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[personal profile] denofiniquity
Title: D.A.L.T.O.N.
Fandom: Glee
Pairing: Kurt Hummel/Blaine, Brittany S. Pierce/Santana Lopez
Rating: R
Word Count: 12,100
Summary: Blaine is a student at D.A.L.T.O.N. Academy for Boys, a training ground for spies. Kurt is a criminal mastermind hellbent on destroying Canada. Naturally, they fall in love. Written for this prompt, requesting a D.E.B.S.!AU.



Defensive. Athletic. Lively. Talented. Operative. Network.

Blaine feels like exactly none of these things when he is awoken by the sound of an alarm blaring and Mr. Schue yelling out from every monitor in the dorm: "Good morning, D.A.L.T.O.N.! Now get your lazy asses out of bed. We have a country to save."

Blaine rolls over in bed, covering his face with his pillow, but he knows it's useless. No sooner has he managed to find a way to mostly drown out the noise when Wes barges in, jerks the pillow out of his hands, and pulls back the covers.

"Out of bed!" Wes huffs. "Come on, Blaine. This could be important. Would you stop being so lazy? Now get your ass up. And wake Brittany up, too."

On his way out, Blaine hears his squad leader muttering the word useless under his breath. If he had the energy to, he'd retort that just for that, Wes was no longer his best friend, but frankly, he's exhausted. Brittany talks about puppies that cook macaroni by breathing fire in her sleep and Blaine has always been a light sleeper.

Sighing, he rolls out of bed and nudges his roommate's shoulder.

"Brittany," he says, "wake up. Come on, Wes is having a cow."

"Shhh," she tells him. "Ken and Barbie were just about to get married."

Blaine groans and takes the sleep mask off her face, then flips on the light switch. That usually does the trick, and he sets about changing while Brittany grudgingly does the same.

He doesn't look. Never does. It's why she's his roommate. He's the only Warbler who wouldn't be interested in her admittedly lovely charms.

Down the hall, he can hear Wes informing David for what has to be the fifth time this week that girls aren't allowed upstairs.

Well, except Brittany.

As he does every morning, Blaine curses the day he was recruited to join D.A.L.T.O.N. Academy for Boys. He hates the early mornings, he hates the military feel of it, and he hates the constant threat of death every time the Warblers are sent on a mission. Give him until mid-afternoon and he'll forget all that, because he's good at this. He's an excellent spy—the best—and he likes saving people. But every morning, it's the same. It just takes him awhile to shake off the sleep grumpiness because Blaine is really not much of a morning person.

After he helps Brittany find her gun—in the library of her Ken and Barbie dream house, but hell if Blaine knows what she was doing playing with them in the library of all places—the two of them follow Wes and David downstairs and across the grounds to the senior commons. A few other squads are in there already—Vocal Adrenaline, New Directions, and Blaine thinks he even sees The Hipsters in the back (all of whom are wearing matching berets and smoking cigarettes)—but the four them head straight for the table Schue is sitting at. He's paging through something on his iPad, a worried look on his face, and he doesn't look up from it until the four of them are seated around him.

"So what's with the DEFCON 5 alarm clock, Mr. Schue?" David asks. He snags one of the cups of coffee sitting in the center of the table, sniffs, and passes it to Blaine. "Your latte," he explains, and then takes his own cappuccino.

"Boys," Mr. Schue says, and then, "and Brittany, we have a problem."

"Don't we always?" Blaine mutters, because saving the world is tough work, okay, and he's allowed to be bitter about it until he gets a little caffeine in his veins.

"A bigger one," Schue says. "I—I don't exactly know how to tell you this, but…Kurt Hummel is back in the States."

Wes gasps. David lets out a low whistle. Blaine nearly chokes on his coffee and spits out, "No way!" Brittany just smiles benignly and asks, "Where'd he go for vacation? I hope he went somewhere nice."

Mr. Schue turns his iPad around so that they can see the screen, and points to the picture of an all-too-familiar cherubic face.

"Is that Cupid?" Brittany asks excitedly. "Do you think if I wrote him a letter and asked him nicely, he'd come here and shoot someone for me?"

Schue pauses, then says, "This is Kurt Hummel. He's the current head of the Hummel crime syndicate. His father built their empire from the ground up, married the head of Hudson Inc., and decided to go legit. He moved himself and her son up to Winnipeg. The Hudsons have family there." At Brittany's confused look, he clarifies, "That's in Canada. Kurt took over the family business, determined to raze Canada to the ground."

"But why?" David asks. "What's his problem?"

"He's jealous," Blaine answers before Schue can. "His dad clearly prefers his new wife and stepson over him. I'd probably want revenge on my dad, too."

"How do you know that?"

Embarrassed, Blaine admits, "I'm writing my thesis on him." Off their looks, he adds, "His psychology is really quite fascinating if you just…"

"Whatever," Wes cuts in. "He's a bad guy, right? That's all we need to know."

"Very bad," Schue agrees. "And until now, he hasn't been able to get his hands on the kind of weaponry he'd need to destroy all of Canada."

"Until now?"

