The press had a field day with Gwen's death and funeral – spinning into propaganda as only the War Department could allow them to do – patriotic girl makes the ultimate sacrifice while doing her patriotic duty. Blaine was disgusted by it.
They'd taken a photo of Kurt, tall and slim and grave, leaning heavily on a cane as he walked, all alone, into the church.
Blaine's heart hurt to see the photos in the paper, even knowing that Rachel was there, somewhere. But Kurt looked so...so aloof and distant and alone. Blaine's fingers ached to reach out and smooth Kurt's lapel – though surely it had been tailored so perfectly there would be no need – to gently brush Kurt's hair off his forehead, take his arm – ostensibly to help him walk – and squeeze his bicep, hard – anything to let Kurt know he was not alone.
Blaine neatly tears the photo of Kurt from the paper – everyone else in the mess hall had read it by now -- and slips it in his pocket. He finishes his coffee, deftly stackes his dishes on his tray and sweeps it up with one hand. He's getting better at it – thankfully, he's right handed, and it's his left shoulder that dislocates – but going through life with one arm strapped to his body was going to drive him insane. He can't wait for it to heal so he can be done with these restrictive bandages.
He slowly walks back to his barracks – he and the other officers of the Teenage Dream share a small Quonset hut – with heavy blackout curtains at the windows, the curved metal that formed both the walls and the ceiling had been painted dark green. Dark green wool blankets on the beds – more like cots, really – dark green footlockers at the end of each man's bed. Blaine swears he'll never own anything that shade of green ever again.
Inside Blaine's footlocker, everything is neat and tidy. The top tray holds his 6 pairs of standard Army Issue wool socks – also dark green, 2 pairs dark brown – gloriously thick and warm – wool socks his mother knit him. Various rank insignia, a pair of cufflinks, a button he needs to sew back on his flightsuit, and an obnoxiously patterned, brightly coloured bowtie Rachel sent him for his birthday.
In the space below the tray are his neatly folded uniforms, a few novels Kurt has sent him, a small box filled with neatly stacked letters from home and a small leather-bound photo album almost full with snapshots – the people in them varying, but nearly always a tall young man with laughing eyes and a wide smile somewhere in the crowd. A large cardboard box rests nestled in the middle, nearly full of little trinkets and doo-dads he's picked up along the way – he'll send them home for Christmas presents.
It's cold – it's always cold in their barracks, but the wind is whistling through the windowframes as if the glass wasn't even there. He clicks on the overhead light – just a bulb hanging from it's wire in the center of the room – and draws the blackout curtains to try to block the draft, cutting out weak late-morning light. The rest of his crew is off somewhere – helping out, filling in where they can, doing whatever needs to be done. He's on strict orders to rest – the last time they'd re-strapped his arm, the doctor swore if he saw Blaine doing something that might re-injure his shoulder, he'd confine him to a hospital bed.
Blaine awkwardly pulls out the tray of his footlocker, fumbles for the photo album and a book, replaces the tray, lets the lid of the locker slam down and carefully lays down on his bed. He's found that flopping on his bed, as he used it, is jarring to his damn shoulder.
He flips through the photos – there's Kurt and Rachel and Ginger and Tony and Pete sitting around a dining table, beaming at the camera. There's Blaine, laughing at Rachel holding his birthday cake covered in candles in front of him, Kurt to one side of him, smiling fondly. A photo of the day they all went to the Statue of Liberty and Rachel and Ginger got blisters from their new shoes and begged he and Kurt for piggyback rides, and they'd asked a stranger to take their photo, Ginger nearly tipping Kurt over with her excitement, Rachel looking cute as all hell as she clung to Blaine's back.
Two of his favorites aren't of people at all. In one, he'd tried to take a picture for his mother of the painting they'd just hung in their dining room – a painting that had been his grandmother's – it was perfectly balanced between two gorgeous candelabras they'd found buried at a flea market. He had it set up perfectly, then Kurt – not knowing Blaine was taking a photo – walked through the corner of the shot. People who didn't know what they were looking at just saw a grayish smear at the side of the photo, but Blaine could see the outline Kurt's broad shoulders, his hair in an unruly just-out-of-bed coif.
The other, originally to be sent to his mother, showed the view out their living room window – a somewhat boring landscape shot, unless someone notices in the corner of the photo the hand holding back the curtains – the trees and the small park beyond are somewhat blurry, but the hand is in sharp focus, the delicate veins crisscrossing the back of it, the long, lean fingers, the strength in them apparent. Kurt's hand.
Blaine slips the newsprint photo into photo album and sighs. He put his good arm behind his head, and thinks he'll try to read, but falls asleep instead, the photo album balanced securely over his heart.

