“It’s five o’clock, Kurt!” Rachel yells as Kurt races to the front door. He swore he heard a knock, but he can’t be sure. With roughly thirty-seven kindergarteners racing through the house, Kurt hasn’t been able to hear himself think since one.

“I know, I know, Rach,” Kurt replies, skidding to a stop and narrowly missing having one of his favorite Marc Jacobs dress shirts drenched in cherry limeade.

“He was supposed to be here by four!”

“I know that, too, Rach,” Kurt grumbles, slogging through a stream of giggling girls and boys playing Pin the Tail on the Donkey, which has devolved into a slightly more terrifying game of Pin the Tail on Sam Evans. Poor Sam. But thank God he showed up when he did. With their entertainment late, pushing serving the cake back for another hour (because Rachel is dead set and determined that there will be no sugar in these kids’ tummies until after the clown performs) they were about to have a riot on their hands.

An adorable riot, but a riot nonetheless.

“Did you ever consider the fact that with all of this clown nonsense going on lately that he got jumped on the way over here?” God, Kurt hopes that’s not the case. He doesn’t want to be responsible for the beating of some poor, innocent schmuck trying to earn a living, even if he can’t help but giggle over the image of an angry mob of suburban soccer moms and dads chasing down a man dressed like Bozo the Clown.

Kurt is an awful human being and he’s going to hell, but at least he can admit that.

Kurt hears another knock on the front door that somehow carries into the kitchen where Rachel has been defending her son’s Newsies themed birthday cake from an onslaught, armed with nothing but a pastry bag and a spatula.

“Kurt!” she squeals in relief. “I hear the door! That’s got to be him!”

“I know,” Kurt mutters.

“Then answer it!”

Kurt shakes his head, wondering how in the world she managed to hear him over the high-pitched screeching and general chaos. She probably has her extrasensory perception tuned to the sarcasm setting. He bypasses one final obstacle, Rachel’s anxiety-ridden King Charles Spaniel, Glinda, bounding by to race up the stairs and evade multiple pursuers whom Kurt is able to re-route with a single icy glare. He gets that from his mother, he knows, and it’s one of the reasons why his father has always said Kurt will be an excellent father one day…

…because he has so much of his mother in him.

But watching a frazzled Rachel have her home torn apart, and one of his best friends mauled, has cemented one thing in Kurt’s mind with regard to his life choices – as much as he wants to find a special someone, fall madly in love, and start a family of his own…he’s willing to wait a little bit longer.

The next knock on the door comes as a series of three loud pounds, followed by Rachel cawing, “Kurt!!”

“I’ve got it!” He grabs the doorknob and yanks the door open as if to prove to Rachel’s unseen eyes that he is, indeed, following orders. “Well!” he snaps, about to unload on whoever’s standing at the front door, tardy clown or not, “it’s about…time…”

Leaning against the door frame, wearing an outfit so form fitting that Kurt has to look twice to make sure that it’s not actually body paint, stands not a clown, but a police officer - biceps bulging through short sleeves, thighs trying their hardest to stay contained by exquisitely tailored pants, a leather belt hugging trim hips, and aviator sunglasses shielding smoldering hazel eyes. He peeks above the gold frames at Kurt, a smirk growing on his lips as he unabashedly looks Kurt over.

“Uh…hello, Officer. Is there a problem?” Kurt is pretty certain that their party isn’t breaking any laws, so, by rights, sexy eyes and smile aside, he should be fairly pissed that a police officer stopping by the house with no probable cause is wasting his time, especially when Kurt has the urgent matter of a missing clown to attend to.

Then the officer licks his lips - full, rosy lips - and Kurt decides time? What is time? This officer can take all the time he needs. He is risking his life to protect the public, after all. That alone should be worth some of Kurt’s…time.

“Hello, sir,” the police officer says in a voice that’s more smooth and sinful than authoritative. That should strike Kurt as unusual, but, surprisingly, it doesn’t. “Is this 1134 Greenwich Place?”

