he immediately recognized as more private things, things that he shouldn't be digging through (most of which was a Polish wooden keepsake box that, when opened, revealed a few folded up letters, computer print-outs, Post-it notes, index cards, and scraps of looseleaf). He gently set the wooden box aside, then continued sifting through the contents. He pulled out a piece of faded and torn blue cloth, unfolding it and revealing a t-shirt. He ran his fingers over the faded circle in the center, the insignia of Captain America. It was completely worn-out, with a few staining marks and loose threads. After a slight pause, he pressed the shirt to his nose.

Underneath the stale scent of the container it was stored in, he could smell the mix of cologne, cinnamon, and grass. He waited for a moment for it to jog a memory, to suddenly be transported into the past, but it didn't work. Still, he clutched onto the weak and worn, yet soft, t-shirt fabric, knowing very well that he was breathing in the scent of his father.

He draped the t-shirt over his lap, smiling as he ran his hand over his own chest, feeling the stiffness of the print of his own super hero shirt. It was like a small spark, suddenly feeling that tiny connection he was searching for.

He plunged his hand back into the box, freezing as his fingers brushed against a leathery book cover. He pulled the book out and cracked it open on his lap.

He'd seen photographs of his dads together, though most of them were from later in their relationship, after college and more into their adult lives, their wedding and once Aiden had been adopted. Those had all been in albums that were in their living room—one large one that held six photos per page, and two or three others that weren't as wide, with room for only three per plastic sleeve. Still, his heart stammered slightly as he opened the small album, the type large enough to just hold a single photo on each page. He peered down at the first picture, which showed a small boy with short, black hair, squinting and grinning at the camera, his front teeth missing as he stood in front of a glassy lake. Everything was slightly out of focus, and the colors a little dull yet high in contrast, signifying the use of film. Aiden immediately knew this must be his dad, even without a point of reference, no image of his father seared into his brain to easily connect the facial features, even though they were unaged.

But that was it. That was what this was about. He couldn't remember his father—though he tried to tell himself that it was understandable. He'd been just short of four years old when his father had died, and three years had passed since then. He occasionally had short flashes of memory, able to picture his father picking him up or them briefly playing a game, or the three of them eating out for dinner. But it was fleeting, and he wanted something a little more tangible, something that he could grasp onto. Sometimes all he could remember was that that day in August was the day that everything in his short life changed.

He flipped the plastic page over, seeing a few more images from the lake, which was apparently a family camping trip. Then were several images from the zoo, a trip to Disney, the pool during the summer, a yellow puppy at Christmas, and a carnival overblown by flash. Suddenly, the pictures seemed to skip forward a few years, and Aiden found himself looking at his teenaged father, hair shaggy and hanging over his eyes, grinning at the camera, holding onto a large and equally shaggy golden retriever.

His head shot up when he heard the door open, looking at his other father. He was standing in his robe, overtop his pajamas. He stared at Aiden for a moment before the realization set in. Aiden worried for a brief moment that he'd be scolded for going through things, but he watched as a vague smile spread on his dad's lips, crossing the garage floor and settling beside him.

Kurt glanced down at the album over Aiden's shoulder. "That was Bailey," he told his son. "Your dad had him while he was growing up." There was a slight pause. "I only got to meet him once. He died just before we graduated."

Aiden nodded slightly, flipping the page again, seeing a few more photos of Alex and Bailey. He turned the page over again and once more the photos jumped forward a few years, showing his father in New York City, presumably at the start of his college years. His hair was cut shorter; he looked well-groomed and a bit more stylish. Most photographs showed him with a young woman with long red hair, tight-fitting clothing and Doc Martens.

"Marissa," Kurt said. "They met their first year of school. God, I haven't seen her since your second birthday. She moved to California not long after that. Decided Broadway wasn't quite what she wanted, after all."

Aiden smiled at the photos of Marissa and his father. She looked like a lot of fun, from her big grin to her bright clothes, which seemed to speak volumes about her personality. He briefly wondered if she would have become a bigger part of his life, had things been different. He had no idea, though, when it got down to it. And really, there was no use dwelling on it.

"You would have liked her," Kurt added, smiling. "She would have spoiled you rotten. She did while you were still a baby. Actually, she did see you since then, she was—" He paused, breaking off suddenly. He took in a breath. "She was at the funeral." His eyes suddenly grew a little sad, before softening again. "I should send her an email, see how she's been..."

