Because You Left, Chapter Thirteen
Title: Because You Left, Chapter Thirteen: Special
Pairing/Character(s): Burt, Kurt, Ben, Blaine, and Walt Lloyd
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Chapter takes place in a hospital setting and there's some mention of injuries and treatment, but it's all very vague. Some potentially disturbing imagery right before Walt arrives.
Word Count: About 8000
Spoilers: Potential spoilers (kind of) for all six seasons of LOST, and up to and through Glee 2X08, "Furt."
Standard-Issue Short-Form Disclaimer: I do not hold copyright to Glee or LOST, I make no claims to such, and I am not profiting from this.
Summary: They're not quite ready for explanations, not yet. Right now it's enough that no one's died.
Author's Notes: This is a Glee/LOST AU crossover. Fic is a work in progress, but I do have a substantial backlog of chapters to post while I work on the newest ones. I hope to post once a week, on Sundays, barring fire, flood, corset-related disasters, and/or LJ outages. Previous chapters and supplemental materials can be found on the masterpost.
As always, if I haven't adequately explained any of the LOST stuff, please feel free to leave a comment here and/or pm me. I will answer.
There's a cop waiting for them in the hospital lobby.
Burt's long since lost count of how many of them he's seen today.
SWAT guys in black kevlar, prowling around the grounds of McKinley like they were just looking for someone to shoot, hapless-looking sheriff's deputies in brown guarding the perimeter, trying to keep the looky-loos out. Burt and some of the other parents -- the Lopezes, both sets of Changs, Artie Abrams' folks, and Mrs. Pierce -- were escorted into the school by a state trooper in gray, who didn't look exactly comfortable to be stuck inside four walls instead of out on the highway; the Lima P.D., their very own chubby blue line, were on the inside of the school -- conferring in doorways, retracing steps, talking to witnesses. Then there were the plainclothes guys handling the students themselves. Most of them were holed up in the choir room; at least, that's where the Abrams and Changs and Brittany's mom wound up. But Burt and the Lopezes, they were taken to the administrative offices instead, so they could watch their pale, shaken children give stuttering statements to a detective while Sue Sylvester sat behind her desk and watched them with a face that was about fifty years older than it was supposed to be. And all around them, McKinley high school just teeming with police officers.
To say that it's not quite how Burt wanted to celebrate his engagement to the woman he loves would be an understatement of the worst kind.
He's known fear all the way straight down to his bones since before Kurt was born. Been scared since he saw that little pink plus sign, honestly. Because pregnancies are risky, and children are delicate, and there's so many things that could go wrong. He's got a list of fears a mile long, and this very situation is right up near the top of it. But it's not the thing he fears the most, and that's why he doesn't take his son home to rest and recuperate when the first statements have been taken. They do run to the house, just briefly, and Burt stops the car in the driveway, leaves the engine running, and makes a few quick phone calls while Kurt runs down to his room to get something. And then Kurt's back in the car and they're back on the road, driving to the hospital. Driving back towards the cops.
Because Burt never wanted to have to do this; he never wanted to see his wide-eyed son sitting next to a plainclothes detective, telling him how he'd felt when he heard the gun go off for the first time. But he knows it could have been worse. That right now, there's a guy in a hospital waiting room who's suffering through something Burt can't even contemplate.
So he nods at the cop, gives his name and shows his I.D., and lets the guy lead him and Kurt through the automatic doors, down the hallway, to a small private waiting room in the middle of the crowded trauma center.
Ben's alone in there, no cops to guard him, no SWAT guys looking restless or state troopers looking confused. It's just him, standing by the complimentary coffee station with his hands on the counter and his head bowed, like the enormity of what's happening to him didn't really hit until he got up to fix himself a drink and then it just ran him over.
Which is probably exactly what happened, come to think of it.
Ben lifts his head and glances at them just as the cop slips out of the room again, closing the door as he goes. He doesn't say anything, but he nods at them before turning back to the coffee machine, and Burt swallows hard and steps toward him, Kurt still clinging to his left hand, his right closed tightly around the roughly carved wooden doll in his pocket.
"Thank you," Ben says, so quietly that Burt has to strain to hear him. He picks up a sugar packet, holds it with shaking hands; Burt's not exactly sure what he means to do with it, since there's no cup in front of him, nothing for him to add sugar to. "For coming. I'm sure you're... you're anxious to get home. But they tell me it won't be too much longer, so."
"It's no trouble," Burt says, finally detaching from Kurt's grip and coming in a little closer. He lets go of the doll in his pocket and reaches out for Ben's shoulder instead; Ben stiffens up for a second when Burt touches him, then relaxes, his whole body slumping with -- exhaustion, grief, something like that. A whole lot of things at once, probably. "How you holding up?"
"I'm not," Ben says, his voice a little choked. He drops the sugar packet back to the counter, and his hands fall to his sides. "But again. Thank you. For... For being concerned."
There's not a lot Burt can say to that. The way he sees it, he doesn't need thanking, but that's not always something you can say in these kinds of circumstances. He'd like to say he understands, but he knows he doesn't, not really. He settles on saying "It's no trouble," again, because at least that's true. Hell, there'd have been trouble if Kurt hadn't been allowed to come to the hospital; Burt knows how worried he is about his friend.
"You said it wouldn't be very long," Kurt says, finally chiming in. Ben turns to look at him, something soft on his face, like Kurt's fear is making him forget his own for a moment. Which, again, is probably exactly what's happening. Burt doesn't know Ben that well, but he knows the guy's got a soft spot for kids. "Is he... Does that mean he... How is he?"
"He's..." Ben somehow musters up a smile, although it's small and strained, and fades almost as soon as it's come. But Burt lets go of him anyway, lets him step away from the little coffee station and come closer to Kurt, reaching out to touch his arm for a second. "He's very lucky. There's been some... some damage, and he'll be on crutches for quite a while, but... But he's all right, otherwise. Mostly they're just... just cleaning him up, right now."
He smiles again, and this one flickers and fades just as quickly as the first one did. Kurt glances nervously at Burt, and Burt clears his throat.
"We... uh... We brought something," he says, jamming his hands back in his pockets. Something almost like alarm passes across Ben's face for a moment, then vanishes as soon as it's come, and Burt's stomach drops just a little bit. He's well aware that this could end badly for all four of them, that this might be the worst idea he and Kurt have ever had. All he can do is trust that Ben felt the same way about Annie as Burt always did -- that she was there to help him, to take care of him. Not to hurt him. "Something for Blaine. It's... It's something Kurt's mom made, when she was a little girl, and she passed it on to him, and... uh... Kurt's always liked having it around when he's been sick or hurt or just, you know, not feeling all that great. So." He takes one last look at Ben's wary, watchful face, then pulls the doll out of his pocket and holds it out.
Ben goes very, very still. "Oh," he says, quietly. He doesn't move, and Burt's not sure if that's good or bad. But there's not really anything he can do either way, so he just holds it out, waiting.
Finally, Ben reaches out, takes the doll from Burt's outstretched hands, careful, like it's something precious. Which it is. Of course it is. "It was a birthday present," he says, his voice just this side of shaky. Burt sets a hand on his shoulder to brace him, and for the first time, Ben doesn't stiffen up when he's touched. If he even notices that Burt's hand is there, which he might not. He's focused on the doll with an intensity that's almost frightening. "My... my father was never particularly interested in celebrating the occasion, and no one else ever paid much mind to it. But she remembered."
"Yeah," Burt says, and his voice is a little gruff too, right now. Because he's moved on and all, moved on with his life, but he still misses her. Always will. "Annie was always good about things like that."
Ben looks up at him when he says her name, meets his eyes. "I always wondered..." he says, then shakes his head. "Thank you," he says again, and that must be where Blaine gets it from, the way he's always thanking people. The two of them, they seem to expect so little. "For this." His gaze shifts to Kurt, a little less watery now. "But I think perhaps you'd better hold on to it for now, until we know whether Blaine's getting transferred to ICU, or just going home, or... They're... particular about what gets brought into the rooms down here. Risk of infection, and everything. And I think... I think it might be nice for you to give it to Blaine yourself. If you wanted to do that."
"Of course I do," Kurt says, quickly, and it's no surprise that he sounds as choked up as anyone else in the room. Kurt feels a lot, he always has. "I just... we weren't sure if..."
"I wouldn't worry," Ben says, and it's almost that same eerie calm that he usually has, but not quite. He can't quite seem to get there. "We're not skipping town just yet, Blaine and I." He glances back at Burt again. "And anyway, I rather feel as though we owe the two of you a very long explanation."
Burt shrugs, squeezing Ben's shoulder reassuringly. "Don't think about it too hard," he says. "You got enough on your plate." Ben gives him a look of gratitude that's so completely undeserved that it's almost hard to stomach, and Burt lets go and takes Ben's place at the coffee station. "Anyway. I'm gonna grab some coffee. You... uh, you want anything?"
"Tea," Ben says, so promptly that it's almost surprising. "Before you came in, I was going to see if there was any... I suppose I got distracted."
"I can --" Kurt starts, but Burt cuts him off with an upraised hand. There's a little box of Lipton by the side of the coffee maker, and a spigot for hot water, and he's pretty sure he can figure the rest of it out himself.
