Disclaimer: I don't own Glee or The Proposal.

"Would you please, with cherries on top, marry me?" —Margaret Tate, The Proposal

I

Blaine Anderson's aboard a particularly vengeful train of thought as he narrowly avoids the three honking taxis stalling by the crosswalk and holds several paper bags from Starbucks over his head to keep dry. The rain is a reminder, the constant rapping against the sidewalk is a stopwatch, and the ticking is frustratingly intermittent.

The weather man, Rod Remington, had promised sunshine all over New York City with smile and machismo to boot, and Blaine can't help but revel in the unbridled irony of it all. Sunshine? Ha! There's absolutely none of it; in fact, the weather is positively dismal. There are drops of infuriatingly steadfast rain pelting at Blaine's hair, mussing the gel up and causing it to stick up in strange places.

The closest thing to sunshine available, actually, is the multi-meter long billboard of pop sensation Sunshine Corazon that's hanging over the side of one of the many buildings of New York City. It's damp and already beginning to show some evidence of deterioration, but Sunshine is still there with thickly-rimmed eyeglasses and a smile like a little girl's. She's wearing an oversized knit sweater with "N.D." embroidered on the side in ruby thread.

"Blaine Anderson," he tells himself through gritted teeth, "You are in too far over your head."

As if to prove a point, a water droplet collides with his scalp and causes a lock of hair to collapse onto his forehead.

When he manages to scoot underneath an awning in order to pull out his umbrella, God, or Buddha, or Allah, or Zeus, or whoever decides to end the downpour. He feels the pit-pattering on the stretched plastic of the awning cease and closes his umbrella triumphantly.

There's a buzz in his pocket, and it turns out to be his Blackberry alerting him of a text message and bringing him back down to earth. He slides it out of his pocket and presses his thumb to one of the many buttons that are peppered on the face of the phone.

It's coming! a text message from Mike, one of his business associates, urges. Sent from my iPhone is what it says after it.

Another vibration, and then a message from Tina: 5...4...3...2...

Blaine twitches once and jumps over a two-foot wide puddle while cradling the coffee to his chest, extending a foot to keep the door of his workplace open. A strained two-finger salute to the friendly blond doorman, Jeff, later, Blaine dives into the open doors of the glass paneled elevator, jabs the button for the fifteenth floor with his free thumb, and collapses against the wall.

He's shaky and absolutely boneless.

.:.

"Grande nonfat mocha with the sugar on the side and a blueberry scone warmed on top of the toaster, not in it, for fifty seconds, sir," Blaine says in a feeble attempt at amiability, gesturing to the pile of Starbucks merchandise arranged on the shiny mahogany desk.

Kurt Hummel, fashion extraordinaire, merely stares at Blaine's sweaty forehead with an unimpressed look on his face, places his Yves Saint Laurent tote on the plush carpet, and directs his gaze towards the steaming coffee. "I asked for Truvia, not sugar," he says disdainfully, walking around Blaine and into the seat of his desk.

That's fine. Blaine's come prepared for that. "I brought that too, sir," he says, surreptitiously slipping two packets of sugar substitute out of his wallet (he's kept a variety of coffee sweeteners in there ever since Kurt began to desire a different kind each workday), thumbing through twenty-dollar bills and a lone latex condom wrapped in aluminum foil.

Kurt takes the packet of sugar sweetener and shoots him a steely smile. "I'm glad that I've got an personal assistant who's at least somewhat adequate," he says, and Blaine can't help but feel a small surge of pride.

Kurt is the executive officer of New Directions, an up-and-coming fashion company that already boasts three individual fashion lines and an entire host of capable designers on queue to get their creations under the New Directions umbrella. Created originally by one William Schuester, the company's been working on branching overseas all thanks to its supervisor, Kurt Hummel, widely regarded as a loose cannon in the fashion industry, a complete purist as well as an innovator—Kurt has for so long adored the classics, the rounded shape of Sophia Loren, but he also harbors an admiration for the hard, angular lines formed by the arms of the models who strut down runways for McQueen.

Most of all, he likes success.

