"Finished! Here, what do you think?" Kurt spun his sketch book around triumphantly so that Santana, his office manager and one of his best friends, could marvel over his latest creation.

Santana examined the drawing thoughtfully, her eyes lingering over the lines and curves of the intricate ball gown. "Beautiful. Awe inspiring. Mind boggling." Kurt grinned excitedly at her response and did a little happy dance shimmy in his chair. "I love it. Almost as much as the original. Alexander McQueen, Fall 2012."

"What?" Kurt cried in dismay as he pulled the book back to him. "No, its nothing like…" his voice trailed off as he inspected the corseted top and floating, dreamlike skirt. "Oh god, it is. I did it again." He threw his colored pencil down onto the table, enjoying the sharp pinging sound it made as the end broke off and went flying into the side of his vintage 1950s diner coffee mug. "What is wrong with me? I havent been able to design anything in months that isnt derivative as hell, a blatant copy, or destined for the discount racks at Wal-Mart."

Sometimes, Kurt really wondered why hed been picked as one of s 10 Designers to Watch two years before. When he was at his best—knocking out eye-catching designs that he knew hed be seeing on the red carpet or in the exclusive aisles of Saks and Neiman Marcus—he knew that he deserved the honor and wasnt ashamed to admit it, but when he was feeling particularly uninspired, as he was now, doubt began to creep in. Maybe Isabel Wright had put undue influence on the selection committee to pick her former intern. He knew he wasnt the first person to wonder if he was fully deserving of the honor.

Hed been designing his own line for over five years now, having slaved away for the three years before that as an assistant designer at Zach Posen. Hed built his business up from scratch until he had two assistant designers of his own, as well as an office full of support staff. In all that time, hed never had such a long or profound dry spell. Nothing was speaking to him and clothes seemed to be nothing more than fabric draped over bodies.

It had happened before, of course—everyone experienced their own personal equivalent of writers block once-and-a-while—but it felt different this time, the lack of inspiration at times so profound that it felt as if something was slowly replacing the creative molecules in his body one-by-one, like a tree being petrified over the years.

He hadnt felt so disconnected from fashion since that time hed dressed like a trucker for a week in high school.

He sank his elbows onto the table and laid his chin miserably in his hands, sighing deeply as he wondered out loud howd he pay for his exclusive uptown loft when he was reduced to taking a job as a stylist or (shudder) a personal shopper at Nordstrom.

Santana didnt offer up a pep talk (not that he expected her to), so he allowed himself to wallow in self-pity for just a few minutes longer before he squared his shoulders and drew himself up tall in his chair. "Alright. Lets get everyone in here for a brainstorming session in an hour."

Santana shook her head at his announcement. "Its six oclock, in case you havent noticed." Kurt looked at her blankly. "Six oclock. In the evening. Quitting time? That magical hour when normal people pack up their laptops and leave the office for these strange little rooms that they sleep in?"

Kurt felt a prickle of guilt, but pushed it away, desperate to find a way out of his rut. "Im sure they wont mind staying late just this once."

"Kurt, it wouldnt even be the first time this week," Santana said, her tone as dry as the martinis served at bar in the Carlyle hotel. "Youve had people work so many late nights and weekends recently that theyve had to send photos home in order to remind their families what they look like."

"It hasnt been that bad," Kurt grumbled into his quickly cooling coffee.

"Yes, it has." Santana walked over to her desk and returned with something in her hand. "Youve barely left the office in a month and youve forced the rest of us to suffer along with you. Here."

Kurt pulled his head back just as a small paper folder sailed past his face, barely saving himself from a paper cut on the nose. "What is it?" he asked, poking at the object suspiciously with his now useless pencil. Though he assumed the folder was too small to contain anything venomous, he wouldnt put it past Santana to try.

"Its a plane ticket. Youre going to get out of town for a while. Take a vacation. Recapture your lost mojo."

"And just how am I supposed to do that?"

Santana just shrugged. "Relax. Get laid. Take up a new hobby. I really dont care. But if you dont leave right now there might be bloodshed, because all of your whining over the past two months has seriously made me have some Lima Heights flashbacks and we all know what happens when Snix comes out to play."

"I cant just leave," he protested.