Schue taps the screen and another picture appears, this one of a blond-haired boy with blue eyes, overlarge lips, and too many bangs. Blaine is fairly certain he's the love child of Steven Tyler and Justin Beiber.

"This is Sam Evans. Don't let his looks fool you—this kid is a better hacker than any of you, and he can build things that you've only ever seen in your nightmares."

"Are you saying this guy is an engineering nerd?" David asks. "Because he doesn't look like one."

"Seriously, guys, don't underestimate Sam," Schue says. "If anyone has what Kurt needs to take down Canada, it's Sam Evans. And our intelligence indicates that the reason Kurt is back in town is to meet with him. They've made a reservation tonight at eight o'clock. Strictly surveillance, guys. Do not engage Kurt Hummel. He is a dangerous criminal mastermind hell-bent on destroying our neighbors to the north and the last thing we need right now is to lose one of our best operatives. Wes, you're in charge. Blaine, you're second. Be careful out there tonight, Warblers. Stay safe."

***


"He's really that much of a dork?" Kurt asks as he folds his arms across his chest. He stares up at the picture of Sam Evans and then turns to face his second-in-command. "He's too hot to be nerdy."

"He speaks Na'vi," Santana Lopez tells him. "Fluently."

"And he's actually interested?"

"You two have a lot in common," she says. "Apparently, he hates Canada, too."

"Are we sure he's available?"

"I already checked with his second. Quinn said he's not only available, but pretty damn eager."

Kurt sighs and rubs at his temples. "Where's the meet?"

"Breadstix. I know how much you love Breadstix."

"No," Kurt says, "you love Breadstix. Your love for Breadstix is unnatural, unholy, and unhealthy. I, on the other hand, occasionally enjoy it, when I've managed to balance out the carbs."

"Whatever," Santana says, "it's Breadstix. He could be a fucking mountain troll and you'd still come out of this ahead. Or with head. Depending on how well it goes." She smirks.

"Cancel it," Kurt says, and heads off in the other direction.

"What?" Santana snaps, and follows after him, her ponytail bouncing behind her.

"I don't do blind dates," Kurt huffs.

"It's not a blind date if you know what they look like," she says. "And Sam's gorgeous. Quit your bitching, Tinkerbell. You're going."

"I'm really not," Kurt counters. "And quit calling me Tinkerbell. I'm your boss."

"Aw, you keep telling yourself that," she says. "And get over yourself. It's been two years since Finn."

Kurt's blood runs cold and if it were anyone else in the world, he would get one of his assassins to "take care of her." But it's Santana, who for reasons as yet unknown to Kurt himself, is his best friend. And she was there for him when that whole thing blew up in his face.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Kurt says stiffly, and turns on his heel to go.

"You can't keep blaming him," she says. "Kurt, you were creepy. You blew up Mount Rushmore just because he said the stone faces gave him nightmares. And he was straight, by the way. And then you set your parents up on a date just to spend more time with him. It's not his fault that he finally managed to tell you that no means no, and that your dad ran off with his mom."

"And him," Kurt snaps back. "My dad ran off with my mom and him, because Finn's the son he always wanted."

"And that's still not his fault. Get over yourself, Kurt. He's never had a dad before and suddenly someone wants to play ball with him. It's not his fault that your dad doesn't want to play with you, too, or that he can't love you the way you want. Not that I care about your feelings, but you're a shit boss when you're miserable so you need to get that tight little ass of yours back out there. Shit friend, too," she adds, more quietly. "Drowning your pain in destroying Canada isn't helping." After a moment, she grins. "Pretty damn fun though, and it's not like they don't have it coming, the maple syrup-pushers. Right to my hips, you know. But it's not helping your angst and none of us can put up with it anymore. So you're going."

"But—"

"No," she says, and pushes him into his walk-in closet. "You're going. Get dressed. Wear those pants. The tight ones. And that blazer. The form-fitting one. It shows off your waist. We're going to get you laid, Hummel, and I don't want to hear another word against it."

"I—I don't know about that," he says, and she seems to consider it for a moment.

"Just promise me you'll be open," she says finally.

"Open to what?"

"His cock," she answers, and at his horrified look, she turns and struts out of the room.

***


Okay, so today is one of those days where Blaine's mid-afternoon revelation that he actually loves being a Warbler never comes. He hates stakeouts with a fiery passion, and his only consolation is that at least this one is catered.

He, Wes, Brittany, and David are seated at a booth on the far side of the restaurant from where Sam Evans sits, waiting on Kurt Hummel. From his position, Blaine can only see the back of Sam's head, but he'll have a perfect view of Kurt's face when he arrives.

The second Blaine notices their waitress is returning from the kitchen with their orders, Wes's fingers thread through his and David's arm drops around Brittany's shoulders.

It's their default ruse when the four of them have to be out in public together; David knows how to play off Brittany's ditziness perfectly and Blaine and Wes know each other well enough to convincingly play a long-term couple. But it's not like that between any of them—David has a string of girls lining up to sneak up to his dorm room and Brittany's much the same with guys.