*****

Several days after the funeral, there was an all-star memorial tribute to the late, great Gwen Andrews. It was tasteful – classy, even. Blaine, listening to it in the nearly empty Officer's club with the rest of his crew, is certain that wherever Gwen Andrews is, she is undoubtedly rolling her eyes and throwing her hands up in scoffing exasperation.
Blaine leaned back in his chair, hissing in pain as he bumped his shoulder. Jim and Bill and Charlie return to the table, bringing with them a round of whiskey.
“Mama said it's the best pain relief” Charlie says cheerfully, as he set a glass down in front of Blaine.
Blaine smiled – Charlie's mama knew best after all, and took a large slug of it.
“And finally,” the radio announcer's voice boomed, “we have a very dear friend of Miss Andrews. Ladies and gentleman, please welcome Kurt Hummel to the stage.”
The applause was thunderous. Blaine's head buzzed with excitement, the anticipation of hearing Kurt's voice again mixing with the whiskey he'd been drinking.
Faintly came the gentle clearing of Kurt's throat – and Blaine thrilled that he could recognize Kurt even from that small sound.
“Thank you,” Kurt's voice was warm. “Tonight, I'd like to sing for you two of Gwen's favorite songs. And I'd like to say “Gwen, honey, this is for you.” But I know what she'd say to that.....'No way, sugarcakes.'”
The audience laughed.
“So instead, I'd like to dedicate these songs to our men and women in uniform. Gwen's life, these past few years, was all for you. Every song she sang, every picture she took, every word she said – was all with you in mind. She wanted to make your lives a little happier, a little sunnier, even if just for a minute. She died as she would have wanted – saving soldier's lives.”
Kurt sucked in a shaking breath. Blaine instinctively leaned forward toward the radio, toward him.
“I knew her well enough to know she'd say her only regret is that she couldn't save more of you.”
He paused again, steadying his voice.
“And now, without further ado, these next songs are dedicated to Our Boys Over There.”
Dear, I thought I'd drop a line.
The weather's cool, the folks are fine.
I'm in bed each night at nine.
P.S. I Love You
Yesterday we had some rain
But all in all, I can't complain
Was it dusty on the train?
P.S. I love you.

Blaine instinctively closes his eyes as Kurt begins to sing – a seemingly silly little song of loved ones being apart and writing each other of their silly mundane every day lives, but always underscoring everything with the reassurance of love. Blaine doesn't doubt that it was one of Gwen's favorites – it would have showcased her voice perfectly – but he knows Kurt is singing to him, for him, tonight.

Nothing else to tell you, dear,
Except, each day feels like a year.
Every night I'm dreaming of you.
P.S. I love you.

The applause is loud and Blaine realizes the boys at the table with him have joined in it. He opens his eyes, smiles and takes a drink. He thinks he might have had more whiskey than he realizes, but he doesn't care.
Kurt doesn't speak between songs, the orchestra behind him segueing between them.

I'm gonna love you, like nobody's loved you,
Come rain or come shine
High as a mountain, deep as a river
Come rain or come shine

His voice is low, with a breathless throatiness Blaine hasn't heard before. Blaine's eyes close again so he can picture Kurt – Kurt undoubtedly keeping time with the swaying of his hips, rocking them gently in time to the music the way he rocked them gently into Blaine's.
Kurt's voice is caressing, lovingly embracing each note, each word. Blaine feels them, feels them as if Kurt were singing them into his skin as kisses.

