It was a couple of days later when Blaine decided to do something about the man with the baseball hat. He hadn't been able to stop thinking about him. On more than one occasion Santana had pointed out that he was distracted. He assumed she had figured it out by now but he didn't really want to talk about. Blaine could hardly figure out for himself why he was so drawn to the man, how was he supposed to explain it to another person?

It was another late night at the office, thankfully Santana had the evening shift that day. She even decided to stick around when she could have gone home. It was going on nine o'clock when she arrived in Blaine's office with take out. Santana had a way of, well, making her presence known. Blaine pushed aside the case file that he'd spent the last couple of hours going over, making room for the large styrofoam take out boxes full of various Thai food from the market just down the street from the office building. They squeaked every time Blaine or Santana attempted to move them around to turn the fairly small desk into a dinning table. The boxes laid open in between the two friends, Santana pulled one of Blaine's chairs closer and sat down.

"Are you going to tell me what's bothering you or am I going to have to withhold the food?" Santana held two plastic forks in front of her face. Having no doubt that she would actually take the food if he didn't cooperate, Blaine reached his hand out.

"Fine," he grumbled and took the fork from her hand, digging into the pile of noodles to his right. His friend listened quietly has he recounted the last few days. Not once had he been able to stop thinking about the face under the worn blue baseball cap. Every night when he sat down to watch TV, beer in hand, finally free from the day's work his mind drifted to the man. If anything Blaine just wanted to know what the case had been about so he could stop making up scenarios. It didn't help that every theory was worse than the previous. When he had gotten his say in Santana leaned back in her chair, looking him over. Blaine returned his fork to the container and played at choosing what to eat. Somewhere along the way he had gotten so wrapped up in his reverie that he'd stopped eating.

"Alright," Santana started, "now don't go eating my head off for saying this but, do you think this might just have to do with the fact that Mr. Bossman down the hall threw the case out?"

"Maybe? San, I don't know. I really have thought about it. That maybe I just want to get back at my father but- this isn't the first time that he's just tossed someone aside." The white plastic fork hung loosely in Blaine's right hand, the other moving anxiously between his cheek and hair.

"Just ask, Hobbit. You've been too antsy around me lately. I know you have something to say."

"I know you're not really supposed to San but could you get me the guy's contact information?" Blaine knew that Santana would do a lot for him but he never imagined that he would ask her to risk her job.

"Funny, how I knew that was what you wanted." Santana bent over the arm of her chair and pulled a file out of her purse, a smirk on her face. "I happened to be doing some cleaning up at the desk and I guess this just fell into my bag. I should really give it to someone I can trust to return it, right?" A playful yet devious smile played at Santana's lips. Blaine couldn't help but smile back at her.

"Of course, I am more than capable of returning this Ms. Lopez," Blaine replied playing along with his friend. The two friends laughed at one another, unable to maintain the faux formality any longer.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A soft blanket pooled around Blaine's ankles. The temperature in the room was just cool enough to warrant covered feet but not socks, or maybe Blaine was just being stubborn. A couple of feet away sat a mostly empty mug of hot chocolate, the marshmallows long melted and a dry streak of chocolate down the side where it had spilled during the walk from the kitchen to the sofa.

He was curled up in the corner of the old red leather couch that sat in his living room. The lamp on the small table beside him washed warm light across the white pages resting in his lap. Noise drifted in the background from the TV that had turned from late night news to endless infomercials. Two files were resting on the corner of the coffee table, finally finished and quickly discarded as Blaine could finally let his mind fall to the matter that had been keeping him awake at night.

Since the case hadn't been taken, the file for Burt Hummel was a mere two pages. All it contained was the initial contact and background information that had been filled out on the clipboard in the lobby and a brief description of the case. Kurt Hummel, the son of Burt Hummel, 18 years of age, had been reported missing early Friday Morning.There had been many accounts of bullying and harassment throughout the boy's high school career and Burt has reason to believe that his son has been kidnapped and that his life is danger. Paper clipped to the inside of the yellow manila folder was a head shot of the young boy. Blaine stared at the photograph for several minutes. Kurt looked happy and like nothing could get him down. The photo alone exuded so much confidence that Blaine could hardly imagine what it would be like to stand in the same room.

Blaine's eyes drifted over the two pages in a continuous cycle. He memorized each sentence, each letter, number. Even when the black curves of each letter began to blur together, he kept reading. When he could no longer make sense of the words he stared at the picture, partly obscured by the silver paperclip. The open file slowly slipped out of Blaine's grasp and his head tilted heavily to one side.

An obnoxious beeping sound that Blaine knew all too well got louder and louder as he was pulled into consciousness. He grappled for his phone on the side table. Muscles stiff, he fumbled and groaned when he had to bring the bright light to his face to make the graining sound stop. Blaine stretched his body to the length of the couch, his joints cracking unpleasantly. Sitting up, Blaine brought both hands to his neck to rub at the sore spots. It had been a while since he'd slept there, not to mention the position he had fallen asleep in.

