Things hadn’t been easy the first morning at Finn’s apartment. Apparently either of them were human enough before the first cup of coffee, so when Rachel walked into the kitchen, rubbing her eyes sleepily, dressed in a fluffy pink robe and going straight for the coffee pot, Finn screamed, raised a pan in the air and almost hit her in the head with it. Rachel instinctively reached for her gun and pointed it at him with practiced ease. Finn dropped the pan on his foot, quickly putting his hands up in defense.

“Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot!”

After they both apologized a million times for their reactions, Finn poured a cup of coffee for each of them and they sat at the breakfast bar, avoiding looking at each other for a few minutes, until Finn’s stomach growled so loudly they both burst into hysterical laughter. Rachel offered to make some pancakes, hoping to finally dissipate the tension in the air, and Finn agreed with an eager nod.

“So… I have a game tonight,” Finn commented as he watched Rachel move around his kitchen. It felt weird. When he had female overnight guests, they were usually out the door before breakfast. “How does that work? Do you come with me? Do you stay here and I send you updates…?”

“I’m coming with you,” Rachel replied. She opened the fridge to get the butter. “I’m supposed to be with you at all times, and that includes games. I’ll stay out of sight in case the suspect shows up – we don’t want to scare him off before we have the chance to catch him.”

“This is the craziest thing that has ever happened to me,” Finn murmured, still a bit shocked. He watched Rachel in silence for a moment, before he cleared his throat and asked the question that had been bothering him all night. “So… have you heard from anyone about Kurt? Is he okay?”

“No, I haven’t heard anything. I’m sorry,” Rachel said, sounding genuinely sad to not be able to give Finn any updates. “But… no news is actually excellent news. It means Agent Anderson is taking care of him and no one’s found them yet.”

“What’s the deal with this agent Anderson guy?” Finn asked, curiously. “He was nice to us, but he seemed so serious.”

“Well, he’s just focused on his job. We all are. He’s just… a little more intense about it than most of us. But he’s a great guy.” Rachel put the first pancake on a plate and handed it to Finn. “No one’s better than him to take care of your brother.”

“So I keep hearing,” Finn said with a sigh. “I’m just afraid Kurt’s going to need someone to be there for him during this whole thing, and maybe agent Anderson isn’t the best guy for that.”

“You and Mr. Hummel seem very close. That’s nice. I’m an only child, and I’ve always been jealous of people who have brothers or sisters to share everything with,” Rachel said, leaning against the counter to look at Finn.

“We were lucky. I had a lot of mixed feelings when my mom told me she and Kurt’s dad were getting married. I was a teenager, and I wasn’t looking forward to moving to a new house with a brand new family. But it was the best thing that ever happened to us.”

Rachel smiled softly at him. She stayed quiet for a moment, cradling the spatula. “So what’s the verdict on the pancakes?”

Finn had a mouthful and had to moan his response. “Best. Thing. Ever.”

Rachel beamed at him proudly, and the morning went a lot better from there.

*

If there was one thing Kurt loved about the ranch, it was the shower. The hot water never seemed to run off, as it did in his apartment in New York, and the way the spray hit his back was strong and perfect, getting rid of all the tension that had been residing on his shoulders since all this I-saw-a-murder-and-now-the-FBI-is-hiding-me-away thing had started.

He got out of the shower, wrapped a towel around his waist and stared at his own reflection on the foggy mirror. He looked tired – it was impossible not to go through something like this without feeling like every single second of the day was a reason for fatigue. Riding a horse hadn’t exactly helped either, even though it had distracted him for a while. The day on the ranch was excruciatingly long without just sitting around the house waiting for everything to be over.

He wondered how Finn was doing. He knew his brother had a game that night, and it felt weird for Kurt to be so far away on a game night. He usually attended if work didn’t get in the way, or at the very least called him to wish him good luck while he was at the theatre. When Finn’s team won, Kurt took him out for a beer after they were both free. When they lost, Finn came over for lasagna and a movie.

Kurt’s lasagna had always made Finn smile, no matter what.

Before thinking about his brother made Kurt sad, he toweled his hair dry, put on clean pajamas and left the bathroom, without another glance towards the mirror. He felt weird, like the man returning the gaze wasn’t him anymore. So much had changed in such a short time.

