misqueue: grey titmouse(?) sitting amongst blossoms (glee - blaine & kurt share a smile on st)
misqueue ([personal profile] misqueue) wrote2013-12-16 08:50 am

[Fic] Shining Down For Me (klaine advent prompt #7 Gift)

(This one is happy for a change!)

Shining Down On Me

Kurt/Blaine, Hudmel family, a dash of Hummelberry, Finchel, Kadam | T | Drama | melancholy WAFF, family & friendship, Burt’s cancer (but he’s doing well here), kissing, possibly slightly bungled timeline | set within 4x14 “I Do” | title from the lyrics to Depeche Mode’s “Just Can’t Get Enough” | Kurt comes home for Will & Emma’s wedding. | ~2,200 words

February 2013

A small, unfamiliar car is parked behind Finn's truck in the drive when LeRoy Berry drops Kurt off at his house. Kurt flew in with Rachel from New York after their Friday classes wrapped up. Mr. Schuester and Miss Pillsbury's wedding is tomorrow afternoon, Valentine's Day.

"Would you like to come in?" Kurt asks from the backseat. "For a drink or anything?"

LeRoy looks at Rachel, and Rachel turns back toward Kurt with her mouth twisted into a moue of indecision, then shakes her head. "Not yet," she says. "I'm meant to be meeting him tomorrow morning for coffee anyway."

"Thanks, Kurt, but we should get home soon anyway," LeRoy says. "Hiram's been cooking all day."

Kurt expresses his gratitude and gets his suitcase from the trunk, waves as they back out of the driveway.

The snow on the path to the door is bright in the winter dusk, well trodden, and shining with a fresh crust of ice. The slick, uneven surface breaks crisply under Kurt's feet. He has to carry his bag, and he winces at the thought of what the ice is doing to his Hugo Boss derbies. He'll need to remind Finn of the odd jobs that need doing when his Dad is too tired. It's a slipping hazard too. At least someone cleared the drive.

Then the front door opens with the familiar clack of the brass knocker and creak of the hinge, and light pours out across the ice and snow. "Hey!" comes his Dad's voice. The porch light comes on too. Kurt looks up to see his father silhouetted in the doorway. He grins and picks up his pace, trusting his balance to get him across the remainder of the footpath and up the short steps without mishap.

"Dad," he says, drops his bag, and goes into his father's open arms.

"You made it," his Dad says and squeezes him tightly.


Inside is home. It's familiar in a preconscious sort of way, but newly revealed with a perspective gained from having been gone these past months. Small details, once elided in the past, come into focus: the smell of home, an undefinable constant; the acoustics of the kitchen sounds mingling with the television and filtering through to the foyer; the quality of the light upon the lines of his father's face. A deep relief of tension follows. Some deep simmering anxiety Kurt didn't even realize he'd been holding slips away as his psyche settles into safety, comfort, and love. Kurt sets his case by the foot of the stairs. He'll take it upstairs later.

"Who else is here?" Kurt asks as he unbuttons his coat.

His Dad holds out a hand for Kurt's coat. "It's Friday, so Blaine's here, helping Carole make my rabbit food."

"That's his car?" Kurt passes his coat to his Dad, who hangs it up. Kurt passes a hand lightly over his hair. Peers into the mirror over the console table, straightens his collar, rearranges his scarf, and smooths an eyebrow. He wasn’t expecting Blaine.

"Yep. His Dad got him the Prius for Christmas, he said."

"Oh," Kurt says, blinks, and glances back at his Dad, who's looking back at him with an oddly pleased smile. Kurt smiles back. "You look good, Dad."

"Yep," his Dad says and keeps smiling. "And so do you, so stop fussing."

Kurt laughs as his cheeks warm.


Seeing Blaine in the kitchen with Carole is familiar again, perhaps too familiar. It makes the time between now and last winter compress. Except, this time last year, Blaine was recovering from his eye injury. The memory twists into nostalgia sharpened by longing. Kurt's breath halts in his lungs for the flash of regret mingled with the well-remembered ache of desire.