Kurt's categorizes himself as gay, but Blaine's never been one for labels; besides, the public knows that Kurt would never sacrifice his business prowess for a romantic relationship with another man. Kurt's overall negative perception of the world, Blaine reasons, overtakes his generally attractive features and killer fashion sense that would have otherwise sent the entire gay male population into swoon fits and secret erections.

There's a click of the computer mouse, and then Kurt looks up and asks, "What's on the agenda today?"

That being said, there are definite perks to Blaine's job as Kurt's private assistant. It pays decently for what it entails and doesn't involve too much thinking in terms of business or numbers. Blaine's simply there to show up at work every morning with a hot mocha in his hands, and the rest of of his job is performed via the Internet or over the phone, with people from Paris and London calling in to discuss their designs and how they might fit into New Directions.

Blaine takes a deep breath before rattling off the list of potential designers and the concepts he memorized the night before.

A frown cuts across Kurt's face, and it's almost jarring to see. He swirls the packet of Truvia into his drink. "Mmm. Dismiss them all," he says, and then he takes a sip of coffee and grimaces at the taste. "This is awful, Blaine. Who was the barista you got this from?"

"Why would I know who I got the coffee from?" Blaine asks after taking in a sharp breath. "More importantly, Mr. Hummel, you can't just dismiss everyone without considering them for the upcoming Fall collection, that's wrong. Morally incorrect."

"As wrong as accepting the absolute shit we've been getting so far, Anderson?" Kurt asks archly, giving Blaine an innocent look, left eyebrow drifting up higher than the right one. "And since when have you been so...emotionally attached to any of these hopefuls?"

Blaine averts his gaze. "Truthfully, sir, I looked over one of the portfolios of the applicants. Frankly, I think it's amazing."

Kurt gives a laugh as dry as fresh laundry. Blaine doesn't reciprocate.

Sobering and dropping a delicate hand to his chest, Kurt adds, "Oh, I'm sorry, that wasn't meant to be a joke, was it? My apologies, I thought it was hilarious."

Blaine catches a glimpse of Finn Hudson through the window of Kurt's office, drawing a finger across his neck and mouthing, "It's not worth it!" with a palpable sense of desperation oozing into his tall frame and slouched posture.

"Sorry," Blaine mouths back weakly, and brings his attention back to Kurt.

"I know how partial you can get, Blaine," Kurt continues. "And I just wanted to let you know that part of being involved in the fashion industry is the heartlessness of it all. I know that I may seem like the dictator in this charmingly authoritarian set-up we have here..."

"Yes, sir?"

"...but in actuality, I'm not. I have a boss, too, you know. And while Schuester can be soft at times, rest assured that I will always give him the best of the best. And that's just how it goes." Kurt continues to tap away at the keys of his computer. "Anyway. As for personal dues?"

Blaine folds his hands together neatly and cleared his throat. Kurt doesn't look up from his computer screen, and Blaine can feel his annoyance when he eventually deigns to glance up and ask, "Well?"

"Sandy Ryerson from U.S. immigration called me last night. He said that he wanted to see you." Blaine says quietly. Kurt doesn't acknowledge that, and Blaine finds himself having to repeat the statement again. "Sir? Sandy Ryerson from U.S. immigration wants to see you."

"Ryerson...?" Kurt finally repeats, picking at a blueberry from the scone on his desk. "Do I know him?"

Blaine scratches at the nape of his neck. "The, uh, 'ugly baldy', as you put it when you met with him a year and a half ago."

Recognition clicks in Kurt's eyes.

"Sandy!" Kurt exclaims, lacing his fingers together and leaning his chin against them. "I know just who you're talking about."

Reaching into his briefcase, Blaine pulls out a leather-bound planner and poises a pen at a page. "Is Friday at ten o'clock too much to ask? I can always reschedule with—"

Kurt cuts Blaine off sharply with a dismissive wave of his hand. "It's fine," he says nonchalantly..

Blaine ducks his head down in a small bow. "He'll be expecting you then, sir—"

"Us. He'll be expecting us," Kurt interrupts, returning his attention to the promo catalogs on his computer screen. He clicks on a high-res picture of a pair of hunter green pumps and examines it, biting at his lower lip in concentration. The detailing is nice, but the patent finish is awful.

