I cuddle closer into my pillows; seeking warmth in my frigid apartment (seems the heater is broken again). When I hear birds chirping my eyes snap open and glance at the clock which flashes midnight.

            "Shit!" I exclaim, scrambling out of bed and into the bathroom for a quick shower. There's no time for gel so my hair's going to be curly and wild as fuck - and I can guarantee my boss will comment on that (probably something scything about how unruly they are and how they make me look like a puppy).

            After pulling on the first pair of clothes my hand meets (I am so fucking dead, I think.) - which still look pretty damn good, if I do say so myself - I rush out the door, satchel in hand, locking my apartment on the way, and thank the powers that be that I live only a couple blocks from the local Starbucks and that the office is just a few blocks after that. And while most days it's annoying, today I'm glad Sebastian, the usual morning barista, has my schedule and coffee order memorized because when I run in I'm not forced to wait in the extremely long line.

            "Bless you," I gush as he hands me my coffees.

            "Don't mention it," Sebastian winks.

            Ignoring that, I somehow manage to dodge a shit ton of people as I weave down the sidewalk and across the street but as soon as I make it into the office and around the corner from my cubical, some idiot backs right into me, spilling my boss' coffee all over my front.

            "Goddammit!" I grit out. "Watch where the fuck you're going!"

            I make my way through the snickers over to a fellow assistant (to another designer at the company of course), Wes, and demand his clothes.

            Wes scowls at me. "What?!"

            "Come on man, you're the only one anywhere close to me in size that isn't a girl!"

            He glares, considering. "What do I get out of this?"

            "Tickets to whatever Broadway show you want, just hurry he'll be here in -" I pause to look at the clock, "- two minutes!"

            We swap shirts quickly (his just barely fits my broad shoulders) and I'm changed just in time for my boss to walk in.

            I hand Mr. Hummel his coffee as he walks by (not even a thank you but I'm used to it by now, sadly) and we head into his office.

            "What d'you -" He does a slight double take and eyes me up and down. "Not your usual style Blaine - especially the hair."

            I scuff the toe of my shoe on the carpet, a habit my mother failed to rid me of, blushing slightly in embarrassment and my crazy hair. "Yeah..." I say, hand scratching the back of my neck, "I just - felt like something different for a change."

            Mr. Hummel nods in consideration for a moment before saying quietly, "I like it; you look good." Then he straightens his back and shakes his head slightly, as if banishing a bad thought before saying, "Now get that scared, confused look off your face; with your curly hair it makes you look like a fucking puppy," which is closer to his normal attitude. (I knew he would make a comparison to a puppy; someone always does!)

            My admittedly oddly-shaped eyebrows encroach on my hairline, surprised by this sentiment but before I can really start to think about it (well more than just, Did the Kurt Hummel, ice queen, just say I look good?), he gets onto business.

            "Now what've you got for me this morning?" he asks, setting his satchel on his desk, sorting through some designs.

            "Steinman called, they don't have any of the silk left in green, but they do have an emerald; Gucci requests sketches for the summer line by Friday; and immigration is on line two, something about your work visa," I inform him right away.

            Mr. Hummel thinks for a moment before replying. "Tell Steinman we'll take the emerald, as much as they've got; I have the sketches right here, they'll be ready for you to take down to the post office by this afternoon; and put that call on hold."

            I pause a split second - what if they're going to deport him? - before nodding. "M'kay, I'll get right on that." As I'm about to walk out the door he calls me back in.

            "Umm - Blaine?" He's looking at the coffee cup. "Who's Sebastian and why does he want me to call him for a good time - with a winky face no less?"

            I dither slightly on the spot. (Shit, I haven't had a problem like this since my internship!) "Um - that was originally my coffee."

            "Hmm..." He glares at the coffee before taking an experimental sip. "And why am I drinking your coffee?"

            I fidget, wanting out of there (even after two years his icy glare still makes my spine tingle with fear and something akin to unwanted lust). "Well - um - because yours spilled, sir."

            "And do you usually drink a non-fat mocha?"

            "No, actually; I just felt like -"

            "Something different," he finishes for me, smirking knowingly; "like the clothes and hair."

            I open my mouth as if to speak but nothing comes to mind, so I just close it and nod.

