When Blaine wakes in the morning - or closer to the afternoon - the voices in his head have miraculously gone. Or are temporarily silent. Blaine doesn’t know which, but he welcomes the break. Despite having a touch of an anxiety hangover, he feels refreshed after finally getting several hours’ sleep. But there’s a heaviness within him, a weight that didn’t exist inside him before, and there’s no one he can ask about it. He’d considered doing a Google search on Kitty’s murder, but he doesn’t want to actually find something, especially if it links her, in some way, to him. He’d prefer it if she disappeared from his memory. Blaine should avoid thinking about Kitty or Jake altogether. Even though he couldn’t conjure them the one time he wanted them, he’s afraid that any passing thought of them might coax them out.

So digging around for news about Kitty probably won’t help that any.

He could talk to Kurt, but that wouldn’t give him any answers; it would just needlessly worry his boyfriend more. Though, after Jake’s warning, would it really be needless? Even if Blaine doesn’t know who might be after him - and by extension, Kurt - shouldn’t he give his boyfriend a head’s up? How that conversation would go, Blaine can’t begin to predict, but it’s better than not having it at all. Blaine isn’t an alarmist, but he wants to keep Kurt safe at all costs. Of course, in lieu of a conversation, he could proactively sign Kurt up for self-defense classes. They’d been meaning to go to a class together anyway after Kurt was attacked, but after he rehabilitated, Kurt was so eager to put the whole thing behind him, it kept getting put off. Now seems like a good time to bring the subject back up. Barring that, Blaine could get Kurt some pepper spray … a rape whistle … a Taser … possibly a gun.

Blaine could also try to talk Kurt into allowing him to get a dog for their place.

A big dog.

The kind they’d have to get a permit to keep, that’s trained to go for the jugular, and only understands commands in cryptic Eastern Slavic dialects.

But Blaine decides to put a pin in that and worry about it later. It’s a brand new day. He’ll put the crazy behind him for a few hours and focus on recovery. That way, he can better handle the crazy when it shows its ugly grill later on that night, which Blaine has a nagging suspicion it will.

Kurt’s side of the bed is empty, only Blaine’s arm stretched across it occupying the space. He doesn’t recall if Kurt mentioned having any appointments for the morning. It’s the weekend so no, he shouldn’t. But Kurt does have one or two clients who feel the world revolves around them. They tend to drop by unannounced, so it’s still a possibility. But no voices in Blaine’s head means that he can shoot for a redux of their early morning romp without the inclusion of Brittany, Santana, or any of Blaine’s other interlopers.

Blaine raises his head from the pillow and searches the room. Kurt’s cell phone is missing from the table on his side of the bed, which means he’s definitely dressed, and could be out and about. Blaine turns to the dresser beside him and grabs his cell phone. He unlocks the screen and checks for new text messages.

Not a one.

Strange. Kurt usually doesn’t even go downstairs for the mail without sending Blaine a text. A bitter taste rises up Blaine’s throat and fills his mouth, but he presses it down, along with the uneasiness tearing through his stomach.

Stay calm, he tells himself. Don’t overreact. Think this through.

He’ll give Kurt a call, find out where he went and when he’ll be back. It’ll all be good. This is normal. In spite of one discrepancy, there’s nothing to worry about. Kurt’s a big boy. He can handle himself. He probably didn’t go farther than four blocks from the apartment. What can happen in the space of four blocks at (Blaine checks the time on his screen) eleven in the morning?

Blaine pulls up Kurt’s number and hits call.

It goes immediately to voicemail.

Blaine’s heart thuds forcefully in his ribcage, sending icicle-sharp stitches reverberating through the muscles of his chest. He tries to call Kurt again, then again, but all of his calls go to voicemail. Panic floods his body. Lying underneath Kurt’s comforter suddenly becomes uncomfortably hot, and the air around him too cold. He leaps out of bed and takes a quick walk through their place, looking for signs of Kurt, for clues that something might not be right with him. That something might have happened this morning while Blaine slept.

That someone might have broken in and taken Kurt.

But nothing seems off or out of place. The door is locked in the usual way, Kurt’s coat and keys gone. Blaine walks by Kurt’s “office area” (the space in their living room where he meets with his clients), but everything there looks tidy and organized.

Kurt’s fine, Blaine tells himself, with a knot like molten glass forming in his gut. He didn’t go far. He’s most likely at Starbucks, grabbing a cup of coffee and one of those breakfast buns he likes so much. He’ll be back soon.