(At least she has the decency to let Blaine know she'll be needing their room; Blaine's pretty sure David doesn't extend Wes that same courtesy, if the sounds of his repulsed shouting when he enters their room at the wrong time are any indication to go by.)

And as for Wes and Blaine himself…Wes is unrepentantly into girls and while Blaine vaguely crushed on him in the, "It'd be nice to see his mouth around my cock, but it's really no big deal if that never happens," sort of way when they first met, he was effectively over it the first time David got hurt on a mission and Blaine had watched as Wes cauterized the wound while David convulsed in pain. Wes had saved David's life that day, but the sight had been too horrific for Blaine to ever erase out of his memory. The way he figures it, once he's seen a guy stick something molten-hot onto a bloody wound, all future hope for romance is dead.

But they make a good fake couple, so Wes feeds Blaine a few bites of his own dinner before the waitress retreats into the kitchen and the four of them feel safe enough to relax.

"So," Wes says, quietly. His eyes are trained on the door, looking for any sign of Hummel's entrance. Blaine's watching the table in case Kurt slips in without them noticing. Brittany's mostly just staring off into space, and David's got his eyes trained on the kitchen, just in case.

"So?" Blaine prompts, when Wes doesn't finish the thought.

"You guys know that Coach Sylvester is hand-picking students to join the Cheerios after graduation, right?"

"Yes, Wes," David sighs, put-upon. "We know because you haven't stopped talking about it for weeks."

"The Cheerios are the most elite division of the entire intelligence-gathering branch of the government," Wes insists. "They're very prestigious, and Coach Sylvester doesn't accept just anyone. I was thinking that if we impressed her at the year-end talent show—"

David launches into an argument with Wes over whether or not it's possible to use live chickens on stage as part of their act and Blaine rolls his eyes, ignoring them. It's not that Blaine doesn't want to win the talent show—no other squad has ever done it four years in a row before and he wants to graduate with the Warblers' record untarnished. But it hasn't exactly been difficult, considering that The Hipsters usually just put on an awful poetry slam, New Directions always does a convoluted interpretive dance piece with risqué political themes, and Vocal Adrenaline…well, they're talented, but they kind of lack soul. So it hasn't exactly been a challenge to keep it up for this long, and Blaine's pretty sure they don't need farm animals to keep their winning streak intact.

"We're going to win anyway," Blaine sighs. "Why bother with all the fanfare? That's what always gets Vocal Adrenaline into trouble, Wes. All style, no substance."

"Some of us need to impress Coach Sylvester to get into the Cheerios," Wes grumbles. "Some of us aren't Mr. Perfect Score who could have his choice of any assignment he wanted after graduation."

Blaine flushes and stares down at his half-eaten meal. Right. His perfect score on the hidden test in the SAT. No one knows they're taking it. Most people never know they even did. But those few, those unlucky few, wake up to a man in black standing in their kitchen the day after their high school graduation. Two hours to pack, one hour to say goodbye to their family, and that's it. No more contact with the outside world. Once you're at D.A.L.T.O.N., there's no turning back. And no one ever gets to turn down the offer.

And until Blaine was recruited, no one ever knew what they'd scored on the test, either. He'd been shocked to find that out when he first arrived at the academy—his man in black had told him right up front that he'd made a perfect score. It wasn't until he started talking to the other students that he realized why. No one else in the history of the program had ever made a perfect score before. Blaine was the poster child. The living legend. What every student was supposed to be.

It was the scariest situation he'd ever been in, including every single mission he'd ever been on with the Warblers, every time he'd ever had the barrel of someone's gun pressed against his heart.

"Right, well," Blaine answers, trying to look nonchalant. "I was thinking of asking Coach Sylvester if I could take some time off after graduation. I mean, I know no one's ever done that before, but I thought that since no one had ever gotten a perfect score before, either—"

"Why would you want time off?" Wes asks. "The world needs you."

Blaine sighs. "I don't know. I—I'd like to—to. Just. Take a break from being the Perfect Score for a while. Find who I am."

Wes shakes his head. "Blaine, who's your best friend?"

"You," Blaine answers, but he's staring so intently at his fork that he might as well be talking to it instead of Wes.

"And what did I say to you the day we met?"

"'You wear too much hair gel.'"

"After that."

"You quoted Spider-Man."

"That's right," Wes says, and if it were anyone else, Blaine would probably laugh. But Wes's face is absolutely serious when he repeats, "'With great power comes great responsibility.' You have a duty to your country, Blaine. You don't have time to go find yourself. You know who you are already. You're a Warbler. End of story."

"Is it my turn now?" Brittany asks brightly.

"Your turn for what?"

"To tell a story. I've got a really good one about this old man who lived in a shoe."

Thankfully, before Brittany can launch into that story, something catches the corner of Blaine's eye. And there, on the other side of the restaurant, is Kurt Hummel. He doesn't look even half as dangerous as Blaine knows he is.

"Guys, two o'clock," Blaine hisses, and everyone casually turns toward the table, except for Brittany, who looks at her watch.

