“Stick tab A into slot B … What the …! What slot B? There’s no slot B!”

“Attach part 3a to 3b using one of the thirteen medium screws as shown in the example to the left … but don’t tighten … Jesus Christ! Now you tell me!”

“For parts 22a and 22b, do not tighten screw and nut too far or you risk bending the metal … oh no … crap! Crap, crap, crap, crap, CRAP!”

“With the included 11/17 inch hex nut … 11/17 inch? Does that fraction even exist?”

“Use one of the small bolts … wait? I have small bolts? (Rustle-rustle) No, I don’t! 
You gave me a bucket of extra-large bolts that don’t seem to go anywhere, but not one small bolt!”

Blaine collapses on the living room floor a failure, his daughter’s bike in thirteen pieces scattered around him like the broken remains of some metallic, viper-red, zombie horde. The parts he had managed to screw together form the skeleton of an aluminum beast, and after a fifty-third read thru of the instructions (the ones in Filipino since the English side makes even less sense) he discovers that he did the middle half in reverse somehow.

If Blaine Ander-Hummel was ever to break down and cry over anything, this would definitely be the time.

No. He has to keep his head. He has to come up with a plan. There’s never been anything in his life he hasn’t been able to think, sing, or charm his way out of. One of those methods had to apply here. He pulls his iPhone out of his pocket and checks the time.

4:45 a.m. on Christmas morning.

He chokes.

Think, Blaine! Think!

Buying another bike might be possible if he’s willing to lower the bar on his daughter’s expectations … a lot.

Because the only place open at this time on this particular day … is Walmart.

But this bicycle - Tracy picked this one out special. Sure, she might not care in the long run. She might just love whatever bike Blaine gets because it’s a bike and she’s been talking about getting one non-stop for months.

But Kurt will know. Kurt will know it’s not the same one that he himself ordered.

And Blaine will never live it down.

Oh, why didn’t he let Kurt pay extra to have it assembled? Why in hell did he think he needed the ‘dad experience’ of putting together a bicycle on Christmas Eve? What did he think this was? A Hallmark Christmas Special? This is real life, and in real life, as talented as Blaine is, putting things together that require more tools than a flat-head screwdriver are a little beyond his scope, regardless of his one summer putting together a car with his father. For the most part, his dad became so frustrated with Blaine’s attempts at telling the difference between a transmission and a carburetor that he did most of the work himself, talking Blaine through every step as if he were a soft-minded toddler.

Ironically enough, the one person in the house qualified to put together this bike is Kurt.

Blaine sighs. It’s time for him to admit he’s reached his limits and call in a professional.

But first, he has to buy himself some time.

He turns the alarms off. He hides Kurt’s phone. He closes the black-out curtains tight in all the rooms. He sends a very important text message.

Then he sits in the living room and waits.

At six a.m., a half-dead asleep Blaine raises his heavy head at the sound of a Ram pickup pulling up outside the house. he stands slowly, on his guard for any sound – the patter of excited feet racing toward the living room; his husband lumbering into the kitchen to start the coffee machine; the crowing of innocent voices, cheering and singing in praise of Christmas morn - but there’s nothing. Blaine’s attempts to keep the house quiet and dark are working in his favor. Excellent. He’s safe … for now.

If he can answer the door before … shit! 

Blaine hops to his feet, his left leg stinging, numb from being folded underneath his body for the past few hours. It doesn’t want to move, or hold much of his weight, so he drags it to the side as he hobbles quickly for the door, catching it before the people coming up the walk, whispering urgently, have a chance to ring the bell.

“Blaine!” Carole yelps with genuine fear when he yanks open the door. “Wha---what’s going on? Oh my God!” She takes in his appearance – his wrinkled sweatpants and t-shirt, his hair sticking up and out in all directions, the bags under his eyes a violent shade of purple. “You look awful, honey! You said you had a problem and it was important …”

“Yeah,” Blaine mutters. “Yeah, I do … hi …” He opens his arms to his mother-in-law, ushering her into the warmth of the house along with the man he hopes will save the day. He doesn’t have time for pleasantries. He simply jumps to the chase. “Help me, Dad?” he begs, giving Burt a quick hug. “Please? Help me?”

