Welcome to the Glee Angst Meme again! You know how these things work. You can come here and prompt your most angsty prompts, and write stories filling those angsty prompts to let our characters suffer
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FILL 6/? Spoilers for 3.04 -- warnings: violence, language, homophobiaemoryemsDecember 13 2011, 06:50:27 UTC
Sue stands in her living room for a few minutes, mindlessly watching the commercials playing on the television, and then turns toward her phone, a plan in her mind.
She needs to see Porcelain.
--
Sue walks through the barren halls with long strides and her lips pinched tightly. She does not want to be here. There are very few reasons that Sue Sylvester will walk the halls of a hospital without being mortally wounded, and this toes the line.
But she has worked hard to find out where in this sad little town Porcelain is, and there is no way she is backing away now.
She finds her way to the ICU ward of Lima Memorial, but not before a near-death experience via a trampling herd of nurses and doctors playing catch with a coding patient leaves her enraged and hopped up on adrenaline. She wonders if she should start prowling the halls of the emergency and triage areas instead of sneaking into rooms to look at wounds. Exercise and ample blood; even better.
When she reaches the door to the room, her keen eyes picking out the number on the placard easily, Sue slows to a stop and adjusts the elastic waistband of her tracksuit. She isn't building her courage; she's building her image, so that when Porcelain sees her he will be so enthralled by her presence that he will know she had nothing to do with this.
What she finds when she steps into the room isn't what she had imagined. There is no gaggle of overwrought teenagers sobbing at Porcelain's bedside, no lavish assortment of flowers snuck into the ICU by his fretful boy toy. No. There is only a pale, bruise-speckled boy almost half obscured by tubes and bandages, and a single figure slumped in a chair at the head of the bed.
The lack of the signature trucker hat leaves Sue floundering for a moment before she realizes that it's her competition whose shoulders are slouched, and whose son is attached to so many machines she can't even fathom which does what. Except she knows what the tube in his throat means.
It means her Porcelain, the boy who had sung and danced until he had fainted in Cheerio practice, couldn't breathe on his own.
Sue lifts her chin from its dipped position and straightens her back. She will not walk away.
"Burt," Sue acknowledges, ready to face whatever he will throw at her.
But the man doesn't even flinch at the sound of her voice - his entire being is focused on the figure in the bed.
There are very few situations that have made Sue Sylvester feel out of place, a fact that she prides herself on, but this moment is certainly a part of that very short list. Sue hates feeling anything less than in control of a situation.
The constant beep of the heart monitor and the reflection of light from the drops of saline as they fall into the IV line are what Sue focuses on instead of the form of Burt Hummel slumped next to the still form in the hospital bed. She'll never admit it, but something holds her back from actually looking again.
This wasn't her fault. There was no way she could have known that her voters would do this, especially to a student from McKinley.
A former Cheerio. A boy she, despite her desire to never admit it out loud, cares for. The son of her opposition. The gay son of her opposition.
She should have seen it. She should have known that there would be backlash from her rigorous campaigning.
But she hadn't and there isn't anything she can do to prevent it now.
Sue stands in the middle of Hummel's hospital room for what feels like an hour. Her feet and lower back throb, but she doesn't move. It almost feels like penance, except that not an ounce of the guilt that rests in her has gone.
She needs to see Porcelain.
--
Sue walks through the barren halls with long strides and her lips pinched tightly. She does not want to be here. There are very few reasons that Sue Sylvester will walk the halls of a hospital without being mortally wounded, and this toes the line.
But she has worked hard to find out where in this sad little town Porcelain is, and there is no way she is backing away now.
She finds her way to the ICU ward of Lima Memorial, but not before a near-death experience via a trampling herd of nurses and doctors playing catch with a coding patient leaves her enraged and hopped up on adrenaline. She wonders if she should start prowling the halls of the emergency and triage areas instead of sneaking into rooms to look at wounds. Exercise and ample blood; even better.
When she reaches the door to the room, her keen eyes picking out the number on the placard easily, Sue slows to a stop and adjusts the elastic waistband of her tracksuit. She isn't building her courage; she's building her image, so that when Porcelain sees her he will be so enthralled by her presence that he will know she had nothing to do with this.
What she finds when she steps into the room isn't what she had imagined. There is no gaggle of overwrought teenagers sobbing at Porcelain's bedside, no lavish assortment of flowers snuck into the ICU by his fretful boy toy. No. There is only a pale, bruise-speckled boy almost half obscured by tubes and bandages, and a single figure slumped in a chair at the head of the bed.
The lack of the signature trucker hat leaves Sue floundering for a moment before she realizes that it's her competition whose shoulders are slouched, and whose son is attached to so many machines she can't even fathom which does what. Except she knows what the tube in his throat means.
It means her Porcelain, the boy who had sung and danced until he had fainted in Cheerio practice, couldn't breathe on his own.
Sue lifts her chin from its dipped position and straightens her back. She will not walk away.
"Burt," Sue acknowledges, ready to face whatever he will throw at her.
But the man doesn't even flinch at the sound of her voice - his entire being is focused on the figure in the bed.
There are very few situations that have made Sue Sylvester feel out of place, a fact that she prides herself on, but this moment is certainly a part of that very short list. Sue hates feeling anything less than in control of a situation.
The constant beep of the heart monitor and the reflection of light from the drops of saline as they fall into the IV line are what Sue focuses on instead of the form of Burt Hummel slumped next to the still form in the hospital bed. She'll never admit it, but something holds her back from actually looking again.
This wasn't her fault. There was no way she could have known that her voters would do this, especially to a student from McKinley.
A former Cheerio. A boy she, despite her desire to never admit it out loud, cares for. The son of her opposition. The gay son of her opposition.
She should have seen it. She should have known that there would be backlash from her rigorous campaigning.
But she hadn't and there isn't anything she can do to prevent it now.
Sue stands in the middle of Hummel's hospital room for what feels like an hour. Her feet and lower back throb, but she doesn't move. It almost feels like penance, except that not an ounce of the guilt that rests in her has gone.
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