Title: Personal Detail

Pairing: Klaine, AU.

Warning: Not much to worry about this chapter, but in the future there will be sex. And lots of it.

Disclaimer: I don't own Glee. If I did, it'd be all about these two.

Prompt: From the LJ Kink Meme community. "Senator Blaine Dalton has just been elected America's first gay president. As such, he needs secret service agents of unusually high skill level. Agent Kurt Hummel (Specialty: Hand-to-hand combat, expert Sai Swords) is assigned to President Dalton's personal detail. The President is immediately attracted to Agent Hummel who is a strange mix of effeminate and badass. Their relationship escalates to quick, passion-filled but secretive hook-ups: Agent Hummel blowing the president under his desk, Blaine fucking Kurt over the presidential desk, Kurt riding Blaine in his desk chair. Everything is all sexy fine until Kurt is shot while protecting Blaine and the president realizes it's more than just sex: he's totally in love with his Agent."

He's tucked safely from the public's eye, his little apartment flat guarded heavily from every angle. Blaine avoids the television like the plague, and has instead taken to playing a lonely game of solitaire on his coffee table while some of Chopin's nocturnes play quietly from the little stereo in the corner. He would have been at the kitchen table playing this game, but there are too many windows to just sit there and do nothing. Plus, the completed 1,000 piece jigsaw puzzle is still sitting there from earlier in the afternoon.

He briefly contemplates getting it framed when the phone rings.

It's his advisor. Rachel Berry.

"Have you been watching the TV?" she says.

"No, of course not."

"Turn on the news."

He doesn't want to, but Rachel's so controlling that he doesn't have a choice, unless he wants to get yelled at more than usual. He picks the remote up off the coffee table, flipping on the television and switching to the news station.

There's some news story about yet another child prodigy playing the piano, and he thinks about how that was him thirty-odd years ago. He voices this to Rachel, eager to turn the television off again, but she says, "Keep watching. Just shut up and keep watching."

The story gives way to commercials, and the commercials are interrupted by breaking news. The anchor looks excited, too excited, and she's talking rapidly. Something about the presidential election, and then she says, "Winning eighty-seven percent of the popular vote, Senator Blaine Dalton is officially the next President of the United States."

"Blaine?" Rachel says when there's no answer on his end for a good five minutes. "Blaine, did you see it? Did you hear? You're the next President! The President of the United States of America! You did it! The first openly gay President! Can you believe it!"

She's talking so rapidly that Blaine's glad he doesn't have to say much to appease her. Eighty-seven percent of the popular vote leaves open twenty-three percent of the vote that would, more likely than not, love to see him dead at the hands of one of their own. He swallows hard, loud enough for Rachel to hear, and she abruptly stops talking. Eventually, though, she says, "…Blaine? You're not backing out, are you? You're happy, right?"

She sounds so happy, and she has every right to be. Rachel Berry has been his pillar of support throughout the entire race. Death threats? She was there. Publicity mishaps? She was there. Raging fanboys? She was there. She was there for him one thousand percent of the time, and what did he have to thank her? A little ingratitude and a whole lot of self-doubt. As he thinks, he takes in a deep breath, then exhales. Then, he smiles. He feels tears prickling his eyes, and in all honesty, he's not sure if they're tears of joy, tears of fear, or some other kind of tears he really doesn't have time to name right now. Because he's just won the presidential election, and in two months' time, he'll be the President of the United States of America. And the tears fall, and Rachel can hear them, and suddenly, he can hear her sobbing over the phone, too.

"Blaine, I'm so happy. I'm so proud of you. I know this is a lot to take in, so I'll let you go for now. Get some sleep, Mr. President. We have a big day tomorrow!"

There's a click in his ear, and the line is dead. When he looks back at the television, tears still falling from his eyes, he can blearily make out his name on the news, his face plastered all over the screen, clips of his speeches playing to reflect how he had come so far. Blaine realizes how important this is – how important he is. And just before he turns off the television, he catches a glimpse of his slogan.

Courage. We all suffer. Keep going.

He's awoken early the next morning. He stumbles out of bed, rumpled-looking and disheveled. As he heads for a shower, he catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror of his bathroom. His hair is streaked with gray, even though he's just dyed it. His face looks haggard and tired, though he's not surprised; he slept horribly last night. Running a hand over his face, he rubs the dark stubble that's beginning to form over his chin and knows it's time to shave again. He heaves a heavy sigh and gets into the shower.

The routine is typical. Shower. Shave. Dry hair. Gel it. Then he gets dressed into a gray suit with a pink button-up underneath. Stereotypical, Rachel says, but it gets the point across. It defines you.