“Uh, yes. Yes, it is,” Kurt replies in a more flirtatious tone than he would ever normally use when talking to law enforcement. A squall rises up behind him, which starts Kurt’s ears ringing, and he blurts out the only thing he can think of that would send an officer to their door. “I’m sorry, but, are we making too much noise?”

“No.” The officer stands away from the door, the shift of muscles beneath his clothes causing certain bulges to appear even more impressive from this new angle. Kurt doesn’t know when it got so hot, but suddenly his back starts sweating. “As a matter-of-fact, I don’t think you guys are making enough noise.”

“Wha…?” Kurt scrunches his nose. “What do you mean?”

The officer leans in and pulls off his sunglasses, the smile on his face becoming more puppy dog than minx. “I’m not really a police officer. I’m the stripper you guys ordered. For the bachelorette party?”

“Str---stripper?”

Two boys race by behind Kurt, whooping loudly and tossing a stuffed monkey that makes an obnoxious howling noise when it gets caught. Kurt has been trying to get his hands on the damn thing all afternoon so he can dispose of it discreetly. Or burn it; whichever works. The man pockets his shades and watches them go, looking a little uncomfortable when he spies the throng they disappear into. “There’s an awful lot of kids here. Is our sexy bachelorette upstairs?”

“Uh, no,” Kurt says with a nervous chuckle, looking over his shoulder at the house full of kids and parents behind him.

“Okay…” the man moves on, undaunted, “well, can you tell me where she is? Oh, and can you tell me her name?” The man reaches into the mace pouch on his gun belt and pulls out a chocolate pen. “Because I write her name above my happy trail, and then she gets to lick it off.”

He gives Kurt a wink, and Kurt chokes on his tongue.

“Uh…” His eyes go wide, fighting the urge to yell, “Kurt! The name that’s going to be licked off your happy trail is Kurt!” when out of nowhere, Rachel arrives.

“Oh thank God! Is that our…c-clown?” Rachel stutters to a stop, staring dumbstruck at the sexy man gracing her doorway.

“Who are you again?” Kurt asks.

“My name’s Blaine,” the man says, holding his hand out to Kurt, then to Rachel. “Blaine Anderson.”

“Blaine Anderson,” Kurt repeats. “It’s nice to meet you, Blaine, but…” He looks at a confused Rachel, her jaw hanging open, her face freakishly blank. God, he’d love to know what’s going on in her brain right now “…we didn’t order a stripper.”

“A stripper?” Rachel squeaks. “He’s a strip…” She lowers her voice as a flood of children washes through the entryway behind them “…a stripper??”

“I have a work order here from All Seasons Rental” - Blaine reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a folded piece of paper - “saying that you ordered an entertainer for a private function. This gentleman here…”

“Kurt,” Kurt adds into the pause.

“Kurt,” Blaine repeats with a second wink that makes Kurt pre-teen giddy, “confirmed the address. I’m sorry if I’m a little late. I got off at the wrong stop.”

“But…” Rachel cuts in.

“I can give you a ten percent discount,” Blaine intervenes when he mistakes the pique in her tone as anger over his being late. “You know, to make up for it.”

“That’s very kind of you,” Rachel says, sounding mildly offended, “but I ordered a clown. For my six-year-old son’s birthday party. Not a stripper.”

“Oh,” Blaine says, smile disappearing, but replaced by the cutest little ‘o’ of surprise that Kurt has ever seen.

“Yeah,” Kurt confirms. “A clown.”

Blaine looks from Kurt, to Rachel, back to Kurt again, and laughs awkwardly. It’s contagious. It makes Kurt laugh just as awkwardly, and Rachel hits him with an irritated side-eye glare.

“I…think I need to make a phone call.”

