The Outlaw Blaine Anderson (3/14)
Title: The Outlaw Blaine Anderson
Author: mothergoddamn
Pairing/characters: Kurt/Blaine
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Kurt Hummel, lonely shop-keep filled with dreams of escape, meets a stranger in the midst of the Wild West. And then gets taken on an adventure - whether he likes it or not.
The Outlaw Blaine Anderson
Chapter 3
"I will, of course, pray for their souls today at church," Quinn announced to the table. "Such a terrible thing that a woman would be amongst them. I would think it quite against our genteel nature." Ignoring Kurt's snort, she raised her pretty nose primly. "According to Lauren, they say she was actually wearing a pair of men's breeches! How- how vulgar. Can you imagine?"
"It's true," Finn nodded, shoving a slice of the loaf into his mouth. "Puck and I were at the trial. She was kind of fair, too." Seeing Quinn's narrowed gaze, he shook his head fiercely. "I mean-for what she is and all."
Quinn pursed her lips. "Hmm."
"I, uh- I don't reckon much of that stranger," Finn said, changing the subject and reaching for the jug of water. "Seems a bit of a four-flusher, if you ask me."
"Oh? Brian?" said Kurt, his heart picking up pace. "You've met him."
"No, no. That wasn't his name." Finn answered with a frown. "It was something like Jim. Yeah, Jim. He's the one they brought in for the hangings."
"Not decent." Carole shook her head. "Why, they barely waited for the dust to settle on the gavel hitting the wood."
"Whole lot of talking not a whole lot of eating going on," Burt grunted.
"But I did see that Warbler fellow outside the the jailhouse," Finn continued. "Don't reckon much of him either. All those big grins and flashy spurs. Total blowhard if you ask me."
Burt laughed. "You're hard man to impress, Finn. No wonder I had such a time of it courting your mother."
"I thought him very handsome," Carole said with a wink. "All the ladies have been following him around since he hit town. Seems right gentlemanly, too."
Quinn turned to Kurt, her face filled with insincere interest. "Isn't he a good friend of yours, Kurt?" She smiled. "I heard that the two of you were drinking the day away just the other morn."
"We talked, yes," Kurt admitted, keeping his eyes on his plate, appetite fleeing. "But I hardly would say a lifelong friendship was formed."
At least, this was what Kurt was telling himself. He had gone over and over his conversation with Brian Warbler, trying to find that dire moment when he had revealed too much; the moment that had turned Brian so sour on him so soon. He had barely had a separate thought since their morning together, and it didn't help that this town was so small it was impossible to turn without falling over the man. Each time that they would pass each other in the street, Brian would turn quickly away from him, and for Kurt the rejection began afresh. And to think, he'd actually been ready to run away with the man.
"Will you be joining us this evening, Kurt?" Quinn turned to him, her smile sickly sweet.
"No, Quinn." Kurt answered wearily. "I won't be joining you."
"I see," she sipped at her water. "I would think that you would want to visit the church more. Considering your mother's part in its creation."
"Well, there is a lot of work to be done in the shop."
She raised her eyebrows. "Almost never-ending, it would seem."
"Quite." Kurt grinned tightly. "I see that your hired man, Mr. Puckerman is still working on that leaky roof of yours, Quinn." Her gaze turned to frost. "That must have been some damage. Why, pa, if he was in full health, could have had that job done weeks ag-" Kurt hissed as a foot made harsh contact with his shin.
"The storm damaged it more than we realised," she said, as Kurt tried to discreetly rub where her blow had landed. "As you well know."
"Let it alone, you two," Burt warned shooting a glance to an oblivious Finn. "Polish off, anyway. The service will be starting soon."
They finished their meals in relative silence, Quinn shooting Kurt cold looks in between adoring (and annoyed) glances at Finn. He returned them in kind.
*
"You're sure you won't come?" Burt stood in the doorway, the others carrying on ahead. "Preacher be mighty pleased to see you back, I know he misses your voice in the choir."
"I'm sure, pa. I just-" He shook his head. "You know how I feel about it."
"Yes," Burt grinned. "You've been quite vocal from time to time, for sure, and that's none too wise in a place like this. I wish that you'd drop in, though. At least to look upon your mother."
Kurt stiffened. "I remember her face. I don't need oil paint and imitation gold frames to bring her back to life." He blanched at his own tone. "I just don't want to sit in that room when I don't believe. It seems wrong."