You're gonna love me, like nobody's loved me,
Come rain or come shine
Happy together, unhappy together
And won't it be fine?

Days maybe cloudy or sunny.
We're in or we're out of the money.
But I'm with you always,
I'm with you rain or shine.

Kurt's voice soaring, then dropping to his lower register gave Blaine goosebumps. He shivered with want, with the need for Kurt in his arms, to be in Kurt's arms.

I'm with you always,
I'm with you rain or shine

As Kurt's voice faded away and the radio program ended, Blaine realized the Officer's club had gone silent. Opening his eyes, he was relieved to see only Jim, Charlie and Bill remained. He didn't realize he'd been crying until Jim nudged his good arm, silently handing him a handkerchief.
Charlie, his eyes warm and caring, gave him a sympathetic smile. “'Nother whiskey, Cap'n?”
Blaine nodded gratefully. He didn't know how, or for how long, but these boys – his friends, his comrades – seemed to know about him and Kurt and it didn't seem to matter at all. He was profoundly relieved and thankful.
“Gosh, did you hear the trade Red Sox made yesterday?” Bill snapped the radio off, changing the subject.
“Don't you start in on the Sox, boy,” Charlie warned. Jim shouted with laugh – this was one of their regular arguments and it always ended outrageously.
Sometimes Blaine really loved these boys.

*****
Time passes. Seasons change. Kurt still volunteers at the USO canteen, and has gotten a job at an ammunition factory outside the city. He begins to spend most of his time at the beach house, far from loud noises that still make him jump and flashing lights that cause him to break out in a panic. It's quiet and peaceful there. He writes Blaine daily, occasionally writes to other members of Blaine's crew. He sends letters and packages to Ginger, now re-elisted and sent somewhere in the Pacific.
Blaine's shoulder heals enough to return to duty. He writes Kurt every day, even when there's nothng much to tell him, beyond that he loves him, that he's safe and he's coming home to him.

*****
The crew of the Teenage Dream were two flights away from their quota – every bomber crew was expected to run 25 flights, and then they'd be sent home. So far, only one crew – the crew of the Memphis Belle – had actually made to the quota. The rest had all been lost.
Their second-to-last run was routine, by now. Flak, shrapnel, enemy fighters, cloud cover, desperately cold temperatures, smoke screens covering the target – they were used to it.
The real excitement didn't come in until they got close to base – damage to the controls meant the landing gear wouldn't extend, meant that Blaine would have to glide the plane down on it's belly or risk driving it straight into the ground.
As they got closer, the crew got silent. They were almost always out of fuel by the time they returned anyway, but they circled several times to ensure they had the least amount of flammable liquid onboard as they could. Other planes landed before them, and quickly taxied out of their way.
On his final approach, Blaine could see the emergency trucks already lining the landing strip. He tried not to think about it, just concentrate and land, Anderson. His hands were steady as he guided the plane toward the rapidly approaching earth.
It wasn't perfect. They still slammed hard enough to knock everything about. As they barrelled along the ground, ripping up grass and shrubs and dirt in their wake, Blaine could hear struts snapping and popping, a propeller catching and flying off. He pulled back on the stick – hard, desperate to slow them in any way he could. He heard another pop, and gasped as his vision went momentarily white.
The plane finally skidded to a stop. They all scrambled to vault from the plane. Blaine fell to the ground, Jim picking him up by the waist and all but carrying him away. When they finally stopped, safely away, Blaine fell to his knees and vomited – his shoulder was out of joint again and the pain finally hit him.
But then, Charlie was on his knees right beside him, puking his own guts out, and he wasn't even injured. Charlie grinned sheepishly at him when he was done, wiping his mouth.
“Bill? Looks like we gotta get Cap'n to the doc. Again.”