"I got it," he says, reaching for some styrofoam cups. "Maybe I ain't that much of a cook, per se, but I can make a cup of tea. Why don't the two of you just sit down."
It's not a suggestion, and he's not at all surprised when he peeks over his shoulder and sees Kurt leading Ben towards the chairs, with one hand on his arm. He is a little gratified, though, when he hears Kurt's voice a few seconds later. "Can I ask..." he says, a little hesitant. "What was she like, when she was younger? My mother. What was she like?"
And he's even more gratified to hear Ben give him what sounds like a totally straight answer. "She was... kind," he says. "Very moral, very compassionate. I think she... She enjoyed taking care of people, when she could." He pauses for a moment; Burt's tempted to look back over his shoulder to check the expression on his face, but he doesn't, in the end. "She was a good deal like you, actually."
Burt ducks his head and stares hard at the coffee he's stirring powdered creamer into, and he's not really sure if he's hiding his smile or the way his eyes have kind of filled up with tears. He closes them, just for a second, just to catch his breath. It's been a hell of a day, that's for sure.
And it's not over yet.
He opens his eyes again.
*
He wants to close his eyes, but he can't.
(flashing colors, plaid to stripes then squares fading into each other)
(EVERYTHING CHANGES)
(clouds moving across the sky, gray to red to black and the storm is coming, it's coming)
Everything is so loud, so loud he can feel his bones vibrating, so loud he feels like he's shaking apart, and then a high pitched noise like a scream whistles through, cutting everything else out and it hurts and he just wants to close his eyes, but he can't.
(the moon, no longer obscured by clouds)
(insects crawling)
(dead fish with open eyes)
(WE ARE THE CAUSES OF OUR OWN SUFFERING)
Someone is talking to him, but it's backwards, backwards, he doesn't understand; he doesn't understand why it's all so loud, he doesn't understand why he can't just close his eyes --
(abandoned swings, still in motion, but with the children all gone and why are they gone?)
(GOD LOVES YOU AS HE LOVED JACOB.)
More screaming, and God, he just wants to close --
(the numbers, always changing, always the same)
(the numbers)
He opens his eyes.
"Hey, Blaine," someone says, a tall kid in a blue and red Dalton uniform, and this is not the same room -- it's bright and clean, antiseptic, and it's quiet here, no drums shaking him, no screams slicing through. No one talking backwards.
He closes his eyes, opens them again. It's reassuring. "Hey, Walt," he says, his voice weird and croaky, but he can feel his pounding heartbeat slowly subside back to something more manageable, and he knows it's over.
Kind of. For now.
Walt grins, comes a little closer. He looks good in the Dalton uniform, looks natural in it, somehow. If Blaine didn't know, if he hadn't seen -- "I didn't know you knew who I was," Walt says, a little shyly.
Blaine swallows hard. "I know you," he admits, his eyes never leaving Walt's face. "You're... You're special."
"Yeah." The smile falls off Walt's face.
"I am too," Blaine says. "My dad, when he took me -- I don't know what they told you, on the Island, but it isn't true. Whatever it was, it's not true." He tries to sit up; he feels it's important to sit up, but he can't seem to make himself do it. "He's not a bad person; he's not -- he would never --"
He struggles, trying to sit up, but he can't. Why can't he just sit up?
Walt takes another step forward, his eyes worried. "It's cool," he says. "Blaine, it's cool. Don't worry about it."
There's something in Walt's voice that makes the struggle just die right out of Blaine's body. He relaxes, a little bit, closes his eyes, opens them again. At least he can do that. He sighs. "But he knew that I was special," he continues, trying to stay calm, "and he knew that if he didn't... He knew that someday, they'd --"
Walt bites his lip. "Yeah," he says again. "Yeah, I know."
And Blaine's stomach twists up a little, because he knows that Walt is younger than him, only fourteen, and he was even younger than that on the Island, when they put him in Room 23, and --
"Don't," Walt says, his voice surprisingly firm. "It would've happened anyway. And it's not --" He laughs a little, shakes his head. "I mean, no offense, man, but what I do? I made them stop. You couldn't do that. You can do a lot, but... not what I did."
"Okay," Blaine says, but he's still a little uncertain about the whole thing. Not that he really thinks that it'd have been different if they'd stayed, really, but. Still. Maybe he could have helped, somehow.
"You still can," Walt says. "You can still help, Blaine. But it's your choice. Like your dad said. Remember?"
Blaine shakes his head, uneasily. He doesn't know how Walt knew about that, but he guesses it doesn't matter much. What matters more is whether he can even make that decision, now. He's not so sure he can. Not so sure he wants to, really. "I got hurt," he says. "My dad, he won't want to --"
"He won't break his promise," Walt tells him. "Not to you."
"But... Kurt..."
Walt just smiles at him. "You and the spy, huh?" Blaine flushes a little bit, and Walt actually laughs. "Hey, man, whatever works. Anyway, you know what Kurt's gonna say. You two have history. He's not gonna let that go." He tugs at the thin blanket covering Blaine's body, pulling it a little higher up his shoulders, then straightens his blazer and takes a few steps back. "I'll see you at Sectionals, Blaine," he says. "But don't worry. We'll try not to kick your butts too badly."
Blaine just blinks up at him for a moment, confused. "But... We're on the same..."
Walt shrugs at him, then turns and walks away. He looks back over his shoulder once, when he reaches the door. "Your dad'll be here when you open your eyes," he adds. "So don't worry."
And Blaine didn't even realize that his eyes were closed again, but they are. It's dark now, quiet, and nothing's loud, nothing hurts, nothing feels --
And he almost thinks he wants to stay here for a while, stay unconscious and pretend that none of this is happening.
But he wants his dad. He wants his dad so much.
*
It isn't a sudden thing, really.
Blaine is restless from the moment Ben comes into the room, eyes moving behind his eyelids, lips shaping words that he can't quite put voice to. His head rolls a little on the pillow, his fingers twitching slightly as he fights his way free of the sedatives. There's nothing Ben can do to help him; he pulls a chair up to the bed, pushes the hair back from Blaine's forehead with gentle fingers, and waits for his son to come back to him.
Blaine rolls his head. His fingers twitch. He mumbles in his sleep -- got hurt... won't want to -- and breathes a little faster.
Ben closes his hand around Blaine's, twitching on the sheets.
He pushes the hair back from Blaine's forehead.
He waits.
Blaine takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly, and his eyes flutter open. He blinks up at the ceiling for a few seconds, as if he's trying to figure out where he is, before opening his mouth to speak.
"Walt?" he asks, his voice raspy and faint.
Ben almost has to laugh at that, if only because it's so unexpected. "Sorry to disappoint you," he says, leaning in a little closer and squeezing Blaine's hand. Blaine's head tips sideways to look at him, his eyes widening a little, a look of relief sweeping over his face. And for some reason, it's that look that makes Ben's heart skip a beat, makes him feel like the unsteady world he spins on has finally settled into something stable. Safe. Home. It's that look that makes any other comments he was planning on making shrivel up and die unspoken, because there simply are no words for this moment.
"Dad," Blaine says, reaching out with his free hand, trying to roll onto his side to get closer. Ben reaches out instinctively to catch him as he struggles, his hands underneath Blaine's shoulders. Blaine's arms wrap around him and pull him close, and he is holding his son again, and the only thing that stops Ben from bursting into tears is that it would upset Blaine, and he doesn't want to do that. "Dad, I'm so sorry." Blaine's voice chokes on the words, and Ben pulls him closer.
"Don't be," Ben whispers, reaching up with one hand to stroke Blaine's hair. It's still stiff and sticky with gel, matted down with sweat and possibly blood as well, but he doesn't care so much about that. His son is alive; his son is here, and that's all that really matters right now. "You did exactly the right thing. I'm very proud of you, Blaine."
"I --" Blaine's shoulders hitch with a muffled sob, and Ben holds him closer, trying to steady him. He's shaking, a little bit; probably just a delayed reaction. He must have been so frightened, a situation like that. But still, he did well. He did so well. "Dad, I knew," Blaine whispers.
Ben blinks at the wall behind Blaine's right ear, because he's honestly not sure what Blaine's talking about right now. Some sort of dream, possibly? He was asking for Walt, after all. "What did you know, Blaine?" he asks, keeping his voice gentle.
Blaine shudders. "I... K- Karofsky," he says, stumbling a little over the name. "He... He went to Kurt, said he needed to talk, that he needed to... That he needed our help, and I --" He chokes again, tears soaking through Ben's shirt, and Ben rubs his back in circles, murmurs nonsense into his ear, and all the while his mind is racing. Because his son is kind, despite everything he's been through; his son is gentle, and loving, and so willing to give and now his generosity has been taken advantage of in the most monstrous of ways, and although Ben knows that David Karofsky is under heavy police supervision at the moment, he's tempted to try his luck anyway. It would almost be worth it, just to see the look in his eyes as he --
Then Blaine sobs again, clinging to him, and Ben forgets about revenge, at least for right now. Because this is what matters most. Blaine matters the most. He always has. "Should've told you," he says, hands fisting in Ben's shirt. "I know, I know I should've told you, because I knew that he -- But I thought we could help him; I thought..."
"It's not your fault," Ben says, pulling his son a little closer, mindful of his injured leg, heavily wrapped in gauze, and this should not have happened. His son was trying to do the right thing, trying to help someone. This should never, never have happened. "Blaine, this is not your fault."