"What?" Blaine blinks several times in rapid succession.

"Well, you're coming with me," Kurt says with that same hard, unfazed smile on his lips.

"Hm? Oh. I, uh, can't. I'm visiting my family in Westerville this weekend...I'm going to be busy packing on Friday, and I have plane tickets scheduled for Friday evening...besides, Friday's usually my day off, sir, you know my schedule..."

"Oh, really, now?" Kurt sips at his coffee placidly. "Mm-hm, don't really care."

Silence falls upon the two men: one of them, Blaine, sways back and forth in his spot with an obvious grimace decorating his face, and the second, Kurt, continues to tap away at the keys of his computer busily, monitoring the one of the three designer labels under his jurisdiction—Mercedes Jones produced a score of vibrant scarves and accessories that simply click with the season's color blocking trend.

Blaine continues to sway in his spot until Kurt shrills, "My God!" and stands up abruptly from his seat. "Finn Hudson. Away from Miss Fabray's cubicle this instant!"

Out of the corner of his eye, Blaine sees a sheepish looking Finn retreat back into the confines of his personal box. Kurt nods to himself as he lets a long sigh whoosh out of his chest.

"What was the name of that girl we had working with packaging and advertising?" Kurt asks once his voice is uncharacteristically calm and mellow again.

"...Rachel Berry?" Blaine looks down nervously. Rachel's got a bit of a strong-willed streak in her, but Blaine's found that he has a sort of camaraderie with her. They're both exceedingly hard workers, and Blaine would hate to see her go. Unfortunately, the look on Kurt's face is dangerous, and his usually soft pink lips are pulled tight in a disapproving grimace.

Kurt's head shoots up as he snaps his fingers. "That's it! Rachel Berry's the one." He pulls a sheaf of papers from the printer tray. "Look at this."

The papers are filled with preliminary samples of the tags and logos that are planned to be used for New Directions' upcoming fall line. Blaine frowns as he examined them—chestnut brown with a cut-out bird overlay, and New Directions written in a flowing cursive font. It's definitely a valiant attempt, but all Blaine can read from the design is tacky, tacky, tacky. And if that's what Blaine can perceive, he can't even imagine what the designs must look like to Kurt.

"Completely hideous," Kurt spits out, leaning over and running the pages through the shredder at the foot of his desk. Over the sound of the roaring shredder, he says, "I feel bad for the people using the recycled paper cups that will inevitably be made from these sheets of paper. Blaine, fire her."

"What—?"

"You heard me," says Kurt, primly wrapping his uneaten scone in a brown paper napkin and tossing it into the trash bin.

Blaine shakes his head rapidly. "N-no, sir, I don't think you understand, sir, Rachel Berry might be working with advertising right now, but that's only because you're in this position, she's second-in-command and our company representative—"

Kurt waves Blaine away. "I don't need a second-in-command, frankly. And Blaine?"

Blaine shudders and turns his head so he can look straight into Kurt's piercing blue eyes.

"I don't know what she's getting at with these goddamn animal prints. Look for a new advertising girl, please."

Kurt pops the lid off of his coffee and carefully pours the cup's contents into the trash can; Blaine winces as he watched. He would ultimately end up scraping congealed mocha-scone off of the bottom of the bin, he's sure of it.

"Oh, also, Blaine?" Kurt adds, face smooth and professional. "I'd like for you to choose a girl with an actual eye for fashion and an at least passable taste."

"So, like...?"

"Someone the complete opposite of you, I should think, would do the job perfectly."

.:.

"You wanted to meet with me, Sandy?" Kurt asks brusquely, setting his bag down at his feet and crossing one leg over the other in an almost robotically rehearsed movement. "My personal assistant sent me the bulletin a few days ago."

Sandy Ryerson speaks in a wheedling tone that Kurt absolutely abhors and is wearing an ugly sweater vest worthy of upholstering a cat-scratch post. "Mr. Hummel, there's been some discrepancies regarding your American citizenship. If I were to show you these documents—" Sandy pulls out a pile of papers bound by a paperclip "—you would find that you've been staying here in the US for quite some time without a green card or any documentary evidence of legal citizenship."

