Because You Left, Chapter Sixteen
Title: Because You Left, Chapter Sixteen: Ask Me No More Questions
Pairing/Character(s): Blaine Anderson, Ben Linus Anderson, Carole Hudson, Leslie Arzt (aka Paul Karofsky), Burt Hummel
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Potential hostage situation (averted), very threatening language. Don't make Ben Linus angry. You wouldn't like him when he's angry.
Word Count: About 7700
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: Carole visits the Andersons at the hospital. And so does someone else.
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.
Most of the time, Blaine thinks of himself as a reasonably independent person.
Yes, he relies on his dad for a lot (so much, sometimes), and yes, they're closer to each other than a lot of fathers and sons are. But he still does things for himself -- he drives his own car and he packs his own lunches and even if his disarming technique could use a little more work, he's still a lot better at fundamental self-defense and firearm use than most kids his age, which is something.
Or it was something, until he got shot in the leg and they took him to the hospital, pumped him full of painkillers, wrapped him up in gauze, threw away his contact lenses, and put him in this room, with its bed and its chair and its curtains and absolutely nothing else that he could hold on to, like a couch. Or some shelves. Or maybe a walker; he'd love a walker. But he doesn't have one.
And so now he's stuck standing on one leg in a thin, paper nightgown, holding onto his bedrail for support, trying to figure out how he's going to make his way across ten feet of tile floor to the fuzzy dark hole in the wall that he's mostly sure is the bathroom, because he may not be as independent as he would like to be but that doesn't mean he's going to wake his father up just because he's not 100% sure he can reach the bathroom on his own.
And yes, he could probably call a nurse (or he could have, before he stood up, but now he kind of feels committed so he can't), but the thing is he doesn't want her to wake up his dad, either. He doesn't want anyone to wake up his dad because he knows his dad barely slept last night and he needs all the sleep he can get, and granted, if Blaine falls, he will almost certainly wake up his father, but that's okay because he's not going to fall. Because he can do this. He is independent. He stands on his own two feet.
And, if necessary, he will stand on his one feet.
Foot.
Whatever.
And with that in mind, he takes a deep breath, straightens his back, and very, very carefully lets go of the railing of his bed. He wobbles, a little bit, but then he catches his balance and manages to stand steady. For a second.
Then the door is creaking open and he startles, hopping backwards and smacking his bandaged leg against the bedrail. It hurts, and the only thing that keeps him from crying out is the fact that his dad is right there, sleeping, and he doesn't want to -- So he chokes it back, just barely, letting out the quietest groan he can muster as he sinks back down to the bed, eyes flooding with tears.
"Oh my goodness," a woman says from the doorway, her voice way, way too loud, and Blaine starts shaking his head at her, but she obviously doesn't get it, because she just keeps talking. "Oh, honey, are you --"
"Sssh," Blaine hisses, flailing his hand in the general direction of the chair where his father's stirring, just a little bit. "He didn't... He's really, really tired. He needs to sleep. Please?"
"Sorry," the woman stage-whispers back. "Sorry, sorry."
Blaine blinks at her, trying to figure out whether she's a nurse or a florist or one of his dad's colleagues or what, but all he really sees is a blurry mess of russet and rust. Think fall, Kurt had said, yesterday, before Karofsky and Santana and that horrible moment when Blaine realized that no matter what Karofsky meant to do, someone was going to get shot. Fall wedding colors.
He bites his lip, tightens his grip on the bedframe, and tries really, really hard not to cry -- not because his leg hurts (although it still does), but because... Because everything hurts, if he thinks about it.
"Oh honey," the woman says again, setting something down on the floor next to her. It's brown and squarish, and it looks a lot like... "I'm so sorry. Are you hurt? Do you need --"
"Is that my bag?" Blaine asks, a little hopefully. Because his glasses are always in his bag, so if that is his bag, then his glasses are in it, and if his glasses are in, then maybe he can have them. "Is it --"
"Yes," the woman says, slowly. "This is yours. You left it in your car; Kurt thought that maybe you'd want it, so he asked me to --"
"Please may I have my glasses," Blaine says, the words running out superfast, so fast it makes him feel a little dizzy.
"You want your... glasses?" the woman repeats, sounding a little confused.
Blaine nods, which makes him dizzier. "Please?"
There's a pause, and then the woman says "Of course, of course," turning to crouch down on the floor by Blaine's bag. She hesitates for a second, then stands back up and does something with the wall (foam, Blaine thinks; it's the hand-sanitizing foam the nurses use every time they come into the room. Foam in, foam out). Then she crouches back down again, messes with his bag a little bit, stands up, foams again, then finally, finally makes her way over to where Blaine is sitting on the bed, waiting as patiently as he can. She holds out the leather case with his glasses in it, and Blaine fumbles them out, slides them on his face, and suddenly everything is so much clearer -- not perfect, maybe, but still okay.
"Oh, those are flowers," he breathes, eyes settling on the the array of brightly-colored blooms in vases and baskets, crowded tight together on the room's one small dresser. "I thought it was something to do with the wallpaper."
The woman laughs a little bit, sinking down on the bed next to him. She pats his hand; she has nice nails, and a pretty ring on her third finger. He wonders if it's the wedding hand or just the engagement hand; he's never been too good at knowing which is which. "Yep," she says, smiling at him; she's older, but pretty. Really nice hair, and her coat looks great on her. "Those are flowers. You know, I hate to say it, but I almost hope you don't get too many more of those. I don't know how Kurt's going to fit all that in the Navigator, unless he straps Finn to the roof."
Blaine blinks at her, confused. "You know Kurt?" he asks.
"Oh my God, I'm so sorry," the woman says, loudly enough that Blaine glances nervously over at his father; he shifts, turning his face into the cushioned back of the chair, but doesn't wake up. "Sorry," the woman repeats, whispering it this time. "I can't believe I didn't -- Honey, I'm Carole. I'm Kurt's stepmom. Or I will be, anyway, once we..."
"You put up the owl clock," Blaine says, weirdly pleased to be able to make some kind of a connection. "Right? The owl clock; it's yours."
Carole smiles at him, and she really is really very pretty; Kurt's dad has good taste. "That's right," she says, patting Blaine's hand again. Her ring distracts him; he can't help reaching out with his other hand to try and hold her restless fingers still, just so he can get a better look at it.
"So..." He cocks his head, looking at her, trying to figure out which hand he's currently holding. "Engagement rings go on your right hand?"