He went into the kitchen, which was flooded with a delicious smell coming from the oven, something warm and inviting that sent a comforting sensation through Kurt, as if homemade food could fix everything. He found Blaine sitting at the table, surrounded by files and reading through them attentively. He had obviously run his fingers through his hair a few times, because the locks had escaped their tidy prison of gel and returned to its natural curly state. He was wearing thick-framed glasses, and he had unbuttoned his polo shirt, revealing a bit of hairy chest. This was the most casual Kurt had ever seen him, and he doubted it ever got more casual than that.

“It smells great in here,” Kurt commented, standing awkwardly by the door.

Blaine startled. He had obviously been absolutely immersed in what he was reading and hadn’t noticed Kurt was there. “Oh. Yes, I made a chicken casserole. It should be ready in a few minutes.”

“That sounds amazing. Is there anything I can do to help?” Kurt asked, eager to feel useful.

“Let me move all this to the living room and maybe you can help me set the table?” Blaine offered, standing up and grabbing the files.

Kurt helped him. “Are all these about our case?”

“No, these are other cases I need to work on,” Blaine replied. “I’ve been focused on catching this murderer, and work keeps piling up on my desk.”

“Do you specifically work on murder cases or you take any cases you can get?” Kurt was curious. The very few things he knew about the FBI were mostly from TV shows, and he had never been a fan of those, either.

“I usually work in murder cases,” Blaine answered. They piled the files on the couch. Kurt was dying to thumb through a few of them, but he wasn’t sure if Blaine would like that. “When I first started, I was actually mostly involved in fraud cases. But then I switched to homicides.”

“Why?” Kurt asked, as they opened the kitchen cabinets to get plates and glasses.

“There was an opening in one of the teams and the agent in charge wanted me to join them. They were working a big case and needed all the agents they could get,” Blaine explained, as he got the cutlery.

Kurt looked at him closely. Blaine seemed way too invested in setting the forks and knives on the table, as if he didn’t want to look back at Kurt. Kurt wondered if he had screwed up with his questions – it didn’t seem like this was something Blaine was comfortable talking about.

“Well, it all sounds very exciting, if you ask me,” Kurt muttered, trying to make light of the situation. “My job’s pretty stupid compared to yours.”

“You’re on Broadway, right? I remember you mentioned it when we had you in for questioning,” Blaine commented, and he seemed relieved to be able to change the conversation towards Kurt instead of him.

“Yeah, but I’m just in the ensemble,” Kurt said, shrugging, as he folded some napkins.

“That sounds exciting enough,” Blaine muttered. He opened the oven to check on the food. “Are you not happy with it?”

“Are you sure you want me to answer that?” Kurt chuckled, rolling his eyes. “I’m actually in the perfect mood for a little pity party.”

Blaine took the casserole out of the oven and took it to the table. “Dinner’s ready. No better time for a pity party.”

Kurt smiled at him and took a seat at the table. He told Blaine the same he had told Finn before this odyssey started – how he was afraid he was wasting his life on a job that would never take him anywhere; how he didn’t want to spend the rest of his days dancing behind the real star, with no one truly paying attention to him; how he was afraid he had reached his full potential and was now stuck.

“All of this seems completely shallow and meaningless now, of course,” Kurt said, spearing a piece of chicken with his fork. “You have a whole new life perspective when you’re chased by a crazy murderer.”

Blaine gave him a sad smile from across the table. “I’m sorry everything sucks right now. I’m sure you’ll get to go back to New York soon, and you can figure out what to do. But maybe you can see this as some kind of second chance? Maybe you can stop playing safe in the ensemble. Maybe you’re ready for bigger things. Nothing can be scarier than what you’ve been through this last couple of days, and yet… here you are.”

“Here I am,” Kurt repeated, looking at Blaine as if he was a beacon of light in the darkness. “You know, my brother said something very similar to me. I think you guys are right.”

“If you’re going to be dedicating your life to something, you might as well do something you’re passionate about,” Blaine muttered. He must have seen the question in Kurt’s eye, must have felt his curiosity, his sudden need to know if Blaine was passionate about his work on the FBI, because he didn’t give him enough time to ask. “Is the chicken a little dry?”

“No, everything’s amazing,” Kurt said, taking a mouthful to prove his point. “I may go back to New York with a few extra pounds, if your cooking is always this good!”

Blaine smiled at him. It was a soft, kind smile, that made Kurt think. This is a good man, he thought. This is a kind, good-hearted man, who risks his life to protect people, who has opened up his family home to me, and who has gone out of his way to make sure I’m okay.

He is such a good man. But why do I feel like he’s so broken deep down inside?

