Exchange Fic: Rear Ended (or The One Where Puck Takes Blaine's Pants Off)
Title: Rear Ended (or The One Where Puck Takes Blaine's Pants Off)
Fill request for: OneWhoMust
Prompt: 3) hurt/comfort: Blaine gets in a (minor) car accident and ends up with (minor) injuries. Kurt and/or his friends won't stop mothering him.
Rating: PG
Warnings/Spoilers: Medical inaccuracies
Word Count: 4400
Summary: Blaine gets into a car accident on the way back from taking his parents to the airport. He calls Burt to tow his car and, well, everything spirals from there.
A/N: Set during the summer after season 2 because I love the time before Blaine really understood all of the crazy. Hope this is something like what you wanted, sweetie!
It’s funny how quickly a day can go down the drain.
Blaine had been excited for the upcoming weekend - it was only noon, he’d just dropped his parents off at the airport for a conference that would keep them away for three days, and he had plans. Plans like eating whatever he wanted (which meant absolutely nothing inspired by his mom’s new macrobiotic kick) and listening to his music too loudly and so much time with Kurt.
They almost never had one of their houses to themselves, and Blaine wanted to take advantage of the alone time. Not just for sexy reasons, either, but simply being able to share space without nosy siblings and prying parents wandering by every few minutes.
Ok, and for sexy reasons. It was summer, and Kurt’s sleeves had gotten drastically shorter as his collars became more open and Blaine was eager to explore all of the new skin suddenly available to him.
Then some woman, too busy on her phone to pay attention to things like driving, had rear ended him and now Blaine’s standing on the sidewalk, watching the police car fade into the distance and pulling up the only number on his phone he can think to call. He doesn’t realize until he tries to hold the phone up to his ear that he can’t really move his right arm without wanting to scream, so he holds it awkwardly to his left ear.
“Hi, um, Mr. - Burt?” Blaine asks when the increasingly familiar gruff voice comes through the line. “It’s Blaine. I - I need my car towed.”
“You alright, kid?” Burt asks, and Blaine sways a little as he nods before he remembers that Burt can’t see him.
“I...I think so. Someone hit me and the back of my car is kind of crunched in and I don’t think I can drive it. Also I think I’m going to throw up.” That’s as far as he gets before he does, doubled over and heaving onto the pavement. He does manage not to drop his phone in it though, which is good, because Burt is still talking. Well, yelling, now.
“--aine? Blaine! Where are you? I’m on the way.” Everything’s a little fuzzy, so Blaine can’t read the street signs, but he’s right across from the grocery store, which he knows is only about five minutes from the shop. Burt tells him to try to find somewhere to sit down (Just not in the street, kid) and Blaine figures the grass is as good a place as any so he plops down, resting his forehead on his knees.
It feels about two seconds later that Burt is shaking his shoulder, which makes him cringe and groan and tears prick at the back of his eyes. He must’ve done more than groan, though, because suddenly Burt is next to him on the grass, muttering profanities.
“They leave you like this?” he asks when Blaine finally picks his head up.
“I didn’t think I was hurt until I tried to move my arm,” Blaine says. Burt mutters something about “Lima’s finest” and pulls Blaine up after confirming that his other arm is fine.
“You sit there,” Burt says after he all but lifts Blaine into the cab of the truck. “I’m going to get your car hooked up and then we’re going to drop it off at the shop and go to the hospital.”
“Can go b’myself,” Blaine mumbles, and Burt laughs so loudly it jolts him awake (when had he started falling asleep?)
“Kid, you can’t even hold your head up by yourself. Just. Sit there. Stay awake. Sing, or somethin. You kids do that a lot.”
Blaine can’t think of any songs to sing, but when Burt yells, “I don’t hear singing!” a minute later from where he’s hitching Blaine’s car up, he racks his brain (no more racking after this - that hurt) and comes up with the songs he sang as a kid at summer camp.
He’s on his fifth round of John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt when Burt reappears and tells him he can stop, as long as he keeps talking. Talking is much easier, especially when Burt asks him questions he can just answer yes or no to.
“Wanna give me your phone so I can call your parents?” Burt asks after they’ve dropped his car off and are back on the road.
“They’re on a plane,” Blaine says, sailing his left hand through the air and making the accompanying vroom and whoosh noises necessary to illustrate that the plane is flying. “Til Thursday. Well,” Blaine giggles. “Not on the plane til Thursday. They’ll be off the plane in between. They’ll be back Thursday.”
“Of course,” Burt sighs, and Blaine looks up, managing to focus long enough to see the tension in his shoulders.
“I’m sorry,” he says quickly. “If you can - you can just drop me off at the hospital. I’ll be fine. I can get a cab back.”
“Kid--”
“You don’t need to stay or anything. Not that I thought you were going to, I mean - you don’t have to waste your day, the ride is more than enough--”
“Blaine!” Burt interrupts loudly, startling Blaine into silence. “From the looks of it, you’ve got a pretty good concussion and who knows what going on with your arm. I’m not leaving you by yourself, so you can stop worrying about wasting my day. We’re here. Just - hold on.” Burt is out of the car and at Blaine’s door before Blaine can process that the car has stopped, unbuckling his seatbelt for him and leading him into the hospital with a hand between his shoulderblades.
The wait is much shorter than Blaine expects, and when they call his name Burt chuckles and says he’s got connections. The connection in question comes barreling at him once they’re through the swinging doors, stopping just short of actually running into Blaine and instead carefully smoothing his hair back from where it’s starting to curl across his forehead.
