Hello faithful readers!

First of all, I would like to apologize for taking so long to update.

The truth is, when I first started writing this, I had a vague idea of where it would go. Strangely enough, that included The Warblers singing Blackbird in a later chapter. However, after seeing how AWESOME Glee used the song, I looked at my mediocre use of the song, and decided to scrap that idea, and came up with something even better than what I originally thought! (or, at least to me).

Second of all, I just wanted to say a LARGE Thank You to all the people who have read my little story, fell in love with it, and have given me such possitive reviews and kind words.

While I am so very happy you all seem to love it so much, I am truely surprised, and humbled by the amount of love this story has gotten!

So, to all of you that waited, and to everyone reading this, I am sending you massive *HUGS*

I shall now leave you to here is the continue this strange journey! I hope you enjoy it! =D

Disclaimer: If I owned Glee, this would totally have been canon. Alas, our Warblers are wingless. =(

Oh! One other thing, people have asked if Kurt and Blaine are together in this fic. The answer is no, at the moment.

This is a love story though, so stay tuned, because it WILL happen! ; )

This story is canon up until Silly Love Song, so for you readers, that means that there is NO JEREMIAH! *throws confetti*

Here is my heartfelt apology to all the Jeremiah fans out there. Kurt's awesome presence, Blaine's brilliant dapper smile, and the collective

amount of Warblers with wings just took up too much space in my story. Sacrifices had to be made, (involving an active Volcano, it was quite a

lovely ceremony. Jeff took pictures, Wes made Waldorf Salad...), so he will not be here in this story. However, many familiar faces will pop up

in this, so be prepared! =D

Blaine looked down at the sleeping form of his best friend, as he slipped his dress shirt back on, buttoning each button with precision as he had done many times, without taking his eyes of the breathtaking, shirtless vision on the bed.

His core muscles coiled, his heart fluttered, as warm heat infused his senses remembering the feel of Kurt's naked chest pressed against his, as he slowly rocked back and forth, softly singing to him, until his wings pulled back into his body.

It hadn't taken long after that, merely seconds, in fact, for Kurt to feel the wave of exhaustion overtake him, as his adrenaline levels returned to normal. Still holding him in his embrace, Blaine guided his dizzy friend to his desk chair, propped him up, and proceeded to remake Kurt's bare bed with his back-up sheets and blanket.

Remembering the feel of lean, yet strong muscles hiding under Kurt's skin, Blaine leaned over and ran his fingers down the silky smoothness of Kurt's back, marveling in the fact that all traces of the wings bursting through, tearing to the surface, were gone. Even after seeing things like this happen here again and again, and going through this himself, he knew he would always be left in awe, and never get used to the things that the magic of this school could do.

Resisting the urge to kiss down Kurt's vertebrae, and to attempt to suck out all of the pain through his lips, like venom to a snake bite, Blaine stepped back, and reached for his crumpled tie on the floor.

A few minutes later, a fully dressed, dapper version of himself looked back at him from the mirror. Taking some of Kurt's gel from the makeshift travel vanity, Blaine attempted to tame some of his wayward curls. Once he was satisfied that his locks were not going to wage war, and call for revolution, he straightened his tie, and walked back over to the adorable slumbering mass.

He tugged the red, Dalton-issued ,quilted blanket up to his graceful neck, and dared to gently place a kiss on his secret angel's cheek, hoping not to wake him, and get caught.

Kurt was going through so many life altering things at the moment, some that even he didn't expect him to. What Kurt really needed was a friend. An understanding, patient, caring friend, that would help him through everything, and to be the support he needed when he was lost, scared, and all this foundations felt like quicksand.

What he didn't need at the moment, was for his best male friend, (Mercedes made it very clear that she was Kurt's best friend too, and as long as he remembered that, they were cool), to be molesting him in his sleep.

Taking a deep breath, Blaine took a minute to look around the small room.

While Kurt had attempted to clean his dorm room, and had in fact accomplished that pretty well, despite the fact that he had fluffy white wings that knocked things down when he turned around the compact, constricted space, Blaine knew that there were bed sheets that needed to be laundered, pajamas to burn, and evidence to remove from the room, before anyone else came by to check on the sickly, (yet utterly striking) counter-tenor.

After all, it wasn't everyday that a boy got wings in a boarding school. If any news, any shred of evidence managed to get out, the consequences would be dire, for sure, for Kurt, his fellow winged-Warblers, and even for himself.

With that thought in mind, Blaine quickly, and quietly, went to work.

Grabbing a box of tissues, he started to spit into each one, crumbled and wadded them up. He sat on the edge of Kurt's bed, and hap-hazardly threw them into the waste basket, making it look like Kurt had thrown them in himself in a sick induced rage, with poor aim.

He next went into the cupboard underneath Kurt's desk and pulled out his cleaning supplies. After a few minutes of cleaning the walls, windows, and desk of any remaining blood spatter droplets with disinfectant spray, he reached into the front pocket of his messenger bag and grabbed one of his emergency zipper-locked sandwich baggies, (for occasions such as this), and put the soiled paper towels in. After the incident with David and his transformation, they had all learned the valuable lesson that it was imperative to take all evidence with you, even something as innocent as a dirty paper towel.

It was a good thing that Nick was so clever, claiming all of the bloody towels were from his nose-bleed, because Blaine didn't believe that their History Professor would have bought the excuse of a rather dastardly paper-cut.