“Why?” Burt asks, looking concerned. “What did you do this time?”

“Well, I … wait … this time?” Blaine peers through the oppressive mist of sleep long enough to be offended, but with a tired Burt staring him down and the realization that he probably deserved that one, he drops it and continues. “I was supposed to put Tracy’s big Christmas present together, but I think I really, uh, screwed up. Please don’t judge me.”

Blaine steps aside and reveals the monstrosity. Carole gasps into chuckles. Burt tilts his head, walking around and examining it from all angles.

“What’s it supposed to be?” he asks.

“Oh God.” Blaine drops his head back and covers his face with his hands. “I messed it up so badly that you can’t tell it’s a bike. You! Of all people!”

“Calm down, sweetheart,” Carole says. “This much anxiety isn’t good for your health. You’re going to give yourself a heart attack.”

“I can’t calm down!” Blaine groans behind his hands. “There’s too much at stake!”

“Too much at stake,” Carole repeats, confused. “Do you mean … your marriage?” She can’t imagine that that was Kurt’s ultimatum, especially considering her son and his husband have one of the most stable marriages she’s ever seen. Kurt pretty much tells her everything. Aside from some hiccups back in their high school and college days that had been left behind years ago, he never mentioned any fighting, any issues of any kind. He was so excited about today, about having the family together. He even mentioned how in love he was with his insane husband. Could that have been a bit of a black truth? Kurt is usually the dramatic one, but these theatrics from Blaine … this is too much of a breakdown for there to be anything else on the line.

“Worse,” Blaine mumbles. “If I don’t have this bike put together by the time Tracy wakes up, Kurt said … uh …” He doesn’t want to say it, but with the two people he dragged out of their comfy hotel beds at the butt crack of dawn staring at him – one with worry, the other in aggravation – he has to come completely clean “… he’ll never have sex with me again.”

“Oh, sweetie,” Carole sighs, relieved. She puts a hand on Blaine’s shoulder, fighting back laughter so hard that it’s turning into tears. “I think you’re overreacting just a tad.”

“No” - Blaine shakes his head wildly - “no, no, you don’t understand! We had a deal! I put together the bike and he’d wrap the rest of the presents. And do you see all the presents?” Blaine gestures frantically to the stacks of neatly wrapped gifts under the tree. “He’s been wrapping them all day!”

“Why didn’t you guys just pay to get the bike assembled?” Carole asks.

“Because … I … wanted … to do it,” Blaine admits, sheepishly peeking out from behind his fingers.

Carole snickers. Burt rolls his eyes.

“I didn’t think it would be that big a deal! I’ve always been pretty good with my hands!”

After Blaine’s hands remark, Carole can’t stifle her laughter any longer. “How’s that right one treating you, Blaine? Cuz I think the two of you are about to become very well acquainted!”

“Oh God,” Blaine moans the same time Burt grumbles about not mentioning his sons and sex in the same sentence, especially before he’s drunk his morning coffee.

“If I fix this for you,” Burt asks, lying the bike-thing on its side, “do you promise never to make a comment about your sex life with my son again?”

“I promise,” Blaine says, pinching his lips tight and making a gesture over them like locking them with a key … even though he’s not entirely sure that’s a promise he can keep. He and Kurt don’t expressly go out of their way to make sexually suggestive remarks, especially in front of their parents, but sometimes things slip out.

Burt blows out a breath, looking from his hopeless son-in-law over to Carole, trying hard not to cackle out loud and wake the whole household.

“Alright,” he relents, taking off his coat, “hand me a wrench. And just … no more talking about anything unless it’s the Buckeyes or the weather.”