“Oh, honey,” Carole coos, cupping his cheek in a way that makes Blaine lean into the touch. “Let’s get you fixed up.” He’s led to a wheelchair, and then a small room where he’s poked and prodded and they keep shining lights in his eyes and Carole has to cut his favorite cardigan off of him, apologizing all the while and promising that she’s cutting as carefully as possible in the hope that Kurt can sew it back together later.
Kurt. He needs to call Kurt, who is in Columbus at the outlet mall with Tina for the day but who still should know and they had a date tonight that Blaine plotted and definitely cannot execute now and there go all of his sexy plans.
“I’m just gonna ignore most of that,” Burt says from the chair in the corner, and oh god, Blaine said that out loud. “But I called Kurt when they were doing your x-rays. He didn’t pick up so I’m guessing they caught a movie. I’m sure he’ll get the message soon.” Blaine nods and considers the odds that he can attribute his word vomit to the head injury.
Half an hour later and Blaine’s getting loaded back into Burt’s truck, arm in a sling and shoulder and head throbbing. The concussion means he doesn’t even get the fun of thepainkillers that generally accompany a dislocated shoulder, and he’s suddenly so exhausted he’s pretty sure he’s going to climb into bed and sleep for the entire week.
Burt helps him into the house and up the stairs, and it isn’t until he’s sinking into the mattress that he realizes something is wrong.
“This isn’t my bed.”
“You’re a real sharp one, today, buddy,” Burt laughs, and Blaine feels him pulling off his shoes as he looks around and realizes he’s in Kurt’s room.
“Why am I in Kurt’s room?” He’s not complaining. Kurt’s bed is awesome; it’s soft and it smells like Kurt, which is the best, because Kurt smells so good, and--
“Gonna ignore all of that, too,” Burt says. Blaine really has to pay more attention to what he’s saying out loud. “I’m not leaving you in your house alone with a concussion and a messed up shoulder so you can fall over and hurt yourself more. Now, I’ve gotta go back to the shop in a little while, but Finn should be back from practice soon and he’ll be under strict orders to look after you until Kurt gets back, alright?”
“You don’t--”
“None of that,” Burt says. “I’ll feel a whole lot better having you here, and you know Kurt would have my head on a stick if he found out I left you on your own.” Blaine laughs along with Burt at that, because he can picture the look on Kurt’s face. Burt pulls a few things from his pockets and lines them up on the nightstand.
“Alright. There’s your ibuprofen, take it again in three hours. I set the alarm on your phone, or at least I think I did. Changed everything to Spanish, for all I know, that thing’s more like a computer than a phone. I put my cell number in there, too, so call that if you need something or you start to feel worse instead of better, got it?” He disappears before Blaine can coordinate his body enough to nod, but he’s back a minute later with an armful of supplies.
“Got ya some water and a sleeve of saltines in case you’re still too nauseous to eat. Make Finn get you some real food when you’re up for it, there’s leftovers of that fancy spinach egg thing Kurt makes so Finn doesn’t burn the house down. You’re supposed to rest, but I grabbed Vogue off Kurt’s desk, the pictures shouldn’t strain your head the way words will. So you rest, ok?”
“Thanks, Burt,” Blaine mumbles, eyes already closing, and he feels Burt’s hand ghost over his hair and the light weight of Kurt’s fuzzy blanket settling over him before he drifts off.
---
He wakes up a minute - or maybe an hour, he really has no concept of time right now - later to a shooting pain in his leg, and he opens his eyes to see Finn sitting at the foot of the bed, tugging on his ankle.
“What are you doing?” Blaine groans, struggling to push himself into more of a sitting postion.
“Burt said to wake you up to make sure you’re still alive,” Finn shrugs. “And I didn’t want to mess with your arm since your shoulder’s dislocated.”
“So you decided to dislocate my knee instead?”
“Oh, sorry dude.” Finn gives him a sheepish grin before bouncing a little further onto the mattress. “I got a concussion freshman year. It blows. Did you puke?”
Blaine frowns at the blunt question before remembering, well, it’s Finn. He’s learning more and more that this is how Finn is, and really the more crass he is around a person, the more he likes them. So he shrugs his good shoulder and answers, “All over the sidewalk.”
“Gross,” Finn says, but he holds out his fist all the same, which Blaine awkwardly bumps with his own. “Do you want anything or can I go play Halo?” Blaine waves him off, happy to return to silence and the comfort of Kurt’s room, even if Kurt isn’t there.
At least, it’s silent until his phone rings ten minutes later. Finn’s name flashes across the screen, but that makes no sense, because Finn is literally on the other side of the wall. Blaine lets it keep ringing, figuring it was an accidental call, but 30 seconds later Finn bursts into the room with frantic eyes.
“Dude, answer your phone!”
“Why were you calling me from next door?”
“Wanted to make sure you were awake, and I was in the middle of a level so I couldn’t get up. You ok?”
“I’m fine, Finn,” Blaine says, and his voice is harsher than he intends. Finn’s just worried, after all. It’s sweet. “Thank you, though. I appreciate it.” Finn nods and gives Blaine a thumbs up and then he’s gone again.
---
“Ow, ow, ow, stop, OUCH,” Blaine yells as he’s jostled awake by someone rearranging the pillows he’s leaning against. He had just fallen back asleep after Finn’s fifth phone call, too.
“Well hello, sleepyhead,” Rachel chirps, punching at a pillow again until Blaine grabs her arm. “Finn said you were injured; as your ex-girlfriend and future bff it is my duty to tend to you. I brought my famous miso soup.”
