Five Years Later
New York City
Summer 1942

Kurt took a seat in the lunchroom, setting aside his hat, making sure his hair was still in place. His hands were shaking slightly. Kurt didn’t know if it was from the coffee or--

He looked up when he heard a commotion at the door, and his heart leapt into his throat when he saw Blaine there, apologizing profusely to the man he’d apparently knocked into. Kurt stared at him, drinking him in. He looked older, scruff around his jaw, and he was dressed in his army uniform already. Kurt wondered when he was going to be deployed. Probably tonight, or tomorrow morning. He bit down on the unfairness of it - Blaine’s release should have been a thing of joy, of celebration. Instead, he was just exchanging one prison for another, and Kurt would have fear to add on top of his loneliness.

Blaine looked over from the man and his eyes widened when they met Kurt’s. Immediately he half-ran across the room, skidding to a halt at Kurt’s table.

“Kurt,” he said, throwing himself into his seat, his eyes fixed on Kurt. “You look--well.”

Kurt looked terrible and he knew it. “Wartime isn’t agreeing with me so far,” he said wryly.�

Blaine’s hands twitched. Kurt wondered if he was going to reach across and take Kurt’s hand in his own, despite the crowd of people around them. His fingers tingled, even though Blaine folded his hands in his lap instead.�

“You haven’t been sent out yet, though?” Blaine asked, worry written all over his face.

Kurt shrugged. “Not yet,” he said. “I’ve been helping out at the hospital as much as I can, and with my father’s work.” He bit his lip. “I expect I’ll be deployed any day now.”

“I wish you didn’t have to go,” Blaine half-whispered. “I have no choice, but--”

Kurt shook his head. “I hate fighting, Blaine,” he said tiredly. “I have blood and I don’t want to kill anyone. I know that’s supposed to make me less of a man, but I don’t care. But I don’t have any more of a choice than you do about going, not unless I want to run away and make my father even more ashamed of me than he already is.”

Blaine reached out and touched Kurt’s shoulder, his eyes large and mournful. “I’m sorry,” he said. “If it wasn’t for me--”

Kurt laughed without humor. “Please don’t blame yourself,” he said. “I love you, I do, but it’s not like you’re the only man I’ve ever found attractive.”

Blaine raised an eyebrow, grinning a bit. “Do I have competition?” he asked.

Kurt smiled at him, geninue and coy. “Would that bother you?”

“I’m sure I could win you back,” Blaine laughed. “I know all your secrets!”

“Well we have know each other since birth, it’s only to be expected,” Kurt quipped. “And, no, you don’t have competition. It’s just--it’s not just you. Women don’t interest me.”

“I’m sure Quinn is heartbroken about that,” Blaine said.

Kurt rolled his eyes. “Quinn would never be happy with me if I did think of her like that,” he said. “We’re too alike to be real friends, let alone married.”

“I wish I could marry you,” Blaine said, wistful. Kurt’s heart skipped a beat. “Maybe I’ll be able to one day.”

“Women are getting equal rights,” Kurt said, quiet and thoughtful. “African Americans are getting there too. Maybe one day we’ll do the same thing.” He met Blaine’s eyes, so bright and hopeful. “Do you think we’ll be alive to see it?”

Blaine’s hand closed over his for the briefest moment. “I hope we will be.”

Kurt looked around the crowded room. “Come with me,” he said, pulling Blaine to his feet.�

Blaine followed him out of the room, body tense. Kurt led him down the hall, conscientious of the eyes on them, and into one of the empty patient rooms. Kurt locked the door behind them and then turned, throwing himself at Blaine. Blaine caught him around the waist and buried his face in the curve of Kurt’s shoulder. For a moment, they stood there, breathing each other in.

“You aren’t allowed to die,” Kurt murmured into Blaine’s ear. “You have to come back to me, Blaine.”

Blaine pulled away a little, smiling up at him. “The same goes for you.”

