Kurt's been bartending far too long.
He knows this because when the stranger falls through the doorway, he doesn't even blink.
The whores are all over him immediately, cooing and fussing and raising a hell of a racket as they drag him over to the bar.
It's only when the owner of the aptly named "Satan's Saloon" rushes over that Kurt takes any genuine interest. He sets down the glass he's been cleaning and listens. Bartending is at least good for gossip.
Santana, with her red skirts rustling and cleavage heaving, shoos the girls away with sharply taloned hands. She looks the stranger over. "Jesus H Christ, Blaine. Who worked you over this time?"
Blaine coughs, blood dribbling from his newly reopened lip. "Cattle rustler by the name o' Azimio and his gang o' idiots." Santana's mouth tightens in anger.
Tina joins him behind the bar and Kurt silently raises a finger to his lips. They watch as Santana bustles the stranger into the backroom and shuts the door.
"What was that about?" Tina asks, picking up the glass and rag Kurt had abandoned. Kurt shrugs. "For bein' so beat up, he was awful pretty," Tina murmurs.
Kurt nods and takes a bottle of whiskey from his own stash under the bar. "I'll drink to that." He does. Tina takes it away from him and gulps her own swig. The whores have all rushed back upstairs under the silent command of Santana's glare and the saloon is achingly empty at this time of the morning. They both watch dust roll in under the swinging doors. Tina sighs because she knows she'll have to sweep it out later.
Suddenly, the backroom door swings open and out steps Santana, looking completely unruffled. It baffles both bartender and barmaid, as they'd both taken a guess as to why their boss had dragged Blaine to her private quarters. It was the logical conclusion to make, after all, though now that Kurt thought about it, he isn't sure he's ever seen a man go back there.
Santana snaps her fingers at him. "Go watch our guest, Porcelain. I've got business with a dirty lying rat to take care of."
"Sounds like your kind of man," Tina mutters wryly. Santana shoots her a measured glare before cracking a small grin and striding out the doors.
Kurt tucks his whiskey back under the bar and enters Santana's quarters. It's neat and clean and surprisingly frilly, save for the grit-dusted cowboy curled on top of the rag-quilt covered bed.
There's an empty bottle of brandy on the nightstand next to a needle and thread and Kurt winces. He sits on the edge of the bed, and removes Blaine's hat and boots, setting both on the floor. He's surprised to meet honeyed eyes when he looks up again.
"'m I dead?" Blaine slurs, trying to sit up and grimacing. Kurt can see through a tear in his shirt where Santana had stitched the skin back together. Quickly, he pushes Blaine's shoulders back down to the mattress, trying to be gentle and not tear the stitches.
"You're not dead, you're sloshed," he murmurs, blinking as Blaine's hand comes up to stroke his cheek.
"Gotta be dead. Ain't a man this pretty on earth. 'less you're my g'rdian angel," Blaine gives him a lopsided grin. "You my g'rdian angel? Seen you when I come in. Look'd so beaut'ful. Wan'ed to ki-" he hiccups and continues, "kiss you bu' Stanana dragged me back here. You gotta be my g'rdian angel. 'cause you're here. An' I really seem to need one."
Carefully, Kurt peels Blaine's hand from his face and sets it firmly on the mattress, ignoring the thudding of his heart. "I'm Kurt. I bartend here."
"Kurt." Blaine seems to roll the word around in his mouth, as though it tastes funny, before beaming. "My g'rdian angel named Kurt. I'm Blaine Anderson. Bu' you knew that." He reaches up before Kurt can stop him, grabbing loosely onto his tie and pulling him close to his face.
And Kurt knows he can stop him, can taste the whiskey on his breath and the brandy on Blaine's, can push him away if he wants.
But he doesn't want to.
Dust blows through the streets of what will soon become a ghost town, and in the backroom of a trashy saloon, Kurt Hummel is kissed by one alcohol-dazed Blaine Anderson.