Work Text:
Kurt knows that he and alcohol are not a very good mix. He’s known it ever since he was in high school and made the mistake of going to school while drunk. He threw up all over poor Ms. Pillsbury’s shoes – they were nice shoes, and he hasn’t been able to watch Bambi ever since, getting unpleasant flashbacks to the complete and utter horror on Ms. Pillsbury’s face every time he sees the eyes of that damn deer.
The knowledge was further confirmed during that one time Rachel convinced him to get a tattoo and they drank some Limoncello for liquid courage. He ended up with a misspelled tattoo over his right shoulder blade, done in deep black ink so that it’s very visible, of course. Ironically, the tattoo could be fixed, unlike Ms. Pillsbury’s shoes.
So yes. Kurt Hummel plus too much alcohol equals no fun. He has one or two glasses of wine every now and then, or drinks one cocktail when Elliott drags him out clubbing, but he never drinks more than that. He’s learned his lesson. Bad things happen when he drinks too much. Either to his precious skin or to other people’s precious shoes. Kurt is not willing to risk either one of those things.
Which is why he can’t understand what he was thinking when he agreed to let Santana and Rachel plan the party for his twenty-first birthday.
The weather has been wonderfully warm, so they’re having the party on the rooftop of their building, under the light-polluted night sky, surrounded by the distant sounds of the city around them. It’s an idyllic setting, Kurt must admit, and there are several strings of twinkling fairy lights set up around the roof, hanging over the tables and the few pillows placed on the empty floor. The largest table is filled with all sorts of snacks, most of them looking suspiciously vegan, and Kurt can guess that the venue, the lights and the food must have been Rachel’s responsibility.
People, drinks and loud music – lots of all of them – must have been Santana’s.
The music is so loud that Kurt can barely hear himself think, the bass thumping through his whole body when yet another drink is pushed into his hands. He’s feeling a little tipsy – okay, fine, he’s a little drunk, why sugarcoat it when it’s already happened – and Santana keeps cackling as she makes more and more drinks for all the people gathered around them. Kurt thinks he knows most of them, either from NYADA or Vogue, but there are a lot of people he doesn’t know as well, people who keep congratulating him and squeezing his shoulder as if he’s known them all his life even though he’s pretty sure he’s never seen them before.
But that’s okay. It’s fun. It’s a great party! He’s wearing a pretty cool plastic crown as well, as the leading man of this party. Rachel gave it to him and said that she’d pilfered it from one of NYADA’s storage rooms. It’s so crazy. Who would’ve thought that Rachel would be capable of something like that?
Santana grabs Kurt’s hand all of a sudden and forces him to lift the suspiciously brightly-colored drink to his lips. Both the drinks and the snacks look suspicious, but Kurt doesn’t really care. It’s fun!
“Do I throw the best parties or what?” Santana yells over the music.
Before Kurt has the chance to answer, Rachel bounds up to them and jumps to his neck, almost making them both fall over and take the table filled with bottles and cups with them.
“This is the best party ever!” she screams into his ear.
“That’s what I said!” Santana yells back with a smirk.
Rachel pulls back a little, takes Kurt’s drink from him and downs it in one go. “Isn’t this the best party ever, Kurt? And it’s your birthday!”
Kurt laughs, trying to pry Rachel arms away. “I know, Rachel! And you should probably slow down with those drinks!” he suggests, even as Santana places two more disposable cups filled with liquid on the table between them.
“But the drinks are so goooood,” Rachel slurs, hanging from Kurt’s shoulders. She points at him, her eyes almost crossed. “Don’t worry, Kurt, I’m not going to get a tattoo tonight. No tattoo places open at this hour anyway.”
“Thank goodness for that,” Kurt mutters. “Come on, Rach, you’re wrinkling my clothes, get off!”
