#cannibal!kurt

As they walk, Sue moves the envelope away from Blaine. “Your instructors tell me you’re doing well,” she says, before adding with a ghost of a smile on her lips, “Top quarter of the class.”

That surprises Blaine, but he manages to conceal it. “I hope so,” he says softly, “they haven’t posted anything yet.”

A moment of silence gets them closer to the firing range, and Blaine wonders if she’s going to put him through a test.

And then she clears her throat.

“A job has come up, and I think that you are the Junior G-man for it.”

Blaine straightens up. Wow.

“Well, it’s more of a … an interesting errand.”

That makes him even more curious, to be honest.

“We're trying to interview all of the serial killers now in custody, for a psycho-behavioral profile. Could be a big help in unsolved cases,” Sue explains, heaving a sigh. “Most of them have been happy to talk to us. They have a compulsion to boast, these people…” She pauses, and Blaine tries his hardest not to think that Chief Sylvester does have a tendency to boast herself. “Do you spook easily, Anderson?”

The question takes him by surprise and he takes a second to think it through. “Not yet, chief.”

And at this point, for the first time ever, Blaine sees Susan “Sue” Sylvester looking … embarrassed.

“See, the one we want answering our questions the most is the one who refuses to cooperate. I think you could break through him, though, down at the Asylum.”

The vote of confidence is clear, and Blaine puffs a little in pride. “Who’s the subject?”

“A former psychiatrist--Dr. Kurt Hummel.”

Blaine stops walking and freezes in recognition of the name.

“The cannibal?”

Sue doesn’t reply, observing Blaine and what shows on his face, beyond his control.

“The Unicorn, as the media has taken to dubbed him, yes,” she comments after a while, apparently satisfied with what she saw in Blaine’s eyes.

“Oh well,” Blaine stammers, “I am … I’m glad for the opportunity, ma’am, but, pardon me for asking, but why--why me?”

Sue slaps the envelope in Blaine’s hand. “You’re qualified, you’re available, you’re eager to please, and frankly, I don’t have a real agent to spare on this mission.”

She starts walking again, away from the stands, and Blaine almost has to trot to catch up.

“Dossier on Hummel,” Sue says, gesturing towards the envelope, “copy of all previous interviews, special ID for you to get in the Asylum. I want your report on my desk by Wednesday 0800--what he said, how he looked, the way his fucking pants are folded over his shoes, got it?”

“Got it.”

“And above anything else, stick to the procedure,” Sue says, her intensity reaching new levels as she reaches for Blaine’s shoulder. “Do not let Hummel get in your head.”

Blaine nods and she puts her other hand on his shoulder, framing his face between her arms.

“Never, ever, even for a minute, forget what he is.”

Blaine swallows down on his nerves. “What is that, ma’am?”

“A pure psychopath.”

---

Blaine checks his outfit one more time before nodding to the guard who opens the heavy metal door, trying to drown Dr. Smythe’s voice by his side.

“Hummel carved up nine people--that we're sure of, that is--and cooked his favorite bits. We've tried to study him, of course, but he's much too sophisticated for the standard tests. And my, does he hate us! Thinks I'm his nemesis... Sylvester’s very clever, isn't she? Using you …”

“What do you mean?” Blaine asks in spite of himself, since he has tried to keep the good doctor to get too close to him since his arrival at the asylum.

“A pretty young thing like you? I don’t believe Hummel’s ever been turned on by anybody in eight years. And are you ever to his taste--so to speak,” Smythe adds with an unelegant snort.

Blaine stiffens as they start walking down the corridor. “I graduated Magna from UBA, doctor. Last time I checked, it’s not a beauty parlor school.”

Smythe looks down at him with a smirk. “Good--that means you’ll remember the procedure.”

In the distance, Blaine can hear shouts and groans, and his pace gets briskier.

“Do not reach through the bars, do not touch the bars,” Sebastian lists on. “You pass him nothing but soft paper--no pens or pencils. No staples or paperclips in his paper. Use the sliding food carrier, no exceptions. Do not accept anything he attempts to hold out to you. Do you understand me?”

His tone is more urgent than before and Blaine looks back at him with a firm nod. “I understand.”

The doctor pulls a picture out of his pocket and hands it to Blaine. “The last time someone parted from the procedure, Nurse Karofsky ended up like this,” he says, and Blaine looks at the picture.

The sight of the burly man, jaw unhinged, blood flowing from his mouth and where his eyes should be, is enough to stop him in his tracks.

“Hummel’s pulse never got over 85, even when he ripped his tongue out.”

It sounds like this piece of information pleases the doctor Sebastian Smythe far too much.