***


Kurt tries to smile at Sam as he approaches the table, but it's hard with Santana hissing, "Oh, hello," in his ear, and providing mental images that frankly, Kurt could've gone his whole life without.

"Will you stop talking about his cock?" Kurt hisses through his teeth. "This is a first date."

"Please," Santana answers. "It's been three years since you got laid."

Kurt groans. "I know. Why is it that I can hold the world hostage without batting an eye, but this seems difficult?"

"Three. Years," Santana replies. "We've invented new positions since then, you know. There's a whole different way to do it now."

"Oh, shut up," Kurt snaps, even though he's starting to wonder if maybe she's not wrong.

He arrives at the table with his best smile plastered on, tight-lipped and throat dry.

"Hi," he says. "Sorry I'm late."

"It's cool," Sam answers, and really, he does have a very nice smile. It's the kind of warm, open smile that makes Kurt think that whatever happens, Sam's the kind of guy he'd at least want as a friend.

The moment holds for too long, Sam still smiling, and Kurt can't stand the awkward that only he seems to feel.

"So, you're an engineer?" he asks finally, because it's really all he knows about the guy, other than his nice smile.

"An evil engineer," Sam says, beaming like that's something he's very proud of.

"And…you speak Na'vi?"

"Yeah," Sam answers excitedly. "Fluently."

Another pause, and then Kurt finally asks, "Why?"

Sam's smile falters for a moment. "Why not?" he counters. "It's cool."

"I—I meant…is that a useful skill?"

A long pause, then Sam explains, "No. There aren't—there aren't actual Na'vi around, you know. It's not like when you learn Spanish because you know you'll be traveling to Spain next summer and you want to know the local language. It's…you know, Na'vi."

"Ah," Kurt says, and glances surreptitiously at his watch, ignoring the sounds of Santana's cackling laughter in his ear.

"I also speak Klingon," Sam offers helpfully. "Which also isn't handy. You—you do know that aliens aren't real, right?"

"Yes," Kurt answers, and asks, "have you ordered drinks yet? I could really use a drink."

"I—" Sam starts, just as their waitress approaches, and something on the far side of the room catches his eye. Two boys suddenly reach for each other's hands like magnets and grip tight. But there's something about them, something—

The blazers. Navy blue with red piping and a fancy letter D printed on the front.

"D.A.L.T.O.N.," he hisses, and has his gun out and aimed in less than two seconds flat.

"What—" Sam starts to say, but Kurt pushes him down under the table as the boys draw their weapons, too. He aims a shot at their table, only belatedly noticing that there are two more D.A.L.T.O.N. students with them—a guy and a girl. In the tiny part of Kurt's mind that isn't preoccupied with getting out of here alive, he wonders what the girl is doing there. D.A.L.T.O.N. is an all boys' academy. But there's no time now.

Sam pulls his gun out of its hiding spot in the back of his jeans and takes a shot at the black-haired student with too much hair gel. They roll the table sideways until they hit the wall, then Kurt pulls Sam behind the counter.

"What's—" Sam starts.

"They're feds," Kurt whispers.

"I know that," Sam huffs. "I mean why were you trying to drink me more interesting. I speak three languages, for fuck's sake. Four if you count binary. Countless if you add in all the programming languages I know."

"I don't," Kurt answers. "Look, it's not you. You seem nice. It's me. I'm not—I'm not open or whatever—"

"I have no problem with bottoming!" Sam insists, and Kurt more or less wants D.A.L.T.O.N. to just kill him now because he's clearly going to die from this conversation, anyway.

"I—that—look, I'm just not interested, okay?" Kurt sighs, and turns up on his knees to fire a shot at the students on the other side of his makeshift barricade.

"Nga will terkup nì'awtu," Sam tells him.

"What?"

"SoH DIchDaq Hegh mob."

"Huh?"

"You will die alone!" Sam says angrily, and runs for the back exit. He makes it. Kurt's kind of impressed.

After a moment, Kurt realizes that his only plan of escape is out the back door, so he grits his teeth, checks to make sure he's got a full round of bullets in the chamber, and gets to his feet, firing shots behind him on the way out.

He hits the alley at a run, looking around for any trace of Sam, but his blind date has long since booked it out of there and Kurt can't blame him. "Santana," he hisses into his wire, and she answers, "I can't. Too many feds. If I make a move to come get you, they're going to be on me before I even finish making it."

"Shit," he spits, and that's when he spots what can only be the warehouse where they keep the barrels upon barrels of breadsticks. "Warehouse," he tells her, in case she finds a way to get to him, and he bolts into it.

***


"We need to split up," Wes says. "Me and David will go after Evans. Blaine, you and Brit take the back alley, see if you can find Hummel."

"Mr. Schue told us not to," Brittany answers. "Every time I disobey him, one of my Barbies go missing. The Kens are getting horny."

A pause, then Wes says, "Brittany, do you want to graduate?"

"Yes."

"And you know that in order to graduate, your squad leader has to give you a recommendation to be awarded your stripes, right?"

"Yes."

"Do you think arguing with me and showing fear in the face of danger is a good way to do that?"