And when he does come back, Blaine can work on getting him back into bed.

But, if it’s that simple, if he just went out for a cup of coffee, why didn’t Kurt send him a text?

Why isn’t he answering his phone?

Blaine swallows hard, his throat too dry, too cluttered, a knot similar to the one in his stomach almost choking him.

This still isn’t a problem, he tries to convince himself. Remove the events of last night - the hallucinations, the voices, a woman being shot through the head - and it’s just another Saturday morning.

Except, those things did happen last night. Slowly, Blaine is coming to terms with them, no matter how desperately he wants them to go away. And they’re frightening enough to make all the difference.

An hour. He’ll give Kurt an hour. If he’s not back by then, Blaine will call the police.

And maybe the National Guard.

Blaine sends Kurt a text:

Hey, baby! Get home quick. I’m awake and in the shower. Come join me. ;)

Then, in the hopes that turning on the water will somehow cause his boyfriend to materialize, he jumps into his second shower of the day.

***

For a man who enjoys his time under a hot water spray (and Blaine’s third favorite thing to do in life is shower), he’s washed up and out in under ten minutes.

“Kurt?”

Blaine walks out of the bathroom (drying his hair with Kurt’s favorite powder blue bamboo towel as if, again, this will cause Kurt to magically appear for the sole purpose of reminding Blaine that they have separate towels for a reason) in search of his boyfriend. He thought he’d heard a door close, and footsteps walk across the floor. That had to be Kurt.

Who the heck else would it be?

“Kurt? Baby? I thought you were going to join me in the shower. I sent you a text and everything …”

Blaine can’t see a thing with the towel hanging in front of his face, but he knows the path from the bathroom to the living room like the back of his hand. He’s naked, grinning at the thought that Kurt might be doing a consultation in their living room at this very moment.

While Blaine showered, he tried to figure out what could have possibly caused Kurt to leave in such a rush that he wouldn’t wake Blaine, or tell him where he was going. He deduced that the reason Kurt might have sprinted out so early, forgetting to send him a text, was because one of his “special snowflake clients” had called him, frantically on the verge of buying 100 yards of an avocado green, polyester-rayon blend, and Kurt’s only recourse was to go to whatever bargain basement fabric store they were at and talk them down. Then he’d bring them back here to his designing den of safety.

Which means Blaine is about to interrupt a thrilling conversation about seams and biases whilst wet and nude.

Excellent.

“Kurt?”

Blaine takes one step into the living room and a strange sensation hits him. He’s not alone, which he’d assumed, but his boyfriend isn’t there either. There is someone in the room with him - a presence more than a person. That doesn’t make any sense, but that’s it regardless. He doesn’t hear the woman sitting on the sofa as much as he feels her. There’s an odd sound in his head, like an alert, a low hum, and he just knows she’s there.

He pulls the towel off his head to wrap around his waist and there she is, sitting on the sofa, staring out the window. If her hair was lighter, he might fool himself into thinking he’s looking at Kurt. But he’s not. He’s looking at a petite brunette, wearing a white rain coat covered in red cherries, a red umbrella in her lap, and a matching red scarf wrapped loosely around her neck. She appears more like she’s waiting for a bus outside, not sitting on a sofa in a Manhattan apartment.

She reminds Blaine of a ghost. He can see her. She’s definitely corporeal, but there’s something about her that kind of fades in and out of existence even if she doesn’t disappear, her physical presence waning in his mind. He decides to talk to her. He doesn’t want to, but he can’t help himself. He knows she’s not going anywhere until he does. This woman, whose reflection he can see in the glass as he gets closer, stares impassively at the building across the way, but her mind is somewhere else. She’s not there as much as she is there, and yet, she’s still not there.

It gives him a headache thinking about it, so he stops thinking.

Blaine walks over to the sofa and sits down, careful to keep the towel from untying at his hip and causing a scene. He squints at the woman sitting beside him, and an empty recognition of sorts hits him. “You’re … are you Rachel?”

He’s tempted to touch her but decides against it. Maybe he’s wrong. Maybe she is a client of Kurt’s. She looks like the kind of person who regularly comes to see Kurt for a consultation – primped, manicured, heavily into vintage couture. This woman in particular dresses like she stepped out of a Broadway musical and is about to perform a catchy, reflective number. Blaine can picture her singing something Streisand-esque, like from Funny Girl.