The crinkle of paper under his feet made its way to his ears through the lingering memory of the alarm. He lifted his feet gently, looking between them at what he had stepped on. Reaching between his legs he picked up the two sheets of paper and the manila folder that belonged to Burt Hummel's case. Kurt Hummel stared at him through the photograph, thankfully it hadn't been stepped on.

One thing Blaine loved was the weekend, especially ones that he had off. He lifted himself from the couch and set the newly arranged file on the coffee table with the others he had worked on the previous night. Blaine needed a shower, badly, he had slept with gel still in his hair and it felt like it was all over him. Walking into the bathroom, he turned on the shower, stripping down while waiting for the water to get hot. Blaine got in and stood under the water, steam already beginning to rise around his body and out into the rest of the bathroom.

The hot water shocked his skin but his muscles relaxed into it quickly. He rolled his shoulders to loosen the remaining kinks. Finally awake, Blaine worked the previous day's gel out of his hair. It was one of the worst feelings. Unable to get his fingers through it to start, several minutes were spent letting the water loosen the gel. Blaine scrubbed his scalp, reveling in the knowledge that he could let the wild curls free for a couple of days. After washing his body and delaying getting out of the steam filled bathroom for as long as possible, he climbed out and wrapped a towel around his waist.

Blaine got dressed, loose red flannel pajama pants hanging low on his hips, remnant of his Dalton days. He grabbed a plain white tee-shirt from the second drawer of his dresser. Pulling it over his head, Blaine walked from his bedroom, through the living room and into the kitchen. Beads of water still dripped from the ends of his free curls dampening his shoulders and neck.

Blaine turned on the stove for the pan that had taken up permanent residency, never making it back to its spot in the cabinet. The coffee maker came to life slowly until the sound of the hot water could be heard hitting the the bottom of the glass pot and filling. Three eggs made their way into the pan soon followed by green peppers, bacon, and cheese. Blaine flipped the omelet out of the pan and onto a small plate. Pulling a mug from the cabinet above his head, he poured the hot coffee and stirred in three spoonfuls of sugar. He took the plate and mug back into the living room, relaxing into the couch while he ate.

Watching the news, morning and evening, is something that had started as a forced habit. Blaine had wanted to be aware of what was happening in the world, be well informed, to impress his superiors. Being able to relate class work into current problems gave Blaine confidence and helped him stick out to the professors while he was in Law School.

Blaine placed the empty plate on the coffee table, exchanging it for the coffee that was now cool enough to drink without burning his tongue. The news droned on from the television and instead of returning his attention to it, Blaine picked up the file he'd spent so long wondering about and finally knew. His brain started forming the phrases, numbers, and names before he even opened the folder. The desire to get started had never been so strong for Blaine; he picked up his phone and clicked it open. The screen lit up with the date and time, just barely nine in the morning. Blaine wondered when would be a good time to call Mr. Hummel. From the information sheet, Blaine knew that the man owned a tire shop, a mechanic most likely as well. There was probably no time that was best so he was just going to have to call and hope the man would give him a second of his time.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The phone rang for the personal number that Burt had listed. It was very likely that the man was at his shop and Blaine would have to spend the day hoping his phone would ring. It wasn't until the fourth ring that he realized the possibility that Mr. Hummel could be ignoring the call because he wasn't calling from the firm. Just when he was expecting the answering machine message to start, there was a strong hello from the other end of the line. Blaine was startled, having convinced himself that the wouldn't be talking to the man so soon.

"H-Hello, Sir," Blaine replied suddenly unsure of how to start the conversation.

"Who is this?"

"I'm so sorry, Sir, my name is Blaine Anderson, I work at Anderson and Smythe. You filed a case at the beginning of the week?" Blaine tried to take a deep yet quiet breath. He needed to get in the right head space, his professional head space.

"I did." Burt Hummel's suspicion could be felt through the phone. "I thought you people didn't want my case."

"Mr. Hummel, I would like to apologize for the response you got from James. I am actually very interested in helping you and- and your son. I have no idea why James would so adamantly disregard your case."

"You don't, do you," Burt Hummel scoffed over the phone.

"No, Sir, I really don't," Blaine replied, losing a bit of the confidence he had started to gain back just moments before. "I would like to set up a meeting, if you're interested, to learn more about the case and about your son. See what we have to work with." There was long pause where Blaine had almost begun to believe that the line had cut out and then Mr. Hummel spoke again.

"When would you like to meet? There's no way I can make it out to Columbus this week." Blaine took a deep breath on his side. He was growing more sure that Mr. Hummel wanted nothing more than to never speak with someone from Anderson and Smythe again.

"I could come to you Sir, I'll make myself available." Mr. Hummel needed time to figure out when he could meet. It was decided that he would contact Blaine with the date and time by Monday morning. Blaine hung up the phone and sat back into the couch. He hadn't realized how tense and nervous he'd been on the phone and had moved to sitting hunched over on the edge.