"No, but they don't make plastic bottles of Barbie lube," Brittany insists. "I checked."

"Blaine," Wes says. "Just. Blaine."

Blaine sighs, takes Brittany's hand, and says, "Come on, Brit. Let's go. We can do this together. I'll—I'll lend your Ken dolls some of mine, okay?"

"You're the best," Brittany says, and leans into him as they set off at a run out the back door.

But it becomes clear once they're actually in the alley that that isn't an option. "Okay," Blaine says slowly, "Brittany, I need you to be brave for me. Remember how I'll take care of your Ken dolls?"

She nods.

"Okay, I need you to take the parking lot. I'm going to check the warehouse."

"But—"

"Come on, Brittany," Blaine says encouragingly. "You can do this. Be brave for me. Be brave for the Kens."

Her face sets in a grim sort of determination and she lifts her gun into position. "All right," she says firmly. "For the Kens."

And then she's off into the parking lot.

***


Kurt hears the door open, the footsteps, the heavy breathing. He wonders which one of them followed him in. Whoever it was, they're far braver than their contemporaries. Kurt can't remember the last time a fed chased him instead of booking it in the other direction. Social networking and carefully placed rumors were all he'd needed to get a reputation in this business, and if there was one thing Kurt Hummel knew how to excel at, it was gossip. He couldn't be blamed for using it to his own advantage.

He takes a moment to listen to the sounds around him, to estimate where the fed must be. Then he takes off at a run, gun poised, towards the noise.

He runs down the aisle he's currently in, stacks and stacks of breadsticks on either side of him. He wonders if Santana would be so enthused about her favorite restaurant if she knew their all-you-can-eat namesake was kept by the barrel in a dingy warehouse.

He turns the corner at the end of the row and runs smack dab into the fed, who also has his gun at the ready. It's Hair Gel, the one he saw holding hands with one of his compatriots earlier.

A long silent pause, then Hair Gel murmurs, "You're Kurt Hummel."

"Yeah, and you're from D.A.L.T.O.N.," Kurt answers. "And we're all citizens of the world."

"You—you have the right to remain silent," Hair Gel says. "Anything you say can—"

"Are you seriously Miranda-ing me right now?"

A pause, then Hair Gel sighs. "Look, here's the thing. I don't know about you, but I'm pretty fast on this trigger. But I'm guessing you are, too. And I'm really not up to dying today, so I really don't want you to pull it. But you pull, I'm gonna get a shot in before I go down. So either we can both die here tonight, or we can just…walk away."

"What, like part in peace?"

"Or just part," Hair Gel says. "I just…I don't want to die before graduation, you know? There's a lot of shit that's still on my life's to-do list and being one more name on your mile-long list of people you've killed isn't really helpful with that."

"Yeah, well, I'm really not up for dying tonight, either."

"So…why don't you put your gun down?" Hair Gel suggests.

"Why don't you put your gun down?"

"I'm the cop," Hair Gel answers. "I'm inherently more trustworthy."

"That what they tell you at that school of yours? Besides, I was just minding my own business on some stupid blind date when you guys decided to raise a little hell."

Hair Gel blinks. "What? You—that was a blind date? With the…the mouth?"

"It wasn't my idea," Kurt sighs. "And what's it to you?"

"Nothing, I just didn't realize you were gay."

"Why would that matter?"

"It kind of fucks over my thesis…"

"Thesis?"

"I'm writing a term paper on you. Which isn't easy since no one has ever fought you and survived to tell about it. There's not much evidence to go on."

"Until now," Kurt answers, gesturing between them.

"Right," Hair Gel says thoughtfully. "Until now."

Kurt watches him for a moment, taking in the way Hair Gel holds his gun, the way he looks at Kurt, the way he fits in his own skin.

"I didn't catch your name," he says finally.

"Oh, sorry." Hair Gel tucks the gun under his arm, and holds out his hand for Kurt to shake. "Blaine. Senior at D.A.L.T.O.N. Academy for Boys. Second-in-command, Warblers squad."

Kurt takes Blaine's hand and shakes it, unable to stop a small smile from curling at the corners of his lips.

"Kurt Hummel," he says needlessly.

"It's really nice to meet you," Blaine says. "I think you're fascinating." After a moment, he seems to come back to himself and lifts his gun again. "Sorry. You're still under arrest."

"Am I?" Kurt asks, smirking, and not just because Santana is hissing in his ear that she managed to throw the feds and is waiting right outside.

"You know," he says, "you could just let me go."

"I really couldn't," Blaine says, and he sounds genuinely regretful.

"Come on," Kurt prods. "Live a little. Do you always do what they tell you?"

Before Blaine can answer, Santana hisses, "Now!" in his ear and Kurt knocks the gun out of Blaine's hand.

"Sorry!" he says, without really meaning it, and pushes past him, throwing the door open and jumping into Santana's waiting car. They peel out of the alley and it's not until they're more than five miles away that Kurt realizes he can't quit smiling.

***


Less than a minute after Kurt is gone, Wes, David, and Brittany come running in with their guns poised.

"Are you all right?" David asks. "We couldn't get a hold of you on the comm link."