Kurt laughed. “I’m much too fabulous to die,” he teased.�

“And I’m not?” Blaine asked, trying to pout. The twitch at the edge of his mouth gave away his amusement.

Kurt pinched his cheek. “You still have a ways to go before you reach my levels, sweetheart.”

Blaine smiled, leaning back against him. “I like it when you call me that.”

“Sweetheart,” Kurt murmured, bringing Blaine closer. “Darling, honey, beloved, dearest . . . Love . . .” Blaine shivered a bit.

“I’m going to miss this,” he said, a little plaintively.�

Kurt considered the top of Blaine’s head. “Dance with me?” he asked.

Blaine pulled back again, the look on his face owlish and surprised. “Dance?” he asked.

Kurt smiled. “Well, that night in the library was enough to fulfill my quota of untoward experiences in public places, so we aren’t doing that.” His smile deepened when he caught sight of Blaine’s blush. Blaine was so mature sometimes and so amusingly naive others. “And we’ve never danced together, have we? So . . . .”

“Dance, huh?” Blaine asked, eyes brightening. “Alright.” A mischievous look graced his features. He pulled away, offering his arm to Kurt, and sang softly, “Heaven, I’m in Heaven . . . .”

Kurt groaned, even as he flushed. “You can’t be serious, Blaine--”

Blaine smiled at him, eyes crinkling at the corners. “And my heart beats so that I can hardly speak . . . . Dance with me, Kurt.”

Kurt sighed, acting more put-upon than he felt, and took Blaine’s arm. Blaine pulled Kurt in close by the waist and immediately began spinning them around. Kurt laughed, stumbling after him for a moment until they settled into the rhythm of a waltz. They were silent for a moment before Kurt sighed and leaned down to Blaine’s ear.

“And I seem to find the happiness I seek,” he sang softly, “When we’re out together dancing cheek to cheek.”

Kurt could feel Blaine’s grin against his cheek. “You like Top Hat?” he asked.

Kurt rolled his eyes and, without warning, stole the lead from Blaine in their next turn. “Of course I do, Fred Astaire is in it. Not to mention Ginger Rogers.”

“Ah, I forgot Fred is your idol,” Blaine said.�

Kurt slapped his shoulder. “He’s amazing,” he said.�

“Maybe you’ll meet him one day,” Blaine said. “When you get rich and famous on Broadway.”

Kurt paused, his feet stumbling. Blaine slowed their turns until they were just standing together, swaying, and looked up at Kurt with concern.

“I don’t know if that’ll happen anymore,” Kurt said quietly. “With the War.”

Blaine considered it. “Do you still want to be on Broadway?” he asked.�

“More than anything,” Kurt confessed.

“Then you’ll make it,” Blaine said, quietly confident. “I’ll make sure you do.” Blaine shook his head. “You can do anything you want, Kurt. Don’t give up hope yet.”

Kurt kissed him on the forehead. “I love you,” he said. Blaine’s eyes softened.

“I love you, too.” He smiled up at Kurt and sang softly, “Night and day, you are the one . . . .”

“Only you ‘neath the moon, or under the sun,” Kurt sang back. Carefully, he leaned down and brushed a soft, chase kiss over Blaine’s mouth. “Come back to me,” he whispered against Blaine’s lips.

Blaine’s eyes were so soft, so warm. “Whether near to me or far, it’s no matter darling where you are, I’ll think of you,” he sang softly. “I’ll come back,” he added, a promise.�

-

August 10 1942

Dear Blaine,

Rachel keeps trying to talk to me. She’s been sending me letters, calling every week.�

We haven’t spoken since the day she sent you away. I don’t know what she wants from me now. I heard from father that she’s taken up nurse training. I suppose that means she’ll be sent off to England soon with the Red Cross. Maybe that’s why she feels it’s so urgent to speak with me.

I don’t know what to do, Blaine. She’s my sister, but every time I think about her something twists in my stomach. I [scribbled out]. I hate her and I love her.