"Right again," Carole says, still smiling. She shakes her head. "Honey, I hope your leg doesn't hurt too much right now, because I really doubt they're going to give you any more pain medication. Not for a long time."
"No... It... It's fine." Which is mostly true; it's not really fine fine in the sense that an ordinary fine leg is fine, but it's a lot better than it was when he got shot, and he still remembers the way that felt, remembers it well enough to keep perspective. "It's fine," he says again, and looks up at her, and manages to smile.
Carole's smile seems to falter, for some reason; she looks down at their hands, still linked on top of the thin hospital blanket, and takes a deep breath. Then she glances back at Blaine's father, still curled on the chair, his face pressed into the cushions. Blaine's not totally sure, but he thinks his dad might be drooling a little. He hopes that's not going to be embarrassing for him, later. "So," Carole says, her voice soft. "How long has he been out?"
Blaine shrugs. "A while?" he says, wishing he could be more specific. But he doesn't have his watch anymore, and he couldn't see the clock without his glasses. "Signora Holliday was here. Although I guess if she's teaching math this week, then she's not a Signora anymore. But she was here, and then I had breakfast, and then I took my pills and that part's a little fuzzy, but then the next time I saw him, he was asleep." He smiles over at his father, because even if he's drooling it's still nice that he's finally asleep. But then he frowns again, because his father's asleep sitting up, and that can't be good for his back, and his back is still... "But I can't wake him up," he reasons, "because then he won't go back to sleep again. He's pretty stubborn."
"Dads are like that," Carole says, quietly, and squeezes his hand. "Were you... Were you going somewhere, when I came in?"
And just like that, Blaine really, really has to go again. But now he can't go, because he has a guest and that's rude, so he just stares down at his lap and tries to make his face be less hot and uncomfortable. It's hard -- his face is really hot. He must be blushing pretty bad.
"Let me guess." Carole's voice is somehow dry and warm at the same time. He's not sure how she's doing that, but she is. "Bathroom?"
Blaine blushes harder and squirms a little, because now he's thinking about it and it's even worse, but he doesn't want to -- "It's fine," he says again, still staring at his lap. He kind of wants to take his hands back now, but he thinks that might be rude, too, and he doesn't want to be rude.
Carole just sighs. "Blaine," she says. "I've raised a son too, you know. Believe me, it's nothing I haven't been through before. Actually, there was this one time, when Finn had this really bad --"
"No, really." But Blaine's voice is very small, and he squirms again, and he really really has to go. "It's fine."
Carole pats his hand again, then lets go and pushes herself up off the bed only to lean in again and pull Blaine's slightly noodley arm around her shoulders. "Come on," she says, wrapping one arm around his waist, and Blaine realizes that the only way he can stay on the bed is to fight her, and he doesn't want to do that because she's very nice and her hair is pretty and she's about to be Kurt's second mom, so he leans on her and gets his foot under him and very, very carefully stands up again. And it's weird, because he doesn't know her and yet they're basically kind of cuddling and he's pretty sure he's wearing more bandages than actual clothes right now, but before he has time to second guess it, she's saying "Okay. Let's do this," and taking a step forward and he has to hop forward with her to keep from falling over. It's not easy, but Carole steadies him, and he has to wonder, briefly, if he really would've been able to do this on his own. "Okay?" she asks.
He glances over at her; her eyes are resolutely focused on his face. He always thought he'd be better-dressed when he met Kurt's stepmom. And that he'd have clean underwear on. "I'm sorry I'm gross."
She smiles at him, coaxes him through another few hops. "Trust me, I've seen worse." They take a few more steps (well, she's stepping; he's still hopping) towards the bathroom, and then he wobbles again, and she stops, letting him use her for a crutch, so he can catch his balance. "But if it helps at all, I brought you a change of clothes. I can get them while you're in the bathroom, if you want."
Blaine very carefully pivots on his good foot so he can look Carole in the eyes, resting both his hands on her shoulders. "Carole," he says, very seriously. "You are the greatest."
She laughs a little, reaches up and pats his cheek. "Oh, honey," she says again, and he thinks he likes that, the way she's always calling him honey. "You are so stoned right now."
"No, but it's true," he protests, as she spins him back around (and okay, wow, he cannot spin that fast without having to close his eyes for a few seconds), wraps his arm back around her shoulders, and starts half-carrying him to the bathroom again. "You are, like, the greatest mom, and I'm just so..." He has to bite his lip for a second to keep from making kind of an embarrassing noise. "Kurt needs a good mom," he whispers. "A mom like you."
The arm around his waist tightens into something almost like a hug, and he wonders if it would be too forward of him to rest his head on her shoulder. Because she's a mom, but she's not his mom, so he thinks it's a little much, even if they are kind of cuddle-walking right now. "And you," Carole says, "are an absolute sweetheart. No wonder Kurt's so smitten with you."
Blaine smiles a little at that; he likes that word, smitten. It's a good word. But then it kind of makes him sad, too, because Karofsky pointed that gun at Kurt, and that wouldn't have had to happen, it wouldn't have happened at all if Kurt hadn't been... "But I don't want to hurt him," he says, plaintively. "I don't want him to get hurt."
"I know," Carole says, quietly. She helps him the last little bit of the way to the bathroom, and then very carefully props him up against the doorway, so he's facing her. "But what you have to understand, kiddo, is that it's not always up to you." Blaine ducks his head to the side, and Carole catches him, her hand cupping his cheek, pulling him back around to face her. "Kurt has a say in this too, you know," she tells him, and her eyes are a little sparkly like she's about to start crying. "And if he wants to stick with you... Honey, if he wants to stick with you, then I think you should let him."
"But he doesn't know, Carole," Blaine whispers, holding onto the wall for support. "He doesn't know how bad it's been, and he doesn't know how... He doesn't know how bad it could get."
Carole presses her lips together and nods, swallowing hard. "Then I guess you should tell him," she says, and pats his cheek, and pulls back. "I'll just... I'll just get you those clothes, okay? That is, if you're... If you think you can make it the rest of the way on your own."
"It's okay," Blaine says, quickly, because he really likes Carole and she's very sweet and very... very like a mom, but he doesn't need her helping him pee; that's just weird. "I can... By myself. It's fine."
"Okay," she says, and turns to walk away, and somehow, that makes something twist up in Blaine's stomach, something that makes him feel sick and scared and very, very small.