Aiden continued to turn the pages of the photo album, and at last he broke into a grin, seeing an image of the man that was sitting beside him, about ten years younger. He was looking at the camera, one eyebrow raised, looking half-exasperated, but also rather amused. He was clutching the strap of his bag, leaning against a building. Aiden could almost imagine his dad rolling his eyes or shaking his head at his father after taking the photograph.

"Before we started dating," Kurt explained with a grin. "You know, I didn't get to see that picture until almost a year later. He had an old manual film camera, and he just seemed to love the idea of it, because he almost never actually used it. I'm pretty sure that starting with the ones of him and Marissa, these were all on the same roll..." He watched as his son turned the pages, showing a few more pictures of Kurt laughing, one of his hand trying to cover the lens. "I took this one," Kurt said, pointing to a portrait of Alex. The picture opposite showed Alex pressing a kiss to Kurt's cheek, the latter's face scrunched up in amusement and embarrassment. He took the album in his hands, running his thumb over the plastic enclosing the pictures.

Aiden looked up at his father, who was smiling at the photograph with a mixture of fondness and nostalgia. Aiden couldn't help but smile, and turned back to the photos. Something about them struck him as familiar. Then, it occurred to him, and he took the blue t-shirt in his hands.

Kurt noticed his son shifting, and smiled even more broadly as Aiden held up the Captain America t-shirt. "This is from the pictures, right?" he asked.

Kurt nodded. "I got him that for his birthday," he said. "The second Captain America film was the first movie we ever saw together. It was the first time we met, but it was very briefly, just seeing the movie with some mutual friends... Then a few months later we really properly met, and, well, I was pretty sure he didn't even remember that. And then on our first date he whipped out both Captain America movies, and I realized he actually did remember our brief meeting." He smiled. "He used to wear that every chance he could..." He flipped the page of the album again, but the rest of the book was empty. He sighed.

"Do you still miss him?" Aiden asked.

"Every day," Kurt told him, without missing a beat.

Aiden looked down at the shirt in his hands. The fabric felt so used and worn, so real, yet all he could remember of the man that had worn this shirt felt like only a dream.

He recalled everything he'd felt when his father had first died. He thought of the sadness at the idea he'd never see him again, the anger he felt not much later at Kurt for forgetting his father, the bitterness he felt towards Blaine after first meeting him. Still, those feelings didn't seem real, didn't seem to stick. He still felt the sadness, the sense of loss. However, he was able to think about the life that surrounded him now, and he felt fairly content. It occurred to him that perhaps the sense of loss he felt wasn't as much missing the father that he'd hardly gotten to know, losing him so young, but at the idea that he would never get to know him.

After all, it wasn't as though there was anything substantial missing from his life. He had a steady home and family, which now included Ella and Blaine. He hadn't had the opportunity to really know his father, but he liked to think that he'd be satisfied with Aiden's own satisfaction in life right now. He hoped that Alex would be happy that there was someone like Blaine who was happy to step up and fill the void that might have otherwise occurred in Aiden's life. He figured that Alex would be proud of the way he and his dad managed to make the best out of the situation which was initially far from even passable.

Life moved on, he figured. That was something his dad told him, and occasionally added that most kids wouldn't figure that out for another five or six years, at least. He knew that it was a double-edged sword that he could grasp the idea at such a young age: while it certainly helped him develop maturity sooner than most others, it was definitely far from a happy circumstance that had introduced him to the concept.

After several long moments, Aiden returned the items he'd set aside, and then at last pressed the t-shirt on top of them. Kurt replaced the small album, and Aiden snapped the lid back onto the box. He looked to his dad with a small smile.

"Hungry?" Kurt asked him. Aiden nodded vigorously. "How about some pancakes?"

"Ooh!" Aiden said excitedly. "With chocolate chips in them?"

Kurt chuckled. "I'll see what I can do," he said. "I'll put this back, you go in and get Ella up for breakfast."

Aiden jumped to his feet and scurried to the door. Halfway there, he turned back around and ran back to give his dad a quick hug. Then, he was off again.

Kurt allowed himself a moment, running his hand over the top of the box. He smiled softly at the container, as though it was an old friend he was saying farewell to, once again. Just for a short period of time, at least.