Someone turns the music louder at that point, the familiar clapping rhythm of Beyoncé’s Single Ladies making the floor shake and the fairy lights above them tremble. There are whoops and yells all around, more people running towards the empty space in the middle of the roof acting as a makeshift dance floor. Rachel starts jumping up and down, laughing in delight.
“Kurt, they’re playing your song!” she screams, grabbing his shoulders and shaking them.
“Oh my god.” Kurt turns to look at Santana, who is looking alarmingly sober. “Did you come up with this playlist?” he asks, leaning closer to be heard over the people yelling along to the lyrics. He tries to look annoyed, but he can’t really help the grin that’s spreading over his face.
Santana just shrugs, placing the bottle she’s been holding on the table. “Come on, Hummel, get your move on!” she replies, taking his hand and starting to drag him towards the dance floor.
Kurt tries to protest – he is not drunk enough to recreate performances from his high school years – but Rachel takes his other hand with a squeal, already shimmying her shoulders to the beat. Kurt is just about to give in and go do his thing when he hears it: an echoing thump-thump that doesn’t follow the beat of the song.
He furrows his brows and looks over his shoulder towards the door to the staircase. The table for drinks was placed close to the door, just in case someone needed to run for the nearest bathroom after one of Santana’s cocktails, and that’s probably the only reason he hears it. Someone is banging on the door, probably has been for a while, judging by the way the knocks are starting to get louder and more frequent. Kurt shakes the girls off and takes a step towards the door.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Santana yells.
“More guests!” Kurt answers, pointing at the door. Santana shrugs and takes Rachel’s hand, dragging her to the dance floor instead. Rachel complies easily, only pouting drunkenly at Kurt over her shoulder.
Kurt shakes his head with a smile and turns his back to them. Someone is still knocking on the door, so he rushes to it, pulling it open with an apology ready on his lips – because really, making guests wait for that long is incredibly rude – but the words get caught in his throat when he actually sees the person standing behind the door.
“Oh,” he breathes out. “H-hello.”
The man standing in front of him blinks his eyes. They are lovely eyes, hazel with perhaps a hint of green in them, framed by incredibly long eyelashes. The man’s whole face is lovely, handsome in a classical way that reminds Kurt of Gene Kelly and other stars of old Hollywood movies, and the effect isn’t diminished at all by the way his dark hair is slicked back with gel, just a few stray curls escaping the gel’s hold near his temples. The man is dressed like a police officer, complete with a badge and a pair of handcuffs hanging from his belt and one of those bulky, box-like radiophones attached to his shoulder. The clothes do absolutely nothing to hide his narrow waist and strong arms, and Kurt suddenly realizes that he has been staring at this man for so long that it’s probably not considered appropriate anymore.
In his defense, the man has most likely been staring at him as well, judging by the way he quickly straightens up and clears his throat when Kurt lifts his gaze and meets his eyes.
“Uh, excuse me, sir,” the man starts, leaning on the doorframe and looking over Kurt’s shoulder towards the party, “but there’s been a noise complaint from your neighbors.”
Someone must have turned down the music again, because the man doesn’t even have to shout for Kurt to hear him. Kurt frowns, swaying a little – and then it hits him.
Handsome guy around his own age. Dressed up like a police officer. On his twenty-first birthday.
“Oh my god,” he gasps out. The man just blinks at him again, looking confused. Kurt wheels around, seeing Rachel and Santana standing a few feet from him. “You got me a stripper?!” he yells, not really sure if he should be delighted or appalled.
He can hear the man letting out a very confused “a what?” behind him, but it’s drowned under the sudden screams and laughter from everyone else. If Kurt wasn’t a little bit drunk, he would probably notice that Santana looks just as surprised as he is, as if she wasn’t expecting the man at all, but before he has the chance to even consider that Rachel is pushing him aside and pulling the confused-looking man onto the roof, cat-calls echoing around them.
“No, wait, stop,” the man tries to say, raising his hands in a calming gesture, “there’s been a complaint–”
“I have a complaint,” one of the guys Kurt knows from Vogue shouts. “You still have your clothes on!”