"Yes, you can." Santana glared at him as she bent over to press her hands flat against the table top, her short mini-dress riding up just enough to catch the attention of the UPS driver who was picking up a package at the front desk, which Kurt was sure wasnt inadvertent. "And you will."

Kurt glared right back at her, but their staring contest didnt last for long and ended with him losing, as usual (Santana had the freakish ability to go for abnormally long periods of time without blinking, confirming his long held suspicions that she was, in fact, part snake). "Well, I suppose a day or two off wouldnt—"

"Nope. At least six months."

"What?" he cried incredulously. "Thats ridiculous! The collection—"

"Fashion Week is over, the designs for the new collection are locked, and you already committed to letting the assistants take a larger role in the next one. You know that theyre going to end up doing most of the work anyways, given the way youve been sketching lately. You can send us anything you come up with while youre gone and Ill send you their sketches for approval and handle everything here in the office. This isnt negotiable. Ill make your life miserable if you stay, I swear to God. Besides," she said with a shrug, "we had an all-hands meeting without you last night and the vote was unanimous. Either you go or we do."

Kurt knew her well enough to recognize that it wasnt an idle threat. Well, the leaving part was—Santana was harder to get rid of than an infestation of cockroaches—but he had no doubts she would use every weapon in her varied and extensive arsenal to make him regret it if he stayed. Besides, now that hed had a little time to think about it, getting away did sound kind of appealing. At least he would have something to do other than stare at his empty sketch pad.

"One week."

"Six months."

"Two weeks."

"Five months."

Kurt straightened his spine and gave her his best "Im the boss" look. "One month and thats my final offer."

"Fine, but not a day less," she agreed, giving in way too quickly.

Kurt eyed her suspiciously and reached for the envelope shed thrown at him. "Where are you sending me anyways?" He opened the folder to find it empty.

"Do I have to do everything? Figure that out for yourself." She smirked as he shook the paper folder at her. "What? I work better with props."

Kurt looked at the icon of an airplane on the front of the thick card-stock paper. "My great-aunt did leave me her house in Port Townsend, Washington when she died last year. I havent ever been out there and I guess I kinda need to decide what to do with it."

Santana pulled her coat off the rack in the corner and swung it around her shoulders in one smooth motion. "Perfect. Go commune with the bears or pick some apples or whatever it is they do out there. Just dont come back and tell us the theme of your new collection is orca whale."

"Do you suppose they have good bagels in Washington?" he asked plaintively, already second guessing his decision.

"I wouldnt even give you good odds that theyve heard of bagels. Hey, look on the bright side, though—at least you can be assured that therell be plenty of coffee."

=^..^=

Kurt slammed the door of his rental car, his mouth hanging open slightly as he took in the Queen Anne style Victorian house before him. The lawyer had sent him photos of the house when hed signed the inheritance paperwork, but they hadnt really done the place justice.

The house was a faded blue, with peeling white trim along the bay windows, porch, and high gables. It seemed narrow from the front, but extended far back from the road, its asymmetrical fa�ade offering up a feast for the eyes. The front yard was neat—evidence that the caretaker whod been hired to maintain the place had been doing his job—and from his vantage point Kurt could just see the detached garage nestled in back. Since he was used to noticing details, he was easily able to pick out the missing shingles, the worn steps, and the broken gingerbread decorations along the roofline. Those things didnt matter, though. The house might be bit bedraggled and had definitely seen better days, but it had a charm that couldnt be suppressed.

He grabbed his carry-on bag from the trunk, shrugged his jacket on to ward off the early March chill that still lingered in the air, and headed towards the front door.

Stepping into the house was like stepping back in time and not in a good way. It was obvious that the house had been renovated, but unfortunately it seemed as if that work had been done in the 1970s, the lost decade of bad fashion, boring architecture, and even worse interior design. Horrible gold-ish colored shag carpet covered the living room floor (please, please let the original hardwoods still be underneath) and he could already see that the color scheme continued into the kitchen, where he could just make out dark brown linoleum and ancient gold appliances.

He prowled through the rooms on the bottom floor to get his bearings and then headed up the elaborate, but worn, wooden staircase to check out the bedrooms. He nearly turned around and left when he saw the oppressive wallpaper that covered the walls. Every room had a different color and design, but each was just as horrible as the last. Kurt had a delicate, finely tuned aesthetic palate and it literally hurt him to see such a criminal use of wall d�cor.