"And I thought that if I told you, then I'd have to... To tell you what he did to Kurt, and I couldn't --" Blaine presses in tighter, more than a little desperate now. "Dad, what if all of it -- What if everything he did was just... to get to us. To me. Everything he did to Kurt, everything he --"
"It still wouldn't be your fault," Ben says, firmly. "None of this is your fault, Blaine."
"But if he --"
Ben shushes his son, still rubbing his back gently. "Blaine," he says. "You did the right thing. And if Karofsky... If he tried to take advantage of that, then that says more about him than it does about you, doesn't it?"
Blaine's quiet, for a few seconds, trembling a little bit, still crying. "He was waiting," he whispers, the words barely audible; Ben has to strain to hear. "When I got down to the basement, he was... And he smiled at me, you know, but just... just a normal smile. And I asked if I was headed the right way for the home ec room, and he said yes, and let me get ahead of him a little bit and that was when... That was when I felt it. The gun."
"Blaine," Ben says quietly, unable to stay silent, but unsure of what else to say.
"And he said I shouldn't try anything," Blaine says, shaking harder. "Because maybe he wasn't supposed to kill me, but he could... He could kill other people. And make me watch. And if I tried anything, he'd..." Blaine sobs harder, and Ben is already doing everything he can think of to make him feel better; he doesn't know what else to do. He doesn't know how to fix this. "And I knew he meant -- When he said that, he meant --"
"Blaine, I'm so sorry," Ben says, his own voice choking just a little bit. "I should have been there; I should have --"
"I just don't want anyone to get hurt," Blaine says. "I never wanted... And now Walt's telling me I have to stay, but if I do then something'll happen to Kurt, or his dad, or someone, and I don't... But Walt says I have to, and I don't know what to do, Dad. I just... I don't know."
Ben looks at the wall behind Blaine's head again, just for a few moments, seeking some sort of answer. There's none, of course; he's not sure why he would have thought that in the first place. "Why don't we talk about this later?" he suggests, as gently as he can. "When some of the... When some of the shock has passed. I'm sure Walt didn't tell you that you had to make your mind up tonight."
Blaine shakes his head, sniffles into Ben's shirt. "It has to be soon, though," he says. "Because your back, and... and Kurt, and... Dad, it has to be soon."
"It will be," Ben says, holding Blaine in place. "I promise you it will be."
And he holds Blaine close, even after he's finally stopped trembling, stopped crying, and he stares at the wall, and he wonders what exactly he's going to do about this. About Blaine, about Kurt, about David Karofsky, about everything.
For the first time in a very long time, he has no real ideas.
*
He tries reading a magazine, after Mr. Anderson has gone in to see Blaine, but he can't focus enough to actually read it. Anyway, he's pretty sure he's read the whole thing before -- he's pretty sure he's read all of these before, come to think of it. There wasn't a lot to do when his dad was in the ICU, after... And while Lima Memorial is well-known for some things, taking the time to update its magazine selection is clearly not one of those things.
So he tries to watch the tv, like his dad, but it's another Home Improvement rerun, and he's pretty sure he's seen that before, too. Because, again, not much to do while his dad was in the ICU, unconscious, hooked up to all those machines, and Home Improvement is one of those shows that's always on somewhere. So he'd leave it on, just for background noise while he flipped through some magazine that he'd already looked at ten times before, and even if he never really paid attention to any of it, he still noticed enough details that they stuck with him.
He can't help it. He hears Tim Allen's voice, and all he thinks of is a limp hand in his; he turns the pages of a magazine and in his head he hears the beeping of machinery, and he remembers thinking that this was never going to stop, that he was never going to get away from this, and now here he is in another waiting room, with the same stack of magazines and the same sitcom reruns, and he's tired of this, he's just so tired of --
He pushes to his feet and goes to make himself a cup of tea to calm down, because he can't have a nervous breakdown over Jonathan Taylor Thomas. He just can't.
It's as he's dipping the tea bag into the hot water, watching the color bleed out of it, that he realizes how much of this is his fault. Not all of it, of course; he doesn't think so highly of himself as all that. And whatever... whatever connection Karofsky's family has to Blaine's, to the Island (whatever that is), it started before Kurt met Blaine. Karofsky was in Mr. Anderson's class; he had to have figured something out. Maybe he was even there on purpose, maybe he took that class just to get close to him. Karofsky's smarter than he looks, it's possible he had at least some kind of a plan. Or his dad did, or something.
But Blaine...
Kurt all but introduced them, didn't he? He didn't know, of course, couldn't have known, but... And he brought Blaine to the school. He didn't have to do that. He could have told Blaine to meet him at his house, or the Lima Bean, or... He could have gone to Dalton. At the very least, he could have told Finn or someone that Blaine was coming, had them look out for him, walk him down to the home ec room so he wouldn't be alone. He could have... He could have done so many things, if only he'd been thinking. If only he'd...
"Hey," his dad says, quietly, and just the sound of his voice is enough to make Kurt's eyes well up with tears, because... He could have told his dad. Why didn't he tell his dad? Why didn't he tell someone, sooner, and get Karofsky kicked out of the school? Why didn't he --
His dad's hand settles on his shoulder. "Hey," he says again. "Hey, kiddo. C'mon, don't..."
"This is all my fault," he whispers, and his dad squeezes his shoulder reassuringly.
"Kurt. C'mon, now, you know that's not --"
"Just --" Kurt grips the counter, leaning on it for support, and his dad's hand stays on his shoulder. "I should have said something, I know I should. To you, or Mr. Anderson, or... or Mr. Schue, or anyone, but I thought... I thought he was confused, I thought... I thought we could help him, if we just... if we talked to him, if he saw that he wasn't alone, maybe it could be different, maybe he could..."
His dad is quiet for a moment, his hand still heavy and warm on Kurt's shoulder, not letting go of him for a second. "You mean Karofsky, right?" he asks, finally. "You thought Karofsky was confused."
Kurt hiccups a little bit; he doesn't trust himself to speak, so he just nods instead.
"And why would you think that, Kurt?"
"Because..." Kurt bites his lip, and God, it shouldn't be so hard to say this, after everything else, but it still... He still doesn't know how to say it. Because he can't... But he didn't want it. He never wanted it. He takes a deep breath, then another, trying to blink his tears back. "He kissed me."
His dad tenses up behind him, his hand tightening on Kurt's shoulder. There's a heavy silence. Finally, his dad says, "He kissed you," his voice surprisingly rough. "This Karofsky kid, the one who's been shoving you around and insulting you and... He kissed you."
Kurt nods again, unable to do anything else. God, even now, he can still taste it. Can still remember how it felt, Karofsky's hands, and his hot breath, and his lips and his teeth, and...
"And I'm gonna guess you didn't exactly want him to do that," his dad continues, voice still rough. "Since you're shaking, and everything."
"No," Kurt whispers, choking back a sob. "No, I didn't... I never..."
"Kurt," his dad says, just his name, and Kurt can't take it anymore; he turns around and buries his face in his dad's shirt, clinging to him hard, and his dad's arms wrap around him, holding him close. "And you were gonna... After all that, you were still gonna help him." He doesn't even sound angry, which almost makes it worse somehow. He sounds... he sounds amazed.
"I just..." Kurt sniffles against his dad's chest. "He said he would... that he was thinking about... And we'd tried to talk to him, before, but he wasn't ready, and I thought this time he was, that he meant it, when he said he..."
"Jesus Christ," his dad says, still sounding so amazed. "You are... You are one hell of a good person, Kurt. I don't know if you get that, just yet, but you are one hell of a good person."
And it's so absolutely the opposite of what Kurt was expecting to hear that he kind of forgets whatever else he was going to say and, speechless, just buries his face in his dad's shirt and breathes deeply, grease and gasoline and the tang of the garage, and lets his dad hold him up.
"I gotta ask, though," his dad says, after a little bit. "Just, you know, making sure, and all. But you did tell Blaine about this, right? That Karofsky was coming. He... He knew. Right?"
Kurt thinks maybe he should be a little offended at the question, and maybe he is, somewhere down deep, but he's already feeling too much right now and there's just no room for it. So he just nods, and takes a deep breath, and lets another flood of words come rushing out of him. "Because the last time we tried to talk to Karofsky, he... So I asked him, I asked Blaine if he thought he could, because we didn't have to, we could go somewhere else or he could help me tomorrow, or... But he didn't want me to break a promise, and he didn't want me to go alone, and he thought..." He squeezes his eyes tight shut at that, because it hurts, thinking about how readily Blaine said yes, how willing he was to take that kind of a chance on someone who'd threatened him just a couple of weeks before, someone he had no reason at all to trust. And Karofsky knew they were trusting him, knew they wanted to help, and he just -- "Why would someone do that, Dad? Why would... Why would he do that to someone who just wanted to help?"
His dad's quiet for a while, then he sighs. "Honestly, kiddo," he says, "I don't know. I don't know what makes people do the kinds of things they do sometimes. All I know is that you two kids have a hell of a lot of guts. And I'm real proud of you. Both of you."
And there's something in the way his father says that that lets Kurt know that the two of them are no longer alone in the room, and he does his best to push the rest of his tears back, slipping out of his dad's arms and wiping his eyes quickly with his fingertips, trying to look composed for Blaine's father. The look on Mr. Anderson's face tells him that he's not exactly succeeding.