There are more screams and cat-calls, and Kurt laughs, watching as the man tries to struggle against the crowd. He’s taking his acting a bit too far, to be honest – he already has everyone’s attention, might as well start taking those clothes off.
“No, I’m an actual cop, I need you to–”
“You’re too hot to be a cop!” Rachel interrupts him, pushing her hands against the man’s chest.
“Look, miss, I have a badge– you can’t–”
“Oh, this looks like a real gun!”
Rachel suddenly grabs the gun from the man’s holster and raises it above her head, pointing it towards the sky. The man’s eyes go comically wide and terrified, and he reaches for the gun, but it’s too late – all the others are cheering and Rachel has always loved the sound of an audience spurring her on.
She pulls the trigger, and a very real gunshot sounds out.
Everything goes quiet in an instant, everyone freezing as they stare at the gun, a trail of smoke rising from its barrel. In the silence Kurt can hear the whistle of the bullet as it falls down from the sky. It hits the floor right next to Rachel’s feet with a soft clink.
The man takes a deep breath and steps closer. He reaches out and carefully takes the gun from Rachel’s limp hands, pointing it towards the floor and immediately moving it back to its holster. He even leaves his hand hovering over it, probably worried that someone might try to grab it again.
“Okay,” he says slowly. “Are we done here now?”
A sudden sense of mortification hits Kurt. “You’re an actual police officer?” he squeaks out.
“Yes. Like I said, there was a noise complaint.” The man looks at Rachel who doesn’t look drunk at all anymore – her eyes are wide open, shell-shocked, and she looks pretty close to throwing up. “But I think the party’s over now, don’t you?” the officer adds, surprisingly gently.
Rachel opens her mouth, but nothing comes out, so Kurt steps in, wrapping his arm around her shoulders. “Yes, of course, officer,” he rambles. “We’re so sorry – it’s my birthday and you can probably guess why seeing a hot guy dressed like a police officer would– I mean– you are hot, but that’s not–”
Santana snickers behind him.
The man clears his throat. He looks almost like he’s blushing. “Um. Right.” He straightens his shoulders again. “In any case, I think it’s time you people went home. You’ve all obviously been drinking, so no driving, though, okay?”
There are nods and murmurs of assent, and people start shuffling towards the door, nobody feeling like dancing after this spectacle. Santana steps closer and takes Rachel from Kurt, guiding her away as well.
“Santana!” Kurt hisses. She organized this whole thing, shouldn’t she stay behind to figure this out and face the consequences? “Where do you think you’re going?”
Santana makes a weird gesture behind the police officer’s back, and Kurt doesn’t even want to decipher its meaning. She winks at him and then hurries away, somehow making it to the door in her high heels before anyone else and disappearing into the hallway.
“So, this was your party?” the police officer asks as he watches the people quickly collecting their coats and leaving. He glances meaningfully at the top of Kurt’s head.
Kurt quickly scrambles to get the crown off his head, hiding it behind his back. He can feel his cheeks burning with embarrassment, his heart beating loudly against his chest. He just wanted a nice party for his birthday; not a party that would end in gunshots and police. This is clearly another sign that he should never ever drink alcohol. Three strikes, over and out.
Thank goodness Rachel didn’t at least shoot anyone or anything.
“Yeah,” he says, rubbing his hand over his forehead. “Twenty-first birthday. It wasn’t meant to get this loud, I swear, and I’m so sorry for thinking that you were a– um–”
“A stripper?” the guy says, and Kurt wants to die from this embarrassment, please just let him out of his misery already – except the police officer is grinning. “Well, if it’s your birthday, I can see why that would be an easy mistake. Can’t say it’s happened to me before.”
“Really?” Kurt blurts out. “I mean... God, you’re going to arrest me now, aren’t you?” he finishes, dejected.
