Chapter Text
The day Blaine Anderson’s life changed forever started like any normal Tuesday. Wake up, get ready for the day, and text his parents good morning. Heading to school now! They didn’t respond, but that wasn’t unusual either. They were less insistent on it this year, now that he was eighteen.
Maybe it was because they were older when they had him, but Blaine’s parents weren’t like most of his friends’ parents. They weren’t over-involved worriers like Tina’s parents, or the sort who stressed family above all, like Sam’s, or Kurt’s. They cared, of course they cared. And even if it took them longer to get there than he would have liked, they were supportive of his being out, too. They weren’t bad parents; they were just busy. And that was fine with him. He tried to respect who they were, and not try to change them, or wish they were different. Maybe they weren’t the kind of parents who you’d have long conversations with about feelings or anything, but on the other hand, they did all respect each other’s privacy.
His parents had their own business: Anderson & Associates, a marketing research consulting firm. It paid for the house and the cars and the music lessons and the Brooks Brothers cardigans, which Blaine really appreciated. It also meant they were away a lot, doing their job. So this wasn’t the first or even the tenth time Blaine had been in charge of the house by himself for a few days. He was pretty much an expert on managing its day-to-day needs.
He washed the coffee pot, took out the trash, and turned out all the lights before he left, like he always did. He checked the back door and the garage door and the windows the way his parents had taught him, and he locked both locks on the front door behind him. It always paid to take the time to be safe.
School was the same as every other Tuesday too. He had a presentation in AP History, which went well, and a pop quiz in AP French, which he aced. He checked his phone once at lunchtime: two calls from blocked numbers and no messages. That was weird. Then later, waiting for glee club to start, his phone rang again, from a New York number. New York. His heart skipped a beat, thinking of who it might be: Kurt, NYADA, everything he wanted. But when he picked up, there was no one there.
He frowned and called the number back. By this point, his imagination was dredging up worst-case scenarios: Kurt in the hospital, Santana arrested, NYADA with missing paperwork in his application. On the other end of the line, the phone rang and rang.
Blaine hung up and stared at his phone. Would it be weird to call Kurt, just to check in? They kind of still talked, after all. Blaine’s big dreams of their loving reunion and happily-ever-after might have fallen apart, but that didn’t mean they weren’t friends.
“Hey, dude, what’s wrong?” Sam dropped into a chair on the row below Blaine’s. “You look like someone stomped on your wingtips.”
“Nothing. I was — nothing.” Even thinking about saying it out loud made him realize how ridiculous he was being. It was just a wrong number. Everything was fine. “How are you?”
“Good. I’m good. Your folks get in okay?”
“They’re not back yet. I told you, they called on Sunday. They’re doing more interviews in Kansas City, and they’ll be back Friday night.”
“Well, that sucks. Or, is kind of awesome.” Sam considered the options. “Maybe both. Do you want to hang out later?”
“I’m fine on my own, Sam.”
“I didn’t say you weren’t. But if you have the place to yourself, we can plug the Xbox into the big TV in the living room, right? Unlock more of the Justice League in Lego Batman 2.”
Sam was looking up at Blaine so hopefully; it did things to Blaine’s insides that he mostly didn’t let himself think about. And Sam had been lonely since Brittany left, it was true. He probably needed the company. “Sure,” Blaine said. “That’ll be fun. We can order in Chinese food.”
“It is on, man.” Sam high-fived him right as Mr. Schuester and Finn walked in, wearing matching grins and sweater vests.
*****
“I can’t believe your folks still haven't gotten rid of that answering machine,” Sam said as he hung up his jacket. “That’s some serious old-school.”
Blaine shrugged. “They’re not that into technology.” There were three messages on the machine; he let it play while he sorted the mail into bills and everything else. Sam ambled past him towards the kitchen.
His mother’s voice, tinny from the machine’s tiny speaker. “You’ve reached the Anderson residence. If you’re calling for the services of Anderson & Associates, please contact our office at 419-555-4332. Otherwise, please leave a message after the tone.”
Beep! Click. A hangup.
Beep! Click. Another hangup.
Beep! Not a hangup, but noise: a staticky hum mixed with noises Blaine couldn’t identify. It sounded like getting a butt dial call from inside an engine. He shook his head – it had been a weird day for phone calls – and deleted all the messages from the machine.
Sam came back into the foyer, holding a can of Coke. “Ready to rumble?”
“Hey, have you had any weird hang-up calls today?”
Sam shook his head. “No. Why?”
“We got them here and on my phone. It’s probably a coincidence.”
“Maybe you’ve got a stalker.”
Blaine rolled his eyes. “Yes, I’m sure that’s it.”