Do you think I should talk to her? Why am I even asking, of course you do. You’ve probably already forgiven her.�

[scribbled out]

I don’t know if I can.

I love you,
Kurt

-

St. Mary’s Hospital, New York
Fall, 1942

“You asked to see me, Sister Sylvester?”

The Sister looked up, harsh features even more severe under her bonnet and bob of blonde hair. Rachel Hummel swallowed, intimidated despite herself.�

“I just got the most interesting tidbit of news from one of our nurses,” Sylvester said, an edge to her voice. “Would you like to hear it?”

Rachel took a deep breath. “Of course,” she said. She’d learned a long time ago that it was best to just give in to Sylvester’s cruelty, or it would only get worse.�

Sylvester grinned, all teeth. “She said one of the men who’d been in surgery the day before woke up and asked for Rachel.” Sylvester regarded her, eyes bright with mockery. “Do you happen to know who Rachel is, Nurse Hummel?”

Rachel flinched. She remembered that man - Matt, his name was, and he’d screamed when they’d cut his leg off-- “I just--” wanted to help him.

“No,” Sylvester cut her off. “You are not Rachel in this hospital, you are Nurse Hummel. There is no Rachel! Do I make myself clear?” Rachel glared at her, but made didn’t speak. Sylvester sighed, waved a hand. “You may go. Check on the blankets, do whatever it is nurses do.”

Rachel turned on her heel and left, stomping out in true dramatic fashion. As she made her way through the halls, her anger abated a little and her stomps became an even pace.

“There is no Rachel,” she murmured, mostly to herself. “Only Hummel . . . .”

-

Rachel took a deep breath and re-read the words on the page before her carefully, searching for mistakes. Satisfied, she drew the page off of the typewriter to set up another. She started when she heard footsteps.

“Aha!” Mercedes said, grinning at Rachel as her head popped into the attic. The rest of her body soon followed. “I thought it was you! All the girls thought it was a ghost or something.”

“Shh!” Rachel said. “You’ll wake Sylvester!”

“What’re you doing up here, dollface?” Mercedes asked with interest. She glanced at the typewriter, eyebrows rising. “Writing something?”

Rachel bit her lip. “A story,” she admitted.

Mercedes whistled. “A writer and a singer? You’ve got it all!”

“I’m not very good at writing,” Rachel said, blushing. “I’ve never written anything before. But, there’s this story in my head and I need to get it down.” She looked down at the paper, her heart twisting. “I don’t know if I’ll even try and publish it.”

“You should, doll,” Mercedes said, plopping down next to Rachel. “I’d read it. Just like I’ll go see you on Broadway when you get there. That’s your dream once the war ends, right?”

Rachel smiled. “Yes,” she admitted. “That’s my dream. The story is just a . . . side project.”

Mercedes rolled her eyes. “I don’t know where you get all the time to do things, doll. First with the nursing and then with your singing gigs and now with this story business? Don’t you ever sleep?”

Rachel shivered a bit. She didn’t like sleeping. Sleeping meant dreaming, and in her dreams, she always remembered that horrible night.�

“Do you think Matron will let me leave early next week?” she asked, avoiding the question.

Mercedes frowned. “Another gig?” she asked. “Maybe the girls and I can sneak away--”

“No, no,” Rachel said hurriedly. “My cousin is getting married, that’s all. I got the invitation yesterday.”

Mercedes eyebrow lifted. “Quick wedding, huh? Your cousin get knocked up?”

Rachel laughed. “No, but I wouldn’t put it past her.”�

“Matron will probably let you leave if you tell her it’s family related,” Mercedes mused. “She’d probably like it better if it was a funeral, though.”

Rachel laughed, leaning on her shoulder. For a moment they sat there, considering the dark sky outside the window.

“Do you think we’ll go to Europe soon?” Mercedes asked.

Rachel shivered and didn’t answer. She had no answer to give.