"Fine," Blaine answers, and turns his gun over and over in his hands. "He was here. Kurt Hummel."

"That's impossible," Wes says impatiently. "If he'd been here, you'd be dead."

"Oh, a dolly," Brittany says, randomly.

"I'll give your Kens all the lube they want," Blaine sighs.

"No," Brittany says, and bends down. When she stands back up, she's holding a porcelain, apple-cheeked doll with both hands.

"Is that—" Wes starts.

"A Hummel figurine," David confirms. "Holy shit. Do you know what this means? You're the only one to ever face Kurt Hummel and live to tell about it."

Blaine thinks he might throw up. Great. One more thing he's so special for.

***


"I didn't think they'd be there," Santana says as she runs a red light. "Fucking D.A.L.T.O.N. You can't even go on a date without—" She spots his smile and Kurt can't seem to make that a bad thing. "What?" she asks. "What? Why are you smiling? That's not a good smile, Kurt. That's a Finn smile. That's a 'I'm about to blow up Mount Rushmore for someone,' smile."

"I met someone," Kurt says happily.

Santana pulls the car to a stop. "I knew it. I mean, he's obviously a freak, but Sam's got a mouth that was made to suck cock."

"No, not Sam. That was…horrifying. Look, you have to swear you're not going to rage blackout on me."

"I haven't done that in two weeks," Santana says airily. "What happened?"

"His name is Blaine," Kurt tells her. "He has hair issues, but he thinks I’m fascinating."

A long pause, while Santana considers this, and then she has the front of Kurt's blazer gripped in both of her hands and has pulled him toward her before he even realizes she's moved.

"D.A.L.T.O.N. Blaine?" she asks. "Perfect Score Blaine?"

"Perfect Score?"

Santana releases him—more like throws him against the passenger door—and is out of the car and around to his side, pulling him out, before Kurt has a chance to recover.

"Blaine is the only person ever to get a perfect score on the secret test hidden in the SAT."

"Give me the keys."

"Do you hear me?" she snaps. "Perfect score, perfect spy. He is their pride and joy. He is literally their poster child."

"Yeah, well, their poster child is into me."

He takes the keys out of her hand and brushes past her, settling himself into the driver's seat.

"Where are you going?" she asks.

"To get him," Kurt answers. "Now get in."

Santana looks like she wants to kill him, and it's a testament to their friendship that she doesn't just whip out any of the myriad of deadly weapons hidden on her person and do just that.

***


Blaine's dreams are confused and muddled, as always, but somehow, suddenly, he senses that he's not alone.

He sits up, grips the arm of the person leaning over his bed, and spins them, dropping them onto their back on the floor. He rolls out of bed, landing on top of them, and pins them to the floor with his full weight, both hands gripping the intruder's wrists.

"Fuck," Kurt Hummel says, "that happened a little faster than I'd anticipated."

"Kurt? How'd you get in here?"

Kurt nods down at his blazer. "Your security really isn't all that hard to get past, provided one has the right ensemble. For a high security government facility, I might as well have been breaking into a boarding school to see my boyfriend."

Blaine absolutely does not react to that.

"Fine. Why are you here?"

"I—well, your paper. There's not much point in working with all that outdated, second-hand information when you could just ask me. Come out with me and I'll let you ask me anything."

"I—I can't go out with you."

"Why not? Was that guy actually your boyfriend? I mean, I thought at first, but then I figured it was part of the ruse—"

"Wes isn't my boyfriend."

"Then come out with me."

"I can't."

"I'm going to need a better reason than that," Kurt informs him. "No one has yet been able to give me a satisfactory reason as to why I can't destroy Canada, so, 'I can't,' isn't going to convince me that a date is out of the question."

Blaine is still sputtering, trying to come up with an answer for that, when Kurt rolls them over, straddles Blaine's thighs, and pulls a gun out from God only knows where.

"Now you have to come out with me," Kurt says, grinning, and that is the moment that Brittany decides to wake up.

***


"This is a really bad idea," Santana hisses into Kurt's ear. But before Kurt can protest, she leans back into her seat in the back next to Brittany and smiles at her. "Hi," she says, and Kurt knows that voice. It's her sex voice, the one she long ago stopped using on him when she realized he was deeply immune.

"Hi," Brittany answers brightly. "I like your hair."

Kurt glances over at Blaine, smiling at him and nodding back towards the girls. "They seem to be getting along," Kurt says, and Blaine glares at him.

"Just so you know, for all future endeavors, guys do not enjoy being kidnapped. That is not a good way to start a date. It's not gentlemanly. It's creepy."

Kurt flinches, but manages to pull himself back together long enough to answer, "Noted. But who says I'm a gentleman anyway?" and pulls the car up in front of a dance club.

Kurt and Santana get out of the car immediately, and Kurt hands over the keys to a valet. After a moment, Brittany follows, leaving Blaine alone in the car.

"Come on, Blaine," Kurt wheedles. "The nice man can't do his job until you get out of the car. It's not very gentlemanly to make him wait."