*

The arena was full. Rachel peeked at the crowd from the edge of the field, where she was waiting for the team to leave the locker rooms. She had inspected the whole stadium before she allowed Finn to walk away from her to get changed.

A few people looked at her strangely as they walked past her. She looked down at her clothes. Dressed in a football jersey she had borrowed from Finn that was large enough to conceal the gun at her waist and a baseball cap, Rachel had never felt less like herself. Long gone were the days where she would only wear cute dresses and cardigans – the FBI demanded more comfortable clothing and gin holsters.

She heard steps coming down the hallway at her back and she turned to find Finn’s teammates exiting the dressing room. She had no trouble locating her current protégé – Finn was a giant even among his tallest buddies.

“Hey,” Finn said, walking towards her. “We’re ready to begin.”

“Okay. I’ll be right here, where I can keep an eye on you. How long does this thing last?” She asked.

Finn had trouble hiding his smirk. “An hour, give or take a few minutes. Why? Not looking forward to it?”

“I’ve never been a very sport-y girl,” Rachel shrugged. “But you’d be surprised the kind of things I had to be willing to try in my line of work. Remind me to tell you about the time I had to impersonate a prostitute.”

Finn looked like he wasn’t sure if he was supposed to laugh or look appalled. He stared at her with wide eyes for a moment, before his coach started signaling for him to join the others. “Well. I guess it’ll make for an interesting conversation during dinner later.”

Rachel watched him go. He looked over his shoulder once, a little frown on his face, and their eyes found each other. Rachel held her hand up, fingers crossed in a silent wish of good luck. Finn smiled at her briefly before trotting out to the field.

The crowd went nuts when the teams were out on the field. Rachel looked around, amazed. She wondered what Finn felt as he was received like this, with the crowd’s wildness and devotion. She wondered what it was like to know all those eyes were on you…

She didn’t know much about the rules of the game. She had watched a few games when she was in high school, but she had never truly paid attention. She had mostly attended to see the guy she had a crush on, the one who had obviously ended up with the head cheerleader. Rachel had always preferred other aspects of academic life and had never found a place with the popular kids. She had considered doing theatre a few times, but the program at her school had never been good enough to bother with it. She had ended up in debate and mock UN.

No one had taken her seriously when she started considering a career in the FBI. People looked at the tiny brunette girl with the big attitude and thought she would never be good enough to become an agent. But Rachel was the most driven person she knew – just knowing everyone thought she couldn’t make it made her wanted even more. She not only got into Quantico, but she also ended at the top of her class.

Rachel Berry loved proving people wrong.

The game only had about fifteen minutes left. Rachel didn’t need to know a lot about football to see how good Finn was at it. He was fearless in the field, relentless. He caught the ball and broke into a run, pushing past the opposite team’s players. Rachel gasped, overcome with the same excitement that seemed to be spreading in the crowd.

The stadium went nuts when Finn scored, the roar of the fans growing loud enough to reach every corner of the city. Rachel bounced a little on her spot, smiling and clapping as she watched Finn raise his arms in victory before his teammates reached him to clap his back. Even from a distance, Rachel could see his bright smile…

She almost didn’t hear it, the sound drowned by the cheers – steps, quiet, but firm and rhythmic. She turned around just in time to see a figure slip into the Giants locker room. It could have been anything – a janitor, the coach’s assistant, one of the players needing to use the rest room. But for some reason, it made Rachel feel on edge. She reached for her gun, concealed under Finn’s huge jersey, and made her way to the locker room.

It smelled awful in there. Like old sweat and feet, with a mixture of too strong deodorant. Rachel scrunched her nose in disgust, but kept alert. It was massive, with blue carpet and light wooden panels. It was a little messy, like the players had gotten ready in a rush, leaving their things lying around. Rachel would have shaken her head, thinking they were all such boys, if it wasn’t for the man going frantically through a bag at the end of a line of lockers.

Rachel’s whole body went tense when she recognized Finn’s bag.

“FBI! Freeze!” She said, holding up her gun. The man stood very still, his back to her. He was thin and tall, and she could see his blonde hair under the baseball cap he was wearing. “Hands where I can see them. Turn around very, very slowly…” She walked a few more steps towards him. The man didn’t turn around, his hands still clasped on Finn’s bag.

It had to be him. It had to be the killer.

“I said, turn around!” She shouted, firm and loud, making sure he knew she was serious.