“Hey, why not? You’re a handsome guy.”
“That’s – that’s not how that works, Sam. What do you want for dinner?” The takeout menu for Jade Emperor was right on the table in the foyer next to the phone, with all of Blaine’s favorites already circled.
“Dinner? I thought we were playing video games. I’m here to fight Lex Luthor and chew bubblegum — and I’m all out of bubblegum.”
Sam’s voice had gone all low and serious, meaning he was doing an impersonation. Blaine didn’t know who he was impersonating, but he was sure it was great: Sam was so good with voices. He was about to say as much when, above them, something went thump.
“Did you hear that?” Blaine hissed.
They both stared up at the ceiling. Sam whispered, “Should we –” Thump-thump.
“We should get the cops.” Blaine said. He’d thought about this, the first times his parents had let him stay home alone. What he’d do if someone ever broke in. He never thought he’d need it, but he had a plan. “Call 911.” He readjusted the strap of his messenger bag and headed towards the back of the house.
Sam grabbed his arm. “Dude. Dude, you are not going up there!”
“No,” Blaine said. “I’m not. My dad has a gun in his office.”
“Are you nuts?” Sam was barely managing to keep whispering. “You don’t know how to fire a gun.”
“Whoever’s up there doesn’t know that.” Blaine pulled free and gave Sam what he hoped was a determined look. “Now call 911. Hurry.”
Blaine started walking past the staircase towards his dad’s office. He’d barely passed the stairs when he heard a whomp from the kitchen, and voices shouting. Upstairs, there were feet landing heavily, running, and before he could even really process what was happening, there were men coming down the stairs. Two men, muscled and looming, both dressed in black, with knit black caps and dark glasses, both of them holding guns. They’d spotted Sam almost immediately, and were shouting orders at him: “Freeze! Where you are! Hands up!”
Blaine couldn’t move, couldn’t take his eyes off Sam. Sam had dropped his phone by his feet as his hands went up. He was wide-eyed and breathing hard, freaked out.
Two more men came in from the kitchen, just as threatening and just as armed. One of them turned to face Sam, and Sam threw himself at him, slamming into the man hard enough to make him stumble back. “Run!” Sam yelled, and Blaine ran.
Hands shaking, he unlocked the back door and ran across the yard. Their fence with the Gregsons next door had a gate, and Tim Gregson’s bike was right where he always left it, leaned up against the back deck. Blaine grabbed it, apologizing profusely in his head, and took off.
When he came around to the front, someone back at his house shouted, and he heard a car engine start. Shit. He pedaled harder till he came to the corner, then took a hard left. The street was one-way, the wrong way, and downhill: he figured he might buy himself a little time.
Where was he headed? The police station was too far. A gas station? He could call the cops from there, maybe even call his parents, Sam’s parents – God, Sam. He turned again, another wrong-way street, headed to the gas station over by the highway. Behind him, he heard car tires squeal in a turn.
He was pedaling as fast as he could. The wind was in his face and the bike was fast for a kid’s bike, but it wasn’t going to be enough. He was going to die, and he didn’t even understand what had happened. He had to keep trying though. He had to keep going. He pushed hard on the pedals, putting on speed. His bag flapped against his back like it was urging him on. He could do this. He had to.
He turned one more time, and the street was clear. The thought that he might make it was almost dizzying. He put his head down and pedaled, willing Tim’s bike to be a racer. One block, two blocks: as he came closer to the highway, he heard a car engine behind him, but he didn’t let himself look back. The car sped up. Blaine’s heart was hammering in his chest, but he kept his head down, looking forward, pushing faster. The car pulled up alongside him, and for a moment he thought that was it. But the car kept going, driving past and putting on speed as soon as he was behind it. Blaine loosened his grip on the handles and gulped down air, giddy with relief.
One more corner to clear, and he’d be there. He could do this. He could do it for Sam. He put his back into it, pushing hard. A car came barrelling up through the intersection, a maroon sedan with tinted windows, and it stopped, blocking the street. Blaine skidded hard as he turned, trying to avoid it, but he was too fast and it was too close: the bike collapsed under him, and he fell hard to the street, his bag tangling around him.
The car’s passenger-side door opened, and Blaine couldn’t breathe.
“Get in,” said a familiar voice.
“What?”
“Blaine, get in the car this instant!”
Blaine pushed himself to his feet and started picking up Tim’s bike.
“Leave the bike!”
Blaine blinked hard, like that could make things make sense. Shakily, he stepped over the bike and got into the car. As soon as he’d shut the car door, they peeled off again, turning hard towards the highway. The tires screeched and the seatbelt warning dinged at him.
“Well, little brother,” said Cooper Anderson. “You’re really in it this time, huh?”