Blaine's not sure if he approves of a pink shirt "defining him" or not, but he chooses to not argue with Rachel. She has yet to steer him wrong, and that means he's not about to doubt her just yet. He completes the ensemble with a tie and the symbolic American flag pin on his lapel. Wristwatch on, pink sunglasses in his hand, Blaine is out the door, where two men in suits are waiting for him. Forty years old, and he still only stands at five feet, six inches tall. A hobbit compared to these two hulking bodyguards.

"Senator Dalton," they say, greeting with curt nods. He nods back and follows them out of the building, heading right for the limo that's waiting at the curb. So far, so good. No death threats or suicide bombers that anyone can see. One of the guards checks over the limousine before deeming it secure and opening the back door for Blaine to get in.

Rachel is sitting inside, and the second he sits down, she squeals and throws herself at him, hugging him tightly. He hugs her back until she lets go, and he sits back against the seat. "Can you believe it!" she exclaims, for what has to be the hundredth time. "Blaine Dalton, fiftieth President of the United States! This is amazing! Twenty-four years ago, we had the first black president; eight years later, we had the first woman president; and now, the first homosexual president!" She sighs and sits back, her legs crossed elegantly over one another. For someone with so much responsibility at thirty-eight years old, she looks absolutely gorgeous, her dark brown hair pulled up into an elegant bun. There are laugh lines around her mouth, but she's always smiling so that comes as no surprise. She looks just as professional as he does, and as they pull up to the Secret Service headquarters in Washington, D.C., they both see the hoard of paparazzi waiting for them outside. One of the two body guards gets ready and slides over to the door first.

"What're we doing here?" Blaine asks.

"Due to your status as the Presidential elect, you require protective operatives of an unusually high skill level. We are here to introduce you to your guards," one of the men explains, his face totally blank as he speaks.

"Oh," he says lamely as the door is opened. He and Rachel put their sunglasses on and head out of the car after the guard, pushing past the paparazzi and the shouting supporters. They head straight into the building without so much as a glance backwards and Blaine's relieved to be inside again. Being outside for long periods of time leaves him feeling naked and exposed. It doesn't help that there are still death threats hanging over his head.

Rachel is chatting with one of the stone-faced guards, who doesn't seem to be bothered by her chatty nature. Then they're led into a practice room, where they both take off their sunglasses and tuck them into their pockets.

Men and women of all shapes and sizes are sparring in hand-to-hand combat, but one person sticks out to Blaine above all the others. He can barely tell that he's a male, and it's only because his shoulders are too broad to belong to a female. He's tall, lithe, and well-built, his silky brown hair swept perfectly away from his face. The agent turns as the spars begin to end now that the Presidential Elect is in the room, and Blaine can't help but stare at his face. Beautiful blue eyes, half-lidded in a vaguely sexy expression, curved nose, and lips that are just begging to be bitten – Blaine coughs and looks up as the head of the Secret Service comes into the room.

"Senator Dalton," he greets, and they exchange a firm handshake. He seems taken aback, as if surprised that someone of Blaine's stature could have such a strong grip. "Welcome to the headquarters of the Secret Service. It has come to our understanding that you require special agents to guard you."

"Agents of a higher caliber are necessary for Senator Dalton's protection due to hundreds of homophobic death threats he has received over the course of his campaign," Rachel explains fluidly, pulling her Blackberry out of her pocket and flicking it open to a program. The officer leans over and examines the list of threats. While they're preoccupied, Blaine looks back to Mystery Agent.

They're both staring at each other now. This agent seems to be effeminate; his hands are sinuous and slender, arms folded over one another and fingers tapping out a beat only he can hear. His taste in fashion is peculiar, especially for sparring – tight yoga pants that leave very little to the imagination, a black tank top that just barely stretches across his chest, a pair of pink leg warmers, and black and white Puma sneakers. It looks as if he's getting prepared to audition for a role in the remake of Flashdance, not kill threats to national security.

"Senator Dalton," the head of Secret Service states, and Blaine quickly tears his gaze away from Mystery Agent and tries to give the bulkier man his full attention. "Each and every person in this room is a specially trained operative to protect and kill. They will be assigned to protect you once you are inaugurated as the President. For now…" He turns to the group of agents. "Agent Hummel."

To Blaine's surprise, the effeminate Mystery Agent breaks away from the crowd and steps forward, coming to a stop a few feet away from Blaine. He stands with one hip slightly jutted out, chin raised just a fraction, and his arms crossed over his chest. He looks proud, and Blaine figures he has every right to be. Which makes Blaine thinks about all the secret, illegal things this agent has done.

He shouldn't find that as… hot as he does.

"Senator Blaine Dalton, meet Agent Kurt Hummel. We're assigning him to your personal detail."