Kurt slicks his hand over his head offhandedly, smoothing the flyaways down. "And I'm supposed to care because...?"

Sandy circles an item on the paper in blue ink and points to it with the nib of his pen. "I'm afraid you're subject to deportation, Mr. Hummel."

Kurt nods blankly. "I'm sorry? I don't quite follow."

"That's expulsion from the country," Sandy explains gently. "As in...immediate expulsion, Mr. Hummel."

Kurt, understanding now, lets out a harsh laugh. "You're kidding, right? I head a design firm, not some godforsaken underground railroad for illegal drug transport. I'm not even an alien, for Jesus' sake, I grew up in Ohio. If that's not American then I don't know what is."

"France is regarded as another country, Mr. Hummel," Sandy reminds him, glasses twinkling in the light of the fluorescents. "And you voided your American visa when you went across the pond for university in Paris."

"So deportation is the answer?" Kurt demands, crossing his arms over his chest. Ryerson watches, fascinated, as one of the cords of muscle in his forearms undulate menacingly. "I go to pursue my major in fashion marketing and design—getting a good education and whatnot, living the American dream—and I come home to this?"

Sandy pushes his bifocals up higher on the bridge of his nose and nods solemnly—almost too solemnly, Kurt thinks to himself.

"And there's nothing I can do?" Kurt questions, tapping his fingertips against the faux wood of Sandy's desk. "I can't believe this—I just fired my second-in-command!"

"Mr. Hummel, I'm sorry. If you had applied for citizenship earlier, or if you were married to an American citizen..."

Married to an American citizen? Kurt's ears metaphorically perk up at the sound of a possible loophole. "Repeat that, Sandy." The gears in his mind are already shifting uncontrollably, so loudly that for a fleeting moment, Kurt wonders if Ryerson can actually hear them working.

A large furrow appears in between Sandy's two bushy eyebrows. "If you were legally wed to an American citizen, Mr. Humme—"

There's a flash of excitement in Kurt's steely blue eyes. "Oh, Mr. Ryerson..." he says, tone immediately shifting from haughty to cajoling, "...this meeting was entirely uncalled for. See..."

Kurt brings his hand behind his chair and crooks a finger towards Blaine, who had been standing in the corner of the room since the beginning of the entire deportation conversation with Ryerson. A very confused Blaine shuffles over to Kurt, who yanks him down to the seat beside him and thrusts an arm around his waist. "Blaine and I are engaged," Kurt says, and grabs Blaine's hand from underneath the table and squeezes as tight as he can, hoping the pressure would get the message across.

Blaine's hazel eyes widen in alarm and he shoots a questioning look in Kurt's direction.

"Wha—?" he manages before Kurt grabs hold of the skin on his lower back and pinches. "Ow!"

Ryerson looks even more confused than Blaine. "You have... been dating... your personal assistant?" he asks, eyes shifting back and forth between Kurt and Blaine. "For how long?"

"Yup," Kurt intones, popping his lips on the 'p' sound. "About...oh, I don't know...eight months and three days. Isn't that right, sweet pea?"

Blaine's face is still full of consternation, but he's able to fake a small, pained smile that ends up looking more like a wounded grimace.

"He's the most beautiful man I've ever met?" Blaine says, his statement coming out more like a question, although it's not completely inaccurate, because Kurt's definitely a handsome man, despite his face's tendency to resemble that of a young milk maid.

"Well, no doubt you're an attractive young couple, but..." Sandy stops. "With all due respect, Mr. Hummel, I didn't even know you were homosexual. If I did, I would have gone for it ages ago—"

"I'm sure my fiance wouldn't have liked that," Blaine mumbles reluctantly. Kurt nods in encouragement and assumes what Blaine presumes is his flirtatious face. His aforementioned flirty face makes him look like he's undergoing intestinal convulsions, and Blaine tries to rein in a shudder brought on by secondary embarrassment.

Sandy chuckles. "That won't make a difference, Blake. I mean, Blaise. Or was it Blaze? Anyway, I'm what they call predatory gay."