The police officer laughs. “No, calm down, it’s okay. The only one I could really arrest is your friend for taking my gun, but I think the shock will probably take care of that.” He glances towards the door. “She’ll be alright, right?”
Kurt snorts. “Alright? She’ll probably write a whole chapter about this in her autobiography once she’s recovered from her hang-over.”
The officer laughs again. He has a very nice laugh. Soft and pleasant. Musical, even.
“I’m Kurt Hummel,” Kurt says eventually, offering his hand to the officer. “Not responsible for the party, but I am the reason we had it.”
The officer smiles and shakes his hand. “Blaine,” he says and then cringes. “I mean, officer Anderson. Sorry, still getting used to the title.”
“Oh?” Kurt can’t help but ask.
“I just started this week,” Blaine explains, still holding Kurt’s hand. “You were my first noise complaint.”
It’s Kurt’s turn to cringe. “Oh god, I am so sorry. I’m sure most noise complaints don’t end in gunshots. Or in people assuming that you’re a stripper.”
“You’d be surprised,” Blaine jokes. The radiophone on his shoulder crackles with static all of a sudden, and they both startle, quickly letting go of each other. Blaine reaches for the phone and takes a few steps back for privacy, giving Kurt an apologetic smile as he goes to answer it.
Kurt sighs and looks around the roof. Everyone else has left already, and it looks like the clean-up duty of his own birthday party has fallen on him. He could just leave everything as it is and force Rachel and Santana to clean it up tomorrow, but they did promise the landlord that they wouldn’t leave a mess behind. Besides, the events of the evening have sobered him up pretty well, and he probably wouldn’t be getting any sleep any time soon anyway. Might as well spend the time in an useful way instead of watching cat videos on YouTube.
He has just placed his crown on one of the tables and is reaching for the highest set of fairy lights when Blaine comes back.
“Do you need any help with that?” he offers.
Kurt twirls around. “Oh, no, it’s fine, officer,” he assures quickly. “I don’t want to keep you from your other duties.”
Blaine smiles. “Just Blaine is fine. And you were actually my last assignment for the night.”
“Oh.” Kurt blinks in surprise. “Still, I’m sure you have other things to do...”
Blaine shrugs. “It’s your birthday. You shouldn’t have to clean this all up by yourself.”
Kurt looks around the rooftop again. There are disposable cups everywhere, the tables are stacked with left-overs and half-eaten snacks, and he doesn’t even want to know how stained the floor underneath the drink table is. If he does this by himself, he’s going to be here all night.
“Are you sure?” he asks cautiously. “You really don’t have to. We’ve already inconvenienced you enough for one night...”
“Kurt,” Blaine interrupts, and oh, the way he says Kurt’s name is very nice – soft yet still emphatic, the smile on his face clearly audible. “It’s fine. If I go home I’ll just end up reading meaningless stuff online for the next few hours. At least this way I’ll have some company.”
Kurt looks away, hoping the blush on his cheeks can be explained by the drinks he had earlier. “Okay,” he acquiesces, fiddling with the fairy lights in his hand. “Could you, um, get that box near the door? We can throw all these lights in it.”
Blaine’s face lights up, as if he was hoping Kurt would say yes. “Sure.”
---
“’It’s got Bette Midler’?” Blaine repeats through his laughter.
Kurt shrugs. “It’s the only thing I could think of! But I think it’s actually surprisingly fitting. I’d rather have that on my skin than the misspelled monstrosity it used to be.”
Blaine shakes his head in amusement and then points at Kurt. “Okay, so that’s reason number two why you should never drink too much alcohol.” He tilts his head. “Didn’t you say you had three reasons?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” Kurt quips, shaking an empty disposable cup in front of Blaine’s face. The crown he was wearing earlier has somehow ended up on top of Blaine’s head, and it’s making him look like a damn Disney prince. A police officer Disney prince. It’s very distracting.