The only saving grace on the top floor was the beautiful wood-beamed ceilings and the huge clawfoot bathtub (he knew what hed be doing later that night) in the master bathroom.

He returned downstairs and, after finding a door to some kind of cellar and slamming it shut quickly when he hear suspicious rustling noises, headed into the kitchen, which seemed about a quarter of the size that it actually was due to the dark floors and cabinets.

It took him an hour to finish exploring the house and property. When he was done, he found himself alone in the living room, wondering what to do next.

Did Chinese food deliver in the back of beyond?

=^..^=

After the non-stop hustle and bustle that was New York City, Kurt was having a little trouble adjusting to the slower pace of the sleepy little port town on the Olympic Peninsula. Hed been in town for three days so far, but the lack of urgency and the complete dearth of anything important to do had turned him into a couch potato. Hed gone out on the first morning to get groceries, but everyone moved so slowly that hed had to fight to tamp down his now deeply ingrained New York impatience. He hadnt left the house since then, moping around in his (fabulous) pajamas all day watching old Mary Tyler Moore Show episodes on the ancient TV in the living room, trying to sketch a little, and mourning his once-promising career.

It was the absence of familiar noises that was really getting to him the most, though. There were no sirens screaming by at all hours, no horns honking or other traffic sounds. There were just the first birds of spring singing outside his window and the wind rustling the branches outside. Hed forgotten to pack his white noise machine, so he heard every creak and groan as the house settled during the night. As he lay awake, staring at the cracked ceiling above his bed, his mind churned over the past several months and he worried that there was no light at the end of his particular tunnel.

Finally, on the fourth day, he decided to stop feeling sorry for himself. Maybe inspiration was waiting just around the corner. He drove into town and found a coffee shop (despite his current proximity to Seattle, the hometown of Starbucks, he still preferred small local places) that looked good. He sat at a table near the window and watched the ferries go in and out of the dock, wondering absently where all the people were coming from and going to. He was used to seeing the Staten Island Ferry back home, but the big, white and green Washington State Ferries, which seemed to hold an endless number of cars, were a completely different animal.

He finished his coffee with a sigh, hoping that the ferry wasnt the height of excitement in town or hed be counting the days until his month of exile was over.

Still looking for something to spark his imagination, he decided to take a stroll down the main street of town, which was quiet at the moment, but was filled with quaint little stores that he was sure were meant to cater to the hordes of tourists that probably stormed the town each summer. After a few hours of browsing shops full of antiques, hand-made soaps, and blown glass fishing net floats, he looked down a side street and saw a sign for a real estate office. If he was going to put the house on the market before he left he might as well start doing some research.

After browsing some of the listings taped to the front window, Kurt entered the office. Several women sat at desks spread throughout the room and the one nearest to him stood up and approached him with her hand held out in greeting.

"Hi, welcome to Peninsula Properties. Im Jyoti, how can I…oh! Youre…youre Kurt Hummel, arent you?"

Kurt always got a thrill when someone recognized him. Once-upon-a-time hed had dreams of being a famous Broadway actor, but when hed changed course after he got his internship at , hed left behind the expectation that people would someday stop him on the street for his autograph. Then his design career had taken off and after the Vogue article and a few TV appearances hed been surprised to find that even fashion designers had groupies.

He hadnt expected to find a fan in the rain-soaked Northwest, though.

He smiled at the Indian woman in front of him who was dressed in jeans and a blouse that was a modern spin on a traditional Indian salwar kameez. "Why, yes, yes I am."

"I love your designs so much! And you were so great as the guest judge for those two episodes of Fashion Face-Off last season. I loved your banter with Coco Rocha. You should really get your own show. Everyone on the internet was saying so. I mean, those fashion shows always have good judges, but usually the men are just good for their industry knowledge or snarky comments and arent, you know, eye candy. With you we got it all: good critiques, personality, and a feast for the eyes. Youre likeable and lickable, you know?" Jyoti turned around and called out to the other women in the office. "Ladies, you wont believe whos here!"

Kurts head was still spinning from Jyotis comments as the other ladies introduced themselves. Thankfully, the rest of them were a little more calm and restrained, though they had unfortunately put their support behind the phrase "likeable and lickable" and he was afraid that it would be all over Twitter and Tumblr by that evening.