            "Ah hah... well -"

            At that moment the phone rings and I breathe a sigh of relief before answering it, "Kurt Hummel's office, Blaine speaking."

            "Blaine, it's Lynn," Mr. Hummel's business partner says on the line. "Could you tell Kurt I'd like to see him in my office please?"

            "Yes ma'am," I say before we both hang up.

            I turn to Mr. Hummel and relay the message.

            He sighs. "Okay, but come get me in ten minutes; I just thought of a change I wanted to make to the show next month."

            "Right," I mumble as he walks out.

Ten minutes later, I make my way up to Ms. Hammond - Lynn's - office. I knock and open the door.

            "Mr. Hummel, Ms. Hammond? Sorry to interrupt but -"

            "Oh no no no, you're not interrupting at all honey!" Mr. Hummel speaks over me.

            Head cocked to the side and brows furrowed (honey?), I shuffle into the office, confused.

            "No need to panic Lynn, I'm not getting deported," he turns, grabs my hand, and pulls me forward so I'm standing right next to him, close to his side, "because Blaine and I are getting married."

            My mouth drops open, shocked. "I - what?" I squeak, looking between my two superiors.

            Ms. Hammond narrows her eyes, skeptical. "Really?" she deadpans, and then shakes her head. "Well just make it official or I'm gonna have to call Jesse in for the show next month - and you know how much I hate that prick."

            "Oh definitely, definitely Lynn, you got it!"

            "Okay head down to the immigration office now and get this settled; I don't need to lose my best designer."

            At that, Mr. Hummel shoves me ahead of him out of the office. As soon as we're outside and walking down the street, I turn around to confront him.

            "What the hell is going on here?" I demand.

            He scowls. "My visa is up and, for whatever reason, I can't renew it until after the first of the year and I am not going back to France; not now. So you," he says, jabbing a finger roughly into my chest, "are going to help me out here."

            I cross my arms. "And why would I do that?"

            "Because if you do, I will put one of your designs in the summer line."

            At the immigration office, Mr. Hummel - guess I should be calling him Kurt now - manages to get us a meeting well ahead of the long-waiting line of people. (He probably used that "bitch please" glare of his; it's so effective.)

            "So I hear you're here to get a marriage visa," our immigration officer starts off as soon as he walks in.

            "Yes," Kurt confirms confidently.

            "And you're not doing this just so you don't get deported? Because, if you are, there will be dire consequences for the both of you."

            I swallow thickly but Kurt just scoffs. "Of course not."

            "Then why is it that," the officer, Amy Brolden according to her nameplate, asks, "when asked, none of your co-workers knew of this relationship's existence?"

            I speak up. "Well we just thought it wouldn't look right - that Kurt would come off as biased - considering the use of a couple of my designs, and my upcoming promotion."

            "Yes," Kurt chimes in, "Blaine's promotion to designing partner."

            As Ms. (Agent?) Brolden hums in acknowledgment and writes that down Kurt turns to glare at me, mouthing "what the hell are you doing?" I just smirk (quite bravely, I might add) in answer.

            "How about your families; do they know about you?" Brolden suddenly says.

            Kurt sort of shrugs. "I don't have any family to speak of really; my mother died when I was young, and my father right before I graduated from secondary school - high school," he clarifies.

            "Okay, how about your family Blaine?"

            "Well I was going to go home for the holidays starting this weekend but -"

            "But he was a little hesitant about leaving me here all by my lonesome - he's a sweetheart like that - so I'm going with and we're telling his family then," Kurt tacks on, giving me the urge to raise a brow at him (Oh, so I can only visit my family and old friends when it suits you? And now I'm a sweetheart? Was calling me "honey" not enough for you?) but I resist.

            "Is that so?" We both nod eagerly. "Well all righty then! Once you get back after the first of the year we'll have a meeting; we'll set it up then."

            We all stand up and are just about to walk out the door when Brolden asks one more question.

            "Oh yes, one more thing: where is it Blaine's from Kurt?"

            Kurt quickly glances at me before turning around and, surprisingly (Who knew the ice queen would remember something as insubstantial as my hometown? Next thing you know he'll remember my birthday!), giving the right answer: "Westerville, Ohio."