Blaine huffs, throws the door open, and stomps his way over to join the three of them on the curb.

Inside, Blaine takes a seat at a table, crossing his arms across his chest. Kurt sits down next to him, motioning for a waiter to bring them a bottle of wine. Santana and Brittany are already dancing together, grinding against each other, and Kurt focuses his attention on Blaine.

"So," he says, "how long have you been at D.A.L.T.O.N.?"

Blaine says nothing.

"You're going to have to talk to me eventually," Kurt tells him. "I'm determined like that. And you need the info for your paper. So how about we do this tat for tat? I get a question, you get a question."

When Blaine gives the tiniest jerk of his head, Kurt asks, "How'd Brittany get into D.A.L.T.O.N.? Last I checked, it was an all boys' school."

"The story I heard is that when she took the SAT, she thought she was supposed to tell how she wanted to receive her test results. Apparently she's afraid of computers, so when it asked male or female…she marked mail."

Kurt can't tell if he's joking or not, but he only barely manages not to laugh. "And when they found out she was a girl?"

"Coach Sylvester saw her physicality, liked the way she moved. Thought she'd be an asset. You never know when you'll need a sexy girl to distract—"

"That's kind of rude," Kurt points out. "Using her like that."

"That part was her idea," Blaine explains, and points to where Brittany and Santana are two steps from having sex on the dance floor. "We all have our assets. They don't just choose us based on score. They choose us based on our talents, too. I can sing, draw, and seduce men. She can dance, do tae kwon do, and seduce…well, anyone, really. I've seen straight women and gay men swoon over her. I'm immune, though. Thank God. My turn. My thesis is that you're going through an Electra complex. Or…Oedipal. I'm not sure how that works since you're a guy and it's your father. Psychology's kind of heteronormative that way. Anyway, that's my theory now. I had to re-work my entire thesis once I found out you were gay."

"Why's that?"

"You picked a man exactly like your father. Finn Hudson. That didn't work out, and your father prefers him. So now you must kill your father and Finn to make it right."

"All of Canada," Kurt corrects. "I must kill all of Canada. But yeah, Daddy Dearest and Big Bro are in there, too."

"So I'm right?"

"You know me shockingly well for a guy I just met five hours ago," Kurt confirms.

A short pause, then Blaine asks, "Why haven't you killed us?"

"Do you want me to?"

"No. Just…that's what you do, isn't it?"

"Facebook," Kurt says. "Twitter. Don't believe everything you read. Especially when the accounts are controlled by the best damn P.R. person in the country."

"Who's that?"

"Me," Kurt answers. "I've never killed anyone. Not directly, anyway. I have assassins for that. All the stuff about Canada is true, though. New Zealand is on my list, too, but that's an ex-boyfriend issue. Best not to get into it."

Blaine laughs. "You are…not what I expected at all."

"That a good thing?" Kurt asks, but Blaine doesn't answer.

"So," he says finally, "what's up with you and Sam Evans?"

"Nothing," Kurt sighs. "Ugh, don't even bring that up. He spoke Na'vi. Klingon, I could live with, but Na'vi? That movie wasn't even any good."

"Neither were the Star Treks," Blaine says fairly, and they launch into an argument about science fiction that lasts at least an hour and involves a lot of wine sloshing out of glasses as they gesture emphatically.

An hour later, Kurt has finally gotten Blaine to admit that maybe Worf wasn't too bad—"I guess I can understand where he's coming from," Blaine says, "with the sense of duty and honor, but having adapted to a different life and wanting—needing—more." He looks down and his eyelashes are so very, very long. "Do you ever feel like that? Like people expect you to be something and you just—you can't give it to them, no matter how hard you try?"

"All the time," Kurt admits. "I didn't think anyone else ever felt like that…until now."

"Right," Blaine echoes. "Until now." A long pause, then, "I—I should go."

For once, Kurt doesn't push. He doesn't pull the gun out again and threaten Blaine into staying. He just waits.

"Will I ever see you again?" Blaine asks softly.

"Do you want to?"

"I—I could get kicked out of D.A.L.T.O.N. for this," Blaine tells him. "I'm breaking like…twenty federal statutes just being here. With you. This is treason. But—"

"But what?"

Blaine doesn't answer, but his eyes keep flicking down to Kurt's lips.

Kurt leans forward, pausing when their foreheads rest against each other. Blaine's breath speeds up and huffs out in little gasps of air across Kurt's lips, and he licks them just to taste it. Their mouths are so close together that all Kurt has to do to kiss him is just tip his head forward an inch, so he does, and they connect easily, mouths fitting together and Blaine's fingers curling against Kurt's sleeve.

Then Blaine pulls back, dazed, and says, "Oh, shit."

"You owe me fifty bucks," Santana says from the other side of the table, and Kurt has no clue how she and Brittany approached without either of them hearing it. (Yes he does, if Blaine was even half as lost in him as Kurt was in Blaine.)

"Take me home," Blaine snaps. "Right now."

"Blaine—"

"Take me home," Blaine growls, so Kurt does.