Blaine presses his lips together and nods slowly, digging the heels of his palms into his knees. "...alright then."

"Thank you, Sandy. We'll just be on our way," Kurt says as graciously as he can muster, pushing the pile of documents back in Sandy's direction.

"Wait!" Sandy exclaims, stabbing his pen against a pad of Post-Its. "You two aren't...pretending to be engaged just so Mr. Hummel over here doesn't get deported, are you?" His gaze darts from Kurt's innocent face to Blaine's slightly confused one.

Kurt stands up abruptly, taking Blaine with him, twisting his hand a little in his grip. "Of course we aren't, Sandy. I don't joke about true love," he says, smacking Blaine on the ass coquettishly. "Now get up, pumpkin."

"Soul mates, we are, Mr. Ryerson..." Blaine says, standing up quickly, as if he's been burned. "...sir."

Sandy looks more than a little suspicious. "I'll have my colleague, a Ms. Sue Sylvester, be in contact with you, then," he articulates slowly.

Blaine, still rubbing at his behind in irritation, asks, "Why's that?"

"She's going to be interviewing you to make sure this isn't all made up," Sandy explains. "Because I'm honestly not buying this crap and the consequences you'd have to face for fabricating an engagement, in this context, are amazingly steep."

Blaine's taken to staring at the strip of wall right above Sandy's head in order to distract himself from smacking Kurt in the head with the steel hole puncher that sat on Sandy's desk.

Kurt coughs, caught Blaine's eyes, and bobs his head towards Sandy, as if to tell him to look in the proper direction. Blaine reluctantly stares at the spot in between Sandy's eyebrows.

"Blainers and I have nothing to worry about," Kurt says with a confident smirk, lips curling up at the ends, catlike. "We know everything about each other."

.:.

"That was good acting," Blaine comments in the elevator as the doors slide shut smoothly. "He really bought that charade you made up. He really thinks that we're getting married, Kurt."

"That wasn't acting," Kurt replies tartly, scribbling something into his Moleskine notebook with a fountain pen, voice completely detached and matter-of-fact.

"What?" Blaine demands as the elevator dinged and the doors slid open. Kurt continues to walk forward, writing things down in his notebook without looking up, and Blaine's forced to keep his pace at a mid-jog in order to keep up. Despite his horror, Blaine remembers to hold the door open for Kurt so that he wouldn't get a face-ful of glass wall. It's one of the cardinal rules of his job position as Kurt's private assistant—very rarely is Kurt observant as he walks, since he expected everyone to part like the Red Sea when faced by his presence.

"Pipe down, Blaine. It's not that big of a deal."

Blaine finds himself lurching forward yet again to prop another door open on the toe of his shoe.

And then they're out on the sidewalk. Blaine figures that people would notice if he began to yell at the token gay businessman. He weighs his options in his mind, considering a possible confrontation in contrast with complete acquiescence.

Yep, he's definitely going to yell.

"What the hell, Kurt? We can't get married!" Blaine shouts. He cradles his face into his hands and dropped the volume of his voice. "I mean...my family doesn't even know I'm in a relationship that's..."

Kurt juts his head out from the pages of his notebook momentarily. "Gay? Queer? Homosexual? How do you say it in that weird Southeastern Asian language of yours?"

"For the last time, I'm Filipino and the term for gay people is bading and...oh, god...you're not serious...you can't be serious, I am going to step into the office and I'll be on Candid Camera or some demented remake of it—"

Kurt shrugs and shoves his notebook back into his bag. "Here's how it's going to work, Anderson. We do the interview. We get married here in New York, where gay marriage has just been made legal. We hang tight for a little bit, never consummate the marriage—" Blaine's cheeks flush a brilliant scarlet at the prospect "—and after a few months, we can get a quickie divorce and cite irreconcilable differences as the reason. Kapiche?"

Blaine scoffs and crosses his arms over each other defiantly. "I'm not worried about my interview. I literally know everything about you; you're the one who's going to have the issues."

"Is that a yes?" Kurt's head extends out a little bit from his neck like an ostrich, as if he's gauging Blaine's reactions in realtime.