“This party?” Blaine asks. He looks confused, like an adorable little puppy. Damn him. “But I thought you were having fun. Before the whole police officer and gun thing, I mean. Isn’t a noise complaint usually a sign of a good party?”
“Oh my god, what kind of parties did you have in police academy?” Kurt asks, trying to sound scandalized.
Blaine laughs again. He laughs a lot, Kurt has noticed, and it always lights up his whole face – his whole body – in an incredible way, making him look younger than the uniform he’s wearing suggests. Kurt is trying his hardest not to stare at him all the time, but it’s not that easy. Blaine looks so gorgeous, so handsome, and he’s so kind and funny as well. They have been talking for hours already as they’ve cleaned the rooftop, and they have surprisingly much in common, everything from interests in musicals and fashion to childhoods in Ohio.
It would be so easy to just ask Blaine out, but at the same time it would be the most difficult thing as well. Blaine could just be a nice guy, helping out the poor birthday boy with the clean-up after his party had a disastrous ending. But Kurt can’t deny the attraction he’s feeling. He’s never met anyone like Blaine – someone who can make him smile this much and make his heart feel like it’s going to burst right out his chest any second now.
It’s exhilarating. And nerve-wracking.
“I wouldn’t know, to be honest,” Blaine answers finally, throwing another cup in the trash bag he’s holding. “I didn’t really go to that many parties when I was studying.”
Kurt turns around to face him. “Oh, I sense a story!” he sing-songs. “What happened? Did you throw up on someone’s shoes as well?”
Blaine shakes his head. “No, nothing like that. I, um... I just don’t like the feeling of not being in control of myself, you know? Of not really knowing what’s going to happen or where I might end up.”
His smile has dimmed a little, and Kurt could kick himself for making that happen. “Blaine, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to pry or anything.”
Blaine looks over to him. “No, it’s fine.” He empties a paper plate full of Rachel’s suspicious vegan snacks into the bag. “You said you have three reasons, right?” he asks and sets the bag on the ground.
Kurt nods, setting his own bag down as well.
“I have two myself,” Blaine goes on. “First one was in high school – my friends had a party, and I had too much to drink. It was my first party, so I didn’t know when to stop, and I...” He makes a face. “I ended up kissing my best friend’s sister. She was a year older than us, and because of that kiss she thought that I was into her, and– It was just so awkward. Because of the whole...” He gestures at himself.
Kurt bites his lip. “Because you’re gay?” he tries. He has been getting that feeling from Blaine all night, but with his track record he might as well be completely in the wrong.
“Yeah,” Blaine says, looking relieved. Kurt tries not to cheer. “And because she was my best friend’s sister,” Blaine adds. He rolls his eyes. “Drinking isn’t worth that much awkwardness.”
“And the second reason?” Kurt prompts.
Blaine leans against one of the tables and stares at the city around them. “It was in college. I was at a party, and I think I somehow forgot how much of a lightweight I am.” He frowns in thought. “Everything was hazy for a while, and then at some point I just realized that this guy I’d never even met was holding my hand and leading me towards one of the empty bedrooms in the house.”
Kurt feels something tighten around his heart. “Oh god,” he whispers.
Blaine’s eyes widen and snap back to Kurt. “No, no, nothing happened! No, god, nothing like that, no.” He shakes his head frantically. “I pulled my hand away and he let me go with no questions asked, and then I just found my friends and got them to take me home. It wasn’t like... that.”
Kurt steps closer, reaching out to take Blaine’s hand. It’s an impulse and he can’t ignore it. “But it still freaked you out?”
Blaine breathes out slowly and clasps Kurt’s hand. “Yeah. Like I said, I don’t like not being in control of myself. I mean, if someone wants to have sex with a person they’ve never even met, that’s fine by me, it’s none of my business, but I... It’s not for me, you know? I like romance. And I don’t want to drink too much and forget that.”