***

“So, that was the service,” Blaine says, sliding his phone in his pocket and taking the mug of coffee Kurt hands him with a nod of thanks. They had moved Blaine inside when a dueling battle of chants began – one for clown, and the other for cake. Out of concern for everyone’s safety, and the safety of the cake that Rachel left unguarded, Kurt and Blaine retreated to the kitchen while Rachel attempted to appease the kids with a rousing game of Munchkin, Munchkin, Flying Monkey. “It turns out dispatch mixed up the addresses. My buddy Mike Chang, who was supposed to be your clown, ended up at my bachelorette party by accident. But seeing as he moonlights as a stripper, and they seemed totally down, he’s working my gig.”

“I’m glad it turned out for them,” Kurt says, stirring sugar into his coffee, “though I’m a little disturbed that they were turned on by a clown.”

“Yeah, well, it helps that the guy has the body of Adonis. He doesn’t share my love of Mediterranean food.” Blaine pats his flat stomach. “They’re more than getting their money’s worth.”

“I, for one, love Mediterranean food, so I sympathize,” Kurt says, guessing that Blaine may have a body issue or two. “But in my opinion, they would have been more than lucky to have you show up at their door.” Blaine smiles bashfully, his eyes pulling away before his cheeks can turn too red. “I mean, you are way sexier than the stripper we got for Rachel’s bachelorette party.”

“That’s…really nice of you to say,” Blaine says, not quite meeting Kurt’s eyes. He chews the corner of his lip while gazing into his coffee mug, but doesn’t take a sip before he chooses to speak again. “You got a stripper for your wife’s bachelorette party? That’s…that’s really open-minded of you.”

“Oh, Rachel’s not my wife,” Kurt quickly clarifies. “She’s a friend. A good friend since high school. Long time competitor. She never could quite get the upper hand…” Blaine laughs lightly. It’s not a forced laugh, not a polite laugh. It’s an honest laugh, and it makes Kurt think. He wants to test a theory, but he’s having second thoughts. He has his suspicions (the amount of product in this man’s hair, plastering it down to the point of anti-hurricane level secure, has Kurt on the fence), but he’s not enthused about the prospect of getting shot down today. Not at a little kid’s birthday party. Still, if he doesn’t take a chance, he’ll never know… “But she did beat me at one thing.”

“Really?” Blaine asks. “And what’s that?”

“She, uh…she found her Mr. Right before I could find mine.”

Blaine’s eyes pop up. “Mr. Right?” He smiles over his mug – over-smiles, if that could be considered a thing. “So…you’re gay?” Blaine somehow manages to smile wider when Kurt nods.

“Absolutely,” Kurt says. “100%”

“Well, that’s…that’s good to know.”

“Kurt, though I appreciate you getting along so famously with our new handsome stripper friend, we still have the problem of what to do about a clown,” Rachel complains, walking into the kitchen and plopping down in a chair, looking thoroughly exhausted.

“Ugh!” Kurt groans. “We’re in a house filled with thespians, and not a single person can pretend to be a clown for one hour?”

Rachel gasps. “Kurt Hummel! I am not going to insult my guests by asking them to work at the party that I invited them to! Especially not as a clown!” she finishes with a growl of disgust, and Kurt internally cringes. Rachel glances at Blaine, grinning into his coffee, and in an effort to seem less horrible, says, “No offense to your friend, Blaine. Being a clown is a time-honored and noble profession.”

“None taken,” Blaine says, barely containing a snicker.

“What about Sam?” Kurt asks, trying to overlook the guilt he feels about throwing the man to the wolves yet again.

“He had to leave to go meet Mercedes about five minutes ago – or so he says,” she emphasizes, skeptically rolling her eyes. “I guess I shouldn't be too hard on him. I think he was missing some hair when he left.” Then she snaps her fingers as if she’s come to a glorious epiphany. “What about you, Kurt!?”

The second the words leave her mouth, Kurt’s complexion goes deathly pale, like he’s about to be hit by a bus. “No…Rachel…” His eyes dart in Blaine’s direction, but he can’t see the man who’s managed to climb completely inside his coffee mug. “Just…no…”

“Why not?” she stresses, slapping the table top excitedly as if this is the best idea she’s ever had. “I’ve got all of our old costumes in a trunk upstairs! I know you have a clown costume in there…among other things…” She looks subtly over at Blaine. “As a matter of fact, some of them are really, really revealing…”

“Rachel!”