The man moved abruptly, taking his hand out of Finn’s bag and pointing at Rachel with a deodorant, which he sprayed deliberately on her face. She cursed, covering her eyes, but already feeling the burn of it. They filled with tears immediately, but Rachel tried to blink them away, as she could hear the man’s steps, getting away.

She ran mostly blindly towards the locker room door. Maybe it was because her other senses were sharpening now that she couldn’t see well, but the stadium seemed to have grown louder. She couldn’t hear steps, breathing or anything that would tell her the killer was still close. All she could hear was the crowd.

She cursed under her breath again, and realized she couldn’t do anything by herself like this. She felt powerless and useless in a way she hadn’t felt in a very long time. She felt in her jeans pocket for her phone, blinking her eyes endlessly, trying to clear her sight. She thought she made up Santana’s name in her contact list, and clicked on it to call her.

“Berry,” Santana said as a greeting. “What’s up?”

“New York Giants stadium,” Rachel said, closing her eyes tightly, hoping to get rid of the burn. “He was here, Santana. I need help. A team. Anything. Please.”

“Are you okay? You don’t sound okay,” Santana said, and Rachel could hear her moving quickly and easily pictured her gesturing orders to the entire bureau.

The burning in her eyes was almost unbearable, but the sense of defeat, of having been so close and letting the bastard escape weighed her down even more. She heard the sound that signaled the end of the game. Soon, Finn would walk up to her and see her, and realize there was nothing she could do to keep him safe.

“No,” Rachel muttered in a low, scratchy voice. “No, I’m not okay.”

*

Kurt couldn’t sleep. He was exhausted – had been exhausted since this whole ordeal had begun – but no matter how much he tried, sleep wouldn’t come to him. He stared at the ceiling for what felt like hours, thinking. Thinking about the man that needed to be trapped in order for him to get his life back, and about what kind of life he would be returning to when that happened.

What he was going through felt like a curse – his life was being threatened, he wasn’t safe in his own house, he had to be hidden away by the FBI, and even his brother needed protection. He wasn’t sure how long it would take for him to go back to New York and what he would find once he was there.

But it also felt, strangely, like a blessing. There was no point in sitting there feeling bad for himself. He could use this horrible thing and turn it into an opportunity. He could restart his life, find a new angle, find inspiration, rethink his choices, find a new path. He could do whatever he wanted.

He thought of the conversation he had with Blaine over dinner, so similar to the one he had with Finn what felt like a lifetime ago. He thought of how insignificant everything had felt, how his life seemed to be stuck and how he didn’t know what to do to make it meaningful and worth living again.

He thought of his father. Burt Hummel had only wanted one thing for his son: for him to be happy.

It was time to find that happiness.

Kurt turned the lamp on. The ranch was quiet, the lack of New York traffic to evident and foreign to be reassuring. He looked around the room, hoping to find a pen and a piece of paper. He thought of his laptop, back in his apartment, and wished he had it with him.

Tiptoeing, Kurt left the bedroom. The hallway was dark, the other doors closed. Blaine must have gone to sleep, too, and he didn’t want to wake him. He knew the poor agent was as exhausted as he was, worn down by the worries and responsibilities. He deserved a good night’s sleep.

But when he arrived at the living room, the light was still on, and Agent Anderson was lying on the couch, covered in case files, still dressed. His shoes had been carelessly discarded under the coffee table, and a pair of reading glasses was crooked on his face. He had obviously fallen asleep working.

Kurt stood by the couch and watched him for a moment. Blaine was a mystery – when he looked at the man before him, Kurt had a hard time recognizing him in the happy, smiley boy in the pictures on the shelf. They looked alike, but it seemed like all the joy in that young boy had been drained. Kurt guessed it was part of being an FBI agent – how could you do your job, face the terrible things that Blaine must face every day, and not lose that childish bliss?

He is handsome, a quiet little voice said in the back of Kurt’s head. Kurt’s eyes followed the strong line of his jaw, covered in stubble; the plump curve of his pink lips; his dark, long eyelashes; the way his hair struggled to escape the gel that Blaine used to tame it every day. He was more than handsome…

Blaine shifted in his sleep, trying to get more comfortable on the couch, and one of the case files fell on the floor. The thud, though quiet and almost non-existent, startled Blaine awake. He sat up abruptly with a gasp, his hand flying to his waist as if to look for his gun.

Kurt took a step back, surprised at the sudden movement. “Oh!” He exclaimed.