Kurt strokes his thumb over Blaine’s knuckles, swallowing against the sudden lump in his throat. “Yeah. I get that. I like romance, too.”
Blaine looks at him, as if he’s considering something. “You know, Kurt... I’ve never told anyone about this before. My friends know about what happened, of course, but I’ve never told them that it’s the reason why I don’t like to drink too much.”
Kurt meets his eyes, trying to ignore the way he can hear his heartbeat in his ears, loud and quick. “But you told me?” he asks. “You barely even know me.”
“Yeah.” Blaine smiles. “But somehow it feels like I do know you.”
It could be such a cheesy line coming from anyone else, but somehow Blaine makes it sound genuine, makes it sound like he’s being honest and amazed at the same time.
“Oh,” Kurt breathes out.
Blaine licks his lips, and Kurt’s eyes glance down. He’s never kissed a police officer before. But it’s not just that – he wants to kiss Blaine; Blaine Anderson with his soft smile, his kind words, and the obsessive way he talked about bowties earlier this evening, complaining about how unfair it is that he can’t wear a bowtie with his uniform. Kurt knows very well that he has a uniform kink – that’s probably why he thought Blaine was a stripper at first – but he doesn’t want to just kiss officer Anderson for the sake of his uniform.
He wants to kiss Blaine, because somehow it feels like he knows him as well.
“You should know I don’t normally do something like this,” he says in a low voice.
“Like what?” Blaine asks. His eyes flick down to Kurt’s lips, and that’s all the encouragement Kurt needs.
He leans slowly closer, giving Blaine time to pull away, but Blaine meets him in the middle instead, pressing their lips together and lifting his free hand to Kurt’s neck, keeping him close. It’s a short, chaste kiss, but they still linger, pushing a little closer, and Kurt can see bright lights behind his closed eyes. The famous fireworks Rachel is always telling him about. Blaine’s lips taste like chapstick and something else, something soft and new and right that Kurt wants to spend as much time as he can exploring and learning, until the taste and feel of Blaine’s lips becomes the most familiar thing he has ever known.
Blaine pulls away after a moment, keeping his hand on Kurt’s neck. Kurt blinks his eyes open, and the first thing he sees is Blaine’s smile, a little surprised and overwhelmed, but definitely in a positive way.
“You’re still wearing my crown,” Kurt says, not knowing what else he could say.
Blaine lets out a laugh. He takes the crown and places it back on Kurt’s head, taking the time to make sure it’s properly balanced and sitting straight. After that he lets his hand slide right back to the nape of Kurt’s neck, playing with the short hairs there.
“Happy birthday, my prince,” he says with a smile. “And thank you for letting me stay.”
Kurt smiles back at him. His heart feels incredibly light. “Thank you for asking to stay, brave knight,” he replies, his voice a little breathless.
Blaine ducks his head with another laugh, this one even more overwhelmed. He lets go of Kurt and then runs his fingers through his own hair, more and more strands of it breaking through the gel. “I... I think we’re all done here with the cleaning,” he says, his eyes shining as he glances around the rooftop.
Kurt laughs as well. “Yeah. I think we are. Do you...” He hesitates, biting his lip. “Do you want to help me carry that biggest table back to my apartment?”
Blaine grins. “Sure. Of course.”
The sun is already rising above the horizon when they carry the table to the door. Kurt takes one last look at the rooftop, making sure all the trash bags and smaller tables are placed in a neat pile near the door – he’ll take them down tomorrow, landlord’s wrath be damned.
That’s when he notices something gleaming on the floor in the early morning sunlight.
Blaine follows his line of sight. “Oh god, the bullet!” he gasps.
Kurt bursts out in laughter. “We should probably get that, so the landlord won’t think the worst.”
Blaine lowers his side of the table on the floor and runs to collect the bullet, dropping it into his pocket. Kurt stares at him as he jogs back to the doorway.
“I hope you won’t get in trouble with your superiors because of this,” Kurt says when Blaine takes the table again.