“Great,” Blaine says, hoping he manages to hide his grimace. He’s had Rachel’s soup before. “I’m actually not hungry though. Could you maybe put it in the fridge for later?”
“Of course! I’ll go do that, and then when I come back up I’ll sing you back to sleep. I take requests!” Blaine yells for Finn as soon as he hears her descend the stairs.
“If you want to do something for me, keep your girlfriend out of here,” he says as soon as Finn appears in the doorway. “No offense, but--”
“Say no more, dude,” Finn grins, and Blaine sinks back down into the pillows, rearranging them as best as he can with one arm. He is sort of starting to get hungry, but it isn’t worth it to offend Rachel by not eating her soup and also potentially subject himself to an afternoon of singing - he loves Rachel’s voice, really, but his head is killing him and she just doesn’t have an inside voice - so he decides to sleep some more instead.
---
The next time he opens his eyes, it’s to the sight of Puck. He’s sitting at the foot of the bed, chin resting on his fists, elbows propped on his knees and legs crossed underneath him, staring intently at Blaine.
“You’re not dead.”
“Nope,” Blaine yawns.
“Sweet.” Blaine expects him to get up then, but he just keeps sitting. And staring. Blaine doesn’t know Puck very well; he’s hung out with him a handful of times at New Directions gatherings, and was on the receiving end of a surprisingly heartfelt and stern lecture about not hurting Kurt lest he answer to Puck, but Blaine catches him watching them sometimes the way he is now and it’s a bit unnerving.
“...Did you need something?” he asks, finally, just to break the silence. “You don’t need to check on me, you can go back to playing Halo.”
“That game sucks,” Puck scoffs. “Hudson said you got rear ended and were bedridden and at first I thought it was creepy that he was mass texting his brother’s sex life but then I had to come see for myself if Hummel had it in him to actually give you a concussion. My boy’s a beast--”
“By a car, Puck!” Blaine yells. “Rear ended by a car. Not--”
“Dude, I figured that out eventually. Duh.” Yes, because Blaine’s the irrational one here, clearly. “I just came in to wake you up so you don’t fall into a coma and shit. But you have to admit it would be badass if Hummel actually dislocated your shoulder by fuck--”
“I have to pee!” Blaine yells again. Anything to make Puck stop that sentence. This is not a conversation he’s having with Puck. Also, he really does have to pee.
“Do you need me to hold it?”
“What?”
“You’re right handed, aren’t you?” Puck asks, gesturing vaguely to Blaine’s sling, and then his lap. Blaine doesn’t respond, just swings his legs off the bed and stands. Between his immobilized arm and the throbbing in his head, his balance is still off, and he sways for a moment before Puck’s hands are at his waist, steadying him.
“Thanks,” Blaine nods once he’s stable, and pushes past Puck. “But I’m good.”
“Bro code, man!” Puck calls after him as he heads for the bathroom across the hall. “A bro must do whatever is necessary to assist another bro in pissing!”
Blaine rolls his eyes as he closes the door, laughing a little. He’s never heard that rule before, but then again, he’s never really had a “bro” before. He didn’t think he had any now, but apparently he was wrong. The smile fades quickly, however, when he glances down and sees the row of metal buttons that make up the fly of his jeans.
“You should be more adventurous with your denim, he said. Damn it Kurt,” Blaine mutters as he twists his wrist awkwardly; the angle is off and his hand might as well be a ham with how nimble his fingers are and wow, now that he’s standing he really has to pee. He sighs and closes his eyes as he opens the door again. “Puck?”
Puck’s standing in front of him far too quickly and, frankly, looks far too excited.
“I just need some help with the buttons,” Blaine says quickly. “If you promise it isn’t too weird.”
“No prob,” Puck grins, ruffling his hair before he sets to work. “Jesus. What, you couldn’t find pants the buttoned all the way down to your ankles? I’m sure your boy’s got a pair.”
“Two,” Blaine answers faintly, trying not to move as Puck pops the last button and looks up at him with a pleased smile.
“Anything else?”
“Um, actually,” Blaine starts, feeling the blush spread down his neck and hoping it isn’t completely obvious. “They’re sort of um, tight and I don’t have a lot of faith in my motor skills dizzy and left handed. If you could...” Blaine bites his lip and looks up at the ceiling, wondering if this is when he wakes up from the nightmare. Puck just nods again, hooking his thumbs in the waistband of Blaine’s jeans and yanking them down a few inches until they’re stretched across his thighs.
“Thanks,” Blaine mutters, and Puck salutes him before turning on his heel, saying, “Just let me know if you need me to hold it, seriously,” before he disappears into Finn’s room and Blaine closes the door again and leans back against it.
In all the time he’s spent imagining another guy taking his pants off for the first time, that guy has never been Noah Puckerman.
He does away with the jeans when he’s finished, wrestling them down the rest of the way and kicking them back into Kurt’s room before finding a pair of pajama pants in Kurt’s dresser and sliding back into bed. He’s exhausted from his brief time out of bed and he just wants Kurt to come home and cuddle him and feed him something that doesn’t have bits of tofu floating in it.
Kurt isn’t here, though - still isn’t answering his texts even though it’s been hours - and Blaine huffs as he feels his eyes fill with tears. It’s dumb; he could go hang out with Finn and Puck or even have them come back to Kurt’s room, but it isn’t the same. He just wants Kurt.
---
He falls into a fitful sleep, although it might not be fitful if it weren’t for the seemingly endless parade of New Directions members coming through the room. Finn should really think about going into PR if this is the result of one mass text.