"Kurt," Mr. Anderson says, quietly, and something about the way he says it, the sympathy and the sorrow in his voice, makes Kurt start to feel a little fluttery, a little panicked.
"He's okay," he says, trying not to freak out too much. "Blaine. He's okay, right?"
Mr. Anderson musters up a small, weak smile. "A little shaken," he says, "and, of course, his leg... But he's fine, otherwise. And he'd... He'd like to see you. Unless you needed a moment?"
Kurt glances up at his dad, and his father nods down at him, a small smile on his face that's an eerie replica of the one on Mr. Anderson's. And there's something... Kurt's not totally sure what it means. But he's pretty sure it's a dad thing, the face that they're making. The way they're trying so hard to be brave. And he can be brave, too. For them. "No," he says, trying to keep his voice steady. "It's... it's fine. I'd like to see him. Please."
Mr. Anderson just nods, reaching out, and Kurt lets him rest one hand on his shoulder, lets himself be led down the hall.
Blaine is trying to prop himself up on one elbow as they walk into the room, trying and failing, his arms shaky, his movements slow and awkward, probably from the anaesthetic and the painkillers he's been given. "Blaine," Mr. Anderson says, his voice a little choked, but he hangs back and lets Kurt be the one to hurry to Blaine's side, lets him gently guide Blaine back down against the stark white sheets, fuss with the thin blanket.
"Stop that," Kurt murmurs, not letting himself look at Blaine's face too much, trying not to look at Blaine's leg, either. It's hard to ignore -- the blanket isn't covering it, and Kurt can see everything -- the bandages wrapped thick around Blaine's thigh, the folded pillow tucked under his knobby knee to keep his leg elevated, his bare toes looking oddly vulnerable at the end of the bed. But he can't look at any of those things, because... because he can't, so he keeps his eyes on Blaine's blanket instead, tugging it up over his chest until his shoulders are covered. "You shouldn't -- you've been hurt; you don't need to --"
"Kurt," Blaine says, quietly. He lifts his hands up to cover Kurt's, and the blanket slides off his shoulders again. Kurt thinks maybe he should put it back, but Blaine's hands are wrapped too tightly around his, and he can't pull free. If he even wants to, which he's pretty sure he doesn't. "Kurt," Blaine says again, and Kurt finally manages to take a good look at Blaine's face -- his eyes red and puffy, his skin blotchy, his nose a little swollen. He's been crying, the same way that Kurt's been crying, and Kurt just can't take it anymore. He lets himself sink onto the bed, his hip near Blaine's waist, and folds himself down until he can press an ear to Blaine's chest and listen for the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. Because he doesn't care how it looks, really, and he doesn't even care that he's doing it right in front of Blaine's dad. He just... He just needs this.
Blaine lets go of Kurt's hands, his arms coming up around Kurt's back and holding him loosely in place, and Kurt draws in a slow, shaky breath. He doesn't even feel like crying anymore, is the thing. He just needs to be here, right here, listening to Blaine's heartbeat. "Kurt," Blaine says for the third time, his voice a little choked now. "Kurt, I'm so sorry."
"You're okay," Kurt says, and clings to Blaine's shoulders. "You're okay, you're okay, you're okay..."
"I'm so sorry, Kurt," Blaine says again. "I --"
He doesn't finish the sentence.
"You're okay," Kurt whispers again, and presses as close as he can get to Blaine. "Just... Just as long as you're okay."
"Kurt," Blaine murmurs, and his arms tighten a little around Kurt's back.
Neither of them says anything after that. Not for a long time.
*
Ben's not gone all that long; obviously Kurt and Blaine don't want chaperones right now, not that they're gonna get up to anything. Crying, probably. Maybe hugging. Probably a lot of Kurt blaming himself and then Blaine blaming himself and the two of them going back and forth like that for a while. Which are all really tame things, but they're also the sort of things that are best done without someone's dad hovering in the corner. So Burt's not totally surprised that Ben's back in the room before he's had the chance to figure out whether he should sit back down or stay standing.
He does, however, take it as a sign that he should be standing up for this particular conversation.
"They okay?" he asks, since it seems like a good, neutral place to start, and also because he's worried as all hell right now and could use a little reassurance.
Ben, being Ben, doesn't exactly provide. "That," he says, quietly, "depends entirely on your definition of okay." He crosses to a chair and sits down; Burt's tempted to take that as some kind of a sign, to try and apply some fancy psychology or body language or something to it, but he's pretty sure the guy's just worn out. Burt's had a hell of a long day, but Ben's had a longer one, and that's a fact.
"Let's just go with yours, for right now," he suggests, still standing. "What is yours, anyway?"
"It varies," Ben says, with a little shrug. "Depending on the situation. Ordinarily, I'd say that they're about as far from okay as it's possible to be without either of them being dead. But. They're not dead. And right now, it's a little hard for me to care about anything else, so."
Burt takes his hat off, rubs at his bare scalp, puts his hat back on. The thing about Ben is that, if this were anyone else, he'd think that this was some kind of a put-on. Because he's saying things that most people wouldn't say, and if they ever said them, they wouldn't sound so freaking calm. But Ben's doing both, and it doesn't seem like it's an act. If anything, it seems like this is him dropping the act. Like this is what he's like when he's being totally and completely honest.
It's kind of unnerving, actually, but there's not a lot Burt can do but go with it.
"So," he says, leaning back against the coffee station. "How much of that did you overhear, anyway? Me and Kurt, I mean. Learn anything interesting?"
Another little shrug, just one shoulder. "Not particularly," Ben says. "I did hear that Kurt and Blaine... That they knew that David Karofsky was coming to speak with them, that they'd... invited him, to help him. But then, I'd just heard that from Blaine, so." He glances over at Burt. "I suppose Kurt blames himself for what happened."
"'Course he does," Burt says. "Yours?"
"Absolutely," Ben says.
Burt nods, thinking about that. "So," he says. "Who're you blaming for all this?"
Ben closes his eyes, takes a few deep breaths, opens his eyes again. "When I stepped into that room," he says, his voice very soft. "That girl, Santana Lopez -- she had the gun pointed at David Karofsky, and he was begging her to shoot him." He says it so matter-of-factly that it makes Ben's head spin, because... Jesus. "Because that's what these people -- my people -- that's what they do to children. They ruin them." He glances up at Burt; Burt takes one look at the wide blue eyes behind his little round glasses, and immediately thinks of the picture hidden in his closet, of that skinny kid sitting on the swings next to Annie, and cold chills go down his spine. "That's why I took Blaine, why I ran. Because I couldn't let them do to him what they did to..." He doesn't finish the sentence.
"You don't look ruined to me," Burt says, feeling awkward and clumsy for saying it. But the thing is, there's nothing else he can say, and he's gotta say something. Ben's putting a hell of a lot of himself out on the line; Burt has to at least say something back to him.
Ben shrugs, and drops his eyes back down to his lap. "I wouldn't be too sure about that," he says.
"Yeah, well. I would. And I am. So." Burt pushes away from the coffee station, crosses over to the chairs, sinks down slowly in the seat next to Ben's. "So," he says. "These people -- your people. The ones you ran from. You think they're the ones who got to David Karofsky?"
"Yes," Ben says, quietly, and doesn't elaborate.
"Think they'll keep coming?"
Ben makes a small sound; it might be a sigh, it might be a laugh. It's kind of hard to tell. "It's been ten years, Mr. Hummel," he says. "At this point, I don't think they know how to stop."
Burt nods, and tries not to speculate too much on what that could mean. Ten years. He can't imagine ten years of dealing with this kind of bullshit. Hell, he can't even imagine what tomorrow's going to feel like. "Well," he says. "I guess maybe someone's gonna have to teach them how."
He hears that little, huffing laugh again. "You say that like you have a plan," Ben says.
"Nope." Burt turns and looks at Ben, and their eyes meet again for a second. And the thing is, Burt knows that this is the dumbest thing he's ever done or will ever do. It doesn't matter that he doesn't know who Ben's people are, or why they're coming after him, or even if they exist at all. He knows this is outright stupid, if not suicidal. But the thing is, he doesn't really care. Because Ben was Annie's, once, and the way Burt sees it, that also makes Ben his, in a way. His responsibility. And even if he's not...
Hell, Burt's got a son, too. He knows what it's like, maybe not up on the surface, but down deep, close to the bone. He knows the fear and he knows the guilt and he knows how hard it can be, protecting something so fragile. Ben shouldn't have to go it alone. None of them should.
"No plan," he says, and folds his arms across his chest, leaning back in his chair. "But if I think of something, I'll let you know."
"You do that," Ben says, and their eyes meet just once more, and it's as solemn as a handshake.
Burt looks up at the tv -- Tim Allen's done something stupid again, and that bearded guy is running around with a fire extinguisher while the laugh track titters away. Sometimes, Burt wonders how people ever found this show funny. How he ever found it funny. Although he guesses it's easier to laugh on days when you haven't had to deal with someone pointing a gun at your kid.
Still, though.
"I hate this show," Ben says, his voice still completely level and calm.
"Yeah," Burt says. "Yeah, me too."
Neither of them gets up to change the channel; they just sit there, side-by-side, in silence, and the laugh track keeps going underneath it all.