Blaine takes a deep breath and starts walking again, until they reach a new metallic door.

“I keep him in here,” Smythe points out, pressing a button.

As he goes to walk in, Blaine puts his hand on his arm. “Dr. Smythe--if Hummel feels you're his enemy--as you've said--then maybe I'll have more luck by myself. What do you think?”

Smythe looks annoyed and his mouth twists in … disappointment. “You might have suggested that in my office, would have saved me the trouble,” he grumbles, and Blaine turns up the charm.

“Yes,” he says, smiling as innocently as he can, “but then I would have missed the pleasure of your company.”

A tall guard, standing nearby, huffs a laugh and Blaine glances his way. The man is large like a bear, but he looks gentle enough--an oddity in such a place.

“Fine,” Smythe finally says, snatching back the picture. “Bring him back to my office when he’s done,” he tells the guard before turning heels.

“Hi, I’m Roderick,” the guard says. “He told you about the bars?”

Blaine shakes his hand. “Blaine Anderson. And yes, he did.”

Roderick nods before looking ahead. “His cell is the last on the left. I set up a chair for you,” he adds and Blaine whispers a thank you before his nerves return to him. “Hey,” Roderick says gently, pointing at cameras that cover the corridor, “I’ll keep an eye on you, don’t you worry.”

Blaine smiles gratefully and squares his shoulders before taking the first step down the corridor.

---

Kurt knows that Sue is not about to give up.

She has tried many techniques, interrogations, bribing, threats--but it’s way too much fun to make her run in circles.

Besides, he has not felt like answering the dumb questions that Sue’s lackeys have tried on him.

He can hear footsteps coming closer, and he naturally saw it earlier when Roderick came up with a chair in front of his cell.

Curtain call in 3,2 …

“I can smell your sweet asssss!”, comes from the cell next to him, and Kurt has to roll his eyes as he walks around his cell.

Sandy Ryerson, always classy.

Kurt picks up a magazine--Italian Vogue, always a good choice--and goes to sit on his bed.

Might as well get comfortable.

The footsteps falter as Sandy keeps on hissing despicable things--for God’s sake--and then shiny shoes enter Kurt’s line of sight.

From the corner of his eyes, Kurt follows up the line of the pants--well tailored, he’ll give whoever this is that--, the curve of the ass, visible from the stance--delicious--up a small waist and strong torso.

Kudos to Sylvester, she outdid herself here.

And earned Kurt’s gratitude for the eye candy.

Kurt suppresses a snort at the pun he made in his own head and closes the magazine.

“Doctor Hummel?”

Charming voice, paced diction. Kurt could get used to that.

“My name is Blaine Anderson. May I talk to you?”

“Good morning,” Kurt replies, slowly standing up, unfolding his long legs and brushing invisible dust from his white uniform. “And yes, yes you may. Whether I’ll participate or not is another matter.”

The cute mister Anderson blinks at him before taking a step closer to the bars.

Still at a distance--good lamb.

“Doctor, we have a hard problem in psychological profiling. I want to ask for your help with a questionnaire.”

Kurt’s smile widens. “‘We’ referring to the Behavioral Unit, isn’t it.”

He doesn’t need to ask--Sue Sylvester is so predictable.

As Blaine nods, Kurt takes a step closer, irresistibly drawn to the man. No, really, Sue managed to find the one agent that has every characteristic Kurt looks for in a partner--predictable she may be, but so is he apparently.

“May I see your credentials?”

Blaine tilts his head to the side, involuntarily--or is he--presenting his neck to Kurt as he digs in his pocket for his card and holds it up.

“Closer--please,” Kurt asks where he would prefer to demand, and Blaine complies.

Oh, how delicious it would be to see how Kurt could make it comply in a different setting.

Less bars between them, and less clothes too.

Kurt’s nostrils flare at that thought and he smiles at Blaine before glancing at the card, an eyebrow immediately lifting.

“That expires in a week”, he says softly before looking back at Blaine, his smile turning predatory. “You’re not real FBI, are you?”

Blaine takes a deep breath and puts his card back in his breast pocket.

Ah, to be a square of fabric.

“I’m … still in training at the Academy.”

Kurt doesn’t know whether he wants to laugh or be enraged. “Sue Sylvester sent a … a trainee to me?”

The disrespect!

Or is it?

Maybe there is more to Mr. Anderson than meets the eye.

“This is a psychology matter, Doctor, not a criminal one,” Blaine says, voice soft and certain. “Perhaps you can decide for yourself whether I am qualified or not?”

Well played, Kurt thinks, cocking his head to the side. Giving Kurt the appearance of an upper hand while manipulating him into talking to him.