He groans when he’s woken up by the pillow he’d covered his face with being tugged away - he’d put it there to try and muffle Brittany’s attempt to make him feel better - only to hear the familiar lilting laugh that’s recently become his favorite sound.
“Kurt?”
“Hey, you.” Kurt’s smiling when Blaine’s eyes finally focus, sitting next to him on the bed. His fingers trace Blaine’s hairline before he leans down to brush his lips across his forehead.
“Where were you?” Blaine knows he’s whining but he can’t bring himself to care too much; it’s been a rough day and a little whining is allowed. “I told your dad I had sexy plans for us and Puck had to take my pants off and Brittany thought that Santana said I had percussion--”
“That explains the snare drum in the living room.”
“-- and instead of waking me up every few hours Finn has been calling me every ten minutes and Rachel tried to feed me her evil soup--”
“I threw that out as soon as I got home. I’m so sorry, honey,” Kurt presses a kiss to Blaine’s cheek, then, once Blaine puckers them obviously, his lips. “My phone fell out of my pocket in the car, and Tina forgot to turn hers back on after the movie, so I didn’t know until we were already on our way back.”
“You don’t seem very upset. I expected more freaking out,” Blaine frowns. He’s seen Kurt become hysterical over much less. “I was in a car accident.”
“Aww,” Kurt coos, leaning down again to kiss Blaine’s pout. “Does it help to know that I left my car running in the driveway, yelled at Tina to find her own way home, and I’m currently wearing shoes on my duvet?”
“A little.”
“Would it help if I made you pancakes for dinner and let you eat them in my bed?”
“Really? You’d do that?”
“Of course,” Kurt shrugs. “I know it’s not the ‘sexy plans’ you apparently had and told my dad about, but there’s your choice of movie and a footrub in it for you if you play your cards right.” Blaine groans at the thought of his time with Burt, scowling when Kurt starts to laugh.
“You’re the worst. Also the best.” Kurt smiles fondly down at him, running his fingers lightly down the side of his face, his neck, skating over his injured arm and down to his hip, like he’s making sure for himself that Blaine’s intact. When he seems satisfied, he leans down for one more kiss.
“I’ll be right back,” he says against Blaine’s lips.
Blaine has almost drifted off again when Kurt reappears with a tray, balancing it as he climbs back onto the bed and settles back into his spot sitting next to Blaine. He adjusts the pillows until Blaine’s sitting up more comfortably, then busies himself with cutting up pancakes as Blaine takes a long drink of orange juice.
Kurt’s holding out the fork when Blaine sets the glass down, pancake speared on the end and a drop of syrup dangerously close to dripping off.
“Really?” Blaine asks, raising an eyebrow. “I can feed myself, Kurt, you don’t need to--mmph.” He frowns around the pancake now in his mouth as Kurt takes a bite of his own.
“I know you can,” Kurt says, offering another bite. “But you don’t need to. What’s the fun of having a boyfriend if he can’t take care of you when you’re hurt?” He waves the fork a little and Blaine opens his mouth, smiling this time.
They’ve been eating in silence for a few minutes when Kurt sets down the fork, leaning forward until he’s close enough that Blaine can feel his breath on his lips.
“You’ve got syrup,” Kurt murmurs, licking at the corner of Blaine’s mouth before kissing it. “Right here.” He pulls back before Blaine can move to deepen the kiss (damn his messed up range of motion) and rolls his eyes a little when Blaine pouts again.
“What can I say? I’m a full service caretaker,” he grins. “Ok, so maybe my plan is a little bit sexy.” He darts in for one more kiss, just a peck, before he picks the fork back up. Blaine sees the flush on his cheeks but doesn’t mention it, just opens his mouth obediently for another bite, failing to muffle the yawn that escapes. This time, he doesn’t scowl when Kurt coos at him again and brushes his hair back, just leans into the touch and lets his eyes close for a moment before they resume eating.
“My dad got home while I was cooking,” Kurt says, “And he and your parents agreed that you’re staying here until they get back. He also agreed that it’s ok for you to sleep in my bed.”
“R-really?” Blaine sputters around the juice he was trying to drink. “How’d you manage that?” Even in all of his wildest fantasies for the weekend, he hadn’t dared to hope for an entire night in a bed with Kurt. That isn’t really something they have the freedom to explore yet, but given how much Blaine likes the naps they’ve taken together, he’s sure it will be amazing.
“Welllllll,” Kurt drawls, setting down the fork and clearing his throat. When he speaks again, it’s in Burt’s gruff voice and he holds up his hand to tick off the reasons. “The couch would be hell on his shoulder and I know you won’t sleep on it. You need to wake him up a few times during the night so it’s more convenient. You can’t exactly get up to any funny business with his arm in that sling. And I’ve walked in to him in your bed before, at least this time I’ll have some warning.” Blaine feels himself blush at that mortifying memory and Kurt leans over to kiss him again, brushing their noses together when he pulls back. “You’re stuck with me, Anderson. Prepare to be coddled.”
“I’ll survive,” Blaine sighs dramatically, then grins, opening his mouth expectantly and waggling his eyebrows until Kurt rolls his eyes and feeds him another piece of pancake.
His shoulder still hurts, and his head is still fuzzy, and it’s going to be annoying to not have use of his arm for a while. But Blaine spent the day with people he thought he could only claim as acquaintances hovering over him with varying degrees of sympathy and good intentions, and now his boyfriend is feeding him pancakes and telling him they’ve been given permission for a three day sleepover.
It’s funny how quickly even the worst day can turn around for the better.
“Wait,” Kurt says suddenly, pulling Blaine from his thoughts. His brow is furrowed, eyes narrowed at Blaine in confusion.