"All the same, that place meant a lot to her," said Burt gently. "It's nice that we have such a wonderful honour to her."
"Yes, pa." Kurt smiled wearily. "And I know, my prickliness often causes you trouble with the townsfolk and I'm sorry. I'll try harder, I promise."
"Hush now, don't you dare. This town needs someone to shake them up." Burt patted Kurt on his shoulder fondly. "Maybe I should miss this service? How about we do something together? I can help you take stock."
"No, no," Kurt pushed at his father with a laugh. "You go on ahead. Someone needs to make sure Finn doesn't fall asleep and drool on Quinn. Again."
"Aye, at that." Burt donned his hat, and flicked at the brim. "You're a good kid, Kurt."
"And remember to take off your hat when you enter this time, or Mr. Figgins will go spare." Kurt shooed his father from the step, waving as he caught up with the rest of his family.
Kurt watched them as they left, grinning as he saw Quinn slap at Finn's arm. No doubt he'd thrown his heel into it again. As much as he looked forward to the day he headed east, he knew that he would miss them all terribly. Especially his father. But he also knew that he had never belonged to this place, not really. He knew in his heart he was meant for something more.
After all, it was in his blood.
He turned to re-enter the house, but paused as something caught his eye in the distance. Outside the courthouse, two shadowed figures stood close, their forms moving animatedly as if in full conversation. Kurt squinted against the dying light but he didn't recognise them from this distance. A chill curled around his frame and he hugged himself tightly, glancing further along the street. The gallows stood out starkly against the sky and Kurt shivered again.
A strong urge took hold of him, to run after his father. Why, he didn't know. He held himself tighter while a sense of foreboding settled deep within his bones.
*
Kurt gazed upon his mother's face, feeling a strange sort of sereneness that he had never received from the preacher's words. He hadn't lied to his father, her face was etched into his mind, always there when he needed her. He even carried her handkerchief on his person, just to keep her close. Yet, when he was still trying to fit into the awkward regime of church going, this had been his favourite part. Standing in the foyer of the church, as his mother watched over him. It was the only time that he had ever felt at peace in this building.
The church itself was a gift to the town from his estranged grandparents. They had been Easterners, passing through the West and spreading the word of the Lord. The word had stuck. Almost immediately, in the quaint little town, a church was being thrown up in a frenzy of religious servitude. Unfortunately, the youngest member of the flock had found her own slice of heaven in the arms of one Burt Hummel. When the church was complete, the family turned up their noses and had moved on, leaving Elizabeth behind to marry her common beau. They'd never heard from them again.
Like his father, Kurt's mother had been adored in the town; for her kindness, her intelligence, her gentle nature and sweet beauty. It had been a dark day for them all when consumption had taken her from them during Kurt's eighth winter. A local artist had gifted Kurt's father with the portrait and he in turn had asked for it to be hung within the church so that the whole town could remember the young woman they had all truly loved.
Kurt sighed. He didn't know why his feet had taken him here. Not when he had so vehemently spoken against entering. All he knew was he had been seized by an almighty need to see her, to be with her. He reached out his fingers and stopped a breath away from the frame. This is absurd, he thought. I have work to be doing.
Stepping back, he smiled at his mother's image and shook his head at his silliness. He was getting as bad as Miss Pillsbury with her fussiness and worrying.
The voices inside began to rise in song, and Kurt decided it was time to get going. Walking back out, he placed his hands in his pockets and whistled the merry hymn emanating from behind him. He could feel, rather than see, the gallows to his side, daring him to look, but he refused its allure. As much as he felt for those inside the jailhouse, there was nothing to be done. They had made their own luck.
Reaching Hummel's, he crossed the threshold, closing the door neatly behind him. As he removed his jacket and hung it up on the rack, he thought of what he could be getting on with to while the day away. Most likely need to write an order for more nails. Deliberately , he refused to dwell on why the supply would be running low. Perhaps, I could-
A loud creak from behind him stopped his thoughts mid-sentence. Puzzled, he turned towards the sound. A gleam on the counter caught his eye and and he approached it curiously.
Six gold pieces, lined up neatly in a row. Before Kurt could utter his gasp of a shock, several items crashed to the floor in the back room, followed by a curse of frustration.