His smile widens as he hums. “That’s rather slippery of you, Officer Anderson, but alright--I’ll play. Sit, please.”

Blaine sits down, and Kurt can’t help but appreciate the way he does so, elegant and precocious to boot.

Kurt waits for him to be settled, one leg folded over the other and hands resting on his knee, to sit down in front of him.

“Now then,” he says, picking up the conversation, “what did Ryerson say to you?”

“Beg your pardon?”

“Sandy Ryerson, in the cell next to mine,” Kurt explains with a dainty gesture of his hand towards the wall that blessedly keeps them apart. “He hissed at you on your way here. What did he say?”

Blaine looks embarrassed for a moment, his long eyelashes fluttering like a fledgling wings before he straightens up. “He said … he said that he could smell my s-sweet ass.”

“I see,” Kurt replies, pondering that particular sentence and taking a deep breath. Whiffs of Blaine’s scents get through the air conduct and he tries to identify it. “I myself cannot,” he admits playfully. And now for the strike. “You use Enliven hair gel and sometimes you wear Guerlain’s Vetiver, but not today. You’ve brought your best briefcase, though, didn’t you?”

Blaine seems startled by his analysis, which can only mean that he’s right, before acquiescing.

“It’s much better than your shoes,” Kurt adds, because brown shoes with a dark grey suit--that won’t do.

“Maybe they’ll catch up,” Blaine replies, and it’s Kurt’s turn to be startled.

He talks back, then.

Even better.

It seems that Kurt has found a match after all.

“I have no doubt about it.”

---

Solving the case doesn’t taste as good as Blaine thought it would.

Sure they caught Buffalo Bill, and they saved at least one girl, but there is this lingering feeling in the back of his mind that he missed something.

Or Someone.

“Agent Anderson! Telephone!”

Blaine is still laughing from Sam trying to do an impromptu dance with Mercedes when he picks up the phone. “Anderson speaking!”

“Well, Blaine, have the lambs stopped screaming?”

Blaine freezes and snaps his fingers to get Sam’s attention.

“Don’t bother with a trace,” Kurt continues, his voice betraying his amusement, “I won’t be on long enough.”

“Doctor Hummel, where are you?” Blaine asks, and even though Sam is next to him, he clutches the phone more tightly, as if it will get him closer to Kurt.

To arrest him or to kiss him, he’s not quite sure.

“Where I have a view, Blaine,” Kurt replies softly, and Blaine’s heart beats faster in his chest.

He knows where Kurt is.

“Orion is looking splendid tonight,” Kurt continues and Blaine sits down to look outside.

Just as he thought--it’s broad daylight over Quantico.

“I have no plans on catching up with you, Blaine--the world is a much more interesting place with you in it.”

The veiled threat doesn’t go unnoticed.

“As much as I loathe uttering those words, goodbye Blaine. And may I add--”

Kurt pauses and Blaine doesn’t know if he’s panicking or if he wants to cry in relief.

In relief that Kurt is free under the stars.

And isn’t that horrifying.

“--you looked … so very lovely today, in that blue suit.”

Blaine doesn’t have the time to react that Kurt has already hung up.

“Kurt …,” he whispers in the phone, even though the line has disconnected.

---

Three years later

Roderick Meeks savors his first holidays in years.

Not only is it a delight to be away from the Asylum, but Buenos Aires turns out to be everything he needed.

Lots of Sun, delicious food, great scenery--

Roderick freezes in the middle of the road, and a car manages to avoid him, but he barely hears the insults hurled at him in Spanish.

He would recognize that profile anywhere, even with the longer and lighter hair, and the couple of pounds added to the whole silhouette.

Doctor Kurt Hummel.

Here, in Buenos Aires.

What should Roderick do?

Call the authorities? Apprehend Hummel?

In the years he has been his warden, Roderick has learned to respect Hummel’s intellect, and provided some books in spite of Dr. Smythe’s wish to make the prisoner’s life miserable.

But this is--

Oh.

Dr. Hummel is not by himself.

Roderick frowns as he looks at the smaller silhouette that steps out of the bodega to get closer to Kurt and puts their arm around Kurt’s waist.

And then his eyes widen as Kurt Hummel, head psychopath, places a gentle kiss on his companion’s forehead and pulls him closer as they walk away.

Roderick knows that he knows that small frame.

A memory from a couple--no, from three years ago, fleets back in his mind and Roderick nearly trips himself.

Agent Anderson.

He has to admit he didn’t see it coming.

A car honks its horn at him and Roderick is brought back to the present.

In the distance, he can see Kurt looking over his shoulder, and smirking at him.