“Why did Puck take your pants off?”
Fill request for: OneWhoMust
Prompt: 3) hurt/comfort: Blaine gets in a (minor) car accident and ends up with (minor) injuries. Kurt and/or his friends won't stop mothering him.
Rating: PG
Warnings/Spoilers: Medical inaccuracies
Word Count: 4400
Summary: Blaine gets into a car accident on the way back from taking his parents to the airport. He calls Burt to tow his car and, well, everything spirals from there.
A/N: Set during the summer after season 2 because I love the time before Blaine really understood all of the crazy. Hope this is something like what you wanted, sweetie!
It’s funny how quickly a day can go down the drain.
Blaine had been excited for the upcoming weekend - it was only noon, he’d just dropped his parents off at the airport for a conference that would keep them away for three days, and he had plans. Plans like eating whatever he wanted (which meant absolutely nothing inspired by his mom’s new macrobiotic kick) and listening to his music too loudly and so much time with Kurt.
They almost never had one of their houses to themselves, and Blaine wanted to take advantage of the alone time. Not just for sexy reasons, either, but simply being able to share space without nosy siblings and prying parents wandering by every few minutes.
Ok, and for sexy reasons. It was summer, and Kurt’s sleeves had gotten drastically shorter as his collars became more open and Blaine was eager to explore all of the new skin suddenly available to him.
Then some woman, too busy on her phone to pay attention to things like driving, had rear ended him and now Blaine’s standing on the sidewalk, watching the police car fade into the distance and pulling up the only number on his phone he can think to call. He doesn’t realize until he tries to hold the phone up to his ear that he can’t really move his right arm without wanting to scream, so he holds it awkwardly to his left ear.
“Hi, um, Mr. - Burt?” Blaine asks when the increasingly familiar gruff voice comes through the line. “It’s Blaine. I - I need my car towed.”
“You alright, kid?” Burt asks, and Blaine sways a little as he nods before he remembers that Burt can’t see him.
“I...I think so. Someone hit me and the back of my car is kind of crunched in and I don’t think I can drive it. Also I think I’m going to throw up.” That’s as far as he gets before he does, doubled over and heaving onto the pavement. He does manage not to drop his phone in it though, which is good, because Burt is still talking. Well, yelling, now.
“--aine? Blaine! Where are you? I’m on the way.” Everything’s a little fuzzy, so Blaine can’t read the street signs, but he’s right across from the grocery store, which he knows is only about five minutes from the shop. Burt tells him to try to find somewhere to sit down (Just not in the street, kid) and Blaine figures the grass is as good a place as any so he plops down, resting his forehead on his knees.
It feels about two seconds later that Burt is shaking his shoulder, which makes him cringe and groan and tears prick at the back of his eyes. He must’ve done more than groan, though, because suddenly Burt is next to him on the grass, muttering profanities.
“They leave you like this?” he asks when Blaine finally picks his head up.
“I didn’t think I was hurt until I tried to move my arm,” Blaine says. Burt mutters something about “Lima’s finest” and pulls Blaine up after confirming that his other arm is fine.
“You sit there,” Burt says after he all but lifts Blaine into the cab of the truck. “I’m going to get your car hooked up and then we’re going to drop it off at the shop and go to the hospital.”
“Can go b’myself,” Blaine mumbles, and Burt laughs so loudly it jolts him awake (when had he started falling asleep?)
“Kid, you can’t even hold your head up by yourself. Just. Sit there. Stay awake. Sing, or somethin. You kids do that a lot.”
Blaine can’t think of any songs to sing, but when Burt yells, “I don’t hear singing!” a minute later from where he’s hitching Blaine’s car up, he racks his brain (no more racking after this - that hurt) and comes up with the songs he sang as a kid at summer camp.
He’s on his fifth round of John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt when Burt reappears and tells him he can stop, as long as he keeps talking. Talking is much easier, especially when Burt asks him questions he can just answer yes or no to.
“Wanna give me your phone so I can call your parents?” Burt asks after they’ve dropped his car off and are back on the road.
“They’re on a plane,” Blaine says, sailing his left hand through the air and making the accompanying vroom and whoosh noises necessary to illustrate that the plane is flying. “Til Thursday. Well,” Blaine giggles. “Not on the plane til Thursday. They’ll be off the plane in between. They’ll be back Thursday.”
“Of course,” Burt sighs, and Blaine looks up, managing to focus long enough to see the tension in his shoulders.
“I’m sorry,” he says quickly. “If you can - you can just drop me off at the hospital. I’ll be fine. I can get a cab back.”
“Kid--”
“You don’t need to stay or anything. Not that I thought you were going to, I mean - you don’t have to waste your day, the ride is more than enough--”
“Blaine!” Burt interrupts loudly, startling Blaine into silence. “From the looks of it, you’ve got a pretty good concussion and who knows what going on with your arm. I’m not leaving you by yourself, so you can stop worrying about wasting my day. We’re here. Just - hold on.” Burt is out of the car and at Blaine’s door before Blaine can process that the car has stopped, unbuckling his seatbelt for him and leading him into the hospital with a hand between his shoulderblades.
The wait is much shorter than Blaine expects, and when they call his name Burt chuckles and says he’s got connections. The connection in question comes barreling at him once they’re through the swinging doors, stopping just short of actually running into Blaine and instead carefully smoothing his hair back from where it’s starting to curl across his forehead.