"That's a fuck no," Blaine says firmly in an attempt to put the kibosh on any of Kurt's schemes.

Kurt sighs loudly and turns around so he was standing face-to-face with Blaine. "I was so hoping you wouldn't say that," he says. "Because I'm firing you if you don't do this for me. Actually, you're fired either way—if I get deported, you don't have a boss, since I fired Rachel Berry. And you wouldn't want her as your boss, anyway, the girl's a nutcase."

Blaine makes a strangled noise in the back of his throat and sputters out, "S-still a fuck no!"

Kurt eyes Blaine calmly. "I'll consider that design portfolio of your friend," he says, letting the bribe roll off his tongue easily. "Just do it. You don't have anything to lose."

"Ah, that's where you're wrong, Kurt."

"Please, you lead a meaningless existence, and everyone knows that."

"Gee, you really know how to sweep a guy off of his feet, sir," Blaine says wryly, giving Kurt a scoff.

Kurt quirks an eyebrow up at Blaine. "Well what do you want me to say? Nothing, I hope." He pulls his phone out from his pocket. "Oh, Mercedes is calling me, probably going to ask about that shipment of scarves coming in this seaso—"

Blaine's tone is dangerous now. "Drop the phone, Kurt, and ask nicely." He closes a warm hand over Kurt's cell phone and smoothly finds the power button. He turns the phone off, but let his hand linger until Kurt was forced to take it upon himself to lift it from his side.

Now it's Kurt's turn to scoff. "Not likely. Now keep moving, we're blocking everyone else's way, and I don't want my new Prada brogues to get stepped on. They cost a fortune and can't get scuffed, you know."

Blaine shoots Kurt a withering look. "I'm not doing this unless you ask nicely," he hedges stubbornly.

"Fine," Kurt says, pursing his lips and shaking his shoulders out until they were squared perfectly. "Pretty please will you pretend to marry me?"

Blaine stares Kurt down, obviously unimpressed. For effect, he cocks his head to the side and taps at his wrist.

"With a cherry on top?" Kurt continues, his annoyance breaking through with every word.

Blaine continues to stare at Kurt, undaunted.

"Oh, fuck it," Kurt grumbles, turning his head from left to right in order to examine his surroundings. People are shoving past them from all sides, and they don't seem too set on noticing any kind of well-dressed pair of male business professionals idling around the sidewalk.

Kurt huffs out an annoyed sigh and drops his bag to the concrete, then his knee. He props Blaine's left hand on the knee bent upwards so that he's in the stereotypical proposal position and tries to ignore the bemused look on Blaine's stupidly square, stubbly face.

"Blaine Anderson, will you..." Kurt stops and grinds his teeth together. "Will you marry me?"

Blaine seems to contemplate that for a little bit, but Kurt's fears are ultimately squashed when he simply shrugs. "Sure," he says. "I don't appreciate the sarcasm or the obvious annoyance behind your words, but I'll do it."

And he pulls Kurt into a huge bear hug, just to save face, since it turns out that people did notice and now surround them, clapping and wolf whistling. Kurt feels like stabbing the scantily clad twenty-something who had whipped out an iPhone and recorded the entire proposal from beginning to end.

"I loathe you," Blaine murmurs, and Kurt can feel a tingle travel from the spot on his ear down to the base of his spine.

"Damn you to hell," Kurt replies in a tone that's just as quiet, but perhaps not quite as peaceable.

.:.

"Good afternoon, Ms. Sylvester," Kurt says, crossing his legs and leaning against Blaine, who's sitting next to him with a painfully forced expression of affection plastered onto his face.

Sue Sylvester's generally a terrifying woman, with narrow glasses perched atop a nose far too hawklike and lips that seem perpetually pursed. She's known for her eccentricities; both Blaine and Kurt notice that she's wearing a black tracksuit that gives "business casual" an entirely new meaning.

"Afternoon, ladies," Sue says pleasantly. Blaine frowns at that, but Kurt manages to give him a big enough kick in the shins to erase his look of discomfort.

Sue gives both of them a tightlipped smile. "Before we begin, I'd just like to say that I'm on to you. I'm on to both of you, actually."