Kurt was frozen. Completely and utterly frozen. His eyes glued to the doorway. He willed himself to turn and run towards the church. It could be pa, it could! He tried to reason with himself. But he knew that wasn't so. And rather than a sign of Karofsky's competence as the law, no one would enter this shop without Burt Hummel's say so, such was his status within the community.
Which meant someone had entered without it.
"Careful, don't break anything we ain't taking," a voice urged. "Just grab what we need."
"What do we care about these peasants? They were ready to string us up." The tone was full of disdain. "I say we burn it to the ground."
Kurt's hands covered his mouth to silence his moan of horror. The prisoners! They'd escaped.
"Mayhaps, but not the folks in this shop. They're decent people."
"Right so, Blaine. Mighty decent indeed. Mighty decent of them to give us those horses, too."
A mild scuffle broke out and something was put down with force.
"Horses, yes. Their whiskey, no. Let it alone."
"How many horses are there?" A woman's voice. "Is there a selection of colour? If so, my preference is white."
"There's just three, Rachel, including Pavarotti. You'll have to ride with Jesse. Take the grey mare."
Finn's horse, Kurt thought, his fingers squeezing painfully around his face as his fear threw a tremble over him. And pa's, too.
"I shan't! I won't ride anywhere with that oaf."
"That's a fine attitude! A fine attitude, indeed, considering I just busted your non-existent hide out of the Big House."
Finally, feeling returned to Kurt's feet and slowly, quietly, he began to ease himself backwards, praying that they would not realise they had been disturbed.
"Will you two save it for the trail. We have to get moving before that service is over and someone comes to check on Strando."
"Was he dead?"
"He wasn't dancing, darling," the one Kurt assumed to be Jesse answered in a smug voice. "We need to head to the north blockade. I took out the man they had at that point, and word hasn't traveled back yet. We have time on our side."
He had to go. He had to get out and get help. Strando may still be alive, it was perhaps too late for the man they'd stationed on the north blockade but-
"Where's Smythe?"
Oh, Lord. Kurt knew. Kurt knew before he even turned round that he was done for. Slowly, shaking, he pivoted and faced the man behind him. Smythe.
With a manic grin, the man raised the butt of his gun high and introduced Kurt to solid black.
Chapter 4
Author: mothergoddamn
Pairing/characters: Kurt/Blaine
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Kurt Hummel, lonely shop-keep filled with dreams of escape, meets a stranger in the midst of the Wild West. And then gets taken on an adventure - whether he likes it or not.
The Outlaw Blaine Anderson
Chapter 3
"I will, of course, pray for their souls today at church," Quinn announced to the table. "Such a terrible thing that a woman would be amongst them. I would think it quite against our genteel nature." Ignoring Kurt's snort, she raised her pretty nose primly. "According to Lauren, they say she was actually wearing a pair of men's breeches! How- how vulgar. Can you imagine?"
"It's true," Finn nodded, shoving a slice of the loaf into his mouth. "Puck and I were at the trial. She was kind of fair, too." Seeing Quinn's narrowed gaze, he shook his head fiercely. "I mean-for what she is and all."
Quinn pursed her lips. "Hmm."
"I, uh- I don't reckon much of that stranger," Finn said, changing the subject and reaching for the jug of water. "Seems a bit of a four-flusher, if you ask me."
"Oh? Brian?" said Kurt, his heart picking up pace. "You've met him."
"No, no. That wasn't his name." Finn answered with a frown. "It was something like Jim. Yeah, Jim. He's the one they brought in for the hangings."
"Not decent." Carole shook her head. "Why, they barely waited for the dust to settle on the gavel hitting the wood."
"Whole lot of talking not a whole lot of eating going on," Burt grunted.
"But I did see that Warbler fellow outside the the jailhouse," Finn continued. "Don't reckon much of him either. All those big grins and flashy spurs. Total blowhard if you ask me."
Burt laughed. "You're hard man to impress, Finn. No wonder I had such a time of it courting your mother."
"I thought him very handsome," Carole said with a wink. "All the ladies have been following him around since he hit town. Seems right gentlemanly, too."
Quinn turned to Kurt, her face filled with insincere interest. "Isn't he a good friend of yours, Kurt?" She smiled. "I heard that the two of you were drinking the day away just the other morn."
"We talked, yes," Kurt admitted, keeping his eyes on his plate, appetite fleeing. "But I hardly would say a lifelong friendship was formed."