"Carole?" he calls out, and she turns back immediately, looking at him like she's worried. "Could you... could you stay, for a bit? Until my dad wakes up, or... Or maybe not even that long, because I think he might be out for kind of a while, but just... just for a little while. If you could. If you could stay. But you don't have to. If you don't want to."
And then he stares at his foot, because that was really weird, and she probably thinks he's a weird person now, for saying something weird like that.
But then her feet are coming toward his again, and her hand settles on his wrist, and when he looks up, he sees her smiling at him. And her eyes are still sparkly with tears, but there's something so nice in her smile that he almost doesn't feel guilty about making her cry. Almost. "Oh, honey," she says. "Of course I'll stay with you."
Then she hugs him, and she's a really, really good hugger, and he rests his head against her shoulder and it makes him feel a lot better about things.
"I'll think about what you said," he promises, because she's hugging him and because he's still scared that she's going to start crying and because she's a mom and he's pretty sure you have to take mom advice, when it's given to you. He's never had a mom, but he has a dad, and he takes his dad's advice, so he figures it's basically the same. "About Kurt, about letting him... About telling him, and letting him choose. I really will think about it; I promise."
"That's all I ask," she says, and then squeezes him tight, and then finally lets go, smoothing her coat down and smiling up at him. "All right," she adds, patting at his arm, her hand very gentle. "You go... do what you need to do. I'll get you those clothes. Okay?"
Blaine nods. "Okay," he says. Then he turns and, balancing on the walls, very carefully hops his way into the bathroom.
*
He emerges slowly from a tangle of dreams, shapes half-remembered and events distorted (a white rabbit disappearing into the jungle, a man with dark, sad eyes, his father's voice terrible in the nighttime, the sound of whispers, a hand pushing him forward), comes back to himself in bits and pieces -- this is his face pressed against scratchy upholstery; these are his glasses, knocked askew in his sleep, digging uncomfortably into the bridge of his nose; this is the familiar ache in the small of his back, the pressure in his bladder, the tingling numbness of a foot still asleep. He is not particularly confused -- he knows he's in the hospital, with Blaine; he doesn't really remember falling asleep but he can imagine how it must have happened, how the heaviness must have crept up on him after too many hours spent holding his son's hand, watching him drift in and out of lightly-drugged slumber. But there's something he can't quite put his finger on, something that isn't wrong exactly, just... unexpected.
Laughter. It's laughter.
"But it's boring," a woman's voice protests -- a gentle voice, warm with laughter, and more than a little familiar. "Blaine, honey, you're supposed to be taking my side here. It's my big day. Don't I deserve a little sparkle?"
"You do sparkle," Blaine insists; his voice still has a little of that drugged dreaminess to it, but it's much clearer than it was after breakfast, after yet another round of painkillers. "If you had, like, a lot of sequins and rhinestones and stuff, it'd just be... it'd be like, adding sparkle to the sparkle, or... Or..."
"Gilding the lily," Ben sighs, straightening himself in the chair, taking off his glasses and rubbing at the bridge of his nose. When he puts them back on, he sees his son staring at him, looking simultaneously relieved and confused. It's such a Blaine expression that Ben is almost tempted to laugh, but he doesn't think Blaine would take it well, so he doesn't. "That's the phrase you're looking for, isn't it? Gilding the lily?"
Blaine blinks at him, his brow furrowed. "Maybe?" he murmurs. "Maybe." He's still in his bed, propped up on a stack of pillows, but it's obvious he's been up and around a little bit -- he's got his glasses on, and is wearing an oversized sweatshirt that proclaims him to be Property of McKinley Titans Football, a pair of shiny polyester pants with snaps up the sides, white gym socks.
Ben doesn't wonder where he got those things; the answer is sitting at the foot of Blaine's bed, regarding them both with a soft, warm smile. He's only met the woman once, but fortunately for him, the encounter was... memorable. "Hello, Carole," he says, quietly, attempting to smooth some of the wrinkles out of his shirt.
She turns her warm smile on him; he wonders how long she's been here, taking care of Blaine for him. Long enough for the two of them to become friends, apparently, although that doesn't usually take long with Blaine. "Hello, Ben," she replies.
"You know each other," Blaine says, sounding faintly disappointed. "I was going to introduce you."
"Sorry," Ben says, leaning forward to pat at Blaine's hand. Blaine immediately turns his hand palm-up on the bed, gripping Ben's hand tightly, like he's afraid Ben is going to pull away. As if he would. As if he could. "I'm afraid Kurt's father already did that for you, yesterday. After he proposed to Carole. In front of my first-period AP Calculus class."
Carole laughs again; it's a welcome sound to hear in such a place, Ben thinks. "Is that what we were interrupting?" Carole asks. "Sorry; I think Burt was under the impression that it was just homeroom. Not that it would have stopped him, once he had the idea in his head, but..."
"Oh, no harm done," Ben reassures her, still squeezing Blaine's hand. It occurs to him how strange this is, that this woman he met exactly once is sitting on his son's bed, bringing him clothes and keeping him company. It's not the sort of thing he expects people to do; he has no real idea how to handle it. "I... ah, I apologize, for not being awake when you came in. I'm afraid I --"
"It's all right," Carole says, but her smile fades a little bit. "I barely slept at night when Burt was in the hospital, and of course, Kurt didn't --" She clears her throat, obviously a little uncomfortable with the subject, and it's all so strange. Ben didn't know her, or Burt, or even Kurt when the heart attack happened, although it was quite recent. They were strangers then. In many ways, they still are now.
And yet, here they are.
There's a short, uncomfortable silence, and then Blaine breaks it. "We were just talking about Carole's wedding dress," he says, reaching out with his free hand to grab at a magazine left open on his lap. Ben shifts forward in his chair, bending obediently over the pages, even though he really has no idea what he's looking at. "Kurt likes this one. And so do I."
"Well," Ben says, pretending to study the picture, although it's honestly not the sort of thing he particularly cares about. It's a dress. It's white. It looks expensive. There's not much else to be said, really. "Of course, it's up to Carole what dress she wears; it is her wedding."
Carole lets out an exaggerated sigh. "Thank you," she says, throwing up her hands. "Thank you, Ben."
Ben glances up at his son; Blaine is frowning at him, lower lip sticking out a little bit. "But if it were up to me, I would defer to your judgement. And Kurt's," he adds, and Blaine beams. Ben turns back to Carole, shrugging. "Sorry."