"I'm sorry?" Kurt says, warding off the blood that's quickly rushing to his face.

"Listen up, dough-boy. You've only been in my office for two minutes and Sue Sylvester can already perceive the reeky stench of the lies emanating from those sweat glands of yours," she replies lightly, closing the leather-bound book that had been open on her desk. "As for the hobbit, there's only one thing I can detect, and that's blackmail. Or perhaps it's just the smell of the pigments in his overly bushy eyebrows. Honestly, I wouldn't be able to tell you." Sue leans forward and adjusts her glasses. "Case in point, ladies?" Sue continues, a sharp glint in her eyes. "There's very little to gain out of this little charade of yours. Ah...Mr. Anderson, is it?"

"Yes," Blaine half-whimpers.

"Are you aware of the consequences of brown-nosing?"

Kurt rolls his eyes. "For the last time, Sue, we're not brown-nosing."

Sue smirks at him. "It sure looks like it, though, and that's a concept I'll have to squeeze into your noggin. That'll prove to be quite the challenge, since your hair's so goddamn big."

Kurt's face falls and his hand floats instinctively upwards to pet at his coif.

"Anyway. Curly-que over here's facing a multi-thousand dollar fine and possible imprisonment, should you two screw up in this charade," Sue says. "And when I say multi-thousand, I'm talking up in the one-hundreds. Not some mamby-pamby 9-k dollar fine."

Blaine's jaw drops increduously. "You're joking."

Sue shrugs. "Sorry, Anderson, Sue Sylvester doesn't joke around. Although I think prison orange would definitely be a good look for you," Her eyes narrow as she gives Blaine a pointedly disdainful once-over. "Nah, actually it'd be awful and I'd absolutely abhor it. While you're in prison, however, you could probably auction off that hair of yours for quite a sum of money. I think you could fetch a good one-hundred dollars from that left eyebrow alone." She pauses and mulls that one over. "God, it's so hairy."

"What are his consequences, then?" Blaine asks levelly, pointing to Kurt, who's still combing through his hair defensively.

Sue examines her papers before looking up at Blaine. "He gets deported."

Kurt lets out a sigh of relief, and then quickly stifles it before Sue could notice.

"That's it?" A large divot appears in the space between Blaine's eyebrows.

"Well, what did you expect? He's already breaking the law by being here. You're the idiot who agreed to all of this," says Sue. "Speaking of, when are you ladies planning this marriage, anyway?"

Both men remain silent.

"Have you even told anyone yet? I'm sorry, but your case is looking awfully...sketchy."

"We're—" Kurt begins.

"—announcing it at my parent's house this weekend. We're going there together." Blaine loops his arm around Kurt's shoulders, and Kurt shoots him a frustrated look. "See, my parents have been living in Westerville since I was in high school, and they've been wanting to meet my boyfriend. Well, he's my fiance now," Blaine says confidently.

Sue cocks an eyebrow at him. "Westerville, Ohio?"

"...yes?" Kurt says in a small voice, trying to ignore the warmth of Blaine's arm around his shoulders.

"Excellent timing, seeing as that gay marriage bill was passed less than half a year ago."

"We're not..." Blaine says. "We're not getting married there, Ms. Sylvester, just announcing it. I personally thought it would be the wisest way. And my parents are completely...completely supportive of my sexuality."

"As they should be," Kurt adds in piously.

Sue looks unimpressed as she drums her pen against her desk. "Well, I'll be meeting you in a week, anyway. I have to interview you two. It's my job here at this Immigration office," Sue replies amicably. "In the meantime, take this."

She slams a two-inch thick folder on the desk in front of them.

"What the hell is this?" Kurt demands.

"Your quiz questions for next week," Sue replies shortly. "They're questions that partners should know about each other. Not that you'd have an issue with that, otherwise...well. It's deportation for you, Lord Coif-Coif, and imprisonment for Assistant Peewee next to you."

Sue stands up from her desk and claps a hand against Kurt's shoulder. "I wish you the best of luck, Porcelain. You're going to need it."

.:.

I'm planning on this being relatively short—perhaps around five chapters? Let me know if you think I should continue!

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