Rainy days, Gleeks. I should be working on Shadow, I know. And I am—there's a word document with actual words written in it and everything. I had this idea this morning, though, and needed to run with it. I haven't read too many Klaine stories (or Blaine stories, really) which a.) is terrible of me, and b.) means that my interpretation of the Dalton boys might completely clash with the fandom. So tell me, because I have a little uncharacteristic free time in my behemoth of a schedule next week: if I were to read 1-2 fantastic Klaine fics to get into the spirit, what should they be?

Tangentially a part of the Mostly Gay Not Couple Universe, but only because I'm not sure canon!Santana steals Brittany's phone and renames all of her contacts. But wouldn't it be awesome if she did?

And finally, I don't own Glee. I'm visiting my Gleek nieces and nephews this weekend, though, so I imagine karaoke will be happening.

Blaine wasn't nervous. Blaine was not nervous. Not even a little bit. Totally, unnervously, nerve-free.

Nervousness was for amateurs, or adorable boyfriends. Blaine was not an amateur, and he was not adorable. He was charming. He was dapper. He carried a pocket watch, for crying out loud. He was simply not the type of person who would get nervous about having dinner with his boyfriend's family for the first time.

A family that included a six-and-a-half-foot-tall football player and a muscular, overprotective father with a flamethrower, whom Blaine may have inadvertently offended by coming to his shop and asking him to talk to his precious only child about gay sex.

A drop of sweat was gathering at his hairline, and he swiped at it quickly before it could do any damage. His shirt cuff smelled heavily of cologne.

Oh god, he was wearing too much cologne. Like, really too much cologne. He couldn't even smell the flowers he'd picked out at the florist for Kurt's stepmother, and they were sitting three feet away on the passenger seat. And they were stargazer lilies. People could smell lilies from across a football field, their fragrance was so strong.

Crap—what if Kurt's stepmother was allergic to flowers? Or pollen? Or what if they had a cat? Kurt would totally own a finicky cat that would hate him on sight, the kind that would purposely chew on the petals and die just to prove a point.

The point clearly being, "I'm a cat and I don't like you—how do you think the humans with a vested interest in their son's innocence are going to feel?"

This was not going well, and he hadn't even gotten out of the car yet.

And maybe it was best he didn't get out of the car, because if he did get out of the car, he'd have to walk up to the house and ring the doorbell. And then Kurt's stepmother would answer the door and invite him in, and he'd say something completely stupid like "Hi, I'm dapper and charming and here are some flowers—I hope you have lots of Benadryl," and Kurt's stepmother would say "Oh, that's okay, the stink of your heavily applied cologne is overpowering the scent of the flowers that I'm clearly deathly allergic to, Boy Who's Molesting My Stepson," and he would be all "But it's totally Consensual Molesting this time. And I just remembered that Kurt didn't tell you about the time your son's teammate assaulted him in the locker room, so you're probably thinking I'm talking about me molesting people without their consent, and it's probably not helping my case that your cat is having seizures because I brought lilies, and this is a long and increasingly mortifying sentence. Would you like to see my pocket watch?"

Ok, so maybe it was possible that he was slightly nervous.

In his defense, it was all Wes's fault. Wes and his stupid 'advice'. Blaine was all set to meet Kurt's family (and yes, he'd technically met them already, but he couldn't exactly make polite, charming conversation at a football game, and his last interaction with Kurt's dad had definitely dropped him down a notch or two) when Wes had come by to give him a pep talk.

And he was so serious and earnest, going on about the 'wisdom of his experience', and the problem with that was that Wes's sense of humor was so incredibly dry that there was realistically about a 45% chance that this was some elaborate joke he and David had cooked up. Which left a 55% chance that Wes was seriously trying to be helpful with his hour-long recitation of Dos and Don'ts and For The Love Of God Don't You Dares. And that he wasn't kidding when he finished his lecture by clapping Blaine on the shoulder and assuring him that "Kurt doesn't seem like the type to break up with someone over one rough family dinner—and if it goes badly, you can always call one of us to come drive you home."

Blaine really didn't like those odds.

Lost in his thoughts—and internally cursing his possibly well-meaning/possibly soon-to-be-dead friend—Blaine barely had time to process the shadow that had skimmed over the dashboard before someone was knocking on the side of his car. Jumping slightly, he took off his sunglasses and looked out the window, expecting to see Kurt looking adorably impatient.

The girl standing next to the car was definitely not Kurt. She did, however, look vaguely familiar, and it wasn't too long before Blaine recognized her as the pretty blonde dancer from McKinley's Glee club. It started with a B, not Brianna…Brittany. Her name was definitely Brittany. She was smiling expectantly at Blaine, and he realized that she was probably waiting for him to roll down the window and talk to her.