It had been three years since Alex had been killed. Three years since Kurt left his old life in New York, since he came back to an even older life he'd left behind before then. And who had any idea that he'd be able to find any sort of happiness remotely close to what he'd had before? Yet here he was, not simply gliding through life, but thriving. Things were good. They really were.

He looked up as he heard the door creak slight and smiled at Blaine. The other man padded across the cement floor toward Kurt.

"Hey," he said quietly.

"Hey," Kurt responded. "Aiden pulled this out, and we looked at a few things."

Blaine nodded. "Need a hand?" he asked through a yawn.

"I'm fine," Kurt assured him. He raised an eyebrow as Blaine tried to stifle another yawn. "Tired?"

"A bit," he allowed. He rubbed his hands across his bare arms, where Kurt noticed some goosebumps. "I'm freezing, too."

"You're not sick, are you?" Kurt asked. "I know you were feeling pretty nauseous the past few days... you don't think it's a stomach bug, do you?"

Blaine shook his head, and Kurt noticed that he stopped immediately, squeezing his eyes shut as though to stop the world from spinning. Still nauseous, then, he concluded. "I'm going to go with stress," Blaine said. "This first week back at school has been hell, with all the staff changes, and I think it's just getting to me more than usual." He sighed. "The meetings have been murder. I can't even force myself to focus past the first ten minutes. I'll be so happy when things have settled."

Kurt nodded. "Take it easy," he urged. "We'll just have a nice, calm weekend in. I'm surprised Aiden didn't take the chance to sleep later, today. At least he got a few extra hours of sleep. Better than nothing."

"Mm, I could use a nap already," Blaine said with a smile, and Kurt laughed.

"Later," he said. "For now, help me with some chocolate chip pancakes, all right?"

"Of course," Blaine responded. "I can start on them, you can go ahead and get a quick shower."

Kurt nodded, and after a swift kiss, then returning the box, he did take a quick shower. He chose some of his most casual, comfortable clothes, rather looking forward to a nice, quiet day inside with Blaine, Aiden, and Ella. Perhaps they would watch a movie or two, and order in for dinner if they weren't quite in the mood for cooking. It would be calm and lazy, the sort of relaxing day that Blaine (and Aiden and Ella, he figured) needed after a tiring first week back at school.

He made it back downstairs just in time to flip the last batch of pancakes, letting Blaine deliver two platefuls to Ella and Aiden at the kitchen table. The two of them ate quickly. Kurt switched off the stove and slid the last few pancakes onto a plate. However, as he turned to say something to Blaine, he frowned, seeing the man clutching the edge of the counter so tightly that his knuckles were white, his eyes squeezed tight and his face screwed up in discomfort—no, Kurt quickly amended mentally, not discomfort, but pain.

Kurt quickly moved to his side, placing a comforting hand on Blaine's back. "Are you all right?" he asked softly. It was quiet, not wanting to draw attention or worry from the children.

Blaine gave one nod, taking in a deep breath through his mouth. "I just—" He broke off suddenly, and clamped his mouth shut as though he might be sick. He took in another deep breath, and grasped one of Kurt's hands with his. He went to lift his other hand, but found himself unsteady. He let his elbow rest against the wall, and pressed the hand to his head. "Kurt," he said weakly, "I think I—"

He crumpled suddenly, his body falling limp, and Kurt quickly scooped him up in his arms as he fell to the floor. Kurt kneeled beside him, still clutching his hand, his other arm wrapped tightly around his torso. His eyes were wide, and there was a tight sensation in his chest. No, he desperately thought, no, no, no no no...

He wasn't even aware of evaluating Blaine's state, but somehow his mind was working well enough that he did. Breathing—Blaine was still breathing. He could hear it, feel it, and even see his chest moving. He gave the man a small, desperate shake, but nothing. He wasn't responding. But he was alive. He was alive, and that counted for something. That counted for everything.

It could be nothing. Perhaps in a few moments he'd wake up and they'd go lay down...

Yet something felt very wrong.

"Uncle Blaine?" Ella's tiny voice made Kurt's head snap up. The girl was scrambling from her chair, running over to the two men. "What—?"

"Ella," Kurt said, his voice tight. He took another deep breath, doing his best to keep calm, to stay in control. "I need you to go grab my phone."

"Is he gonna—"

"Ella," Kurt repeated, more urgently this time. "Get my phone. Call 911."