“Oh, honey,” Carole coos, cupping his cheek in a way that makes Blaine lean into the touch. “Let’s get you fixed up.” He’s led to a wheelchair, and then a small room where he’s poked and prodded and they keep shining lights in his eyes and Carole has to cut his favorite cardigan off of him, apologizing all the while and promising that she’s cutting as carefully as possible in the hope that Kurt can sew it back together later.
Kurt. He needs to call Kurt, who is in Columbus at the outlet mall with Tina for the day but who still should know and they had a date tonight that Blaine plotted and definitely cannot execute now and there go all of his sexy plans.
“I’m just gonna ignore most of that,” Burt says from the chair in the corner, and oh god, Blaine said that out loud. “But I called Kurt when they were doing your x-rays. He didn’t pick up so I’m guessing they caught a movie. I’m sure he’ll get the message soon.” Blaine nods and considers the odds that he can attribute his word vomit to the head injury.
Half an hour later and Blaine’s getting loaded back into Burt’s truck, arm in a sling and shoulder and head throbbing. The concussion means he doesn’t even get the fun of thepainkillers that generally accompany a dislocated shoulder, and he’s suddenly so exhausted he’s pretty sure he’s going to climb into bed and sleep for the entire week.
Burt helps him into the house and up the stairs, and it isn’t until he’s sinking into the mattress that he realizes something is wrong.
“This isn’t my bed.”
“You’re a real sharp one, today, buddy,” Burt laughs, and Blaine feels him pulling off his shoes as he looks around and realizes he’s in Kurt’s room.
“Why am I in Kurt’s room?” He’s not complaining. Kurt’s bed is awesome; it’s soft and it smells like Kurt, which is the best, because Kurt smells so good, and--
“Gonna ignore all of that, too,” Burt says. Blaine really has to pay more attention to what he’s saying out loud. “I’m not leaving you in your house alone with a concussion and a messed up shoulder so you can fall over and hurt yourself more. Now, I’ve gotta go back to the shop in a little while, but Finn should be back from practice soon and he’ll be under strict orders to look after you until Kurt gets back, alright?”
“You don’t--”
“None of that,” Burt says. “I’ll feel a whole lot better having you here, and you know Kurt would have my head on a stick if he found out I left you on your own.” Blaine laughs along with Burt at that, because he can picture the look on Kurt’s face. Burt pulls a few things from his pockets and lines them up on the nightstand.
“Alright. There’s your ibuprofen, take it again in three hours. I set the alarm on your phone, or at least I think I did. Changed everything to Spanish, for all I know, that thing’s more like a computer than a phone. I put my cell number in there, too, so call that if you need something or you start to feel worse instead of better, got it?” He disappears before Blaine can coordinate his body enough to nod, but he’s back a minute later with an armful of supplies.
“Got ya some water and a sleeve of saltines in case you’re still too nauseous to eat. Make Finn get you some real food when you’re up for it, there’s leftovers of that fancy spinach egg thing Kurt makes so Finn doesn’t burn the house down. You’re supposed to rest, but I grabbed Vogue off Kurt’s desk, the pictures shouldn’t strain your head the way words will. So you rest, ok?”
“Thanks, Burt,” Blaine mumbles, eyes already closing, and he feels Burt’s hand ghost over his hair and the light weight of Kurt’s fuzzy blanket settling over him before he drifts off.
---
He wakes up a minute - or maybe an hour, he really has no concept of time right now - later to a shooting pain in his leg, and he opens his eyes to see Finn sitting at the foot of the bed, tugging on his ankle.
“What are you doing?” Blaine groans, struggling to push himself into more of a sitting postion.
“Burt said to wake you up to make sure you’re still alive,” Finn shrugs. “And I didn’t want to mess with your arm since your shoulder’s dislocated.”
“So you decided to dislocate my knee instead?”
“Oh, sorry dude.” Finn gives him a sheepish grin before bouncing a little further onto the mattress. “I got a concussion freshman year. It blows. Did you puke?”
Blaine frowns at the blunt question before remembering, well, it’s Finn. He’s learning more and more that this is how Finn is, and really the more crass he is around a person, the more he likes them. So he shrugs his good shoulder and answers, “All over the sidewalk.”
“Gross,” Finn says, but he holds out his fist all the same, which Blaine awkwardly bumps with his own. “Do you want anything or can I go play Halo?” Blaine waves him off, happy to return to silence and the comfort of Kurt’s room, even if Kurt isn’t there.
At least, it’s silent until his phone rings ten minutes later. Finn’s name flashes across the screen, but that makes no sense, because Finn is literally on the other side of the wall. Blaine lets it keep ringing, figuring it was an accidental call, but 30 seconds later Finn bursts into the room with frantic eyes.
“Dude, answer your phone!”
“Why were you calling me from next door?”
“Wanted to make sure you were awake, and I was in the middle of a level so I couldn’t get up. You ok?”
“I’m fine, Finn,” Blaine says, and his voice is harsher than he intends. Finn’s just worried, after all. It’s sweet. “Thank you, though. I appreciate it.” Finn nods and gives Blaine a thumbs up and then he’s gone again.
---
“Ow, ow, ow, stop, OUCH,” Blaine yells as he’s jostled awake by someone rearranging the pillows he’s leaning against. He had just fallen back asleep after Finn’s fifth phone call, too.
“Well hello, sleepyhead,” Rachel chirps, punching at a pillow again until Blaine grabs her arm. “Finn said you were injured; as your ex-girlfriend and future bff it is my duty to tend to you. I brought my famous miso soup.”
“Great,” Blaine says, hoping he manages to hide his grimace. He’s had Rachel’s soup before. “I’m actually not hungry though. Could you maybe put it in the fridge for later?”