Which probably wasn't a bad idea—she was clearly friends with Kurt, and might be able to help with the whole flower fiasco. Blaine held down the tab that controlled the power window and smiled back.

"Do you need some help?" Brittany asked him kindly once the window was open, making Blaine's grin falter slightly. Crap—the slight nerves that he might possibly be experiencing really were showing. "I need so much help," he admitted ruefully. "Is it that obvious?" He hoped it wasn't that obvious. Panic wasn't a good look for him.

No, really. David had taken a video on his phone of Blaine rushing around the morning of their math midterm, the one he had inconveniently forgotten to study for. It was possibly the least attractive he'd ever looked.

"It's okay," Brittany was saying. "I do the same thing all the time. Push the red button."

Push the…okay, he had no idea what she was talking about. She seemed to recognize this, because she patted his shoulder patiently before reaching inside the car and unbuckling Blaine's seatbelt for him. "You looked like you were having trouble getting out of the car," she explained. "The red button makes the seatbelt unlock."

Wow. Wes had nothing on this girl—her deadpan was amazing. Blaine had no idea how she was keeping a straight face.

He played along. "Thanks. My hand-eye coordination tends to fail when my life is in danger," he joked sheepishly, climbing out of the car and straightening his tie.

And maybe his self esteem had crumbled to pieces in the last three minutes, but this he knew: He looked good in a tie.

Brittany's eyes widened. "Oh no," she gasped. "Is it your heart?" Blaine sighed heavily. "Not yet," he reassured her, "but we'll see how the evening goes." She looked a little confused, which…yeah, that was a little dramatic and cryptic. "This is the first time I'm meeting Kurt's family as his boyfriend," he explained. "And I'd really like to not screw it up." Speaking of which—Blaine hastily reached into the car and grabbed the flowers. "How do these smell? Too much?" He asked, unpleasantly aware of the slight desperation in his voice. "Kurt doesn't have a cat, does he?"

"Just a duck, but he sleeps outside," Brittany answered dryly—okay, he was totally introducing this girl to Wes—and leaned into sniff the flowers. "They smell like men's perfume," she decided. Blaine dropped his head theatrically. "It's okay," she said reassuringly, "Kurt likes men, and he wears my perfume all the time."

Glossing over the pink elephant in that sentence, Blaine shook his head. "No, it's not that, it's just—I got these for Kurt's stepmother, and I—"

Blaine frowned, realizing that he had an even bigger problem than his overzealous fragrance application. "What do I call her?" he asked Brittany, who looked at him blankly. "Kurt's stepmother," he clarified. "Is she still Mrs. Hudson, or is she Mrs. Hummel now? Or is there a hyphen? Why don't I know this?"

Poor Brittany looked bombarded by his increasingly alarmed line of questioning. This…was still not going well. Blaine took a deep breath and attempted to smile charmingly. "I'm so sorry," he apologized, "I have no idea what just happened."

Brittany smiled at him understandingly. "That happens to Kurt sometimes," she confided. "Usually Mercedes slaps the back of his head, and then he complains about her messing up his hair until he feels better and everything goes back to normal." She eyed his head. "I could slap you, if you want," she offered helpfully.

Blaine laughed nervously. "Uh, no thanks," he told her, backing up a fraction of an inch. "So," he cast around for a subject change, "I'm here for dinner, and will hopefully live to tell about it. How about you?"

Brittany frowned. "Spanish homework," she explained sadly. "Usually Santana helps me, but she's mad at me right now. Finn's the only one who will be my partner, but he kinda sucks at Spanish and he just doesn't get our system."

Blaine nodded sympathetically. "It's hard studying with someone new, once you've got your routine down," he agreed, thinking of the previous year. He'd gone through three different lab partners in science, and each time he'd been forced to readjust his study habits. Which took up a lot of time he could have been using to do...anything but study.

"Totally," Brittany replied, shaking her head. "And he keeps asking the same questions over and over. 'Why aren't you writing anything down? What does making out with me have to do with the assignment?'" She rolled her eyes. "We never get anything done," she confided.

Maybe he wouldn't introduce her to Wes—feeling two steps behind was starting to get a little unnerving. "I'm not sure that kissing and Spanish ability are related," he pointed out slowly.

Brittany frowned, thinking. "That's just how I do it with Santana. But, I guess you're right," she conceded. "Because Kurt's a way better kisser than Finn, and he's, like, fluid in French."

"Fluent," Blaine corrected automatically.


Hold on.