"Well," Carole huffs, but she's still smiling, and while Ben isn't entirely sure what to make of her presence here, he thinks he might actually welcome it. Not that it matters much, because she slides off the bed and stands up, smoothing down her skirt. "Since I'm obviously no good at choosing wedding dresses, I might as well do something useful, like getting coffee." Blaine perks up a little at that, and Carole shakes her head, fondly. "Don't worry," she adds, smiling at him. "I know what to get you. Kurt already told me. Ben, how about you? Burt said you're a tea man, but if you're still a little sleepy, I could --"
"It's fine," Ben says, ignoring Blaine's disappointed look. "There's a machine in the waiting room; if I need something, I can just --"
"I'm sure you can," Carole says, folding her arms; there's something in her expression that Ben can't quite place, something familiar. "You've been doing this on your own for a long time; believe me, I know what that's like. I know you can do this on your own, Ben. But you don't have to."
Ben wonders who that speech was meant for; he's not entirely sure it was meant for him. Admittedly, though, it does apply. "Really, Carole, you don't --"
"He takes his coffee black," Blaine offers, and squeezes Ben's hand as if in apology. "Also, he didn't eat breakfast, so if you could get like a muffin or something. Or a banana. Bananas are very healthy."
The smile returns to Carole's face; she nods at Blaine, although he's already staring at his lap, looking vaguely guilty. Then she turns back to Ben. "If I'm letting him pick my wedding gown," she says, "you can let him pick your breakfast."
Ben sighs, and shakes his head, and straightens his glasses. "Well," he says. "I suppose now we both know what it's like to be outvoted."
"I could call Kurt," Carole suggests, her expression turning a little sly. "If you wanted to make it official."
"That won't be necessary, thank you." Because Ben already knows perfectly what Kurt would say, what he would do. He's not very different from Blaine in these things. "Carole," he adds, watching her walk to the door, scooping up her purse as she goes. "Thank you."
She smiles at him one last time, before slipping out of the room.
Ben lets go of Blaine's hand -- he stands, stretches, tries to ease some of the ache in his back. He'll be stiff for days after this, of course; it'll make life that much more interesting. His back, Blaine's leg... They can't even get home from the hospital on their own -- his car and Blaine's are both still at McKinley; he had to make arrangements with Burt Hummel to have them towed back to the house. Kurt is coming to the hospital after school to take them home. Such small, simple things, but Ben's not sure he'd be able to manage them without the Hummels coming to his rescue. If he and Blaine do have to leave, if they flee Ohio and find someplace else to hide... The Hummels won't be there, then, to help them.
But they'll manage, of course. They've done it before. They can do it again. If they have to.
"Dad?" Blaine asks; when Ben turns around, he sees his son has scooted closer to the edge of the bed, has his hand outstretched. Ben reaches out to take it, his fingers closing around Blaine's. "Dad, I want to... I think we should... I know we don't usually -- or we never, but I..."
He falls silent and just looks at his father, like he's expecting Ben to understand him without words. Which he does. Of course he does.
"We will," Ben says, and squeezes Blaine's hand. "We'll tell them."
"And if they still want... If they still want to help us..."
Ben perches on the edge of the mattress, with just barely enough room to balance; it isn't comfortable, and he doubts he can hold the position for very long, but it's what Blaine needs right now, and he's not in the habit of denying his son anything. He leans in, kisses Blaine on the forehead. "Then I think we should let them," he says. "But it's up to you, Blaine."
Blaine looks up at him, all wide dark eyes and tousled curls, and sometimes it hits Ben like a knife to the chest, how much he loves his son, how lucky he is -- "Dad?" Blaine's voice is tentative, terrified, a child's whisper to the darkness, and it sparks something familiar in Ben's memory (footsteps in his bedroom, a man with sad dark eyes, his father's voice terrible), something that fades as Blaine shifts back, giving him more room to sit.
"I'm right here," Ben says, settling himself more fully on the mattress. "I'm right here, Blaine."
Blaine rests his chin on Ben's shoulder, and closes his eyes.
Ben squeezes his son's hand.
*
It's not that she doesn't feel guilty for eavesdropping, because she does, at least a little. She should have let Ben and Blaine have their private moment, privately; she shouldn't have hung around hoping to hear some kind of reason for what happened yesterday, something to explain why Burt's so worried about this, about them. Because it doesn't really matter if she's worried about her own family, if Burt's cryptic little hints and sudden urge to postpone the wedding -- which was, after all, his idea in the first place -- are driving her half out of her mind. It's still not a good reason to listen in on someone else's conversation.
So if she finds herself nothing but frustrated and confused, feeling like she understands the situation even less than she did before she came to the hospital; well, that's what she gets for being nosy. She's only got herself to blame, in the end.
Carole sighs, straightens her bag on her shoulder, and starts heading for the elevator.
It's not difficult for her to understand why Burt's so dead-set on helping the Andersons out of whatever trouble they're in. Burt's that kind of man; Carole wouldn't even think about marrying someone who wasn't, not anymore. It's everything she loves about him -- his big heart, his capacity for empathy, his stubborn insistence on doing the right thing no matter what. His devotion to family, even, because while Burt wasn't exactly forthcoming last night, he did say that Ben Anderson had been a friend of his wife's, back when they were kids. So of course, Burt's going to want to do right by her memory. Carole understands all of that, honestly. She does.
But what she can't understand is how someone like Ben Anderson got himself in any kind of trouble in the first place. He's so... so incredibly ordinary, just an average little man with an average little life. It's hard enough imagining him having the guts to get Karofsky kicked off the football team; she can't picture him doing anything riskier than that.
But there must be something, something to justify Burt's twitchiness, the fear in Blaine Anderson's eyes when he said he didn't want Kurt getting hurt because of him, the way Ben said We'll tell them like doing so was tantamount to confessing some kind of deep, dark secret. The man's a math teacher, for pity's sake. What on earth could he have to tell?
And what if it is serious? What if it's something that could lead to Finn getting hurt, or killed? What does she do then? She doesn't want to leave Burt; he's a good man, and Kurt's a good boy, and she loves them, both of them. But she loves Finn more. Is she really going to risk him, for some strangers?
She stabs the button for the elevator with a little too much force and is almost immediately embarrassed about it, about her own behavior in general, really. Obviously, Ben's planning on explaining the situation; didn't she just hear him admit as much? And no, she's not entirely certain that she'll be included in that conversation, or at least she's not certain yet. She can make it certain; she will make it certain. She's a very convincing woman when she needs to be. If she can just wait a little longer; if she can just be patient... And, if nothing else, living with Finn has taught her patience. She doesn't need to do things like this, eavesdropping and spying. She'll wait, until Ben and Blaine are ready. Until they want to talk.
