Three years. 1095 days. 2190 cups of coffee, not one spilled.

Until today.

Blaine Anderson swore under his breath. His shirt - his favorite fucking shirt, the one his grandmother had gotten him, god damnit - was drenched with coffee. With nonfat grande mocha, to be exact.�

Why did it have to be today of all days?

“Artie!” he hissed as he approached the desk. Artie didn’t look up. “Artie!” Not even a twitch. Blaine breathed in heavily. “ARTIE!”

Artie jerked back, almost flying out of his wheelchair. “What?!” he asked, irritation written all over his face.

“Give me your shirt,” Blaine told him, holding out a hand.

A beat.

“Why do you need my shirt?” Artie asked, leaning back in his wheelchair.

Blaine glared at him. “I am covered in coffee,” he half-yelled, gesturing to his soaked shirt. “Give. Me. Your. Shirt.”

Artie smirked. Blaine was of the opinion that his new promotion had given Artie an unneeded amount of sass.

“How about no?” he asked, looking very pleased with himself.

Blaine took a deep breath. Then another.

“Yankees tickets,” he said. He shoved away the feeling of disappointment. It wasn’t like he would’ve been able to go anyways. “Right behind the batting hill. Top of the line seats. All yours, just for one little shirt.”

Artie considered it.

“Oh, alright,” he said finally. “But I expect those tickets tomorrow, you know.”

Blaine sighed. “Oh yes, I know.”

-

There were a few things that could make every employee in the room turn pale and run for their computer: the click of heeled, expensive boots on linoleum floor, the smell of any Marc Jacobs perfumes, and, of course, the voice.�

“Now, Rachel, sweetheart, I know you think doing magazine spreads is a waste of your valuable time, but Rolling Stone can only spread your already wide appeal! It makes you look hip and cool, Rachel, and maybe if you listened to me and didn’t insist on wearing your hideous clothes then we wouldn’t need to do this to revamp your image.” Flick the hair back. “Rachel, honey, if we can’t start widening your appeal, your numbers are going to go down and soon you’ll become nothing more than a second-rate has-been. Is that what you want?” A pause. “I thought so. I’ll call Rolling Stone back and let them know you’re in, darling. I’ll talk to you soon, ta!”

Kurt Hummel stopped in the middle of the room and tucked his phone away. Then he turned slowly on his heel, surveying the dozens of employees who were all very studiously looking at their computers. Kurt smirked - the only sign of approval anyone had ever seen him wear - and turned back again to head towards his office.

Blaine was waiting there in a stainless shirt, a cup of coffee in his hands.

“Good morning,” Blaine said, holding it out to Kurt. “You have a conference call in 30 minutes.”

“Yes, yes, with our newest artist, I know. We need to set up the dates for going into the studio.”

Blaine sighed. “Staff meeting at nine.”

“Did you call . . . .” Kurt frowned. “What’s her name? The one with the ugly ears, you know--”

Blaine rolled his eyes. “Janet? Yes, I called her, and I told her if she didn’t have her demo ready on time, she wouldn’t be allowed in the studio. Your immigration lawyers called. They said it’s urgent that they talk to you and they scheduled a meeting--”

Kurt flicked a hand. “Push the meeting back until tomorrow and schedule a press conference.” A brief smirk touched the corner of his mouth. “Rachel’s doing Rolling Stone.”

Blaine blinked in surprise. Rachel was notorious for hating magazine shoots - Blaine remembered her telling him once that, as most magazine spreads like to put her in her underwear, she found them degrading and sexist. Getting her to agree to that was, “Impressive,” he finished aloud.

“When I want your praise, I will ask for it,” Kurt said smugly, smirk widening. He lifted his coffee to his mouth and then froze, eyes narrowing. Blaine tensed.�

“And who, exactly, is Jeremiah?” Kurt asked, deceptively mild. “And why does he want me to call him?” He turned the cup so Blaine could see the name and number printed on the side, and raised an eyebrow.

Blaine inwardly raged at Jeremiah for picking today of all days to act on their semi-flirtatious comments over buying the morning coffee.�

“Well,” he said, resigned to his fate, “that was my originally my cup.”

Kurt took another sip, his nose wrinkled thoughtfully. “And you drink grande low-fat mochas with a dash of caramel, hm?”

Blaine shrugged, attempting nonchalance. “It’s like heaven in a cup,” he said, flat and sarcastic.

Kurt’s eyebrow rose further up. “Well, isn’t that a coincidence.”

Blaine smiled a little. “Yes, incredibly, it is. I mean, it would be pathetic if I ordered the same coffee as you just in case I spilled your cup.” The phone rang and Blaine picked it up. “This is Mr. Hummel’s office.” He listened for a moment, then grimaced. “Hey, Sandy.”

