A/N: Hello everyone! Thanks for clicking on the link! This is 9 to 5, title based off the song of the same title by Dolly Parton. It isn't based on the song, but the lyrics do seem to fit this first chapter. I'd like to thank my mom for the title idea. A few things you should know:

-Blaine and Kurt never met in High School.

-The only member of New Directions with Kurt was Mercedes. Mr. Schue directed it, but everyone (Finn, Rachel, Puck, etc.) weren't in it. They weren't even from Lima, at least in this fic. I'll get into that later on.

-I will be updating every two days, alternating between this and my other fic, Desert Storm, unless I am traveling and have no internet.


9 to 5

Kurt Hummel, age 24, was almost done his shift at Viveri's, the cheap Italian restaurant he worked at. Luckily, nothing eventful had happened and he would be able to go home and relax in another hour and a half and wouldn't have to stay later for one reason or another.

He hated his job. Hated it. He was an out and proud gay man. His manager was an out and proud homophobic. They did not get along. He was blamed for every small thing, even if he had nothing to do with the incident. He once was blamed for causing a woman to have a severe allergic reaction because he didn't ask her if she was allergic to garlic. He hadn't even waited that table!

Suddenly, he found himself on the floor, plates broken in pieces. "Shit," he muttered. Yet another thing to anger his manager.

Speak of the devil, here came Mr. Jackson now. "What did you do this time!" he exclaimed, his large face red from anger. He had a bushy moustache above his lip, which was the most hair he had. He was a fairly large man as well. His beady eyes saw the broken plates. "You little fag! Look what you did!"

"I'm sorry sir-" began Kurt, standing up.

"Don't 'sorry' me! You've caused enough finances to the restaurant!" Which ones had he caused? None. How many were he blamed for? Probably all of them. He was probably blamed for the use of electricity and water. This was the first time he'd made an error. Oh, his manager was yelling at him. He should probably pay attention. "-And I'm tired of it! You're paying for these plates!"

"But sir, I can't afford-"

"What you can or can't afford is not my problem!" his manager yelled. "You're paying!"

"But sir-"

"You pay or you lose your job!" his manager screamed.

Kurt looked down, tears welling in his eyes. He didn't have enough money to buy enough food, let alone pay for the expensive plates he had dropped that had been smashed into pieces. And now the entire restaurant was staring at him like he was some kind of circus freak.

"I'll pay for it," said a man. Kurt's head shot up. It was one of the tables he was looking after. The lone man looked somehow familiar to him. The man was regarding him with a curious expression. He had his dark curls gelled back, and was dressed in an expensive Versace suit that Kurt would die to be in. "It was my fault anyways. I wasn't looking where I was going." He was seated at the table, not having moved since he was seated. Not that Kurt had noticed, no of course not. Who was he? The kind of guy who checked out every cute guy who came into Viveri's? Never. That was the other gay guy who worked here. You know, the imaginary one.

"Sir, you don't have-" his manager began.

The man ignored his manager's protests and took out a check book. "How much were they worth?"

"Sir, you don't have to pay," said the manager. "It's the fag's responsibility; he's the one who's paying."

The stranger glared at his manager coldly. To Kurt's delight, it was enough to make Mr. Jackson step back. "How much?" the man asked a second time firmly.

"Five hundred-sir you don't need to-" the manager's protests were ignored. The plates were not worth five hundred dollars. Twenty was more likely. The man handed him a check and after leaving a stack of bills on the table to pay for his dinner and a sizeable tip, he left the restaurant.

Kurt stared after him in shock. Since when had anyone taken the time to help him? He regretted not having said anything, not thanking the man.

"You got lucky this time fairy," the manager sneered, heading back into his office.

Kurt finished the last hour of his shift before heading out into New York's cold January weather. He quickly started to head off to the dingy apartment he lived in but a voice stopped him.

"Why do you keep working there if that's how you're treated?" Kurt turned to find the man from the restaurant watching him, leaning against the brick wall. He straightened himself before walking towards him.

"I need the money," Kurt said simply. "Thank you, by the way. You really didn't have to pay for that. And they weren't worth that much."

The man waved him off. "It was no problem," he said. "Why don't you find another job? I'm sure someone like you could easily find another job worth your time and skills," he added with a sparkle in his eyes. Was this guy flirting?

"Who says I have skills suitable for a different job?" Kurt asked playfully, and then he became serious. "I've tried. Believe me, I've tried hard. But no one's hiring. The money I make there is what I'm living off of, and it's not much."

"Work for me."

Kurt tilted his head. "I'm sorry?"

"Work for me," the man shrugged. "I could always use an extra hand."

"You don't know anything about me," said Kurt. "How do you know I'd be able to help?"

"Just a feeling," said the man. He reached into his pocket and took out his wallet before handing Kurt a small piece of cardstock. "Give me a shout," he said, winking before walking off with his hands in his pockets. He didn't look back.

Kurt stared after him, and looked down at the object he had been given. A business card.

Blaine Anderson

Anderson Records

178 W 47th St, New York City, NY

Phone: (212)786-9934 ext. 498

Email: .com

Kurt stared after the man, his mouth gaping wide open, eyes wide. Blaine Anderson-Blaine Anderson- had just offered a job. Mercedes was going to throw a fit when he told her.