-

Rachel knocked tentatively at Sister Sylvester’s door.�

“Don’t come in if you’re just going to waste my time,” Sylvester said from inside, exasperated. Rachel sighed.

“It’s Hummel, Sister,” she said. “I need to speak with you.”

Sylvester’s sigh was loud enough to hear through the door. “If you must.”

Rachel popped the door open and hurriedly slid inside. Sylvester’s office was barren and almost obsessively neat except for a collection of trophies gathered on her desk. She looked up when Rachel came in.

“What is it, Hummel?” she asked impatiently.

Rachel took a deep breath. “My cousin is getting married in a few days,” she said carefully. “I was hoping I could leave early this coming Monday so I could attend her wedding.”

Sylvester considered her closely. “I’ll consider it.”

Rachel frowned. “It would really mean a lot to me, Sister,” she said evenly.

Sylvester glared at her. “Are you deaf or just stupid? I said I’ll consider it! Now get out of my office, I can’t stand to look at your unnatural shortness anymore.”

Rachel huffed and turned on her heel, stomping towards the door. Sylvester kept their hospital neat and running, but she was such an odious woman sometimes--

“Hummel,” Sylvester said as she reached the door. “I’ve changed my mind.”

Rachel paused, turned around. “What?” she asked.

Sylvester had an oddly calculating look on her face. “If you do something for me, I’ll let you go to your wedding without protest.”

Rachel hesitated. “What would you want me to do?” she asked.

Sylvester stood. “Follow me,” she said, breezing past Rachel and out of the door.�

Rachel scurried after her, curiosity growing as she realized Sylvester was leading her to the patients. They weaved among the beds for a little while until they came to a small, tucked away corner. Most of the beds were empty, but one had the curtains drawn around it. Sylvester slowed as she approached it and turned to Rachel.

“He’s feeling a bit disoriented,” she said. “Sit with him until he falls asleep and I’ll give you your wedding.”

Rachel blinked in surprise. “That’s all?” she asked.

Sylvester smiled. Rachel shivered a bit at the sight of it. “That’s all,” she agreed, turning on her heel to leave.

Rachel watched her go, frowning. Sylvester’s deals were never that easy. Cautiously, she approached the bed, peeling back the curtains so she could slip inside.�

The boy on the bed looked older than her, though it was hard to tell with the heavy bandage around his head. He was awake, though his eyes were hazy and dazed. There was already a chair there, so Rachel took a seat. She’d never liked sitting with patients much - seeing their pain always made her feel somewhat uncomfortable. When she was fixing an injury or changing bandages, she never had to focus on it much, but just sitting there, staring at someone who was injured, made her feel powerless.�

The boy turned to her. In the dim light it was hard to tell, but he had a nice face. Handsome, even with the bandage, especially when he smiled as he was now.

“You’ve come at last,” he said, his voice little more than a cracked rasp.

“The Sister sent me,” Rachel said, almost embarrassed by the fondness in his expression.

“Did she marry that man she’s been pining over for so long?” he asked. Rachel froze, looked more closely at him. His eyes were so hazy and distant. She wondered who he thought he was speaking to. “What was his name?”

“Blaine,” Rachel said before she could stop herself. Her chest tightened - she hadn’t said that name in years. “She will soon, I hope.”

“Yeah, Blaine,” the boy muttered. “That was it.”�

“And what’s your name?” Rachel asked, hoping it wouldn’t confuse him. However, he was disorientated enough to not realize how strange it was for a supposed friend to be asking his name, for he grinned.

“Finn,” he said. “Finn Hudson. And you?”

Rachel paused. “Hummel,” she said quietly.�

“Hummel,” he repeated, brow furrowing. “That’s pretty.” A spasm of something like pain crossed his face. “I remember you! You came into my mother’s sewing shop every day. I remember your hair.” He reached out and touched the end of Rachel’s bob-cut. She was too startled to even flinch away from his fingers. He pulled away from her, the pained look deepening. “Can I ask you a favor?”

“Of course.”