Blaine’s hazel eyes moved to him. He blinked a few times, looking confused. “Oh. Mr. Hummel. Kurt. I’m…”

“It’s okay,” Kurt murmured with a little smile. “You fell asleep on the couch. I came looking for something to write and found you. I guess it can’t be comfortable…”

Blaine nodded and gathered the files he had dropped. “It’s fine.” He glanced at the clock and then back at Kurt. “Having trouble sleeping?”

“A little,” Kurt shrugged, as if it didn’t matter. “I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. But I was thinking… well, I thought of something and I wanted to write it down.”

Blaine shuffled the papers on the coffee table until he found a few sheets of paper that he hadn’t used and a pen. He handed them to Kurt. “Here.”

“Thank you,” Kurt grinned at him. “I think I’m going to make some tea. Would you like a cup?”

With another glance at the coffee table, Blaine sighed. “Sure, what the hell. I could use some tea.” He followed Kurt into the kitchen, watching him as Kurt set the paper and pen down to grab the kettle. “What is it that you need to write down? Did you remember anything new about the case?”

“No,” Kurt replied, as he filled the kettle with water. “I just realized that if I want to find a perfect role on Broadway for me to play, I’ll have to write it myself.”

Blaine’s eyebrows rose to his hairline. “Really? You didn’t mention you were also a writer.”

“I’m not. But how hard can it be?” Kurt put the kettle on the stove and then walked to the cabinet to find the mugs. “I know what I can do. I know my strengths. I need to write something I can play.” He started opening doors, looking for the tea, not remembering where it was. He wasn’t familiar with the kitchen yet.

Blaine opened a cabinet and grabbed the box of tea. “I think it’s a very smart decision. And you are a very eloquent person. I’m sure you can write something good.”

“Well, even if it’s not good, it’ll make a pretty decent distraction while I’m trapped here…” Kurt said as he accepted the box. He froze, staring into Blaine’s eyes. “Not that I’m not grateful. I’m so grateful, Agent Anderson, I swear…”

Blaine did a little huffing noise that could be hiding a laugh. He smiled up at Kurt. “I know you are. I know what you mean. Don’t worry about it.”

Kurt nodded awkwardly. He put the tea bags in the mugs and waited impatiently for the water to boil. He could feel Blaine’s eyes on him, but he ignored him, though his skin was suddenly on edge, filling with goosebumps, attacked by chills.

And not the bad kind.

“I’ll be right back,” Blaine said, as Kurt poured the water in the mugs.

“But your tea is ready! It’ll get cold!” He called after him. Kurt heard a door opening and closing and Blaine steps as he moved somewhere else in the house.

Kurt sat at the kitchen table, tea on one hand, paper and pen in the other, and stared at the blank page, wondering how to start. He had never been much of a writer – he had tried writing a musical in high school, as a summer project, but had never finished it, and all his fashion blogs had been abandoned eventually. What made him think he could actually do this now?

Something heavy was set on the table in front of him. Blaine was back and he had brought an old typewriter with him. It was big and covered in a thin layer of dust.

“Here,” Blaine said. “Maybe writing in this will help you find some inspiration.”

Kurt blinked up at him. “Blaine… it’s beautiful, but you didn’t have to go get it for me…”

“It’s no problem. It was my grandmother’s, so it hasn’t be used in a while, but it should be in perfect condition. Let me just get rid of that dust for you and you can get to work,” Blaine moved to the counter to get something to clean it, but Kurt caught his hand, stopping him.

Blaine’s hand was warm in his. Kurt felt the sudden need to trace each finger, to follow the line of hair that started at his wrist, see where it would take him. A shiver went down his spine, and he let go, taking hold of his cup of tea, like he needed the heat it irradiated.

“Thank you so much,” Kurt muttered. “You didn’t have to.”

“I hope it makes you feel a little less trapped,” Blaine replied, giving him a soft smile.

They looked at each other, the seconds stretching into what felt like hours. Kurt cleared his throat and looked away first, internally chastising himself for acting like this. Blaine cleaned the typewriter, showed him how to put the paper on it, and they tried it together to make sure it worked. Without the dust, it seemed new, like they had just gone back in time to buy one. The clicking of the keyboard made Kurt feel like he was in an old black and white movie.

He loved it.

Blaine grabbed his tea and stood at the doorway, watching as Kurt set to work. He smiled. “Goodnight, Kurt.”

“Goodnight, Blaine,” Kurt echoed, already lost in the world of his ideas.

As Blaine walked away, Kurt began to write.

*