The elevator dings, the doors slide open, and a large man with a neat little beard and a fistful of balloons steps out. Carole slips past him, taking his place, still silently vowing not to push for any more answers. She'll get Ben and Blaine their coffee, make sure Ben's eaten something -- honestly, the man's acting the same way Kurt did when Burt was in the hospital, and she's not sure what that says about him or about her soon-to-be stepson -- and then she'll just --
"-- looking for Ben Anderson?" someone says, from the direction of the nurse's station, and Carole knows without having to think about it that it's the large man with the balloon bouquet.
And she knows, although she's not entirely sure why, that this is not a good thing.
She hits the hold button just before the elevator doors can close, and slips quietly back out into the hallway, making her way slowly and stealthily to Blaine's room. Because this isn't eavesdropping; this is something else entirely.
She's not sure what it is, but she knows it's something else.
*
The thing is, he's pretty sure he's pushing his luck with this. Assuming he has any luck left to push, which he's starting to doubt. But at the same time, it's not like he can afford to wait. Every second Ben Linus goes without hearing his side of the story -- the side of the story he's willing to tell, anyway -- is another second for doubts to creep in. For him to start wondering about who he can trust, and what's going on. Leslie can't afford to let him wait, not right now.
Anyway, he figures that as long as they're at the hospital, he's at least mostly safe from Linus's wrath. Even if the guy is the killer Juliet's made him out to be, he's not going to try anything in public. In front of his son, no less. The man's too smart for that.
He thinks. He hopes.
He knocks on the door that the nurse pointed out, tightens his grip on the balloons in his hand (balloons -- Christ, what was he thinking? Linus's son isn't five), and waits.
"Carole?" Linus calls, from inside the room. "Did you forget something?"
Carole? Jesus, is the guy running a harem in his spare time?
Leslie hesitates for a second longer; a second too long, because then Linus is pulling the door open, and the way his face changes when he sees Leslie is something that Leslie will never, ever forget. He doesn't look scared when he sees who it is; he looks furious, every part of his body tensing up so fast that he shakes with it, his hands clenching at his sides, his eyes widening and then narrowing again, jaw set. And this is what Juliet was talking about; Leslie sees it now.
Linus lets out a long, slow breath; it doesn't seem to relax him any. "Well," he says, his voice very soft and very, very dangerous. "If nothing else, I'll give you credit for having a lot of nerve." He tips his head to the side, seemingly thinking it over. "Or you just don't know who you're dealing with; I suppose I can't quite rule that out just yet."
"Dad?" his son calls out -- he's hidden somewhere inside the room, but Leslie can hear his voice quavering, and his traitorous memory suddenly supplies him with the image of a nature program he watched a long time ago, back when David was just a boy and the two of them used to watch tv together. It was something about bears, and how they don't attack humans, not unless their cubs are threatened. And he realizes that he's done something very, very stupid.
"Mr. Linus," he says, trying to get his shaky voice and shakier hands under control. "Listen. I just wanted to say how sorry I am that I -- I mean, that my son -- and I --"
Linus's eyes narrow even further. "I'm sorry," he says, not raising his voice a single bit. "What did you just call me?"
Crap. "I -- Sorry, sorry, I guess I just --"
"Dad!" Ben's son calls again, more urgent now.
"It's all right, Blaine," Ben replies, turning away for just a second to look back at his kid, and the moment his eyes are off Leslie, Leslie turns to bolt.
He makes it maybe two steps before colliding with some soft, fleshy, middle-aged broad, knocking her backwards, and for some stupid reason he reaches out to catch her, muttering "Sorry, sorry," under his breath as he hoists her back up to her feet. "Sorry, I just --"
"Carole!" Ben's voice is louder now, the anger no longer muted, but sharp, edged with more than a little fear. There is one last moment where Leslie thinks I can use this, when his hands tighten on the woman's arms and her eyes widen and he thinks about hostages, thinks about -- But then Ben grabs him, his fingers digging in hard enough to bruise, and Leslie realizes he doesn't have the nerve after all. Not enough for this.
He lets go of the woman; she steps back from him immediately, eyes still wide, both hands clinging tight to the straps of her purse. Her eyes flick from him to Ben, uncertain.
"Carole," Ben says again, his voice softer now. "Why don't you go sit with Blaine for a moment, while I show Dr. Arzt to his car."
Leslie thinks, for just a second, about protesting that that is not his name, that he's Paul Karofsky, that he -- But Ben's fingers dig into his arm even harder, and for once in his life, he keeps his stupid mouth shut.
"Sure," the woman says, a little breathy, carefully sidestepping around Leslie and behind Ben. "Sure, of course. Did you need me to..."
"It's fine," Ben tells her, and this time he doesn't take his eyes off Leslie, not even once. "And don't worry about the coffee. I'll get it on my way back up."
"Sure," the woman says again, and slips through the open door of the hospital room, closing it behind her. As soon as it clicks shut, Ben starts pushing Leslie forward, and there's a surprising amount of strength in him for such a small man.
"For the record," Ben hisses, hurrying Leslie back towards the elevators, his grip on Leslie's arm so damn tight that it's about to cut off circulation, "letting go of Carole Hudson when you did is probably the only intelligent thing you've done all day. You have no idea how much trouble you would be in if you'd so much as harmed one hair on her head. And do you know the best part? I wouldn't have even had to lift a finger." He stabs the down arrow for the elevators with one finger. "It's a shame, really; it's not often that I have these kinds of opportunities just fall into my lap. But I owe her and her family too much to put them through that. So I suppose I'll just have to take care of you myself."
The elevator doors slide open, and Ben shoves Leslie in, following after. There is an extremely awkward, tense silence until the doors slide shut again, and the elevator starts dropping down.
"You're gonna kill me," Leslie says, his eyes still on Ben Linus. It's stupid, maybe, but he wants it said out loud. He wants to acknowledge just what exactly is going on here. "Am I right? After everything that's happened, everything I had to go through, you're gonna kill me."
Linus's lips quirk upwards in what might almost be a smile; it's not a very nice one. "It's a tempting thought," he admits, his voice so bland and pleasant that it actually sends a chill down Leslie's spine. "Very, very tempting. But no, Dr. Arzt. I'm not going to kill you. If only because I don't want to risk getting caught and going to jail, particularly not now, when my son needs me." He eyes Leslie, his expression downright contemptuous. "Not that I'd expect you to understand that," he adds.