“Hey guys?” Blaine intervenes. “If you could point me in the direction of your clown costume…” He turns his eyes to Kurt. The smolder returns, and Kurt begins to understand how the guests at that bachelorette party might think a clown is sexy. Blaine, in any costume, would be stunning “…and give me five minutes, I think I can help you out.”

***

“Hey, Kurt? The next time you hear me say anything along the lines of, ‘Let’s host a party for three dozen kids at my house while my husband’s away’, do me a favor and knock me out cold,” Rachel moans, picking up three purple-frosted paper plates and a handful of solo cups, and dumping them into a black garbage bag that Kurt is holding open for her.

“Done,” Kurt agrees without a breath after her last word. It might seem rotten, but permission to knock Rachel Berry unconscious from the woman herself? He’s been waiting for that opportunity since high school sophomore year.

Rachel frowns and shoves tiredly at Kurt’s shoulder. From across the living room, gathering up his own pile of plates, Blaine laughs.

“You know I’m only joking,” Kurt says, pulling an appeased Rachel under his arm. Then he looks over his shoulder and mouths I’m not joking, which makes Blaine laugh harder. Suspecting that her supposed best friend did something behind her back at her expense, she sticks her tongue out at Kurt and goes back to cleaning.

“Thank you so much, Blaine, for helping out,” Rachel says.

“And for staying late,” Kurt adds, watching poor Rachel give up on standing upright and roam the living room bent over for efficiency.

Neither men seem to notice when she roams herself out the door and into the dining room to give them some privacy…but not too much privacy as she hangs to the right of the doorway, out of sight but listening in.

“Thank you for helping me off with my makeup,” Blaine says, moving to clean Kurt’s side of the room. “I remember the last time I took the subway at night dressed as a police officer clown. It didn’t go too well.”

Kurt sputters a laugh and shakes his head. “That must have been quite the experience.”

“Yeah,” Blaine agrees, “especially considering the fact that I live in Bushwick. Brooklyn, you know…it’s not very forgiving.”

“Yeah,” Kurt agrees blithely, then his eyes shoot open. “Brooklyn!? Oh my God! Why didn’t you…” He fishes his cell phone out of his pocket and takes a look at the time. “Blaine! It’s close to ten! You’re going to be commuting for over an hour!”

“It’s all good,” Blaine says, dumping another stack of cups into the garbage bag.

“But I’ve been to Bushwick! That’s a rough part of town! I don’t want anything bad to happen to you because you stayed to help me clean up a few dirty plates!”

“It’s okay. I don’t mind.”

Kurt stares at Blaine as if he’s insane. Blaine looks at Kurt, a bit bemused, but as silence stretches between them, he seems to come to an understanding.

“You’re right,” he says, sadly. “It is getting late. I should…I should go.”

“I don’t know how I can repay you,” Kurt gushes with relief. “Really. You went above and beyond.”

“Believe it or not, I had a great time.”

“Juggling and making balloon animals for a bunch of screaming kids?”

“Well…that, too.” Blaine sighs, gathering up his things. “Here. Take my card.” He pulls a business card out of his pocket and hands it to Kurt. It’s printed on sturdy, white cardstock with an ornate letter ‘B’ in the corner, and the rest of his name and information embossed in easy-to-read black letters on the front. It’s simple, elegant. It’s exactly what Kurt might pick out for himself if Vogue didn’t already print up stock business cards for him. “It just so happens that I know a really great Mediterranean place. If you ever want to check it out, let me know.”

Kurt slips the card into his pocket and gives it a pat. “I might have to do that.”

He walks Blaine to the door, not eager to see him go, and oblivious to the fact that Blaine doesn’t want to leave.

“Goodbye, Kurt. And thanks again.”

“Thank you,” Kurt says. “And please…stay safe.”

Blaine gives Kurt a small smile and a wave, and takes off down the front walkway. Kurt watches him go, keeps his eyes on him until he reaches the end of the block, then closes the front door.