Kurt suddenly made a waving motion with his hands, eyes still on his cup of coffee. Blaine frowned. “No, apparently we’re heading to your office right now.” He put the phone back down. “Why are we heading to Sandy’s office?”

Blaine didn’t want to go to Sandy’s office. There were dolls in there, and he swore that their eyes followed him. Not to mention Sandy was creepy. And perverted.

Kurt glared at him and didn’t answer, waving him out of the door as he stood up and brushed off his three-piece suit. Blaine rolled his eyes and hurried out, over to his personal terminal right outside of Kurt’s door, pausing to write THE WITCH IS ON HIS BROOM! in the employee messaging system. The reaction was immediate: every employee in the room went white and arranged themselves until they were sitting up straight, staring at their computers in what they hoped was a dedicated and concentrated fashion.

Kurt strode out of his office, boots clicking on the floor, and Blaine followed closely behind at his right shoulder.

“Did you have a chance to listen to that demo I gave you?” he asked quietly.

Kurt rolled his eyes. “I listened to the first song, but it didn’t really do anything for me,” he said dismissively. “Too amateur.”

Blaine pursued his lips. “Listen, I’ve listened to a lot of music in my day, and I’m telling you, he’s got real talent--”

“You know, I do think you order the same coffee as I do just in case you spill it,” Kurt interrupted as they passed Artie, who was watching them in horror while wearing Blaine’s coffee-stained shirt. “Which is all kinds of pathetic.”

“You could call it inspired,” Blaine offered as they stopped in front of Sandy’s office.�

Kurt gave him a side-look and the corner of his mouth tipped upwards. “It would be more inspiring if you didn’t spill it at all,” he said and then swept into Sandy’s office.

Blaine rolled his eyes and followed Kurt inside. He couldn’t stop a small shudder - Sandy’s dolls were alive, and Blaine would go to his grave swearing on it. Their eyes followed him and it was creepy. Just like Sandy, actually.

“Kurt, my darling,” Sandy said, standing and moving around his desk. He was wearing a pink tie that had kittens on it. Blaine was caught between horror and amusement. “To what do I owe this impromptu� visit?”

“I talked to Rachel, Sandy,” Kurt said, very calm. Blaine caught the way Sandy tensed up, which meant Kurt did too. “She’s doing Rolling Stone.”

“She is?” Sandy said, all fake enthusiasm. “Well, I am very impressed! She completely rebuffed my attempts to get her to agree last week when I talked to her--”

“See, that’s the thing, Sandy,” Kurt interrupted, eyes narrowing in a way that meant he was moving in for a kill. Blaine stepped back out of his line of fire. He needed Kurt to approve of him at the end of the day, after all. “Rachel doesn’t remember having that phone conversation.”

Sandy’s fake surprise was fairly good - Blaine wondered if he’d ever considered a career in acting. It would be a wise move for him, after what Kurt was about to do.

“What? Maybe she’s just forgotten, after all, she gets so many phone calls in a day--”

“No, she was quite sure,” Kurt said, a sickeningly sweet smile spreading across his face. Blaine shuddered. That smile meant nothing good. “In fact, she was quite enthusiastic about the fact that, despite being her primary producer, she hasn’t spoken to you in months.”

Sandy swallowed hard. Blaine wanted to feel sympathy for him, but Sandy was an obnoxious creep 75% of the time, so it was really hard to. Still, Blaine made the attempt.�

“Now, Sandy, Rachel Berry is a constant pain in my ass, but she’s a marvelous singer and she is a huge asset to our company. So that fact that you’ve neglected her? Makes me very unhappy.”�

Kurt was doing the evil-villain thing. The thing where instead of yelling to express his anger, he whispered it instead. Blaine thought it was super effective. It was definitely way scarier than Kurt yelling, because he got all white-faced and narrow-eyed and intense.

“Kurt, listen--” Sandy tried to say, sweat glistening at his temple as his face lost its color.

“No, Sandy, you listen. Today is your last day. Pack up your desk and leave.”

Silence. Then: “What?” Sandy yelled with outrage. “You can’t fire me, I’m a senior member of this company--”

Kurt sneered. “Watch me. You’re useless fat that I need to trim off, and since you’ve just proved to me how utterly inept and inadequate you are, I see no reason to put off the inevitable. You’re gone, Sandy. I expect you out of this office in no less than two hours.”

With that, Kurt turned on his heel and stalked out of the room, Blaine following on his heels.�

“Is he following us?” Kurt asked out of the corner of his mouth. Blaine glanced over his shoulder to see Sandy storming after them.

“Right behind,” he murmured back. “He’s got crazy eyes.”

Kurt sighed. “Don’t do it, Sandy,” he murmured, more to himself. “Don’t--”

“You can’t do this to me, you poisonous bitch!” There was a gasp among the coworkers. Everyone had thought it, of course, but no one actually said the words to Kurt’s face for fear of unemployment or death. “You can’t just throw me out! You don’t have the right to get rid of me just because you’re threatened by my position!”