“I think someone did my bandages up too tight. Could you re-do them for me?” He met her eyes. “Please?”

Rachel stood to look down at his bandage. It was held together by a pair of simple gauze bows, so it wouldn’t be that hard to adjust. Carefully she removed the bows and began to unwind the bandage.

“You remember my younger brother, Rory?” Finn asked. Without waiting for an answer, he continued, “He still sings that Judy Garland song. Somewhere over the rainbow, way up high . . . . You know the one?”

“I do,” Rachel said as she unwrapped more of the bandage. She was getting near the end of it - her stomach twisted when she saw how bloodstained the inner layers were. “You sing very well.” It was surprisingly true - Finn’s voice was cracked and rough, but good. She wondered what he’d sound like when he got well again.

Rachel frowned when the very inside layer of the bandage wouldn’t come off and tugged a little. The bandage slipped down, finally revealing Finn’s head, and Rachel’s stomach twisted with horror when she realized that it wasn’t a scrape or a even a gunshot wound that had had Finn confined to bed. Part of his skull was missing, just gone. Rachel was staring down at his head, and she could see his brain clearly, a mess of pulsing pink cords--

Rachel took a deep breath, then another, and managed not to throw up.

Finn continued to speak, unaware of her horror. “There’s a land that I heard of, once in a lullaby . . . . Don’t you like to sing? I remember that too - you always sang when you came into mother’s shop.”

“I do like to sing,” Rachel answer, proud when her voice remained steady.�

Slowly, carefully, she reached for the bandage and began to tuck it back around Finn’s head, to cover that terrible, terrible wound that was going to make this sweet, disoriented boy die painfully in a hospital bed.�

“We should sing together,” Finn said. “Mother says that people fall in love when they sing together.”

“Yes,” Rachel said, her voice steadier even than it had been before. She continued twining the bandage, careful not to jostle his head. “Yes, that does happen sometimes.”

“Is that why you want to sing with me?” Rachel couldn’t speak, couldn’t answer-- “Because, you know . . . My mother is very fond of you.”

Rachel’s stomach twisted. “Oh?” she asked weakly, her voice returning to her as she reached out for the gauze bows.

“Yeah. She said we should have a spring wedding, just like her and my dad.” She looked down to see Finn smiling at her. “We can sing that song together at our ceremony. Maybe Rory will smile again when we do.” Her throat felt suspiciously tight.

Rachel’s hands faltered at she tucked the bows in. She took a deep, calming breath and finished putting them in, sitting back down in her seat.

“I hope that’s more comfortable,” she said.

Finn’s eyes met her, still so hazy and confused. “Do you love me?” he asked.

Rachel’s throat tightened so much that it was hard to force the word out-- “Yes,” she whispered. “Yes, of course.”

Finn’s forehead was covered in sweat. Carefully, tenderly, Rachel reached out and dabbed at it with her sleeve. Finn’s eyes were fixed on her, wide and trusting as a child’s.�

“Can you stay awhile?” he asked.

Before she could answer, Finn’s entire body jolted, as if lit by electric wire. He broke out into tremors and he slumped forward. Rachel managed to catch him, and his forehead bumped against her cheek - she could feel the slickness where the blood was leaking from the bandages against her cheek. Heart thumping, she pulled away and pushed him back into his previous position. He stared up at her. There were tears running down his face.

“I’m frightened,” Finn whispered. “I’m so frightened, Hummel.”

“Rachel,” she said suddenly. “My name is Rachel.” She wanted nothing more than to gather him back against her, to hold him close--

“Stand up, Sister Hummel.”

Rachel turned to see Sylvester there, regarding her with calm, even eyes. Rachel turned away from her, back to Finn, only to see him close his eyes, his body slumped against the bed. Her heart spasmed.�

“Sister Hummel.”