Pairing/Character(s): Burt, Kurt, Ben, Blaine, and Walt Lloyd
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Chapter takes place in a hospital setting and there's some mention of injuries and treatment, but it's all very vague. Some potentially disturbing imagery right before Walt arrives.
Word Count: About 8000
Spoilers: Potential spoilers (kind of) for all six seasons of LOST, and up to and through Glee 2X08, "Furt."
Standard-Issue Short-Form Disclaimer: I do not hold copyright to Glee or LOST, I make no claims to such, and I am not profiting from this.
Summary: They're not quite ready for explanations, not yet. Right now it's enough that no one's died.
Author's Notes: This is a Glee/LOST AU crossover. Fic is a work in progress, but I do have a substantial backlog of chapters to post while I work on the newest ones. I hope to post once a week, on Sundays, barring fire, flood, corset-related disasters, and/or LJ outages. Previous chapters and supplemental materials can be found on the masterpost.
As always, if I haven't adequately explained any of the LOST stuff, please feel free to leave a comment here and/or pm me. I will answer.
There's a cop waiting for them in the hospital lobby.
Burt's long since lost count of how many of them he's seen today.
SWAT guys in black kevlar, prowling around the grounds of McKinley like they were just looking for someone to shoot, hapless-looking sheriff's deputies in brown guarding the perimeter, trying to keep the looky-loos out. Burt and some of the other parents -- the Lopezes, both sets of Changs, Artie Abrams' folks, and Mrs. Pierce -- were escorted into the school by a state trooper in gray, who didn't look exactly comfortable to be stuck inside four walls instead of out on the highway; the Lima P.D., their very own chubby blue line, were on the inside of the school -- conferring in doorways, retracing steps, talking to witnesses. Then there were the plainclothes guys handling the students themselves. Most of them were holed up in the choir room; at least, that's where the Abrams and Changs and Brittany's mom wound up. But Burt and the Lopezes, they were taken to the administrative offices instead, so they could watch their pale, shaken children give stuttering statements to a detective while Sue Sylvester sat behind her desk and watched them with a face that was about fifty years older than it was supposed to be. And all around them, McKinley high school just teeming with police officers.
To say that it's not quite how Burt wanted to celebrate his engagement to the woman he loves would be an understatement of the worst kind.
He's known fear all the way straight down to his bones since before Kurt was born. Been scared since he saw that little pink plus sign, honestly. Because pregnancies are risky, and children are delicate, and there's so many things that could go wrong. He's got a list of fears a mile long, and this very situation is right up near the top of it. But it's not the thing he fears the most, and that's why he doesn't take his son home to rest and recuperate when the first statements have been taken. They do run to the house, just briefly, and Burt stops the car in the driveway, leaves the engine running, and makes a few quick phone calls while Kurt runs down to his room to get something. And then Kurt's back in the car and they're back on the road, driving to the hospital. Driving back towards the cops.
Because Burt never wanted to have to do this; he never wanted to see his wide-eyed son sitting next to a plainclothes detective, telling him how he'd felt when he heard the gun go off for the first time. But he knows it could have been worse. That right now, there's a guy in a hospital waiting room who's suffering through something Burt can't even contemplate.
So he nods at the cop, gives his name and shows his I.D., and lets the guy lead him and Kurt through the automatic doors, down the hallway, to a small private waiting room in the middle of the crowded trauma center.
Ben's alone in there, no cops to guard him, no SWAT guys looking restless or state troopers looking confused. It's just him, standing by the complimentary coffee station with his hands on the counter and his head bowed, like the enormity of what's happening to him didn't really hit until he got up to fix himself a drink and then it just ran him over.
Which is probably exactly what happened, come to think of it.
Ben lifts his head and glances at them just as the cop slips out of the room again, closing the door as he goes. He doesn't say anything, but he nods at them before turning back to the coffee machine, and Burt swallows hard and steps toward him, Kurt still clinging to his left hand, his right closed tightly around the roughly carved wooden doll in his pocket.
"Thank you," Ben says, so quietly that Burt has to strain to hear him. He picks up a sugar packet, holds it with shaking hands; Burt's not exactly sure what he means to do with it, since there's no cup in front of him, nothing for him to add sugar to. "For coming. I'm sure you're... you're anxious to get home. But they tell me it won't be too much longer, so."
"It's no trouble," Burt says, finally detaching from Kurt's grip and coming in a little closer. He lets go of the doll in his pocket and reaches out for Ben's shoulder instead; Ben stiffens up for a second when Burt touches him, then relaxes, his whole body slumping with -- exhaustion, grief, something like that. A whole lot of things at once, probably. "How you holding up?"
"I'm not," Ben says, his voice a little choked. He drops the sugar packet back to the counter, and his hands fall to his sides. "But again. Thank you. For... For being concerned."
There's not a lot Burt can say to that. The way he sees it, he doesn't need thanking, but that's not always something you can say in these kinds of circumstances. He'd like to say he understands, but he knows he doesn't, not really. He settles on saying "It's no trouble," again, because at least that's true. Hell, there'd have been trouble if Kurt hadn't been allowed to come to the hospital; Burt knows how worried he is about his friend.
"You said it wouldn't be very long," Kurt says, finally chiming in. Ben turns to look at him, something soft on his face, like Kurt's fear is making him forget his own for a moment. Which, again, is probably exactly what's happening. Burt doesn't know Ben that well, but he knows the guy's got a soft spot for kids. "Is he... Does that mean he... How is he?"
"He's..." Ben somehow musters up a smile, although it's small and strained, and fades almost as soon as it's come. But Burt lets go of him anyway, lets him step away from the little coffee station and come closer to Kurt, reaching out to touch his arm for a second. "He's very lucky. There's been some... some damage, and he'll be on crutches for quite a while, but... But he's all right, otherwise. Mostly they're just... just cleaning him up, right now."
He smiles again, and this one flickers and fades just as quickly as the first one did. Kurt glances nervously at Burt, and Burt clears his throat.
"We... uh... We brought something," he says, jamming his hands back in his pockets. Something almost like alarm passes across Ben's face for a moment, then vanishes as soon as it's come, and Burt's stomach drops just a little bit. He's well aware that this could end badly for all four of them, that this might be the worst idea he and Kurt have ever had. All he can do is trust that Ben felt the same way about Annie as Burt always did -- that she was there to help him, to take care of him. Not to hurt him. "Something for Blaine. It's... It's something Kurt's mom made, when she was a little girl, and she passed it on to him, and... uh... Kurt's always liked having it around when he's been sick or hurt or just, you know, not feeling all that great. So." He takes one last look at Ben's wary, watchful face, then pulls the doll out of his pocket and holds it out.
Ben goes very, very still. "Oh," he says, quietly. He doesn't move, and Burt's not sure if that's good or bad. But there's not really anything he can do either way, so he just holds it out, waiting.
Finally, Ben reaches out, takes the doll from Burt's outstretched hands, careful, like it's something precious. Which it is. Of course it is. "It was a birthday present," he says, his voice just this side of shaky. Burt sets a hand on his shoulder to brace him, and for the first time, Ben doesn't stiffen up when he's touched. If he even notices that Burt's hand is there, which he might not. He's focused on the doll with an intensity that's almost frightening. "My... my father was never particularly interested in celebrating the occasion, and no one else ever paid much mind to it. But she remembered."
"Yeah," Burt says, and his voice is a little gruff too, right now. Because he's moved on and all, moved on with his life, but he still misses her. Always will. "Annie was always good about things like that."
Ben looks up at him when he says her name, meets his eyes. "I always wondered..." he says, then shakes his head. "Thank you," he says again, and that must be where Blaine gets it from, the way he's always thanking people. The two of them, they seem to expect so little. "For this." His gaze shifts to Kurt, a little less watery now. "But I think perhaps you'd better hold on to it for now, until we know whether Blaine's getting transferred to ICU, or just going home, or... They're... particular about what gets brought into the rooms down here. Risk of infection, and everything. And I think... I think it might be nice for you to give it to Blaine yourself. If you wanted to do that."
"Of course I do," Kurt says, quickly, and it's no surprise that he sounds as choked up as anyone else in the room. Kurt feels a lot, he always has. "I just... we weren't sure if..."
"I wouldn't worry," Ben says, and it's almost that same eerie calm that he usually has, but not quite. He can't quite seem to get there. "We're not skipping town just yet, Blaine and I." He glances back at Burt again. "And anyway, I rather feel as though we owe the two of you a very long explanation."
Burt shrugs, squeezing Ben's shoulder reassuringly. "Don't think about it too hard," he says. "You got enough on your plate." Ben gives him a look of gratitude that's so completely undeserved that it's almost hard to stomach, and Burt lets go and takes Ben's place at the coffee station. "Anyway. I'm gonna grab some coffee. You... uh, you want anything?"
"Tea," Ben says, so promptly that it's almost surprising. "Before you came in, I was going to see if there was any... I suppose I got distracted."
"I can --" Kurt starts, but Burt cuts him off with an upraised hand. There's a little box of Lipton by the side of the coffee maker, and a spigot for hot water, and he's pretty sure he can figure the rest of it out himself.
"I got it," he says, reaching for some styrofoam cups. "Maybe I ain't that much of a cook, per se, but I can make a cup of tea. Why don't the two of you just sit down."