*****
They did everything they could to put Blaine's shoulder back in it's socket – even working past the point he'd fainted. It just wouldn't stay.
When he woke a few mornings later, in his own bed, groggy from painkillers and more sore than he'd ever been in his life, there was his crew standing around him.
“I'm so sorry, guys.” Blaine didn't think he'd ever felt so guilty in his life – they were all so close to going home and now his fucking shoulder meant they couldn't make that last flight, so they were all stuck here a little longer, waiting for him to hurry up and fucking heal already.
“Cap'n.” Charlie looked surprisingly cheerful. “Get your bags packed. You're going home.”
Blaine was stunned.
“Home? But...”
“No buts, Anderson,” Bill voice was firm. “Get your ass out of bed, on the double. Your flight leaves in an hour.”
“An hour?” Blaine sat up so quickly he was dizzy.
“Well, to be honest, you don't need to pack.” Jim gestured to a large rucksack on the floor beside him. “We kind of packed everything for you.”
“You packed.....”
“Anderson!” Their commanding officer barged through the door. Blaine stood at attention as fast he could, Bill standing close to him to make sure he didn't fall.
“Good, I see you're all packed. Here are your official orders, your discharge paperwork should come in the mail in a few weeks. Until then, consider yourself home on leave. Report to the VA hospital indicated in the paperwork as soon as you can for surgery on your shoulder and rehabilitation. There's one stop we'd like to you make on your way – the information is all in the paperwork.”
Blaine took the stack of paperwork with his good arm. He didn't believe this was happening.
“But...what about....what about my men? My crew?”
The CO smiled slightly. “Do you think I'm about to hand this crew another plane? You've lost two now, and with only one flight left in your quota --- and in light of everything you've all done here above and beyond your duties – we're going to send them home, too, on a later flight. These boys will make fine instructors at any flight school they choose.”
“Thank you...Thank you, sir” Blaine stammered.
“Now, the first available flight out is in,” he checked his watch, “39 minutes. I expect you on it, Captain.”
“Yes sir. Yes, I will be.”
“I'm sorry for the rush. Is there anyone back home we could send a telegram to, so they'd know to come pick you up?
“No....No, sir. I'd like....I'd like it to be a surprise.”
“Good. Now, get on that plane, Captain.”
*****
A few minutes later, Blaine hurried toward the flightline, Jim carrying his rucksack for him, the rest of his entire crew following behind him. They all but shoved him on the plane, promising to send his love and best wishes to everyone he wanted to say goodbye to, Anderson just sit down in the fucking plane, we won't forget to tell Kath goodbye for you.
Charlie helped him buckle his seat belt, settling it more comfortably across his shoulder, winking at the flight nurse standing nearby.
He smiled brightly at Blaine, shaking his good hand. “Now, you tell your cousin Kurt that we all send him our best.”
Blaine pulled him down to his seat for a hug.
“And,” Charlie continued, “if you don't give him the biggest fucking kiss you've ever given him when you first see him, me and the boys have agreed that we're coming to kick your ass, just so you're aware.”
Blaine was speechless, gasped out a laugh, nodding. Bill and Jim gave him quick hugs, then were shooed off the plane by the flightnurse. The hatch had barely closed before the plane started to taxi. Blaine looked out the window, and saw them all – more people than he'd realized had come out to see him off – waving frantically and smiling for all they were worth.
This was it. Blaine Anderson was on his way home.
*****