“Sandy, you seem to misunderstand--” Kurt started, eyes narrowing.

“Just because you have no semblance of a life outside of this office doesn’t mean you have the right to treat the rest of us like your slaves, Hummel. I won’t stand for it! I am a senior member of this company!”

Kurt took a deep breath and turned around. “Sandy,” he said calmly. “If you aren’t out of this office within the next twenty minutes, I will have security personally escort you out and Blaine here,” Blaine’s elbow got a pat, “will record the entire thing on his iPhone and post it to youtube.” Kurt’s smile was sweet and sharp. “You can’t imagine the amount of trouble that video will cause when you try and find another job.”

Sandy went white. “You can’t do this,” he said, more desperate and less angry. “I’ve done a lot of good for this company--”

“No, Sandy, you haven’t,” Kurt interrupted. “You’ve caused nothing but problems for me since I became producer and I’m done with you. Get your belongings and get out.”

Sandy stared at Kurt, then muttered an oath under his breath. “You’re going to die alone and unloved and your body will be eaten by cats,” he said viciously, before turning on his heel in a dramatic fashion and storming out.

The entire room was silent, waiting for Kurt’s reaction. Blaine glanced at Kurt’s face and frowned when he saw the blankness there. Kurt was very good at controlling his facial expressions, but Blaine was so used to his tiny tics and gestures that seeing his face without them at all was more disturbing than seeing Kurt visibly upset.�

“Kurt?” he asked tentatively.�

Kurt snapped out of it. “Well, that’s one less problem I have to deal with,” he said briskly, turning to go. Blaine followed closely behind, as always. “Blaine, we have meetings to deal with today and then we need to go over the contract with our new artist that we’re signing Monday over the weekend--”

Blaine’s heart sank. “This weekend?” he asked. Maybe Kurt would tell him he’d misspoke and that he meant next weekend.

Kurt frowned at him. “Yes, this weekend. Why, have plans?”

Blaine frowned. “No, it’s just--it’s my grandma’s 90th birthday and I was going to go home--” Kurt rolled his eyes and hurried in to his office before Blaine could finish. Blaine sighed. “Never mind, I’ll just cancel it,” he muttered. “Not like they’re not used to that anyways.”

-

Blaine leaned over the phone, covering it with his hand and hoping that Kurt wouldn’t come out in the next five minutes.

“Yeah, Mom, I know it’s grandma’s birthday, but I can’t make it, I’m working.”

“Blaine, your grandmother was very excited to see you,” his mother said, sounding exasperated. “Can’t you ask it off? Get someone to cover for you?”

“No, no, I can’t,” Blaine answered, remembering with vivid clarity the one time he’d ever tried to ask off work. Kurt’s responding glare had been fearsome to behold. “Look, I’ll make it up to her, alright? I’ll come up next weekend.”

“You say that, Blaine, but you won’t. You’ll get stuck in your job again! And this is a big day and your father is not going to be happy when you aren’t there--”

“Yes, I know dad will be angry--” Blaine cut himself off as he heard the click of boots on the floor, approaching him and started saying instead, “And we take submissions very seriously here, miss, so you’ll need to go through the proper channels.”

“Blaine, what--”

“Goodbye,” Blaine said hurriedly and hung up the phone. He’d explain to her later, he thought as he turned his chair to look up at Kurt, who was staring down at him, one eyebrow tipped upwards with amusement.

“That your family?” he asked casually.

Blaine thought about lying, then decided it wasn’t worth it. “Yeah,” he muttered.

Kurt’s mouth quirked. “They tell you to quit?” he asked.

Blaine rolled his eyes. “Every single day,” he answered.�

Kurt’s mouth was threatening to split into a grin. Blaine was a little weirded out by that, so he quickly added, “Schue and Emma want to see you in their office.”

Kurt’s mouth turned downwards again, to Blaine’s relief. Kurt was good-looking normally - all pale, sharp features and perfectly coiffed hair - but he looked absolutely breathtaking when he smiled. Blaine had only seen him do it twice in the entire three years they’d known each other. More than that, Blaine was always in danger of falling in love with Kurt if he smiled - when he scowled and smirked as he usually did, it was easier to remember that he had a horrendous personality.�

“Come and get me in ten minutes with an emergency,” Kurt said, sighing. “We have work to do.”

Blaine saluted. “Yessir,” he muttered sarcastically as he went back to his computer.

-

Kurt rolled his eyes as he knocked sharply on William and Emma’s door. They were his immigration lawyers, some of the best in the business, but they always insisted on meetings at the most inconvenient of times. And they made the most outrageous demands of him!�

“Come in, come in!”