He doesn’t realize that Rachel is standing behind him until he turns around.

“Are you blind?” she says sharply. “Or are you just incredibly dense?”

“Jesus Christ!” Kurt exclaims, nearly leaping out of his shoes. “Can you wear a bell!?”

“Kurt Elizabeth Hummel,” Rachel scolds him in her sternest voice, “I love you…”

“This is kind of an odd time to make that declaration,” Kurt teases. “You’re married with a son, and you know I’m gay.”

“You know what I mean! I love you as my best friend, my nemesis, an adopted fraternal twin half-brother who has equal amounts of ambition, squandered theatrical talent, and slightly better fashion sense…”

“I think I’ve been insulted,” Kurt comments, “but I’m intrigued to hear your point.”

“My point is that you are an amazing person, a devoted pseudo-uncle, always there when we need a hand. But you haven’t dated anyone in over two years! And I know that’s not a personal decision, Kurt,” she says, thrusting a fingernail dangerously close to his nose. “I know you want to, and I know you’ve been apprehensive about putting yourself out there. But that gorgeous man that you let waltz on out of here, who’s sweet and kind and built like a runway model, has been staring at you all afternoon like he’s been trying to figure out what color your underwear is and what the two of you would name your pet cockapoo on the day you move in together.”

“What are you trying to say?” Kurt asks, defaulting to humor the way he always does when Rachel gets a little too intense for comfort. “It gets hard to understand you when you talk in run-on sentences.”

“I am saying do not let that man leave without some kind of reassurance that you are going to see him again!”

Kurt falls back against the door with a heavy sigh. Her words carry a lot of weight. He may hate it, but she’s right. She knows him better than anyone, and she hit every single nail smack dab on the head. Except…he’s not convinced yet that she’s right about one thing. “Are…are you sure? About Blaine? I mean, you don’t think there’s a possibility that you’re seeing things?”

“There is no way I’m seeing things, Kurt! He told you where he lives! He practically asked you out! And here…” She pulls her cell phone out of the pocket of her dress and flips to her photo gallery. She swipes past picture after picture that she took on the sly of times when Blaine was watching Kurt while Kurt was occupied elsewhere. In most of them, Blaine is wearing the same, goofy grin. In a few of them, he’s biting his lower lip. And in one or two, he has an expression on his face that makes Kurt’s toes curl inside his Ferragamos.

“Wow,” Kurt says with a soft chuckle to himself. He can’t remember the last time someone looked at him like that.

He’s not entirely sure anyone ever has.

“Go…get…him…” Rachel urges, pulling him off the door by his shoulder and turning the doorknob. “Now. Quickly. Before he gets to the subway.”

Rachel opens the door and prepares to shove him out, but she doesn’t have to. The second the door opens, Kurt races down the walkway and in the direction he saw Blaine go. He doesn’t know what he’s going to say to him. He thinks through old lines, juxtaposed with their conversations throughout the day, trying to glean a nugget he can use to break a newly-formed ice. But before he can come up with something witty, something smooth, something intelligent, something funny, Kurt rounds the corner and runs straight into him, finishing up a text message.

“Kurt!” Blaine squeals, grabbing Kurt’s arms before he bounces backward and hits the pavement. “What the…?”

“Blaine…” Kurt stops to catch his breath. Then, for lack of anything better to say, he says, “Blaine,” again.

“Yes, Kurt?” A hopeful smile twitches Blaine’s lips. “Is something wrong?”

“Uh…” Kurt swallows. He wants to be better at this, but he never really has been. Not enough practice, he’s afraid. He’s always been the kind of guy that waited for men to ask him out; a lifelong fear of rejection keeping him from a mountain of things that could have been if he’d just made the first move.

He’s done making that mountain any bigger.

“How’s Tuesday for you?”

Blaine’s smile switches on full force, and Kurt wonders how this guy can look so effortlessly hot and so completely adorable all at the same time.

“Tuesday…sounds perfect.”