At least, this was what Kurt was telling himself. He had gone over and over his conversation with Brian Warbler, trying to find that dire moment when he had revealed too much; the moment that had turned Brian so sour on him so soon. He had barely had a separate thought since their morning together, and it didn't help that this town was so small it was impossible to turn without falling over the man. Each time that they would pass each other in the street, Brian would turn quickly away from him, and for Kurt the rejection began afresh. And to think, he'd actually been ready to run away with the man.
"Will you be joining us this evening, Kurt?" Quinn turned to him, her smile sickly sweet.
"No, Quinn." Kurt answered wearily. "I won't be joining you."
"I see," she sipped at her water. "I would think that you would want to visit the church more. Considering your mother's part in its creation."
"Well, there is a lot of work to be done in the shop."
She raised her eyebrows. "Almost never-ending, it would seem."
"Quite." Kurt grinned tightly. "I see that your hired man, Mr. Puckerman is still working on that leaky roof of yours, Quinn." Her gaze turned to frost. "That must have been some damage. Why, pa, if he was in full health, could have had that job done weeks ag-" Kurt hissed as a foot made harsh contact with his shin.
"The storm damaged it more than we realised," she said, as Kurt tried to discreetly rub where her blow had landed. "As you well know."
"Let it alone, you two," Burt warned shooting a glance to an oblivious Finn. "Polish off, anyway. The service will be starting soon."
They finished their meals in relative silence, Quinn shooting Kurt cold looks in between adoring (and annoyed) glances at Finn. He returned them in kind.
*
"You're sure you won't come?" Burt stood in the doorway, the others carrying on ahead. "Preacher be mighty pleased to see you back, I know he misses your voice in the choir."
"I'm sure, pa. I just-" He shook his head. "You know how I feel about it."
"Yes," Burt grinned. "You've been quite vocal from time to time, for sure, and that's none too wise in a place like this. I wish that you'd drop in, though. At least to look upon your mother."
Kurt stiffened. "I remember her face. I don't need oil paint and imitation gold frames to bring her back to life." He blanched at his own tone. "I just don't want to sit in that room when I don't believe. It seems wrong."
"All the same, that place meant a lot to her," said Burt gently. "It's nice that we have such a wonderful honour to her."
"Yes, pa." Kurt smiled wearily. "And I know, my prickliness often causes you trouble with the townsfolk and I'm sorry. I'll try harder, I promise."
"Hush now, don't you dare. This town needs someone to shake them up." Burt patted Kurt on his shoulder fondly. "Maybe I should miss this service? How about we do something together? I can help you take stock."
"No, no," Kurt pushed at his father with a laugh. "You go on ahead. Someone needs to make sure Finn doesn't fall asleep and drool on Quinn. Again."
"Aye, at that." Burt donned his hat, and flicked at the brim. "You're a good kid, Kurt."
"And remember to take off your hat when you enter this time, or Mr. Figgins will go spare." Kurt shooed his father from the step, waving as he caught up with the rest of his family.
Kurt watched them as they left, grinning as he saw Quinn slap at Finn's arm. No doubt he'd thrown his heel into it again. As much as he looked forward to the day he headed east, he knew that he would miss them all terribly. Especially his father. But he also knew that he had never belonged to this place, not really. He knew in his heart he was meant for something more.
After all, it was in his blood.
He turned to re-enter the house, but paused as something caught his eye in the distance. Outside the courthouse, two shadowed figures stood close, their forms moving animatedly as if in full conversation. Kurt squinted against the dying light but he didn't recognise them from this distance. A chill curled around his frame and he hugged himself tightly, glancing further along the street. The gallows stood out starkly against the sky and Kurt shivered again.
A strong urge took hold of him, to run after his father. Why, he didn't know. He held himself tighter while a sense of foreboding settled deep within his bones.
*
Kurt gazed upon his mother's face, feeling a strange sort of sereneness that he had never received from the preacher's words. He hadn't lied to his father, her face was etched into his mind, always there when he needed her. He even carried her handkerchief on his person, just to keep her close. Yet, when he was still trying to fit into the awkward regime of church going, this had been his favourite part. Standing in the foyer of the church, as his mother watched over him. It was the only time that he had ever felt at peace in this building.