Because Kurt's a way better—

"You? And Kurt? You and Kurt were—I'm sorry, I can't even finish—when did you and Kurt kiss?" Blaine asked, now longing painfully for the comparably low level of desperation he'd been at mere minutes before.

Brittany, for her part, looked completely unconcerned that Blaine was having a stroke right in front of her, and started twirling a strand of hair distractedly around her finger. "We made out last year, when we were dating. He's a really great boyfriend."

Blaine's vision began to swim a little. Oh yeah, breathing. Right.

Brittany was still playing with her hair. "Hey," she asked suddenly. "What does that make us?" Blaine, still recovering from his thirty seconds without oxygen, just looked at her. "Well," she continued, "Kurt and I dated, and now he's my Super Gay Not Boyfriend, and he totally had a thing for Finn, and now they're brothers. And Finn and I are Spanish partners. And now you're Kurt's boyfriend, and I don't know what to call you."

Blaine leaned back against his car, not even caring that he was probably getting dirt on his pants. "You can call me confused," he answered weakly. "I feel like I missed something. Or a lot of somethings."

Brittany smiled brightly. "That's good. Confused is totally Kurt's type. Hey, do you have a burglar alarm? It seemed really important to Mr. Hummel at the time."

Before Blaine could even begin to formulate a potential answer to that, Brittany's phone buzzed in her pocket. Swiftly pulling it out and opening it, she read and replied to the text message.

And Blaine couldn't read upside down that well, but it was definitely from someone named Cyborg Robot Boy.

Brittany slid the phone back into her pocket. "Have fun at dinner, I have to go make out with Artie now," she said bluntly. Blaine raised a tired eyebrow. "Engineering homework?" he guessed halfheartedly.

He really wasn't expecting the dirty look she shot him. "You know, it's not nice of you to make fun of my boyfriend like that," she pointed out. "It's not his fault his legs don't work and he'll never drive a train."

Blaine would never understand women. Ever. Thank God he was gay. "You're right," he apologized, "I'm so sorry. I don't know what came over me."

Brittany's nasty look immediately vanished. "It's okay. Tell everyone I said hi!"

And without looking back, she walked away, leaving Blaine standing in the driveway with his flowers.

Which is where Kurt's stepmother found him five minutes later.

"Blaine?" she called out from the door. "Sweetie, are you coming in?"

Blaine looked back and forth between her and the street helplessly. "I…Mrs…I don't—Brittany says hi," he finally finished lamely.

Fortunately, that was all it took. "I should have known," she said wryly. "Brittany can have that affect on people when they first meet her. Or ten years later, in some cases." Coming down the walkway, she gently took Blaine's arm and led him to the door. "The poor thing has always been a little…unique," she explained, "but ever since that incident in the sewers this summer…"

She trailed off, shaking her head, as they reached the house. "You can call me Carole, by the way," she offered. "Kurt's upstairs finishing his face; he's so excited that you're here for dinner." Glancing up the stairs, she leaned in conspiratorially. "Don't tell him I told you on both counts."

Blaine smiled, straightening his tie. Carole smiled back. "Come into the kitchen, I'll get you something to drink and we can put those flowers in water. They're beautiful, by the way. Lilies are my favorite."

Blaine felt the charming dapperness start to slowly trickle back. "I'm so glad you like them," he replied, feeling more at ease than he had all afternoon. "It didn't even occur to me that you might have a cat until I got here."

Carole waited for Blaine as he slipped off his shoes. "Finn's allergic, I'm afraid," she explained. "And you just know how Kurt would be if we had a pet that shed all over his clothes."

"Before you answer that, Blaine, keep in mind that I can hear you talking about me!"

Blaine burst out laughing as he looked up the stairs.

Brittany might be unique, but Kurt was something else entirely.

Trying unsuccessfully to wipe the glazed expression off of his face, Blaine turned back to Carole, who gave him a knowing smile. "Go ahead," she told him. "Dinner won't be ready for another twenty minutes or so." Kissing her hand and passing her the flowers, Blaine felt his smile grow as he climbed the stairs.

Huh. This must be what love felt like. Awesome.

Grinning, Blaine almost missed Carole calling up to him. "Do us a favor, Blaine, and don't tell Burt about meeting Brittany?" Blaine's confusion must have shown, because she explained further: "He'll be so disappointed if you're already traumatized when dinner starts—he was looking forward to doing it himself."

For the second time in ten minutes, a somewhat disturbed Blaine was left standing while a woman walked away from him.

And maybe he was charming and dapper and totally not nervous. But if a flamethrower came out at any point in the evening, he was ditching the pocket watch and hiding under Kurt's bed until Wes came to get him.