But Kurt exhales it, and takes a moment to quietly watch from the archway. Neither Carole nor Blaine have noticed his presence yet. Warmth unfurls in his chest, the same as always when he sees Blaine. Kurt continues to ignore the accompanying pang of sadness, lets himself look and appreciate.

A pot steams on the stove top, and Carole has both hands buried in a large glass bowl of dark green kale leaves while, at the opposite end of the island, Blaine julienne slices an orange pepper. The chef's knife looks comfortable in his hand, and his cuts are precise. It gives Kurt a burst of pride to see.

Then Blaine looks up and sees him. Blaine's gaze widens and softens, floods with the glow of affection that has always, always made Kurt's heart flutter and his belly clench. And somehow, Kurt has forgotten just how much it affects him: how beautiful Blaine is, his hair neat and shining, his face open and his smile bright, his body, trim and fit in the clean lines of his shirt, vest, and slacks.

"Hi," Kurt exhales, and Blaine releases the knife.

"Hi," Blaine says, and he comes around the island.

"Kurt!" Carole says. "You're early." She lifts her hands out of the kale and shakes them off over the bowl.

There's only a second of hesitation before Kurt reaches for Blaine to hug him.

"My hands are sticky," Blaine protests with a nervous laugh.

"Don't care," Kurt says.


Both Carole and Blaine decline Kurt's offer of help in the kitchen, and he doesn't press it because it looks like they've got everything in hand. There's not much room for a third body anyway. So Kurt goes to the living room to hang out with Finn and his Dad until the meal is ready.

Dinner impresses. There's a kale salad with mango, honey, and lemon; marinated tofu steaks with peppers and shiitake mushrooms; farro with walnuts and spring onions; and Blaine says they’ll all need to save room for the vegan cheesecake he brought. (He made it himself last night.)

Kurt marvels at the quality and variety of the ingredients, and Carole explains that Blaine brings them organic vegetables from the market in Dublin twice a week. Which Kurt didn't know; neither Blaine nor his family had told him. He smiles his surprised gratitude to Blaine, who returns the smile with a flush staining his cheeks, right before he glances down and away in a borderline flirtatious display of modesty.

(Or, perhaps Kurt is reading things between them weirdly, because of the way his own heart keeps stuttering and leaping every time he and Blaine make eye contact.)

Kurt sits adjacent to his father, and keeps an eye on his plate, makes sure he's eating enough. His Dad eats slowly, but methodically. Even has seconds of the kale salad. "Do you guys do this every Friday?" Kurt asks.

"Family Friday dinner," his Dad says. "But they make me eat this kind of stuff all week, don't worry, Kurt."

"It's really good," Kurt says, in mild defense. Carole and Blaine worked hard on the meal, and the food is genuinely tasty. After weeks of getting most of his calories from too many bagels and Italian pastries, Kurt is grateful for the infusion of nutrition.

"It's not always good," Finn says. "That carrot noodle thing with the cauliflower sauce and all the mustard? That was not good."

"Looked like dog vomit," his Dad mutters under his breath. Finn stifles a chortle.

Carole rolls her eyes. "I'm never living that one down, am I? It was an early effort," she says.

"It wasn't... that bad," Blaine says.

"Yes, it was," Finn insists. "And the smell, oh my god!"

"Smelled like dog vomit," his Dad says.

And then Carole cracks up, Finn starts giggling, and Blaine covers his face with both hands while his shoulders shake. His Dad looks on with amused accomplishment. Kurt blinks at them all; their hilarity is infectious enough, he finds himself grinning. He missed this.


The vegan cheesecake lives up to Blaine's promise. It's creamy, rich, and appropriately decadent. The cut fresh fruit arranged on top is almost too beautiful to cut. Kurt sits at the dining table with Blaine while his Dad, Carole, and Finn take their plates back to the living room to watch the Friday night movie.

"Raw macadamia nuts," Blaine says, when Kurt asks what's giving the cake such a convincing texture. "They're good for your Dad, too."