An hour later, Kurt was still in the office, gabbing with his newfound friends. The women peppered him with questions about New York and fashion and which actresses were nightmares to work with before turning to more local matters. They told him where to get the best coffee, which restaurant was a no-no unless he wanted to risk food poisoning, and which shop keepers had the best gossip. He made note of several local spots they suggested he see, dutifully promising to visit the beach near Fort Worden even though he wasnt what anyone would call the outdoorsy type.

"How long are you in town for?" Jyoti asked when he mentioned his hope to get over to Seattle for a few days before he went back to New York.

"Only about three more weeks," he replied. "I inherited a house here, so I came to check it out and put it on the market."

Jyotis eyes lit up at the mention of a potential listing. "Oh, yeah? Which house?"

"Its a big blue Victorian on Hydrangea Lane."

"I love that house!" Jyoti squealed. "Its got so much potential. Its a shame that it hasnt been kept up. Are you thinking of selling it as is or renovating it first?"

Kurt shook his head. "I wont be here long enough to renovate. Ill probably just put it on the market before I leave."

"Well, if you change your mind, let me know. My best friend works for a construction company that specializes in Victorian renovations. Anderson and Sons has restored most of the Victorians around here and they do an amazing job. Either way, wed love to have a shot at the listing. No pressure though." Jyoti handed him her business card, which he tucked into his wallet.

"Hey Kurt, what are you doing next weekend?" Emily, one of the other realtors, asked. "A bunch of us are going to the Victorian Festival and we have an extra ticket, if you want to join us."

"Im intrigued," Kurt responded with a tilt of his head. "Tell me more."

"Basically its our yearly celebration of the citys Victorian heritage. This year were going to do the Historic Building tour and then go to the Victorian Ball. Youll get to wear a marvelous costume and dance the quadrille," she cajoled.

"Oh honey, you had me at marvelous costume." He glanced around as if he was about to impart some big secret. "I think I already have a design for an era-appropriate dinner jacket. I may not be getting any ideas for my next collection, but at this rate my house may be putting me on the path to designing costumes for the next revival of Jekyll & Hyde on Broadway."

They made plans to meet up for the building tour the next weekend and Emily gave Kurt directions to the local fabric shop so that he could buy material for his costume. Fortunately, one of the bedrooms upstairs had already been set up as a sewing room, so he had a sewing machine to work with.

On his way back to the car, Kurt passed by the coffee shop again and he saw a particularly cute, curly-haired guy holding the door open for an extremely pregnant woman. He noted the mans beautiful smile and adorable bow tie—which was covered in little red crabs—with a smile (fashion with a sense of whimsy was one of his favorite things) and couldnt help but hope that Mr. Bow Tie wasnt the one responsible for the ladys delicate condition, because that would leave the door open a just a tiny crack that he might be gay.

He made a mental note to come back to that caf� again. Maybe Mr. Bow Tie was a regular.

=^..^=

Though hed never really considered himself a big connoisseur of architecture, Kurt found the historical building tour fascinating. Port Townsend was filled with Victorian style buildings and seeing many of them restored to their former glory was giving him that tingle of inspiration that hed been missing lately. Regrettably, it wasnt designs for flirty dresses and intricate jackets that were filling his head. Instead, he was picturing his house, the hardwood floors shining, the kitchen rescued from its 1970s prison, the furniture refinished, and the old-lady wallpaper replaced with something beautiful, yet era appropriate.

He really should have been more specific when hed wished for his creativity and imagination to return.

They finished their tour around three oclock and Emily told him shed see him at the American Legion Hall, where the ball was taking place, in three hours. "I take it youre not into being fashionably late? The dance doesnt start until seven oclock, right?"

Jyoti grinned at him impishly. "Ah, but theres a charity event right before that we cant miss."

"What kind of event?" he asked, suspicious about her cat-who-ate-the-canary smile.

"Nuh-uh. Thats a surprise."

Three hours later, Kurt was wishing that hed asked more questions when he saw the sign for the charity bachelor auction.

"No way," he protested as the girls pushed him up the front steps. "A gay guy at a small town bachelor auction? This has embarrassing sitcom-like disaster written all over it."

"Hey, just be glad we didnt meet you before this week or youd be right up on the auction block, too," Emily laughed as she maneuvered her bustled skirt through the door.