Kurt pushed open the door and strode in, smiling as brightly as he could at William and Emma, who were both standing. He tried not to wince at the lemon yellow dress Emma was wearing that did nothing for her complexion, or William’s obnoxiously orange tie.�

“What can I do for you two?” he asked, raising an eyebrow. “I’m not getting a second raise, am I?”�

William’s eyebrows shot up, but Emma answered, a gentle smile on her face, “No, no, that’s not it. Congratulations on getting Rachel to do Rolling Stone, however.” She exchanged a look with William. “No, this is about your visa.”

Kurt’s brow furrowed. “What is it? Everything checked out, didn’t it?”

“Kurt,” William said, leaning back against his desk, “do you remember when we told you not to go to Mexico to produce for Santana Lopez because your visa application was still being processed?”

Kurt frowned. “Well, yes, but then we would have lost her to the ball of slime that is Jacob Ben Israel and that would have been a travesty of magnificent proportions. I had to go. And you know I was right to - she’s a star on the rise. Every music critic in the country is kissing her ass.”

William sighed heavily. Emma took over for him, saying, “What Will’s trying to say, Kurt, is that because you went to Mexico . . . well . . . your visa application has been denied.”

“And,” William added, “you are being deported.”

Kurt’s mouth dropped and his heart froze. “Deported?” he stuttered, something he hadn’t done since he was a child. “What do you mean, deported?”

William rubbed his eyes. “I’m really sorry about this, Kurt, I am. You’re one of the best producers we’ve ever had and you’ve brought in so many great artists. But we don’t have a choice in this. You can reapply for the visa, but you need to leave the country for at least a year.”

Kurt’s heart was beating fast and hard in his throat. “For God’s sake,” he cried, “it’s not like I’m even an immigrant! I’m from Canada!” He took a deep breath. “Okay. Okay. Well, I’m pretty sure I can manage everything from video conferencing from Toronto--”

“Kurt,” Emma interjected gently, “when your visa has been denied, you can’t work for an American company any more. I’m sorry, but you’re fired, for now. As soon as you’re a citizen again, we can rehire you.”

“But--the company--” Kurt sputtered.

“We’re putting Sandy Ryerson in charge while you’re away,” William broke in.

“The guy I just fired?” Kurt exclaimed, appalled. “That idiot will ruin this company a month in, two if he actually proves to have a speck of competence hidden in his horribly off the rack suits. You’re putting him in charge?”

Emma sighed. “He’s the only one with enough experience, Kurt,” she explained. “It’ll only be while you’re out of the country. As soon as you’re back, you’re more than welcome to have your job back.”

There was a knock on the door. All three of them turned to see Blaine popping his head in. Blaine blinked, caught off-guard by the sudden attention, but pulled together as he stepped inside of the room.

“I’m sorry to interrupt, but we’re having a crisis downstairs,” he said. “If I could steal Kurt from you . . . .?”

Kurt looked at Blaine and a terrible, horrible idea occurred to him. Blaine was gay. Blaine was gay and his minion and engaged immigrants could stay in America because they were marrying an American citizen--

“Blaine, come here,” Kurt said before he could think this through more. “Emma, William, I think it’s time we told you the truth.”

“The--” Blaine started, looking confused.

Kurt cut over him, announcing, “Blaine and I are engaged.”

Silence.�

Blaine’s jaw dropped. “Wha--”

“Really?” Emma asked skeptically, her eyes darting over to Blaine’s gobsmacked expression.�

Kurt took Blaine’s arm and tucked it into his elbow, beaming as bright and fake as he could. “Really!” he exclaimed. “We figured since New York finally allows it, why not, right?”

“Isn’t he your secretary?” William asked.

Kurt tensed. “Well it wouldn’t be the first time one of us fell for our secretaries, would it, William? Remember April?”�

Emma shot William a glare as William turned bright red and cleared his throat. “Of course, of course. So! Married, huh?”

“Yes,” Kurt agreed. “There was just an attraction that couldn’t be denied, right, Blaine?”

Blaine jumped. “Um--”

“We’re too in love to help ourselves,” Kurt finished for him.

“Uh-huh,” William said, looking from Kurt’s beaming face to Blaine’s confused expression. “Alright then. Well. Make it legal, Kurt. Get down to the immigration office tomorrow and explain the whole thing.”

“Of course,” Kurt said, starting to pull Blaine to the door. Blaine followed compliantly, still apparently muddled from his confusion. His back to Emma and William, Kurt rolled his eyes. Blaine was not the best at thinking on his feet in tricky situations.

“And Kurt?” Emma called. Kurt stopped, his back tensing, and turned. Emma, however, was smiling. “Be sure to invite us to the wedding, okay?”

Kurt relaxed. “Of course!” he answered cheerily and dragged Blaine out of there.