It's not a suggestion, and he's not at all surprised when he peeks over his shoulder and sees Kurt leading Ben towards the chairs, with one hand on his arm. He is a little gratified, though, when he hears Kurt's voice a few seconds later. "Can I ask..." he says, a little hesitant. "What was she like, when she was younger? My mother. What was she like?"
And he's even more gratified to hear Ben give him what sounds like a totally straight answer. "She was... kind," he says. "Very moral, very compassionate. I think she... She enjoyed taking care of people, when she could." He pauses for a moment; Burt's tempted to look back over his shoulder to check the expression on his face, but he doesn't, in the end. "She was a good deal like you, actually."
Burt ducks his head and stares hard at the coffee he's stirring powdered creamer into, and he's not really sure if he's hiding his smile or the way his eyes have kind of filled up with tears. He closes them, just for a second, just to catch his breath. It's been a hell of a day, that's for sure.
And it's not over yet.
He opens his eyes again.
*
He wants to close his eyes, but he can't.
(flashing colors, plaid to stripes then squares fading into each other)
(EVERYTHING CHANGES)
(clouds moving across the sky, gray to red to black and the storm is coming, it's coming)
Everything is so loud, so loud he can feel his bones vibrating, so loud he feels like he's shaking apart, and then a high pitched noise like a scream whistles through, cutting everything else out and it hurts and he just wants to close his eyes, but he can't.
(the moon, no longer obscured by clouds)
(insects crawling)
(dead fish with open eyes)
(WE ARE THE CAUSES OF OUR OWN SUFFERING)
Someone is talking to him, but it's backwards, backwards, he doesn't understand; he doesn't understand why it's all so loud, he doesn't understand why he can't just close his eyes --
(abandoned swings, still in motion, but with the children all gone and why are they gone?)
(GOD LOVES YOU AS HE LOVED JACOB.)
More screaming, and God, he just wants to close --
(the numbers, always changing, always the same)
(the numbers)
He opens his eyes.
"Hey, Blaine," someone says, a tall kid in a blue and red Dalton uniform, and this is not the same room -- it's bright and clean, antiseptic, and it's quiet here, no drums shaking him, no screams slicing through. No one talking backwards.
He closes his eyes, opens them again. It's reassuring. "Hey, Walt," he says, his voice weird and croaky, but he can feel his pounding heartbeat slowly subside back to something more manageable, and he knows it's over.
Kind of. For now.
Walt grins, comes a little closer. He looks good in the Dalton uniform, looks natural in it, somehow. If Blaine didn't know, if he hadn't seen -- "I didn't know you knew who I was," Walt says, a little shyly.
Blaine swallows hard. "I know you," he admits, his eyes never leaving Walt's face. "You're... You're special."
"Yeah." The smile falls off Walt's face.
"I am too," Blaine says. "My dad, when he took me -- I don't know what they told you, on the Island, but it isn't true. Whatever it was, it's not true." He tries to sit up; he feels it's important to sit up, but he can't seem to make himself do it. "He's not a bad person; he's not -- he would never --"
He struggles, trying to sit up, but he can't. Why can't he just sit up?
Walt takes another step forward, his eyes worried. "It's cool," he says. "Blaine, it's cool. Don't worry about it."
There's something in Walt's voice that makes the struggle just die right out of Blaine's body. He relaxes, a little bit, closes his eyes, opens them again. At least he can do that. He sighs. "But he knew that I was special," he continues, trying to stay calm, "and he knew that if he didn't... He knew that someday, they'd --"
Walt bites his lip. "Yeah," he says again. "Yeah, I know."
And Blaine's stomach twists up a little, because he knows that Walt is younger than him, only fourteen, and he was even younger than that on the Island, when they put him in Room 23, and --
"Don't," Walt says, his voice surprisingly firm. "It would've happened anyway. And it's not --" He laughs a little, shakes his head. "I mean, no offense, man, but what I do? I made them stop. You couldn't do that. You can do a lot, but... not what I did."
"Okay," Blaine says, but he's still a little uncertain about the whole thing. Not that he really thinks that it'd have been different if they'd stayed, really, but. Still. Maybe he could have helped, somehow.
"You still can," Walt says. "You can still help, Blaine. But it's your choice. Like your dad said. Remember?"
Blaine shakes his head, uneasily. He doesn't know how Walt knew about that, but he guesses it doesn't matter much. What matters more is whether he can even make that decision, now. He's not so sure he can. Not so sure he wants to, really. "I got hurt," he says. "My dad, he won't want to --"
"He won't break his promise," Walt tells him. "Not to you."
"But... Kurt..."
Walt just smiles at him. "You and the spy, huh?" Blaine flushes a little bit, and Walt actually laughs. "Hey, man, whatever works. Anyway, you know what Kurt's gonna say. You two have history. He's not gonna let that go." He tugs at the thin blanket covering Blaine's body, pulling it a little higher up his shoulders, then straightens his blazer and takes a few steps back. "I'll see you at Sectionals, Blaine," he says. "But don't worry. We'll try not to kick your butts too badly."
Blaine just blinks up at him for a moment, confused. "But... We're on the same..."
Walt shrugs at him, then turns and walks away. He looks back over his shoulder once, when he reaches the door. "Your dad'll be here when you open your eyes," he adds. "So don't worry."
And Blaine didn't even realize that his eyes were closed again, but they are. It's dark now, quiet, and nothing's loud, nothing hurts, nothing feels --
And he almost thinks he wants to stay here for a while, stay unconscious and pretend that none of this is happening.
But he wants his dad. He wants his dad so much.
*
It isn't a sudden thing, really.
Blaine is restless from the moment Ben comes into the room, eyes moving behind his eyelids, lips shaping words that he can't quite put voice to. His head rolls a little on the pillow, his fingers twitching slightly as he fights his way free of the sedatives. There's nothing Ben can do to help him; he pulls a chair up to the bed, pushes the hair back from Blaine's forehead with gentle fingers, and waits for his son to come back to him.
Blaine rolls his head. His fingers twitch. He mumbles in his sleep -- got hurt... won't want to -- and breathes a little faster.
Ben closes his hand around Blaine's, twitching on the sheets.
He pushes the hair back from Blaine's forehead.
He waits.
Blaine takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly, and his eyes flutter open. He blinks up at the ceiling for a few seconds, as if he's trying to figure out where he is, before opening his mouth to speak.
"Walt?" he asks, his voice raspy and faint.
Ben almost has to laugh at that, if only because it's so unexpected. "Sorry to disappoint you," he says, leaning in a little closer and squeezing Blaine's hand. Blaine's head tips sideways to look at him, his eyes widening a little, a look of relief sweeping over his face. And for some reason, it's that look that makes Ben's heart skip a beat, makes him feel like the unsteady world he spins on has finally settled into something stable. Safe. Home. It's that look that makes any other comments he was planning on making shrivel up and die unspoken, because there simply are no words for this moment.
"Dad," Blaine says, reaching out with his free hand, trying to roll onto his side to get closer. Ben reaches out instinctively to catch him as he struggles, his hands underneath Blaine's shoulders. Blaine's arms wrap around him and pull him close, and he is holding his son again, and the only thing that stops Ben from bursting into tears is that it would upset Blaine, and he doesn't want to do that. "Dad, I'm so sorry." Blaine's voice chokes on the words, and Ben pulls him closer.
"Don't be," Ben whispers, reaching up with one hand to stroke Blaine's hair. It's still stiff and sticky with gel, matted down with sweat and possibly blood as well, but he doesn't care so much about that. His son is alive; his son is here, and that's all that really matters right now. "You did exactly the right thing. I'm very proud of you, Blaine."
"I --" Blaine's shoulders hitch with a muffled sob, and Ben holds him closer, trying to steady him. He's shaking, a little bit; probably just a delayed reaction. He must have been so frightened, a situation like that. But still, he did well. He did so well. "Dad, I knew," Blaine whispers.
Ben blinks at the wall behind Blaine's right ear, because he's honestly not sure what Blaine's talking about right now. Some sort of dream, possibly? He was asking for Walt, after all. "What did you know, Blaine?" he asks, keeping his voice gentle.
Blaine shudders. "I... K- Karofsky," he says, stumbling a little over the name. "He... He went to Kurt, said he needed to talk, that he needed to... That he needed our help, and I --" He chokes again, tears soaking through Ben's shirt, and Ben rubs his back in circles, murmurs nonsense into his ear, and all the while his mind is racing. Because his son is kind, despite everything he's been through; his son is gentle, and loving, and so willing to give and now his generosity has been taken advantage of in the most monstrous of ways, and although Ben knows that David Karofsky is under heavy police supervision at the moment, he's tempted to try his luck anyway. It would almost be worth it, just to see the look in his eyes as he --
Then Blaine sobs again, clinging to him, and Ben forgets about revenge, at least for right now. Because this is what matters most. Blaine matters the most. He always has. "Should've told you," he says, hands fisting in Ben's shirt. "I know, I know I should've told you, because I knew that he -- But I thought we could help him; I thought..."
"It's not your fault," Ben says, pulling his son a little closer, mindful of his injured leg, heavily wrapped in gauze, and this should not have happened. His son was trying to do the right thing, trying to help someone. This should never, never have happened. "Blaine, this is not your fault."