After angling Kurt's picture frames, and restacking some of the books and nick-nacks that Kurt missed, or knocked over, in his initial clean up, Blaine tackled the final hurdle.

The blood soaked bedding.

Blaine carefully laid out the expensive, Dior Gray, Egyptian cotton bed sheets, (Kurt brought these from home. Blaine could remember Kurt's very first day, when he scoffed that the "inferior" bed sheets that he swore he would never let close to his skin with a fifty-foot gilded poll, because the Dalton-issued standard white ones felt like "sandpaper", and he could actually feel the mediocrity radiating from the cloth . He knew Kurt would not be thrilled to wake up laying on them, and would probably claim to have a rash due to the cheap material. Nothing could be done, though, because his precious ones were grubby), on the floor, followed by his charcoal Calvin Kline bed spread. Placing the ruined silk pajamas in the middle, he folded everything over long ways, then in the middle, and then rolled everything up like a tightly wound up sleeping bag, or a badly burnt burrito.

Blaine swiftly took his school books and notebooks out of his leather messenger bag, (for he knew that he wouldn't be needing them today. There was no way he was going to any of his classes, he had waaaay too many things to do, like destroy evidence, warn and update his fellow winged brethren, and an adorably hot best friend to take care of), and promptly stuffed the neatly folded and rolled bedding in their placed. Even thought he always prided himself on the fact that his bag had lots of storage space, and many hidden pockets to stow things in, it was still a really tight fit, but he managed.

Hoisting the strap of his heavy load over his shoulder, Blaine walked over to the tiny little canary, flitting about in his cage.

"Well buddy, I bet you're seen a lot of action today! I bet you would have a pretty eventful story to tell! If bird's could talk, right?"

Pavarotti chirped back up at him, and then darted his little beak, and beady eyes towards the bed.

Blaine looked over, and sighed. Bringing his face closer to the cage, Blaine whispered to the mascot.

"Yeah, I'm worried about him to, Pavarotti. I should have kept a better eye on him. Honestly, all of the signs were there, weren't they?"

At the time, Blaine had been worried about Kurt. Nobody expected Kurt to be back until right before curfew, because he usually stayed in Lima for as long as he could without it being too dangerous driving on the road, or risk getting detention for being out of his dorm after hours. It was a known fact that Kurt liked to spend as much time as he could with his family. It was a surprise to have a rather paler than usual Kurt Hummel knocking on his dorm room door.

When he showed back up at Dalton that Sunday evening, he looked as if he had barely slept a wink, and might have possibly skipped a couple of his ritual night time moisturizing treatments. His skin was practically translucent, making the slight amount of freckles on his nose look like sprinkled cinnamon or nutmeg on frothy foam. His eyes had dark , baggy grey circles as framing, and his eyes themselves seemed a little glassy and dulled compared to their customary brilliance .

Blaine, of course, made Kurt immediately sit down, and asked if he was alright. Kurt, ever the drama queen, told him of his perils of getting the flu, and how thankful he was that it seems to be letting up, and he gingerly laid down on his stomach on Blaine's bed.

He could have kicked himself. He should have seen the signs. Even though Kurt never once mentioned extreme back pain, everything else fit to a tee.

Guilt settled into his stomach. He could have helped. He could have gotten the others, and they could have made the transition easier on his poor angel. Sure, none of them could have taken his pain away, but they could have been there for him, he could have been there for him, instead of Kurt going through that trauma all alone.

He couldn't cry, not now, even as he felt the welling and stinging in his eyes and heart.

It was his fault that Kurt had been alone. He had been so distracted by his own attraction and affections for the counter-tenor, that the glaringly obvious was overlooked. It didn't matter that it should have been too early for Kurt to be graced with wings, or that he might possibly not get them at all.

Had he not learned that Kurt Hummel was the loophole to every rule in the Universe? Was that not one of the many reasons that he loved him so?

No, all Blaine did was get giddy as he convinced Kurt to stay for Doctor Who, and snuggle until it was time for Kurt to go to bed.

Blaine gazed back that the beautiful creature on the bed.

He had overlooked, ignored, and miscalculated, and Kurt paid the price.

Blaine touched his nose against the shiny wire of the cage.

"I'm going to take care of him, Pavarotti. I promise."

Pavarotti chirped, and brushed Blaine's nose, seemingly in a comforting gesture.

Blaine laughed, wiped the moisture from his eyes, and smiled down at the bird.

"How do you feel about hanging out in my room for a little bit? Kurt's been though a lot, and we need him to get plenty of rest! Let go and sing along to my iPod, ok? I'm feeling in a Maroon 5 mood."

Quietly opening the door, Blaine stepped into the hallway, and adjusted the strap digging into his neck.

There were so many things that he had to do. He needed to call an emergency meeting with his brethren, had to burn bloody pajamas, finish his English paper, sneak off to launder bedding, had to go buty detergent that took out blood stains, get Kurt something supplies, as well as something to eat and drink, and had to so all of this within the next twelve hours. While his English paper could wait, and he had the confidence that it all could be done, he realized there was one other thing, an important thing, that he had to take care of first.

Damage control.


Because the Headmaster was walking his way, towards Kurt's dorm.

Slipping the hand that wasn't holding Pavarotti's cage into his pocket, Blaine fingered the soft, long, perfect white feather, and carefully grasped it into his palm.

"Courage", he thought to himself, as he smiled his most dapper of smiles.

It was time for Blaine to perform.

Reviews= Love!

Does anyone know any fan artists that might want to illustrate?