Rachel stood, numbly watching as one of her fellow nurses pulled a sheet over Finn’s face. She turned to Sylvester, who stood next to her. Sylvester sighed and reached out to her, adjusting her collar.�

“Go wash the blood off of your face, Rachel,” she said finally, a note of something close to tenderness in her voice. Rachel shivered and, without a word, ran out of the ward.

-

It had been a long time since Rachel had been able to wear her own clothes instead of her nurse’s garb - she took care to dress very neatly, considering Santana’s standards.�

The chapel was only a few houses down from the hospital, so Rachel was able to wait until the last minute until she needed to go. As she dashed down the street, she noted that the streets were very empty, and that most of the people on them were women or the elderly. Her heart constricted, thinking of all the brave men who had already gone off to fight - and those that would be forced to in the future. She tripped a bit over one of the cobblestones as she realized that she had no idea if Kurt had been sent out already, or if he’d been given a date--nothing.�

The thought haunted her as she slipped into the church - a small, pretty thing that was the last place Rachel would expect Santana to get married in. She took a seat in the back row, away from the rest of the family members. Most of them she didn’t recognize - she assumed they had to belong to the groom. Rachel’s brow furrowed, trying to remember his name. He was some big oil tycoon, a rich man, and Rachel, upon seeing the invitation, had had the inkling that she’d known him from somewhere--

She looked up when she heard shuffling near the front. The groomsmen were all arranging themselves neatly, and at their front was the groom himself. Rachel’s jaw dropped.

Karofsky! David Karofsky, Sam’s friend, the one who had come to visit during that terrible night--

She remembered the way Santana and Karofsky had looked at each other, but she’d never thought that there was attraction there. Rachel wondered when they’d had a chance to correspond and fall in love - Karofsky had left the morning after the terrible night, which none of them blamed him for. Rachel had never seen him again.

The wedding march started and Rachel turned, standing. She frowned when she realized that Santana had no bridesmaids - she walked up first, alone, beautiful in her white dress. Rachel’s frown deepened, watching her as she sat with the rest of the audience. Santana looked--tired. There were dark smudges under her eyes, her lips were pressed tightly together.�

“Dearly beloved,” the priest began, “we are gathered today to join in matrimony this man and this woman . . . .”

Rachel didn’t pay much attention to the ceremony, her eyes focused on Santana. She looked nothing like a bride in love on her wedding day. Indeed, Rachel realized, she looked like a woman heading to the gallows. Rachel wondered why Santana was marrying Karofsky, if she didn’t love him.�

The ceremony drew to a close after an hour. Karofsky took Santana’s arm, proudly displaying her ring, and led them back down the aisle. Rachel stood, intending to slip away before either of them could see her, then stopped, frowning. Karofsky was coming closer, and Rachel could see his face clearly for the first time all day. There was something oddly familiar about those features, something that tugged at her memory. What--

Karofsky half-turned to her, grinning.�

--there was something familiar about it, the crop of dark hair, the shape of the face . . . .

“No,” Rachel whispered, sinking back into her seat.�

--the niggling feeling in the back of her mind that Blaine’s face was different from the one she’d seen . . . .�

Rachel lifted her eyes as Santana and Karofsky passed her. Karofsky didn’t notice her, but Santana did, her eyes wide with astonishment. Rachel stared back at her, trembling. I have wronged you, she thought dazedly. I have wronged so many people.

She stood and ran out of the chapel, crashing past Santana and Karofsky, ignoring Santana’s cries of her name. Tears were gathering in her eyes, but she made no move to wipe them away, running blindly down the street as the terrible truth crashed down on her again and again:

Blaine wasn’t the one who had attacked Santana. Karofsky was.

--

November 29 1942

Dearest Kurt,

I understand that you do not wish to speak to me, and I cannot say I would blame you if you tore this letter up instead of reading it. I would deserve it, for the things I’ve done to you, and to Blaine, things that I only truly understand the gravity of now.�

I need to speak with you. It is a matter of grave importance. Please see me this one time and then, if you wish, I will never bother you again.

Your sister,
Rachel