“Yeah,” the woman says, looking at Blaine through darting side-glances of her soft brown eyes. “And you’re Blaine.”

“That’s right,” he says, unnerved. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m not here,” she says with mild confusion. “I’m in Central Park, at the duck pond.” This time, she turns to face him. “Have you been there?”

“Not recently.”

“You should go.” She looks back out the window. “It’s beautiful today.”

An image of Central Park fills Blaine’s vision – the blue sky overhead, the towering trees, the lush grass. The park is busy today. Children run and play, people walk their dogs. Ahead of him, he sees a large pond. Families of ducks with their ducklings paddle across the surface, filling the air with their happy, conversational quacking. The woman fits in better out here. But he, with his towel and wet hair, shouldn’t be there. Then, what she said makes sense. He’s not there. She’s there. And because she’s there, he’s there, but he’s also in his living room with her, who’s not there. Another headache. He lets it go. “I used to come here all the time,” she continues, “with my fiancé, before …”

Her words trail off, and Blaine feels a pain in his chest, like someone is trying to drill a hole in his heart. It’s powerful, debilitating. It takes his breath away. But the second he can articulate it, it’s completely gone.

“Before …?” he asks hesitantly, afraid the pain will return if she can find a way to explain herself.

“Before he passed away.” She tilts her face to the side and away when a little kid, chasing a baseball, runs up to her. The boy, probably no more than five, with sandy brown hair and bright blue eyes, looks at her. It seems like he might see Blaine as well. He scrunches his nose and giggles, then turns and runs back in the direction he came.

“I’m … I’m sorry to hear that.” Tears build behind Blaine’s eyes and he wonders where in the hell his boyfriend went? Why the hell isn’t he there now? “But, what are you doing here?”

“I’m not sure. I was feeling lost, and alone. I was walking through the park on my way to … somewhere.” She laughs. “You know, I can’t remember where. And I sort of ended up here.” She shakes her head, and the tears Blaine feels in his own eyes roll down her cheek. “Has that ever happened to you?”

“I don’t know.” Blaine reaches behind him and pulls a tissue from the box Kurt keeps there. “I don’t think it has.”

She takes the tissue with a quiet, “Thank you,” and dabs at her eyes, skillfully avoiding her eye makeup. “Well” – she sniffles – “what were you doing a moment ago?”

“I was …” Blaine chuckles ironically. “Well, I was missing my boyfriend. But, I think he just stepped out to go get coffee or something. He should be back any minute.”

Rachel smiles sadly. “You’re lucky. Do you love him?”

The question strikes Blaine as insanely personal, even considering, but he doesn’t hesitate to answer. “Yes. More than anything.”

She nods. “Well, when he comes back, make sure you hold him, and kiss him …” Words start to fail her “… look in his eyes … smell his skin …” Another tear rolls down her cheek, but when it falls, it lands on Blaine’s towel. “I don’t … I can’t remember what my fiancé smelled like, or what he sounded like. I used to at least remember the sound of his voice saying my name, but I … I don’t anymore.”

Blaine is about to say he’s sorry – another hollow apology, he thinks, and how many of those has she gotten already? - when the pain returns, hitting him full force in the chest, locking around his heart and squeezing. A dozen memories flash in front of his eyes, memories that aren’t his, of a man with brown hair and brown eyes, passing a football, dancing badly, singing, playing the drums, laughing, riding on a roller coaster, chasing after a train with Rachel on it, wearing army fatigues, cleaning a rifle, and then … black. Nothing. But then, the whole montage begins to rewind, except the man is gone and it’s Kurt this time – playing football, dancing, singing, playing the piano, laughing, riding with Blaine on a roller coaster at Six Flags, watching Blaine from an airport window as his plane takes off, and then, not black, not nothing, just … over.

“Finn …” Blaine says, his throat constricted so tightly he can barely take a breath.

“Kurt …” Rachel whispers.

“Blaine,” Kurt calls out as he opens the door to their apartment. “Blaine, are you awake?” Kurt spots his boyfriend over the edge of his Whole Foods shopping bag, sitting on the sofa, staring out the window, and smiles. “I’m sorry I took so long,” he says, heading for the kitchen. “I just had to go get some unf!”

It takes about five strides for Blaine to cross from the living room to the kitchen, grab the shopping bag out of Kurt’s hands, drop it on the counter, and wrap Kurt in his arms.