The snow crunches lightly under the tires as the taxi pulls away from the beach house in the early morning light. The cabbie insists on carrying his bag right to his front door, wants to wait until Blaine has unlocked it to carry inside wherever he needs it. But Blaine explains he's trying to sneak up and surprise someone, and he just needs to be alone to do it. The cabbie winks, and drives away.
Blaine unlocks the door with the key under the mat, wincing at the loudness as the bolt slides back. He slowly opens the door carefully, drags his bag inside – he still can't lift it with his damn shoulder – and gently eases it closed behind him.
Kurt has decorated for Christmas, and Blaine's eyes well with tears. He knew it was Christmas, he'd reported to Armed Forces Radio at the train station and they'd recorded him singing that song – that song that was for Kurt, that always made him think of Kurt, and sitting here with him in front of the fire. He hoped Kurt had heard it.
There was his chair, drawn up to the fireplace, close to Kurt's. Kurt had hung the misteltoe, just like he always did, on the arm of his reading lamp, so it hung close to his head whenever he sat there. Not that I need any excuse to kiss you, Kurt had archly said.
He slipped of his coat, gasping as the movement jars his shoulder – at least he's got the strapping off – for now, slips off his boots and gingerly climbs the stairs, avoiding the second-to-last one that always pops when he steps on it.
Down the hall to their room, the door left open to catch any warmth from the fireplace. There's Kurt, in Blaine's pajamas, lying on sheets so blue they match his eyes. Or, they will match them once they are open.
Blaine strips off his clothes – he can't believe Kurt hasn't woken up yet. He grabs the edge of the blankets, slids himself in next to Kurt, next to his lover, and lays his head on his old pillow.
Blaine grins as Kurt opens his eyes sleepily.

“Hi baby,” Kurt voice is rough, his eyes still blinking sleepily. He reaches out to trace Blaine’s lips with his fingertip. “I love you. You’re so beautiful. I love you. I have so many things I want to tell you, baby, but I can’t remember them all while I’m sleeping. This is such a good dream, baby, I don’t want it to end. You look so real. You feel so real. I don’t want this dream to end. Can you stay longer this time, baby?”
“I’ll stay forever.” Blaine surges forward, pressing his lips feverishly against Kurt’s. “But it’s not a dream, baby. It’s not. I’m here. I’m here, and I’m not going away again. I’m home.”
“You always say that. In these dreams,” Kurt’s eyes are blinking closed again. “I always believe you. But you always say that, and then I wake up and I’m alone again.”
“Then I’ll stay until you wake up again. But, first, darling, roll over. I want to hold you.”
Kurt rolls to his other side, facing away from Blaine, already nearly asleep again. He feels Blaine’s arm under his neck, feels Blaine’s other arm wrap around his waist and grabs his hand so he can twine his fingers with his. Blaine presses their clasped hands against Kurt’s heart.
“This is all I’ve been wanting. All I’ve been needing,” Blaine whispers in Kurt’s ear. “Just you.”
“S’good dream.” Kurt mumbles. “So real. You’re so real. So beautiful. So warm. Your body. So warm. Always so warm, except your feet. Never understand why your feet are so cold”
Kurt’s eyes snap open in surprise and he shrieks as Blaine’s cold toes find Kurt’s warm calves, “OH MY GOD YOUR TOES ARE SO FUCKING COLD WHAT ARE YOU DOING TO ME WHY ARE YOUR TOES SO COLD THIS IS NOT HOW THIS DREAM GOES YOU’RE SUPPOSED TO START KISSING THE BACK OF MY NECK AND THEN WE HAVE SEX. NOT FREEZE MY FUCKING LEGS OFF WITH YOUR FUCKING ICICLE TOES.”
Blaine is convulsed with laughter behind Kurt, his arms tightening around his lover – his, ahem, roommate – so tight that Kurt can’t turn his body, only his head as he turns to see – really see – Blaine. His eyes fill with tears. At the sight, Blaine’s follow.
“Oh my god. It’s not a dream. It’s really you. You’re really here.”
“I’m really here, baby. I’m home.”
Blaine relaxes his arms, just enough for Kurt to turn over, both of them reaching out to touch the face of the other – over and over and over again – wiping away tears and tracing the features in adoration.
“My shoulder’s been refusing to stay in the socket, after that last hard landing we did. And the Air Force won’t let you fly a bomber without both arms fully functioning. They discharged me. I wanted to surprise you, so I didn’t send a telegram.”
Kurt’s mouth worked soundlessly. The tears started again, for both of them.
Blaine reached down, pressed a fervent kiss to his love’s lips. “I’m home, Kurt, and I’m never leaving you again.”