Leslie straightens his jacket, tries to at least look offended. "I came back for David," he spits out, glaring at the floor.
"No," Ben says, still in those bland, pleasant tones, and Leslie can't help but feel like an idiot, because that's how Linus has been talking to him all along. The mild voice of a mild-mannered guy. And Leslie never suspected a thing, even when he damn well knew better. "You didn't. You wanted off the Island. Of course you did, after everything you had to go through." He says it mockingly, and Leslie bristles, but he's not quite angry enough to argue. Not when he's pretty sure Linus could just kill him right in this elevator if he really wanted to.
"David was your ticket to freedom, and you used him as such," Linus continues, still so pleasant-sounding, so reasonable. "And then you used him to get to me. And if I think for one second that you're going to try to use him again, as some kind of bargaining chip? I will reconsider my decision not to kill you."
The elevator shudders to a halt, and Ben's hand settles back on Leslie's elbow, a little looser now, but still a threat.
"Oh, and by the way?" Another chill goes down Leslie's spine at the soft friendliness of Ben's voice. "And only because I don't want you to get the wrong idea. I'm not going to kill you. But you are going to die."
The doors slide open, and Ben drags Leslie out before his numb, terrified brain can spit some kind of rational response at him.
*
He can't say he's exactly surprised, when the call comes. A little disappointed, maybe, a little apprehensive. Or a lot apprehensive; he'd been thinking about it all day, trying to minimize it in his head, make it so he was overreacting, thinking things were worse than they really were, that he was making a big deal out of nothing. But then he hears Ben's voice, a little strained, a little agitated, and he realizes that it's still every bit as serious as he thought it was last night.
Still, that doesn't stop him from saying, "You know we don't have to do this now, right? I mean, you've had a long couple days, and I'm sure Blaine's pretty worn out, and you've gotta be --"
"Burt," Ben says, quietly. "I do appreciate your patience. But, believe me, if you'd been at the hospital just now --" He sighs. "It has to be tonight. It can't wait."
"All right, all right," Burt sighs, looking across the garage. Hell, it's not like they're that busy today anyway; he can leave the boys to finish up if he has to. And it looks like he has to, so. "I'll call Kurt, tell him not to bring Finn along when he comes to pick you guys up at the hospital; we can --"
"No." Ben's voice is sharp, clipped. "Have him bring Finn."
Burt raises his eyebrow, even though Ben's not exactly there to see him. "With all due respect, Ben, I'm not so sure that's such a good idea. Finn's kind of... Well, he's kind of a blabbermouth, and I don't know if he'll --"
"Let me worry about that," Ben replies, and his voice would almost be gentle if it weren't for that weird edge. Burt has to wonder what happened; whatever it was, it obviously shook Ben up pretty bad. "Just... It needs to be all of you. And it needs to be tonight."
"All right," Burt says, again, because he doesn't know what's happening, but he knows not to fight it. Not yet, anyway. "All right. We'll be there."
"Thank you," Ben says, his voice a little softer, maybe a little relieved. "Thank you, Burt." Then there's a click, and he's hung up. Gone before Burt could ask too many questions, or any questions at all, really.
Not that it really matters, not when he'll find out everything he wants to know in... Burt glances at the clock; it's just before noon. Three o'clock, he'll be at Ben's house, waiting.
He'll get all the answers then, whether or not he wants them. Him and his whole family -- they'll get all the answers.
God help them.
Pairing/Character(s): Blaine Anderson, Ben Linus Anderson, Carole Hudson, Leslie Arzt (aka Paul Karofsky), Burt Hummel
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Potential hostage situation (averted), very threatening language. Don't make Ben Linus angry. You wouldn't like him when he's angry.
Word Count: About 7700
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: Carole visits the Andersons at the hospital. And so does someone else.
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.
Most of the time, Blaine thinks of himself as a reasonably independent person.
Yes, he relies on his dad for a lot (so much, sometimes), and yes, they're closer to each other than a lot of fathers and sons are. But he still does things for himself -- he drives his own car and he packs his own lunches and even if his disarming technique could use a little more work, he's still a lot better at fundamental self-defense and firearm use than most kids his age, which is something.
Or it was something, until he got shot in the leg and they took him to the hospital, pumped him full of painkillers, wrapped him up in gauze, threw away his contact lenses, and put him in this room, with its bed and its chair and its curtains and absolutely nothing else that he could hold on to, like a couch. Or some shelves. Or maybe a walker; he'd love a walker. But he doesn't have one.
And so now he's stuck standing on one leg in a thin, paper nightgown, holding onto his bedrail for support, trying to figure out how he's going to make his way across ten feet of tile floor to the fuzzy dark hole in the wall that he's mostly sure is the bathroom, because he may not be as independent as he would like to be but that doesn't mean he's going to wake his father up just because he's not 100% sure he can reach the bathroom on his own.
And yes, he could probably call a nurse (or he could have, before he stood up, but now he kind of feels committed so he can't), but the thing is he doesn't want her to wake up his dad, either. He doesn't want anyone to wake up his dad because he knows his dad barely slept last night and he needs all the sleep he can get, and granted, if Blaine falls, he will almost certainly wake up his father, but that's okay because he's not going to fall. Because he can do this. He is independent. He stands on his own two feet.
And, if necessary, he will stand on his one feet.
Foot.
Whatever.
And with that in mind, he takes a deep breath, straightens his back, and very, very carefully lets go of the railing of his bed. He wobbles, a little bit, but then he catches his balance and manages to stand steady. For a second.
Then the door is creaking open and he startles, hopping backwards and smacking his bandaged leg against the bedrail. It hurts, and the only thing that keeps him from crying out is the fact that his dad is right there, sleeping, and he doesn't want to -- So he chokes it back, just barely, letting out the quietest groan he can muster as he sinks back down to the bed, eyes flooding with tears.
"Oh my goodness," a woman says from the doorway, her voice way, way too loud, and Blaine starts shaking his head at her, but she obviously doesn't get it, because she just keeps talking. "Oh, honey, are you --"
"Sssh," Blaine hisses, flailing his hand in the general direction of the chair where his father's stirring, just a little bit. "He didn't... He's really, really tired. He needs to sleep. Please?"