For a moment, Kurt nearly reaches across the table. His arm muscles contract with the impulse, but he clenches his hand and doesn't. He's bubbling up inside with so much affection and gratitude and the comfortable fit of being home, it may be clouding his judgment. And he is, he has to remind himself, theoretically dating Adam, even if that's remained casual and non-exclusive while Kurt waits for some ineffable more to spark.

So instead of touching Blaine, Kurt just says, "Thank you, Blaine."

Blaine looks at him with amused curiosity. "I promised you I'd look out for him."

Kurt swallows the emotion in his throat and nods. Blaine always has kept his promises.


After lunch the next day, Blaine picks Kurt up. Tina's in the front seat as Blaine's date. Finn left early to meet Rachel at The Lima Bean, so Kurt was happy to carpool with Blaine and Tina.

"Hey, Kurt," Tina says to him as he slides into the backseat. She's smiling, but there's something of a challenge in her tone. Kurt doesn't worry about it. He spots a slim, wrapped box in the footwell beside him and remembers he forgot to get a gift. He doesn't even have a card.


At the church, familiar faces pass them in the parking lot as they make their way toward the open doors. Tina catches sight of Mercedes and jogs ahead of them to go say hello. Kurt waves to Mercedes, but turns to Blaine. "What did you get them for a wedding present?" he asks.

They stop walking and Blaine turns to him, squinting in the sunlight. "Oh, just a nice photo frame. I couldn't really think of anything else."

"Monogrammed I presume?" Kurt asks.

Blaine grins and the light catches his smile, and Kurt doesn't fail to notice—or appreciate—how handsome Blaine looks, standing in the pale winter sunlight in his neatly tailored dinner suit. "Of course."

Kurt bites his lip and considers. "Do you think—? Or, rather, would you mind if I signed your card too? I totally forgot about a gift, and I can pay—"

"That's no problem at all, Kurt," Blaine says. "You can sign it now, if you want. We have time."

So they walk back to the car, and Blaine's fingertips skim Kurt's elbow as they go, and even through the layers of his coat, suit, and shirt, Kurt feels the light touch everywhere. Curious, he looks at Blaine and Blaine looks back, and if the heat in Blaine's gaze is nothing more than the sun and not the answer the impatient passion Kurt feels billowing up within his own chest, then Kurt has never been able to read Blaine at all.

Still, he stands patiently by the car as Blaine opens the back door and crawls across the back seat to reach for the card that's tucked under the ribbon of the gift. "Do you have a pen?" Blaine asks over his shoulder.

But Kurt's attention is too much on the pull of the fine wool across Blaine's thigh and the curve of his backside, the breadth of his shoulders, the way his combed-smooth hair defiantly curls just behind his ear. Kurt steals a glance around the parking lot, sees they're alone enough, and slides into the back seat next to Blaine. Pulls the door closed behind him.

"Kurt?" Blaine asks, and turns on the seat, card in hand.

"Hi?" Kurt says, and he reaches out now, one nervous hand, to touch the crisp ironed fold of Blaine's collar. His gaze follows the drag of his fingertip around the tender skin of Blaine's throat as his touch comes around to the knot of Blaine's tie. He sees how Blaine's breath jumps. His thumb skims up to seek Blaine's pulse, lightly strokes across the speeding flutter of it, and Kurt lifts his gaze to find Blaine's lips parted and his pupils wide. "May I?" he asks.

"Yes," Blaine says. "Kurt." The card slips from Blaine's hand to the floor and he reaches for the lapel of Kurt's coat.

Leaning in—Blaine pulling him in—feels to Kurt like moving in stop motion animation: each increment of distance crossed between them is its own flashbulb moment. And then his lips touch Blaine's, so pliant and eagerly opening, and his body floods with heat so fast it makes him dizzy. He hears the rush of Blaine's breath come in through his nose, the hiccup of his own as he tries to catch it, and they're kissing, warm and deeply yielding. Blaine pulls Kurt down with him to lie upon the seat.

Between one kiss and the next, Kurt arranges his legs, fits their bodies together better, and murmurs, breathless, "I still want you."

And Blaine's hands find the buttons of Kurt's overcoat, and he answers, "You still have me."