They arrived just as the auction was about to start, so the room was already filled nearly to capacity. Most people were in costume, obviously set to attend the ball afterwards, but a few were in modern dress. Most of the costumes looked homemade, with varying degrees of success, and Kurt preened a little at the admiring looks his own outfit was receiving. His black jacket was long, reaching about mid-thigh and was unbuttoned at the moment to show off his black-on-black patterned brocade vest, starched white shirt with a high collar, and green silk ascot tied just so. Hed debated long and hard about whether or not to scout out a top hat and cane to complete the look, but in the end had decided to err on the side of understatement.

Jyoti came up beside him, the blue of her gown contrasting nicely with the darker shade of her skin. "I have such a crush on one of the guys thats going to be auctioned off. Ive wanted to ask him out for weeks, but Im such a big chicken. Im hoping to be brave enough to bid on him tonight."

Kurt extended his bent arm towards her. "Ill lend you some of my New York courage, if you want."

"Perfect," Jyoti said as she smiled and threaded her arm through his. "Come on, lets go buy me a date for the dance."

The auction was surprisingly fun. The crowd was rowdier than Kurt would have expected, and seeing the women whooping it up in their costumes was an entertaining sight. In the spirit of the evening, the men being auctioned off were milking the attention for all they were worth, walking the stage as if it was a catwalk and flirting with the audience in an attempt to bring in the highest bid.

Kurt laughed along with everyone else as a tiny, white-haired woman—who had to be at least in her eighties—made her way to the front of the room to celebrate her winning bid for a 20-something muscle-bound firefighter. The man looked chagrined at the outcome of the auction, but the woman was shaking her clasped hands above her head in triumph, a grin splitting her face from ear-to-ear.

Then, the lights dimmed as the emcee took to the stage to announce the next-to-last auction.

"Ladies, our next gentleman is making his auction debut tonight, so please be gentle. Now, break out the check books and give a warm Victorian Festival welcome to Blaine Anderson!"

The spotlight zeroed in on the red curtain as it parted, illuminating what had to be the best looking guy Kurt had seen since leaving New York. Screw that, he was probably the best looking guy Kurt had seen in years. He had slicked back black hair and eyes that Kurt wanted to spend the next decade or so getting lost in. His compact, lean-but-muscular body was poured into a perfectly tailored period correct tuxedo that hed paired with a white bow tie and gloves.

It was the bow tie that stirred Kurts memory and he suddenly recognized the man (Blaine?) as the cute guy from the coffee shop the week before. His breath caught as he realized that Blaines presence in the bachelor auction probably meant that he wasnt with (or at least wasnt with with) the pregnant woman hed been holding the door open for.

Kurt was so caught up in admiring the figure before him that it took a moment to register that the bidding had started. He was startled when Jyoti, who was standing beside him towards the back of the room, lifted up her paddle and yelled out "a hundred and fifty!"

He looked at her in surprise, since she hadnt made a single bid all night, but the look on her face told him that Blaine was the one shed been talking about earlier, the one she had a crush on. A wave of disappointment crashed over him. Of course Blaine was straight. What were the odds that hed find a great looking, unattached, gay guy out in the boonies?

The bidding continued at a feverish pace and Jyoti soon had to bow out as the amount exceeded what she was able to pay. She settled back in her chair, grumbling under her breath as Kurt patted her arm sympathetically.

Though he knew it was a lost cause, Kurt still couldnt keep his eyes off of Blaine, who had looked amused at first, but now seemed to be getting more and more uncomfortable as two women got into a bidding war over him, pushing the dollar amount well over the previous top auction total of three hundred.

Kurt watched as Blaine began to squirm, the pinched expression on his face saying that he wanted to be anywhere except up on that stage. Kurt shifted in his chair as the desire to help welled up within him.

"Two thousand!"

The crowd gasped at the bid and everyone swiveled around to see who was willing to pay such an extravagant amount.

"Going once, going twice. And the winner is number 21." The announcer almost tripped over his words in his hurry to end the auction before the generous bidder changed his mind.

Kurt blinked as one of the spotlights swept over the tables before coming to stop on him. The light blinded him for a second and his pulse began to race as he slowly dropped his hand down to his side. The traitorous hand that had, just moments before, been holding the paddle numbered 21 high above his head.