"Sorry," the woman stage-whispers back. "Sorry, sorry."
Blaine blinks at her, trying to figure out whether she's a nurse or a florist or one of his dad's colleagues or what, but all he really sees is a blurry mess of russet and rust. Think fall, Kurt had said, yesterday, before Karofsky and Santana and that horrible moment when Blaine realized that no matter what Karofsky meant to do, someone was going to get shot. Fall wedding colors.
He bites his lip, tightens his grip on the bedframe, and tries really, really hard not to cry -- not because his leg hurts (although it still does), but because... Because everything hurts, if he thinks about it.
"Oh honey," the woman says again, setting something down on the floor next to her. It's brown and squarish, and it looks a lot like... "I'm so sorry. Are you hurt? Do you need --"
"Is that my bag?" Blaine asks, a little hopefully. Because his glasses are always in his bag, so if that is his bag, then his glasses are in it, and if his glasses are in, then maybe he can have them. "Is it --"
"Yes," the woman says, slowly. "This is yours. You left it in your car; Kurt thought that maybe you'd want it, so he asked me to --"
"Please may I have my glasses," Blaine says, the words running out superfast, so fast it makes him feel a little dizzy.
"You want your... glasses?" the woman repeats, sounding a little confused.
Blaine nods, which makes him dizzier. "Please?"
There's a pause, and then the woman says "Of course, of course," turning to crouch down on the floor by Blaine's bag. She hesitates for a second, then stands back up and does something with the wall (foam, Blaine thinks; it's the hand-sanitizing foam the nurses use every time they come into the room. Foam in, foam out). Then she crouches back down again, messes with his bag a little bit, stands up, foams again, then finally, finally makes her way over to where Blaine is sitting on the bed, waiting as patiently as he can. She holds out the leather case with his glasses in it, and Blaine fumbles them out, slides them on his face, and suddenly everything is so much clearer -- not perfect, maybe, but still okay.
"Oh, those are flowers," he breathes, eyes settling on the the array of brightly-colored blooms in vases and baskets, crowded tight together on the room's one small dresser. "I thought it was something to do with the wallpaper."
The woman laughs a little bit, sinking down on the bed next to him. She pats his hand; she has nice nails, and a pretty ring on her third finger. He wonders if it's the wedding hand or just the engagement hand; he's never been too good at knowing which is which. "Yep," she says, smiling at him; she's older, but pretty. Really nice hair, and her coat looks great on her. "Those are flowers. You know, I hate to say it, but I almost hope you don't get too many more of those. I don't know how Kurt's going to fit all that in the Navigator, unless he straps Finn to the roof."
Blaine blinks at her, confused. "You know Kurt?" he asks.
"Oh my God, I'm so sorry," the woman says, loudly enough that Blaine glances nervously over at his father; he shifts, turning his face into the cushioned back of the chair, but doesn't wake up. "Sorry," the woman repeats, whispering it this time. "I can't believe I didn't -- Honey, I'm Carole. I'm Kurt's stepmom. Or I will be, anyway, once we..."
"You put up the owl clock," Blaine says, weirdly pleased to be able to make some kind of a connection. "Right? The owl clock; it's yours."
Carole smiles at him, and she really is really very pretty; Kurt's dad has good taste. "That's right," she says, patting Blaine's hand again. Her ring distracts him; he can't help reaching out with his other hand to try and hold her restless fingers still, just so he can get a better look at it.
"So..." He cocks his head, looking at her, trying to figure out which hand he's currently holding. "Engagement rings go on your right hand?"
"Right again," Carole says, still smiling. She shakes her head. "Honey, I hope your leg doesn't hurt too much right now, because I really doubt they're going to give you any more pain medication. Not for a long time."
"No... It... It's fine." Which is mostly true; it's not really fine fine in the sense that an ordinary fine leg is fine, but it's a lot better than it was when he got shot, and he still remembers the way that felt, remembers it well enough to keep perspective. "It's fine," he says again, and looks up at her, and manages to smile.
Carole's smile seems to falter, for some reason; she looks down at their hands, still linked on top of the thin hospital blanket, and takes a deep breath. Then she glances back at Blaine's father, still curled on the chair, his face pressed into the cushions. Blaine's not totally sure, but he thinks his dad might be drooling a little. He hopes that's not going to be embarrassing for him, later. "So," Carole says, her voice soft. "How long has he been out?"
Blaine shrugs. "A while?" he says, wishing he could be more specific. But he doesn't have his watch anymore, and he couldn't see the clock without his glasses. "Signora Holliday was here. Although I guess if she's teaching math this week, then she's not a Signora anymore. But she was here, and then I had breakfast, and then I took my pills and that part's a little fuzzy, but then the next time I saw him, he was asleep." He smiles over at his father, because even if he's drooling it's still nice that he's finally asleep. But then he frowns again, because his father's asleep sitting up, and that can't be good for his back, and his back is still... "But I can't wake him up," he reasons, "because then he won't go back to sleep again. He's pretty stubborn."
"Dads are like that," Carole says, quietly, and squeezes his hand. "Were you... Were you going somewhere, when I came in?"
And just like that, Blaine really, really has to go again. But now he can't go, because he has a guest and that's rude, so he just stares down at his lap and tries to make his face be less hot and uncomfortable. It's hard -- his face is really hot. He must be blushing pretty bad.
"Let me guess." Carole's voice is somehow dry and warm at the same time. He's not sure how she's doing that, but she is. "Bathroom?"
Blaine blushes harder and squirms a little, because now he's thinking about it and it's even worse, but he doesn't want to -- "It's fine," he says again, still staring at his lap. He kind of wants to take his hands back now, but he thinks that might be rude, too, and he doesn't want to be rude.
Carole just sighs. "Blaine," she says. "I've raised a son too, you know. Believe me, it's nothing I haven't been through before. Actually, there was this one time, when Finn had this really bad --"
"No, really." But Blaine's voice is very small, and he squirms again, and he really really has to go. "It's fine."
Carole pats his hand again, then lets go and pushes herself up off the bed only to lean in again and pull Blaine's slightly noodley arm around her shoulders. "Come on," she says, wrapping one arm around his waist, and Blaine realizes that the only way he can stay on the bed is to fight her, and he doesn't want to do that because she's very nice and her hair is pretty and she's about to be Kurt's second mom, so he leans on her and gets his foot under him and very, very carefully stands up again. And it's weird, because he doesn't know her and yet they're basically kind of cuddling and he's pretty sure he's wearing more bandages than actual clothes right now, but before he has time to second guess it, she's saying "Okay. Let's do this," and taking a step forward and he has to hop forward with her to keep from falling over. It's not easy, but Carole steadies him, and he has to wonder, briefly, if he really would've been able to do this on his own. "Okay?" she asks.