Blaine snorts. “I’m sure I’m not the first officer who has been mistaken for a stripper, Kurt,” he teases.
“But how many of those incidents have ended in gunshots and the officer staying behind to help with the cleaning?” Kurt quips back.
Blaine purses his lips in thought as if he’s actually considering the question. “Let me get back to you on that one.”
It’s only a few short flights of stairs until they reach the floor Kurt’s apartment is on. The whole building is quiet around them as Kurt fishes his keys out of his pocket, only the distant whoosh of someone taking their early morning shower sounding through the walls. Kurt has the sudden urge to invite Blaine in, for coffee or pancakes or something, but he knows Rachel and Santana would probably ruin everything with their endless questions.
“I think I can get it inside by myself,” he says, “but thank you for the help.”
Blaine rocks on his heels. “No problem. You were good company, after that whole stripper misunderstanding.”
Kurt snorts. “Are you ever going to let me live that down?”
“I don’t know.” Blaine scratches the back of his head and flashes a nervous smile. “Let me take you out on a date and we’ll find out?”
Kurt bites his lip to stop himself from squealing out loud. “Sure,” he manages to say. “Tomorrow?”
“I have work.” Blaine pushes his hands in his pockets. “The day after?”
“Yeah,” Kurt breathes out, “yeah, that should work. Let me give you my number so we can–”
Blaine immediately hands over his phone, as if he’s been waiting for that question all evening, and Kurt quickly adds his own number to his contacts. When he gives the phone back he can’t help but lean forward and brush a quick kiss on Blaine’s cheek. “I’m looking forward to it,” he says.
Blaine grins, his eyes lighting up the dim hallway. “Me too. But no guns or strippers or noise complaints this time, right?”
“Nope. Nothing like that. I promise.” Kurt feels like his face is going to break in half with all the smiling he’s done tonight. “Goodnight, officer Anderson,” he says with what he hopes is a flirty voice.
“Goodnight, Kurt Hummel,” Blaine replies. He walks slowly backwards until he reaches the stairs, and even when he finally turns around, his other foot already on the first step, he takes one last look at Kurt over his shoulder, smiling shyly.
When Kurt can finally stop sighing happily and gets inside his apartment with the table, Santana is leaning against the kitchen counter in her fluffy robe, holding a cup of coffee. She looks unnervingly alert and sober.
Kurt frowns as he drops his keys into the bowl near the door. “Where’s Rachel?” he asks.
“Berry’s still asleep,” Santana answers, taking a sip of her coffee. “You two took your sweet time.”
Kurt freezes. “You planned this?”
“Not the noise complaint or the gunshot, idiot, obviously.” Santana rolls her eyes. “Even I’m not that good. But leaving you alone with the mess, yeah. Officer Goody Two-shoes looked like the kind of a person who would offer to help out. Did you do it on the rooftop under the stars?”
She says the last sentence in a mock romantic voice, fluttering her eyelashes. Kurt scoffs and rolls his eyes.
“I’m going to bed,” he announces. “When Rachel wakes up, tell her that she should apologize to officer Anderson at some point. She could have gotten us all arrested.”
Santana sighs. “You’re still wearing your crown, Hummel.”
“I know, Lopez,” Kurt replies. “Goodnight. And thanks for not getting me a stripper.”
He can hear Santana’s snort all the way to his bedroom. He only takes the crown off once he’s safely behind the privacy curtains, placing it on his bedside table with a small smile. A few minutes later, when he has gotten in bed and is pulling the covers over himself, his phone dings with a new message.
From Unknown:
Lunch? I could pick you up around one, now that I know where you live.
Sorry, I hope that wasn’t creepy. I just couldn’t wait for the morning.
Oh, and this is Blaine, by the way. The brave knight? ;)
Kurt just grins and holds his phone to his chest, letting out the squeal he’s been holding in all night.