"And I thought that if I told you, then I'd have to... To tell you what he did to Kurt, and I couldn't --" Blaine presses in tighter, more than a little desperate now. "Dad, what if all of it -- What if everything he did was just... to get to us. To me. Everything he did to Kurt, everything he --"
"It still wouldn't be your fault," Ben says, firmly. "None of this is your fault, Blaine."
"But if he --"
Ben shushes his son, still rubbing his back gently. "Blaine," he says. "You did the right thing. And if Karofsky... If he tried to take advantage of that, then that says more about him than it does about you, doesn't it?"
Blaine's quiet, for a few seconds, trembling a little bit, still crying. "He was waiting," he whispers, the words barely audible; Ben has to strain to hear. "When I got down to the basement, he was... And he smiled at me, you know, but just... just a normal smile. And I asked if I was headed the right way for the home ec room, and he said yes, and let me get ahead of him a little bit and that was when... That was when I felt it. The gun."
"Blaine," Ben says quietly, unable to stay silent, but unsure of what else to say.
"And he said I shouldn't try anything," Blaine says, shaking harder. "Because maybe he wasn't supposed to kill me, but he could... He could kill other people. And make me watch. And if I tried anything, he'd..." Blaine sobs harder, and Ben is already doing everything he can think of to make him feel better; he doesn't know what else to do. He doesn't know how to fix this. "And I knew he meant -- When he said that, he meant --"
"Blaine, I'm so sorry," Ben says, his own voice choking just a little bit. "I should have been there; I should have --"
"I just don't want anyone to get hurt," Blaine says. "I never wanted... And now Walt's telling me I have to stay, but if I do then something'll happen to Kurt, or his dad, or someone, and I don't... But Walt says I have to, and I don't know what to do, Dad. I just... I don't know."
Ben looks at the wall behind Blaine's head again, just for a few moments, seeking some sort of answer. There's none, of course; he's not sure why he would have thought that in the first place. "Why don't we talk about this later?" he suggests, as gently as he can. "When some of the... When some of the shock has passed. I'm sure Walt didn't tell you that you had to make your mind up tonight."
Blaine shakes his head, sniffles into Ben's shirt. "It has to be soon, though," he says. "Because your back, and... and Kurt, and... Dad, it has to be soon."
"It will be," Ben says, holding Blaine in place. "I promise you it will be."
And he holds Blaine close, even after he's finally stopped trembling, stopped crying, and he stares at the wall, and he wonders what exactly he's going to do about this. About Blaine, about Kurt, about David Karofsky, about everything.
For the first time in a very long time, he has no real ideas.
*
He tries reading a magazine, after Mr. Anderson has gone in to see Blaine, but he can't focus enough to actually read it. Anyway, he's pretty sure he's read the whole thing before -- he's pretty sure he's read all of these before, come to think of it. There wasn't a lot to do when his dad was in the ICU, after... And while Lima Memorial is well-known for some things, taking the time to update its magazine selection is clearly not one of those things.
So he tries to watch the tv, like his dad, but it's another Home Improvement rerun, and he's pretty sure he's seen that before, too. Because, again, not much to do while his dad was in the ICU, unconscious, hooked up to all those machines, and Home Improvement is one of those shows that's always on somewhere. So he'd leave it on, just for background noise while he flipped through some magazine that he'd already looked at ten times before, and even if he never really paid attention to any of it, he still noticed enough details that they stuck with him.
He can't help it. He hears Tim Allen's voice, and all he thinks of is a limp hand in his; he turns the pages of a magazine and in his head he hears the beeping of machinery, and he remembers thinking that this was never going to stop, that he was never going to get away from this, and now here he is in another waiting room, with the same stack of magazines and the same sitcom reruns, and he's tired of this, he's just so tired of --
He pushes to his feet and goes to make himself a cup of tea to calm down, because he can't have a nervous breakdown over Jonathan Taylor Thomas. He just can't.
It's as he's dipping the tea bag into the hot water, watching the color bleed out of it, that he realizes how much of this is his fault. Not all of it, of course; he doesn't think so highly of himself as all that. And whatever... whatever connection Karofsky's family has to Blaine's, to the Island (whatever that is), it started before Kurt met Blaine. Karofsky was in Mr. Anderson's class; he had to have figured something out. Maybe he was even there on purpose, maybe he took that class just to get close to him. Karofsky's smarter than he looks, it's possible he had at least some kind of a plan. Or his dad did, or something.
But Blaine...
Kurt all but introduced them, didn't he? He didn't know, of course, couldn't have known, but... And he brought Blaine to the school. He didn't have to do that. He could have told Blaine to meet him at his house, or the Lima Bean, or... He could have gone to Dalton. At the very least, he could have told Finn or someone that Blaine was coming, had them look out for him, walk him down to the home ec room so he wouldn't be alone. He could have... He could have done so many things, if only he'd been thinking. If only he'd...
"Hey," his dad says, quietly, and just the sound of his voice is enough to make Kurt's eyes well up with tears, because... He could have told his dad. Why didn't he tell his dad? Why didn't he tell someone, sooner, and get Karofsky kicked out of the school? Why didn't he --
His dad's hand settles on his shoulder. "Hey," he says again. "Hey, kiddo. C'mon, don't..."
"This is all my fault," he whispers, and his dad squeezes his shoulder reassuringly.
"Kurt. C'mon, now, you know that's not --"
"Just --" Kurt grips the counter, leaning on it for support, and his dad's hand stays on his shoulder. "I should have said something, I know I should. To you, or Mr. Anderson, or... or Mr. Schue, or anyone, but I thought... I thought he was confused, I thought... I thought we could help him, if we just... if we talked to him, if he saw that he wasn't alone, maybe it could be different, maybe he could..."
His dad is quiet for a moment, his hand still heavy and warm on Kurt's shoulder, not letting go of him for a second. "You mean Karofsky, right?" he asks, finally. "You thought Karofsky was confused."
Kurt hiccups a little bit; he doesn't trust himself to speak, so he just nods instead.
"And why would you think that, Kurt?"
"Because..." Kurt bites his lip, and God, it shouldn't be so hard to say this, after everything else, but it still... He still doesn't know how to say it. Because he can't... But he didn't want it. He never wanted it. He takes a deep breath, then another, trying to blink his tears back. "He kissed me."
His dad tenses up behind him, his hand tightening on Kurt's shoulder. There's a heavy silence. Finally, his dad says, "He kissed you," his voice surprisingly rough. "This Karofsky kid, the one who's been shoving you around and insulting you and... He kissed you."
Kurt nods again, unable to do anything else. God, even now, he can still taste it. Can still remember how it felt, Karofsky's hands, and his hot breath, and his lips and his teeth, and...
"And I'm gonna guess you didn't exactly want him to do that," his dad continues, voice still rough. "Since you're shaking, and everything."
"No," Kurt whispers, choking back a sob. "No, I didn't... I never..."
"Kurt," his dad says, just his name, and Kurt can't take it anymore; he turns around and buries his face in his dad's shirt, clinging to him hard, and his dad's arms wrap around him, holding him close. "And you were gonna... After all that, you were still gonna help him." He doesn't even sound angry, which almost makes it worse somehow. He sounds... he sounds amazed.
"I just..." Kurt sniffles against his dad's chest. "He said he would... that he was thinking about... And we'd tried to talk to him, before, but he wasn't ready, and I thought this time he was, that he meant it, when he said he..."
"Jesus Christ," his dad says, still sounding so amazed. "You are... You are one hell of a good person, Kurt. I don't know if you get that, just yet, but you are one hell of a good person."
And it's so absolutely the opposite of what Kurt was expecting to hear that he kind of forgets whatever else he was going to say and, speechless, just buries his face in his dad's shirt and breathes deeply, grease and gasoline and the tang of the garage, and lets his dad hold him up.
"I gotta ask, though," his dad says, after a little bit. "Just, you know, making sure, and all. But you did tell Blaine about this, right? That Karofsky was coming. He... He knew. Right?"
Kurt thinks maybe he should be a little offended at the question, and maybe he is, somewhere down deep, but he's already feeling too much right now and there's just no room for it. So he just nods, and takes a deep breath, and lets another flood of words come rushing out of him. "Because the last time we tried to talk to Karofsky, he... So I asked him, I asked Blaine if he thought he could, because we didn't have to, we could go somewhere else or he could help me tomorrow, or... But he didn't want me to break a promise, and he didn't want me to go alone, and he thought..." He squeezes his eyes tight shut at that, because it hurts, thinking about how readily Blaine said yes, how willing he was to take that kind of a chance on someone who'd threatened him just a couple of weeks before, someone he had no reason at all to trust. And Karofsky knew they were trusting him, knew they wanted to help, and he just -- "Why would someone do that, Dad? Why would... Why would he do that to someone who just wanted to help?"
His dad's quiet for a while, then he sighs. "Honestly, kiddo," he says, "I don't know. I don't know what makes people do the kinds of things they do sometimes. All I know is that you two kids have a hell of a lot of guts. And I'm real proud of you. Both of you."
And there's something in the way his father says that that lets Kurt know that the two of them are no longer alone in the room, and he does his best to push the rest of his tears back, slipping out of his dad's arms and wiping his eyes quickly with his fingertips, trying to look composed for Blaine's father. The look on Mr. Anderson's face tells him that he's not exactly succeeding.