The church itself was a gift to the town from his estranged grandparents. They had been Easterners, passing through the West and spreading the word of the Lord. The word had stuck. Almost immediately, in the quaint little town, a church was being thrown up in a frenzy of religious servitude. Unfortunately, the youngest member of the flock had found her own slice of heaven in the arms of one Burt Hummel. When the church was complete, the family turned up their noses and had moved on, leaving Elizabeth behind to marry her common beau. They'd never heard from them again.
Like his father, Kurt's mother had been adored in the town; for her kindness, her intelligence, her gentle nature and sweet beauty. It had been a dark day for them all when consumption had taken her from them during Kurt's eighth winter. A local artist had gifted Kurt's father with the portrait and he in turn had asked for it to be hung within the church so that the whole town could remember the young woman they had all truly loved.
Kurt sighed. He didn't know why his feet had taken him here. Not when he had so vehemently spoken against entering. All he knew was he had been seized by an almighty need to see her, to be with her. He reached out his fingers and stopped a breath away from the frame. This is absurd, he thought. I have work to be doing.
Stepping back, he smiled at his mother's image and shook his head at his silliness. He was getting as bad as Miss Pillsbury with her fussiness and worrying.
The voices inside began to rise in song, and Kurt decided it was time to get going. Walking back out, he placed his hands in his pockets and whistled the merry hymn emanating from behind him. He could feel, rather than see, the gallows to his side, daring him to look, but he refused its allure. As much as he felt for those inside the jailhouse, there was nothing to be done. They had made their own luck.
Reaching Hummel's, he crossed the threshold, closing the door neatly behind him. As he removed his jacket and hung it up on the rack, he thought of what he could be getting on with to while the day away. Most likely need to write an order for more nails. Deliberately , he refused to dwell on why the supply would be running low. Perhaps, I could-
A loud creak from behind him stopped his thoughts mid-sentence. Puzzled, he turned towards the sound. A gleam on the counter caught his eye and and he approached it curiously.
Six gold pieces, lined up neatly in a row. Before Kurt could utter his gasp of a shock, several items crashed to the floor in the back room, followed by a curse of frustration.
Kurt was frozen. Completely and utterly frozen. His eyes glued to the doorway. He willed himself to turn and run towards the church. It could be pa, it could! He tried to reason with himself. But he knew that wasn't so. And rather than a sign of Karofsky's competence as the law, no one would enter this shop without Burt Hummel's say so, such was his status within the community.
Which meant someone had entered without it.
"Careful, don't break anything we ain't taking," a voice urged. "Just grab what we need."
"What do we care about these peasants? They were ready to string us up." The tone was full of disdain. "I say we burn it to the ground."
Kurt's hands covered his mouth to silence his moan of horror. The prisoners! They'd escaped.
"Mayhaps, but not the folks in this shop. They're decent people."
"Right so, Blaine. Mighty decent indeed. Mighty decent of them to give us those horses, too."
A mild scuffle broke out and something was put down with force.
"Horses, yes. Their whiskey, no. Let it alone."
"How many horses are there?" A woman's voice. "Is there a selection of colour? If so, my preference is white."
"There's just three, Rachel, including Pavarotti. You'll have to ride with Jesse. Take the grey mare."
Finn's horse, Kurt thought, his fingers squeezing painfully around his face as his fear threw a tremble over him. And pa's, too.
"I shan't! I won't ride anywhere with that oaf."
"That's a fine attitude! A fine attitude, indeed, considering I just busted your non-existent hide out of the Big House."
Finally, feeling returned to Kurt's feet and slowly, quietly, he began to ease himself backwards, praying that they would not realise they had been disturbed.
"Will you two save it for the trail. We have to get moving before that service is over and someone comes to check on Strando."
"Was he dead?"
"He wasn't dancing, darling," the one Kurt assumed to be Jesse answered in a smug voice. "We need to head to the north blockade. I took out the man they had at that point, and word hasn't traveled back yet. We have time on our side."
He had to go. He had to get out and get help. Strando may still be alive, it was perhaps too late for the man they'd stationed on the north blockade but-
"Where's Smythe?"
Oh, Lord. Kurt knew. Kurt knew before he even turned round that he was done for. Slowly, shaking, he pivoted and faced the man behind him. Smythe.
With a manic grin, the man raised the butt of his gun high and introduced Kurt to solid black.
Chapter 4