"Blaine!" Kurt shouts, storming round the apartment looking for his husband. He hears no answering reply from anywhere. Kurt knows Blaine is in the apartment, the smashed plate was a give away.

It's also the reason why Kurt was in search of Blaine. Who smashes a plate and doesn't clear it up? And from the position of the plate's pieces, along the floor by the wall, Kurt assumes it was thrown.

"Blaine!" He shouts again, getting more annoyed by the minute.

Kurt had just just started his new full time job at Vogue, which he loved - don't think otherwise! - but he was at the office hours after his shift. And of course, he doesn't get paid that extra time. Yes, he loved the work, but sometimes he thought it would be nice if he got paid for all the work he actually does. Plus it takes time away from his husband. Today had been one of those days where he couldn't wait to get home, but difficult clients prevented him, so he wasn't in the best of moods to begin with.

"Blaine!" He shouts even louder. He knows Blaine his home, his keys were in the bowl.

He hears a whimper coming from the second bedroom, the one they use as a little studio containing a few instruments of Blaine's as well as a fairly decent camcorder - it used to belong to a vogue photographer before he got himself a newer version, and Kurt was able to snag it up cheap - set up to record audition tapes. 

Kurt walks into the room, and sees his husband curled up on the been bag in the corner, specifically put there for times Blaine needs calming down on bad days. And truth be told, Kurt often found himself cuddled up on the bag in the room after he had a stressful encounter with some stuck up model from work.

"What's up honey?" Kurt asks, instantly changing his demur having seen his husbands state.

"Anadolfofadirector," he mumbles in response.

"I did quite catch that sweetie," Kurt answers.

"The new director is an Adolf Hitler." Blaine had been currently rehearsing a new show for his fourth run on Broadway. However due to a last minute offer, the director had bailed on the show, five days before opening night. Blaine had taken an instant dislike to the new man, reminding him of one of his old bullies, and the relationship between them had apparently not improved.

"What's happened hon?" Kurt asks, making Blaine scoot over so he can join his loved one on the been bag.

"He has decided he doesn't like the way I dance and is now chancing the choreography! And the new stuff is so different and so hard! I can't perfect a double pirouette in two days! Two days Kurt, two days until opening night. Why would they think that was a good idea?" Kurt knows his husband just wants to say it out loud and air his concerns, so he doesn't yet offer any reassurances. "And I'm not the only one feeling that way. The understudy can't do it either, and he is threatening to leave. I can't believe the other director left! How could he? I couldn't just up and leave, why can he? Surely he has a contract like mine, and you don't break the contract unless you have fortunes sitting in the back to pay the fee for withdrawing. There is no way he could afford that, it was his first time directing on Broadway, you don't give that up FIVE DAYS BEFORE OPENING NIGHT!" Blaine starts shouting. Kurt pulls him into his chest, snuggling him close. He feels a wetness creeping into his shirt's shoulder. Blaine always cries when he gets mad. Kurt stars stroking his back.

"Sshh," Kurt whispers, comforting Blaine almost as though you would a baby. "In my opinion, the old dance routines where far below what you are capable off. This new guy must have realised that. And the understudy; well he has just been hit with the realisation that there is a reason you are the lead and he is the back up. And as for the pirouette, we know someone who will be able to teach you that in a day; for free." Blaine leans back to look directly at Kurt.

"Santana?" He asks.

"Santana," Kurt confirms. They both laugh, remembering the woman's pleasure when they last asked her for help. Kurt still hasn't lived it down, but at least he had a model for the runway show. "Come on you, up you get. Get dressed up and meet me at the door in five minutes."

"Five minutes? My hair takes longer than that!"

"Just do it," Kurt orders as he heads out the room to clean up the shattered plate thrown in anger.

An hour later and they arrive at their goal; the local Italian restaurant. Kurt is pleased it has seemed to have worked as a distraction and cheer his husband up. Kurt knows that sometimes when Blaine gets all in a funk he just needs something to distract him. Often, that distraction is a home cooked meal, but sometimes he has to improvise: drastic times call for drastic measures. 

On the wall next to them is a painting of the war, jolting Kurt's memory of something Blaine had said earlier.

"Hon?" He starts. "What did you mean by Adolf Hitler?"

"Hm?" Blaine questions, a mouthful of spaghetti preventing him from talking.

"You said your director was an Adolf Hilter?"

"Oh," he starts to respond, trying to quickly swallow his mouthful. "It's a code we use at work. Basically it stands for dick. You know, 'he is being a dick', 'he is being an Adolf'," he explains.

"Of course, the first word you can think of for dick is Adolf," he teases sarcastically, a smile fighting its way to his lips.