"Kurt," Mr. Anderson says, quietly, and something about the way he says it, the sympathy and the sorrow in his voice, makes Kurt start to feel a little fluttery, a little panicked.
"He's okay," he says, trying not to freak out too much. "Blaine. He's okay, right?"
Mr. Anderson musters up a small, weak smile. "A little shaken," he says, "and, of course, his leg... But he's fine, otherwise. And he'd... He'd like to see you. Unless you needed a moment?"
Kurt glances up at his dad, and his father nods down at him, a small smile on his face that's an eerie replica of the one on Mr. Anderson's. And there's something... Kurt's not totally sure what it means. But he's pretty sure it's a dad thing, the face that they're making. The way they're trying so hard to be brave. And he can be brave, too. For them. "No," he says, trying to keep his voice steady. "It's... it's fine. I'd like to see him. Please."
Mr. Anderson just nods, reaching out, and Kurt lets him rest one hand on his shoulder, lets himself be led down the hall.
Blaine is trying to prop himself up on one elbow as they walk into the room, trying and failing, his arms shaky, his movements slow and awkward, probably from the anaesthetic and the painkillers he's been given. "Blaine," Mr. Anderson says, his voice a little choked, but he hangs back and lets Kurt be the one to hurry to Blaine's side, lets him gently guide Blaine back down against the stark white sheets, fuss with the thin blanket.
"Stop that," Kurt murmurs, not letting himself look at Blaine's face too much, trying not to look at Blaine's leg, either. It's hard to ignore -- the blanket isn't covering it, and Kurt can see everything -- the bandages wrapped thick around Blaine's thigh, the folded pillow tucked under his knobby knee to keep his leg elevated, his bare toes looking oddly vulnerable at the end of the bed. But he can't look at any of those things, because... because he can't, so he keeps his eyes on Blaine's blanket instead, tugging it up over his chest until his shoulders are covered. "You shouldn't -- you've been hurt; you don't need to --"
"Kurt," Blaine says, quietly. He lifts his hands up to cover Kurt's, and the blanket slides off his shoulders again. Kurt thinks maybe he should put it back, but Blaine's hands are wrapped too tightly around his, and he can't pull free. If he even wants to, which he's pretty sure he doesn't. "Kurt," Blaine says again, and Kurt finally manages to take a good look at Blaine's face -- his eyes red and puffy, his skin blotchy, his nose a little swollen. He's been crying, the same way that Kurt's been crying, and Kurt just can't take it anymore. He lets himself sink onto the bed, his hip near Blaine's waist, and folds himself down until he can press an ear to Blaine's chest and listen for the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. Because he doesn't care how it looks, really, and he doesn't even care that he's doing it right in front of Blaine's dad. He just... He just needs this.
Blaine lets go of Kurt's hands, his arms coming up around Kurt's back and holding him loosely in place, and Kurt draws in a slow, shaky breath. He doesn't even feel like crying anymore, is the thing. He just needs to be here, right here, listening to Blaine's heartbeat. "Kurt," Blaine says for the third time, his voice a little choked now. "Kurt, I'm so sorry."
"You're okay," Kurt says, and clings to Blaine's shoulders. "You're okay, you're okay, you're okay..."
"I'm so sorry, Kurt," Blaine says again. "I --"
He doesn't finish the sentence.
"You're okay," Kurt whispers again, and presses as close as he can get to Blaine. "Just... Just as long as you're okay."
"Kurt," Blaine murmurs, and his arms tighten a little around Kurt's back.
Neither of them says anything after that. Not for a long time.
*
Ben's not gone all that long; obviously Kurt and Blaine don't want chaperones right now, not that they're gonna get up to anything. Crying, probably. Maybe hugging. Probably a lot of Kurt blaming himself and then Blaine blaming himself and the two of them going back and forth like that for a while. Which are all really tame things, but they're also the sort of things that are best done without someone's dad hovering in the corner. So Burt's not totally surprised that Ben's back in the room before he's had the chance to figure out whether he should sit back down or stay standing.
He does, however, take it as a sign that he should be standing up for this particular conversation.
"They okay?" he asks, since it seems like a good, neutral place to start, and also because he's worried as all hell right now and could use a little reassurance.
Ben, being Ben, doesn't exactly provide. "That," he says, quietly, "depends entirely on your definition of okay." He crosses to a chair and sits down; Burt's tempted to take that as some kind of a sign, to try and apply some fancy psychology or body language or something to it, but he's pretty sure the guy's just worn out. Burt's had a hell of a long day, but Ben's had a longer one, and that's a fact.
"Let's just go with yours, for right now," he suggests, still standing. "What is yours, anyway?"
"It varies," Ben says, with a little shrug. "Depending on the situation. Ordinarily, I'd say that they're about as far from okay as it's possible to be without either of them being dead. But. They're not dead. And right now, it's a little hard for me to care about anything else, so."
Burt takes his hat off, rubs at his bare scalp, puts his hat back on. The thing about Ben is that, if this were anyone else, he'd think that this was some kind of a put-on. Because he's saying things that most people wouldn't say, and if they ever said them, they wouldn't sound so freaking calm. But Ben's doing both, and it doesn't seem like it's an act. If anything, it seems like this is him dropping the act. Like this is what he's like when he's being totally and completely honest.
It's kind of unnerving, actually, but there's not a lot Burt can do but go with it.
"So," he says, leaning back against the coffee station. "How much of that did you overhear, anyway? Me and Kurt, I mean. Learn anything interesting?"
Another little shrug, just one shoulder. "Not particularly," Ben says. "I did hear that Kurt and Blaine... That they knew that David Karofsky was coming to speak with them, that they'd... invited him, to help him. But then, I'd just heard that from Blaine, so." He glances over at Burt. "I suppose Kurt blames himself for what happened."
"'Course he does," Burt says. "Yours?"
"Absolutely," Ben says.
Burt nods, thinking about that. "So," he says. "Who're you blaming for all this?"
Ben closes his eyes, takes a few deep breaths, opens his eyes again. "When I stepped into that room," he says, his voice very soft. "That girl, Santana Lopez -- she had the gun pointed at David Karofsky, and he was begging her to shoot him." He says it so matter-of-factly that it makes Ben's head spin, because... Jesus. "Because that's what these people -- my people -- that's what they do to children. They ruin them." He glances up at Burt; Burt takes one look at the wide blue eyes behind his little round glasses, and immediately thinks of the picture hidden in his closet, of that skinny kid sitting on the swings next to Annie, and cold chills go down his spine. "That's why I took Blaine, why I ran. Because I couldn't let them do to him what they did to..." He doesn't finish the sentence.
"You don't look ruined to me," Burt says, feeling awkward and clumsy for saying it. But the thing is, there's nothing else he can say, and he's gotta say something. Ben's putting a hell of a lot of himself out on the line; Burt has to at least say something back to him.
Ben shrugs, and drops his eyes back down to his lap. "I wouldn't be too sure about that," he says.
"Yeah, well. I would. And I am. So." Burt pushes away from the coffee station, crosses over to the chairs, sinks down slowly in the seat next to Ben's. "So," he says. "These people -- your people. The ones you ran from. You think they're the ones who got to David Karofsky?"
"Yes," Ben says, quietly, and doesn't elaborate.
"Think they'll keep coming?"
Ben makes a small sound; it might be a sigh, it might be a laugh. It's kind of hard to tell. "It's been ten years, Mr. Hummel," he says. "At this point, I don't think they know how to stop."
Burt nods, and tries not to speculate too much on what that could mean. Ten years. He can't imagine ten years of dealing with this kind of bullshit. Hell, he can't even imagine what tomorrow's going to feel like. "Well," he says. "I guess maybe someone's gonna have to teach them how."
He hears that little, huffing laugh again. "You say that like you have a plan," Ben says.
"Nope." Burt turns and looks at Ben, and their eyes meet again for a second. And the thing is, Burt knows that this is the dumbest thing he's ever done or will ever do. It doesn't matter that he doesn't know who Ben's people are, or why they're coming after him, or even if they exist at all. He knows this is outright stupid, if not suicidal. But the thing is, he doesn't really care. Because Ben was Annie's, once, and the way Burt sees it, that also makes Ben his, in a way. His responsibility. And even if he's not...
Hell, Burt's got a son, too. He knows what it's like, maybe not up on the surface, but down deep, close to the bone. He knows the fear and he knows the guilt and he knows how hard it can be, protecting something so fragile. Ben shouldn't have to go it alone. None of them should.
"No plan," he says, and folds his arms across his chest, leaning back in his chair. "But if I think of something, I'll let you know."
"You do that," Ben says, and their eyes meet just once more, and it's as solemn as a handshake.
Burt looks up at the tv -- Tim Allen's done something stupid again, and that bearded guy is running around with a fire extinguisher while the laugh track titters away. Sometimes, Burt wonders how people ever found this show funny. How he ever found it funny. Although he guesses it's easier to laugh on days when you haven't had to deal with someone pointing a gun at your kid.
Still, though.
"I hate this show," Ben says, his voice still completely level and calm.
"Yeah," Burt says. "Yeah, me too."
Neither of them gets up to change the channel; they just sit there, side-by-side, in silence, and the laugh track keeps going underneath it all.