“Of course! I’ll go do that, and then when I come back up I’ll sing you back to sleep. I take requests!” Blaine yells for Finn as soon as he hears her descend the stairs.
“If you want to do something for me, keep your girlfriend out of here,” he says as soon as Finn appears in the doorway. “No offense, but--”
“Say no more, dude,” Finn grins, and Blaine sinks back down into the pillows, rearranging them as best as he can with one arm. He is sort of starting to get hungry, but it isn’t worth it to offend Rachel by not eating her soup and also potentially subject himself to an afternoon of singing - he loves Rachel’s voice, really, but his head is killing him and she just doesn’t have an inside voice - so he decides to sleep some more instead.
---
The next time he opens his eyes, it’s to the sight of Puck. He’s sitting at the foot of the bed, chin resting on his fists, elbows propped on his knees and legs crossed underneath him, staring intently at Blaine.
“You’re not dead.”
“Nope,” Blaine yawns.
“Sweet.” Blaine expects him to get up then, but he just keeps sitting. And staring. Blaine doesn’t know Puck very well; he’s hung out with him a handful of times at New Directions gatherings, and was on the receiving end of a surprisingly heartfelt and stern lecture about not hurting Kurt lest he answer to Puck, but Blaine catches him watching them sometimes the way he is now and it’s a bit unnerving.
“...Did you need something?” he asks, finally, just to break the silence. “You don’t need to check on me, you can go back to playing Halo.”
“That game sucks,” Puck scoffs. “Hudson said you got rear ended and were bedridden and at first I thought it was creepy that he was mass texting his brother’s sex life but then I had to come see for myself if Hummel had it in him to actually give you a concussion. My boy’s a beast--”
“By a car, Puck!” Blaine yells. “Rear ended by a car. Not--”
“Dude, I figured that out eventually. Duh.” Yes, because Blaine’s the irrational one here, clearly. “I just came in to wake you up so you don’t fall into a coma and shit. But you have to admit it would be badass if Hummel actually dislocated your shoulder by fuck--”
“I have to pee!” Blaine yells again. Anything to make Puck stop that sentence. This is not a conversation he’s having with Puck. Also, he really does have to pee.
“Do you need me to hold it?”
“What?”
“You’re right handed, aren’t you?” Puck asks, gesturing vaguely to Blaine’s sling, and then his lap. Blaine doesn’t respond, just swings his legs off the bed and stands. Between his immobilized arm and the throbbing in his head, his balance is still off, and he sways for a moment before Puck’s hands are at his waist, steadying him.
“Thanks,” Blaine nods once he’s stable, and pushes past Puck. “But I’m good.”
“Bro code, man!” Puck calls after him as he heads for the bathroom across the hall. “A bro must do whatever is necessary to assist another bro in pissing!”
Blaine rolls his eyes as he closes the door, laughing a little. He’s never heard that rule before, but then again, he’s never really had a “bro” before. He didn’t think he had any now, but apparently he was wrong. The smile fades quickly, however, when he glances down and sees the row of metal buttons that make up the fly of his jeans.
“You should be more adventurous with your denim, he said. Damn it Kurt,” Blaine mutters as he twists his wrist awkwardly; the angle is off and his hand might as well be a ham with how nimble his fingers are and wow, now that he’s standing he really has to pee. He sighs and closes his eyes as he opens the door again. “Puck?”
Puck’s standing in front of him far too quickly and, frankly, looks far too excited.
“I just need some help with the buttons,” Blaine says quickly. “If you promise it isn’t too weird.”
“No prob,” Puck grins, ruffling his hair before he sets to work. “Jesus. What, you couldn’t find pants the buttoned all the way down to your ankles? I’m sure your boy’s got a pair.”
“Two,” Blaine answers faintly, trying not to move as Puck pops the last button and looks up at him with a pleased smile.
“Anything else?”
“Um, actually,” Blaine starts, feeling the blush spread down his neck and hoping it isn’t completely obvious. “They’re sort of um, tight and I don’t have a lot of faith in my motor skills dizzy and left handed. If you could...” Blaine bites his lip and looks up at the ceiling, wondering if this is when he wakes up from the nightmare. Puck just nods again, hooking his thumbs in the waistband of Blaine’s jeans and yanking them down a few inches until they’re stretched across his thighs.
“Thanks,” Blaine mutters, and Puck salutes him before turning on his heel, saying, “Just let me know if you need me to hold it, seriously,” before he disappears into Finn’s room and Blaine closes the door again and leans back against it.
In all the time he’s spent imagining another guy taking his pants off for the first time, that guy has never been Noah Puckerman.
He does away with the jeans when he’s finished, wrestling them down the rest of the way and kicking them back into Kurt’s room before finding a pair of pajama pants in Kurt’s dresser and sliding back into bed. He’s exhausted from his brief time out of bed and he just wants Kurt to come home and cuddle him and feed him something that doesn’t have bits of tofu floating in it.
Kurt isn’t here, though - still isn’t answering his texts even though it’s been hours - and Blaine huffs as he feels his eyes fill with tears. It’s dumb; he could go hang out with Finn and Puck or even have them come back to Kurt’s room, but it isn’t the same. He just wants Kurt.
---
He falls into a fitful sleep, although it might not be fitful if it weren’t for the seemingly endless parade of New Directions members coming through the room. Finn should really think about going into PR if this is the result of one mass text.
He groans when he’s woken up by the pillow he’d covered his face with being tugged away - he’d put it there to try and muffle Brittany’s attempt to make him feel better - only to hear the familiar lilting laugh that’s recently become his favorite sound.