Blaine Anderson was a name everyone knew. He had always kept his personal life away from the cameras, so no one knew much about his relationships (if there were any), his family, his friends or his childhood. When Kurt had decided to move to New York when he graduated, 5 years before, Blaine Anderson had suddenly appeared at the top of nearly all the charts. It must have been 2 years ago that he had opened his own record company-Anderson Records-which had produced more hits in the Top 100 than even Elvis Presley! He was currently a multi-millionaire. And, Blaine not only was active with a large number of different charities, he was a known and frequent supporter of gay rights. Kurt, and many others-particularly teenage girls-had admired the man since he had become known to the world.

And now he was offering Kurt a job. He was prepared to accept any honest and legal job that he could get, let alone one from Blaine Anderson. Blaine said to give him a call? He'd definitely be getting his wish.

Snow started to fall. Kurt glanced up at the sky and decided to get to his apartment before it got too bad. He quickly walked the streets familiar streets of New York City until he reached the building that he now called his home.

It was falling apart. Literally. Plaster was known to fall from the ceiling, and the window ledges sometimes fell when too much snow was put on them. Luckily, Kurt's own apartment hadn't had too many damages, unlike others'. But like others', there was no heating or air conditioning. At the moment he couldn't care less about the air conditioning-he did in the summer- but the heating was torture. He had a large pile of sweaters sitting on a corner in his room. The water often ran out as well. And the internet sucked. But it was cheap, and he didn't have much money.

His own apartment was on the 3rd floor, room 314. He put his key in the lock and entered his home. It was small, with only one bedroom, a tiny kitchen, a sitting area that barely fit a loveseat and a TV, and a bathroom with a sink, toilet and shower. Putting his messenger bag down on his small, worn out couch, he went over to the fridge to see if there was anything that would satisfy his hunger. Opening it, he saw a block of cheese, two apples and a jar of jam. He shook his head sighing. He'd need to go grocery shopping tomorrow for food he couldn't afford.

Aretha Franklin's "Respect" played through his phone's speakers.

"Hey 'Cedes," he said smiling into the phone as he answered.

"Hey boo, what's up?" his best friend since Sophomore year asked. Mercedes Jones had also come down with him, but her parents had bought her her own apartment using money from their dental practice. She had offered to let him move in with her, begged him to, but he had declined. He wanted to make it in New York on his own, but hadn't done so yet. He didn't accept money from his dad, unless it was what he had earned in the shop. So that was why he lived here, in this apartment and not something more suitable to human life.

He laughed. "Well. I was offered a job today."

Mercedes squealed. "Oh my god! That's amazing! What job?"

"I don't actually know," he admitted. What would the job be? And would Blaine-Mr. Anderson- change his mind once he saw Kurt's resume?

"O...Kay?" he could picture her raising her brow in confusion.

"But, whatever it is I'm accepting it, if it works out. You keep telling me to quit Viveri's. And I will if this works."

"Good for you boo. How did you get offered a job? And who's it for?" she asked.

"Well, I dropped the plates I was carrying and Mr. Jackson came out and screamed at me, saying I'd have to pay for them. Same old, same old. He threatened to take away my job if I didn't but someone cut in and paid an excessive amount for me. I went outside once I was done and the guy was waiting. He offered me a job, gave me a business card and said to call him," Kurt explained.

"Who is it for?"

"Blaine Anderson, producer and founder of Anderson Records," he said.

Silence came from the other end of the phone. Then a crash.

"Mercedes?" he asked cautiously.

"Blaine Anderson? Blaine freaking Anderson!" she screamed. He took the phone away from his ear flinching, but laughing at his friend's reaction.

"Yes, I believe that's what I said," Kurt laughed. "Mercedes, he offered me a job and I don't know but he might have been flirting with me," he squealed. "I have no idea though, it was probably my imagination, but Blaine noticed me at the very least!"

"Oh my god! Kurt! That's amazing!" she said, completely happy for him. "But is he even gay?"

"I have no idea! He's never said! It was most likely my imagination, but a guy can hope! Even though I don't need any more fantasies about relationships with straight guys."

"So was this before or after he gave you the business card? And did you flirt back? Was he as gorgeous as he is in pictures?"

"Before, sort of and yes!"

Mercedes allowed him to gush for a little while before cutting in. "So you're going to call him or email him or something right?"

"Of course! I want another job with a manager that isn't a homophobic jerk. And you know I idolize him! I'm not going to say no to him, or anyone else, offering me a job!"

"When are you contacting him?" she asked.

"I don't know! Is tomorrow too soon? Or would Monday be better? Or would Monday be too soon?"

"Tomorrow is Sunday, so don't do it then if you're calling. Monday. Don't make it look like you've forgotten or that you don't appreciate the offer. And if you're emailing, then maybe tomorrow afternoon?"

"I'll email. Thanks Mercedes! I need to start getting ready for bed though so I'll talk to you later."

"No problem white boy. Goodnight."

"Goodnight."

Kurt hung up and started doing a silent happy dance. He had to suppress his urge to get on the computer send the email right away.

Tomorrow afternoon couldn't come fast enough.