When they pull to a stop in front of D.A.L.T.O.N., Blaine storms out of the front seat and takes off stomping towards the gates. Kurt chases after him, grabbing his arm and making Blaine stop.

"When am I going to see you again?"

"You can't," Blaine says. "We can't. I can't. This is illegal. You're—you're a criminal. I'm a cop. That's the way it has to be."

"I'll find you again," Kurt tells him. "I'll come for you. It's not stalking if I tell you I'm doing it."

"Yes, it is," Blaine tells him, and pulls his arm out of Kurt's grip. "Now leave me alone. "Come on, Brittany."

Brittany un-links pinkies with Santana and follows him up the walk.

"I like her," Brittany says placidly. "She gives sweet lady kisses."

"We can't see them ever again," Blaine says firmly. "They're the bad guys."

"But—"

"And we can't tell anyone, Brittany. We'll be kicked out of D.A.L.T.O.N. over this. You'll never get your stripes if anyone finds out about this, and we'll both be sent home. Do you want to be kicked out of D.A.L.T.O.N.?"

"No," Brittany admits quietly.

"Then what happened tonight is between the two of us. Understand?"

Brittany nods. "It'll be our secret."

"Good," Blaine says, and holds the door open for her as they enter the dorm. Because Blaine is a gentleman, because Blaine is a Warbler, because Blaine is the Perfect Score. And that's what Blaine does.

The next morning, Blaine has barely set foot in his first class when suddenly, out of nowhere, Coach Sylvester is standing in the room in front of him. How she got there, he will never know. She's the head of the entire D.A.L.T.O.N. organization; he wouldn't put it past her to have invented teleportation and conveniently "forgot" to share it with the rest of the world.

"Ms. Sylvester," Wes gasps. "What are you doing here?"

"I'm sorry, who are you?"

"Wes," he answers, abashed. "I'm the squad lea—"

"Wes, my time is precious and you're wasting it. Which one of you is Blaine?"

Awkwardly, Blaine raises his hand and Coach Sylvester wraps her arm around his side, pulling him in tightly. A blond girl in a matching outfit takes out a camera and snaps several photos.

"Excellent work, Becky," she tells the girl when the photos are finished, and then sits Blaine down. "Now…"

"Blaine," Becky supplies.

"Blaine," she continues, "let me just say how proud I am that one of my agents met Kurt Hummel and lived to tell the tale. I can only assume that four years of staring at Schuester's hair has made you impervious to various horrors. Now, Brandon—"

"Blaine," Becky corrects.

"Blaine," Coach Sylvester continues without pause. "Blaine, we need a full description of what happened during your encounter."

"What? Why?"

"To create a profile," she says. "No one has ever met that porcelain-cheeked devil and lived to tell about it. For all intents and purposes, you're the closest thing we have to a leading expert."

"I wouldn't call myself an expert—"

"Your term paper says differently," she counters. "We took the liberty of accessing your laptop remotely and we found its contents quite illuminating. I quote: 'Kurt Hummel is at once a narcissistic sociopath and a victimized man-child eternally searching for his father's approval. His crimes are a desperate cry for help. The more he steals, the more vast the cavern inside his soul.'"

She pauses, takes a seat across from him, and says, "That's rather flowery language for a term paper about a criminal mastermind. You know what I think? I think you identify with Kurt Hummel. I think he sees the pathos in your interpretation. You've got a dangerous symbiosis with him. We can use that to our advantage. I'm putting you in charge of this investigation."

"What?" Blaine gasps.

"I'm hereby promoting you to squad captain and assigning the Warblers to the case."

"Um, excuse me, Ms. Sylvester," Wes says. "I am the captain of this squad."

"Wes," Ms. Sylvester says in an overly sweet voice. "There is a killer on the loose. There is no time for your ego. This is not the boy scouts, this is not cops and robbers, this is espionage. We have a chance to save countless lives. Blaine has a chance to do something. And he better not let us down."

And just like that, she's gone.

Wes shoots him a glare and is out of the room before Blaine can process.

"Wes!" he calls, and chases after him through the halls. He finally catches Wes in the mostly-empty senior commons; everyone else has already left for class. "Wes, I'm sorry. I didn't mean for that to happen. I don't even want to be captain."

"Exactly," Wes snaps. "Exactly. You don't want it. But you're the Perfect Score. You survived an encounter with Kurt Hummel on pure dumb luck. I've been working my ass off because guess what, Blaine? I believe in what we do. I believe in duty and honor and my country and all that other stuff you seem to think is bullshit. And it's not just about my ego, it's because I'm good at this, and I'm a good leader, and I know that I can help people. So I work my ass off to prove that I deserve the same opportunities as you, that I deserve to be in a position of power. And you get it handed to you when you don't even want it because you're the Perfect Score."

"Wes—"

"Whatever," Wes sighs. "It's fine. Just promise me one thing."

"What?"

"You catch him. That you use this opportunity to do a little good in the universe."

Reluctantly, Blaine nods. Then an alarm sounds and he and Wes are headed back to the classroom to collect David and Brittany. Kurt Hummel is at it again.



Part two.
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August 2011

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