“Kurt?”
“Hey, you.” Kurt’s smiling when Blaine’s eyes finally focus, sitting next to him on the bed. His fingers trace Blaine’s hairline before he leans down to brush his lips across his forehead.
“Where were you?” Blaine knows he’s whining but he can’t bring himself to care too much; it’s been a rough day and a little whining is allowed. “I told your dad I had sexy plans for us and Puck had to take my pants off and Brittany thought that Santana said I had percussion--”
“That explains the snare drum in the living room.”
“-- and instead of waking me up every few hours Finn has been calling me every ten minutes and Rachel tried to feed me her evil soup--”
“I threw that out as soon as I got home. I’m so sorry, honey,” Kurt presses a kiss to Blaine’s cheek, then, once Blaine puckers them obviously, his lips. “My phone fell out of my pocket in the car, and Tina forgot to turn hers back on after the movie, so I didn’t know until we were already on our way back.”
“You don’t seem very upset. I expected more freaking out,” Blaine frowns. He’s seen Kurt become hysterical over much less. “I was in a car accident.”
“Aww,” Kurt coos, leaning down again to kiss Blaine’s pout. “Does it help to know that I left my car running in the driveway, yelled at Tina to find her own way home, and I’m currently wearing shoes on my duvet?”
“A little.”
“Would it help if I made you pancakes for dinner and let you eat them in my bed?”
“Really? You’d do that?”
“Of course,” Kurt shrugs. “I know it’s not the ‘sexy plans’ you apparently had and told my dad about, but there’s your choice of movie and a footrub in it for you if you play your cards right.” Blaine groans at the thought of his time with Burt, scowling when Kurt starts to laugh.
“You’re the worst. Also the best.” Kurt smiles fondly down at him, running his fingers lightly down the side of his face, his neck, skating over his injured arm and down to his hip, like he’s making sure for himself that Blaine’s intact. When he seems satisfied, he leans down for one more kiss.
“I’ll be right back,” he says against Blaine’s lips.
Blaine has almost drifted off again when Kurt reappears with a tray, balancing it as he climbs back onto the bed and settles back into his spot sitting next to Blaine. He adjusts the pillows until Blaine’s sitting up more comfortably, then busies himself with cutting up pancakes as Blaine takes a long drink of orange juice.
Kurt’s holding out the fork when Blaine sets the glass down, pancake speared on the end and a drop of syrup dangerously close to dripping off.
“Really?” Blaine asks, raising an eyebrow. “I can feed myself, Kurt, you don’t need to--mmph.” He frowns around the pancake now in his mouth as Kurt takes a bite of his own.
“I know you can,” Kurt says, offering another bite. “But you don’t need to. What’s the fun of having a boyfriend if he can’t take care of you when you’re hurt?” He waves the fork a little and Blaine opens his mouth, smiling this time.
They’ve been eating in silence for a few minutes when Kurt sets down the fork, leaning forward until he’s close enough that Blaine can feel his breath on his lips.
“You’ve got syrup,” Kurt murmurs, licking at the corner of Blaine’s mouth before kissing it. “Right here.” He pulls back before Blaine can move to deepen the kiss (damn his messed up range of motion) and rolls his eyes a little when Blaine pouts again.
“What can I say? I’m a full service caretaker,” he grins. “Ok, so maybe my plan is a little bit sexy.” He darts in for one more kiss, just a peck, before he picks the fork back up. Blaine sees the flush on his cheeks but doesn’t mention it, just opens his mouth obediently for another bite, failing to muffle the yawn that escapes. This time, he doesn’t scowl when Kurt coos at him again and brushes his hair back, just leans into the touch and lets his eyes close for a moment before they resume eating.
“My dad got home while I was cooking,” Kurt says, “And he and your parents agreed that you’re staying here until they get back. He also agreed that it’s ok for you to sleep in my bed.”
“R-really?” Blaine sputters around the juice he was trying to drink. “How’d you manage that?” Even in all of his wildest fantasies for the weekend, he hadn’t dared to hope for an entire night in a bed with Kurt. That isn’t really something they have the freedom to explore yet, but given how much Blaine likes the naps they’ve taken together, he’s sure it will be amazing.
“Welllllll,” Kurt drawls, setting down the fork and clearing his throat. When he speaks again, it’s in Burt’s gruff voice and he holds up his hand to tick off the reasons. “The couch would be hell on his shoulder and I know you won’t sleep on it. You need to wake him up a few times during the night so it’s more convenient. You can’t exactly get up to any funny business with his arm in that sling. And I’ve walked in to him in your bed before, at least this time I’ll have some warning.” Blaine feels himself blush at that mortifying memory and Kurt leans over to kiss him again, brushing their noses together when he pulls back. “You’re stuck with me, Anderson. Prepare to be coddled.”
“I’ll survive,” Blaine sighs dramatically, then grins, opening his mouth expectantly and waggling his eyebrows until Kurt rolls his eyes and feeds him another piece of pancake.
His shoulder still hurts, and his head is still fuzzy, and it’s going to be annoying to not have use of his arm for a while. But Blaine spent the day with people he thought he could only claim as acquaintances hovering over him with varying degrees of sympathy and good intentions, and now his boyfriend is feeding him pancakes and telling him they’ve been given permission for a three day sleepover.
It’s funny how quickly even the worst day can turn around for the better.
“Wait,” Kurt says suddenly, pulling Blaine from his thoughts. His brow is furrowed, eyes narrowed at Blaine in confusion.
“Why did Puck take your pants off?”