“Well, hello there, handsome,” Kurt says with a laugh, but grimacing when he feels the remaining shower water on Blaine’s skin soak through his cashmere sweater. “I missed you, too.”

Blaine doesn’t answer. He holds Kurt tighter and now, Kurt can tell he’s shaking.

“Blaine? Honey, are you okay?”

Blaine sniffles, loosening his grip, but not letting go.

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, I just … you didn’t text me or anything, Kurt. Why didn’t you text me? Or call? I called you, Kurt. I called you three times.”

“I … I’m so sorry,” Kurt says, massaging the back of his boyfriend’s neck to calm him. “I took my phone with me, but the battery died. I have to remember to plug it in when I get home.”

“Oh” – Blaine sighs in relief, then breathes in deep, capturing the smell of cold on Kurt’s skin. But underneath that, his aftershave, his body wash, his shampoo – those signature scents that are a part of Kurt, always on his skin – “I guess that makes sense.”

“Blaine?” Kurt tries to pull away, but Blaine won’t let him. “Are you sure you’re alright?”

“Yeah, I’m fine, but … uh … could you maybe wake me up next time? Before you go out?”

“I thought you needed to rest,” Kurt explains. “I mean, after this morning …” A tiny smile slips onto Kurt’s lips, since this morning included incredible, spontaneous sex for him, but the memory makes Blaine cringe, a piece of his conscience breaking for what he’s unknowingly gotten Kurt into.

“I---I know, but I really wanted to go with you.”

Kurt raises a quizzical brow. “You wanted to come with me? To Whole Foods?” It’s not entirely unheard of, just … a little confusing considering the emotional upheaval of the night before. Blaine doesn’t sleep late often, but it’s not something he objects to. Both of them can appreciate the novelty of a lazy weekend in bed.

Regardless, Blaine normally doesn’t have a problem with waking up alone.

“Yeah. I needed some … uh … arugula.”

“I … didn’t know.” Kurt bobs his head in a repetitive half nod as he tries to figure his boyfriend out. “But I promise, I will wake you up next time. Hey, maybe we can go out together later and get that … arugula.” He pats Blaine on the shoulder, chalking this odd behavior up to Blaine’s horrible night. Kurt is still not entirely sure what happened, but he thought he could take Blaine’s mind off of it with a smoked gouda quiche and champagne brunch, and then take a second stab at trying to make his boyfriend cum, since Kurt knew he hadn’t when they had sex before.

Food and sex are a panacea to Blaine. He’d had a rocky relationship with food when he graduated high school and moved to New York but, with Kurt’s help, he got that under control.

Again, another way Blaine relied on Kurt.

But food has always played a part in their relationship, from their high school days when whole afternoons were spent baking cookies in the kitchen of Kurt’s house, to the present, when the preparation and enjoyment of a hearty, home-cooked meal often acts as the precursor to foreplay.

To celebrate the first song Blaine ever sold, he and Kurt ordered the most incredible five cheese and roasted pepper pizza, brought it home, ate it, and then had three hours of the hottest sex imaginable. Combined, it was such a mind-blowing experience that they didn’t realize a fire had broken out a few floors down until the fire department showed up at their door, even though the alarm out in the hallway had been blaring for a good forty-five minutes straight.

Kurt had considered waking Blaine up that morning with a blowjob and then inviting him to come with, but Blaine had finally fallen asleep, and Kurt didn’t want to wake him. He couldn’t have been gone longer than an hour, maybe an hour and a half. He’d tried texting Blaine when he got to the store, but his cell phone battery had died. He’d hoped Blaine would still be asleep when he got home.

Basically, the morning was an epic failure.

In an effort to salvage the day from here on out, Kurt starts talking about random things - mindless, unimportant things that might help Blaine relax - like the high price of artichokes, and the unavailability of Queen Bee honey. He manages to untangle himself from Blaine’s grasp, but holds on to him with the conversation. Blaine listens to Kurt talk, hangs on his every word. He doesn’t want to look over his shoulder, doesn’t want confirmation of what he already knows. He follows Kurt with his eyes, staring, telling himself that no matter what, he won’t look. He doesn’t need to look. He’ll avoid the sofa – no, the living room – for as long as they live here. But Kurt bustles to his work space over by the window, and Blaine can’t put it off any longer. He looks at the sofa, but the woman in the cherry print raincoat is gone.

Like Jake earlier that morning, and Brittany after that, she’s vanished.