He glances over at her; her eyes are resolutely focused on his face. He always thought he'd be better-dressed when he met Kurt's stepmom. And that he'd have clean underwear on. "I'm sorry I'm gross."
She smiles at him, coaxes him through another few hops. "Trust me, I've seen worse." They take a few more steps (well, she's stepping; he's still hopping) towards the bathroom, and then he wobbles again, and she stops, letting him use her for a crutch, so he can catch his balance. "But if it helps at all, I brought you a change of clothes. I can get them while you're in the bathroom, if you want."
Blaine very carefully pivots on his good foot so he can look Carole in the eyes, resting both his hands on her shoulders. "Carole," he says, very seriously. "You are the greatest."
She laughs a little, reaches up and pats his cheek. "Oh, honey," she says again, and he thinks he likes that, the way she's always calling him honey. "You are so stoned right now."
"No, but it's true," he protests, as she spins him back around (and okay, wow, he cannot spin that fast without having to close his eyes for a few seconds), wraps his arm back around her shoulders, and starts half-carrying him to the bathroom again. "You are, like, the greatest mom, and I'm just so..." He has to bite his lip for a second to keep from making kind of an embarrassing noise. "Kurt needs a good mom," he whispers. "A mom like you."
The arm around his waist tightens into something almost like a hug, and he wonders if it would be too forward of him to rest his head on her shoulder. Because she's a mom, but she's not his mom, so he thinks it's a little much, even if they are kind of cuddle-walking right now. "And you," Carole says, "are an absolute sweetheart. No wonder Kurt's so smitten with you."
Blaine smiles a little at that; he likes that word, smitten. It's a good word. But then it kind of makes him sad, too, because Karofsky pointed that gun at Kurt, and that wouldn't have had to happen, it wouldn't have happened at all if Kurt hadn't been... "But I don't want to hurt him," he says, plaintively. "I don't want him to get hurt."
"I know," Carole says, quietly. She helps him the last little bit of the way to the bathroom, and then very carefully props him up against the doorway, so he's facing her. "But what you have to understand, kiddo, is that it's not always up to you." Blaine ducks his head to the side, and Carole catches him, her hand cupping his cheek, pulling him back around to face her. "Kurt has a say in this too, you know," she tells him, and her eyes are a little sparkly like she's about to start crying. "And if he wants to stick with you... Honey, if he wants to stick with you, then I think you should let him."
"But he doesn't know, Carole," Blaine whispers, holding onto the wall for support. "He doesn't know how bad it's been, and he doesn't know how... He doesn't know how bad it could get."
Carole presses her lips together and nods, swallowing hard. "Then I guess you should tell him," she says, and pats his cheek, and pulls back. "I'll just... I'll just get you those clothes, okay? That is, if you're... If you think you can make it the rest of the way on your own."
"It's okay," Blaine says, quickly, because he really likes Carole and she's very sweet and very... very like a mom, but he doesn't need her helping him pee; that's just weird. "I can... By myself. It's fine."
"Okay," she says, and turns to walk away, and somehow, that makes something twist up in Blaine's stomach, something that makes him feel sick and scared and very, very small.
"Carole?" he calls out, and she turns back immediately, looking at him like she's worried. "Could you... could you stay, for a bit? Until my dad wakes up, or... Or maybe not even that long, because I think he might be out for kind of a while, but just... just for a little while. If you could. If you could stay. But you don't have to. If you don't want to."
And then he stares at his foot, because that was really weird, and she probably thinks he's a weird person now, for saying something weird like that.
But then her feet are coming toward his again, and her hand settles on his wrist, and when he looks up, he sees her smiling at him. And her eyes are still sparkly with tears, but there's something so nice in her smile that he almost doesn't feel guilty about making her cry. Almost. "Oh, honey," she says. "Of course I'll stay with you."
Then she hugs him, and she's a really, really good hugger, and he rests his head against her shoulder and it makes him feel a lot better about things.
"I'll think about what you said," he promises, because she's hugging him and because he's still scared that she's going to start crying and because she's a mom and he's pretty sure you have to take mom advice, when it's given to you. He's never had a mom, but he has a dad, and he takes his dad's advice, so he figures it's basically the same. "About Kurt, about letting him... About telling him, and letting him choose. I really will think about it; I promise."
"That's all I ask," she says, and then squeezes him tight, and then finally lets go, smoothing her coat down and smiling up at him. "All right," she adds, patting at his arm, her hand very gentle. "You go... do what you need to do. I'll get you those clothes. Okay?"
Blaine nods. "Okay," he says. Then he turns and, balancing on the walls, very carefully hops his way into the bathroom.
*
He emerges slowly from a tangle of dreams, shapes half-remembered and events distorted (a white rabbit disappearing into the jungle, a man with dark, sad eyes, his father's voice terrible in the nighttime, the sound of whispers, a hand pushing him forward), comes back to himself in bits and pieces -- this is his face pressed against scratchy upholstery; these are his glasses, knocked askew in his sleep, digging uncomfortably into the bridge of his nose; this is the familiar ache in the small of his back, the pressure in his bladder, the tingling numbness of a foot still asleep. He is not particularly confused -- he knows he's in the hospital, with Blaine; he doesn't really remember falling asleep but he can imagine how it must have happened, how the heaviness must have crept up on him after too many hours spent holding his son's hand, watching him drift in and out of lightly-drugged slumber. But there's something he can't quite put his finger on, something that isn't wrong exactly, just... unexpected.
Laughter. It's laughter.
"But it's boring," a woman's voice protests -- a gentle voice, warm with laughter, and more than a little familiar. "Blaine, honey, you're supposed to be taking my side here. It's my big day. Don't I deserve a little sparkle?"
"You do sparkle," Blaine insists; his voice still has a little of that drugged dreaminess to it, but it's much clearer than it was after breakfast, after yet another round of painkillers. "If you had, like, a lot of sequins and rhinestones and stuff, it'd just be... it'd be like, adding sparkle to the sparkle, or... Or..."
"Gilding the lily," Ben sighs, straightening himself in the chair, taking off his glasses and rubbing at the bridge of his nose. When he puts them back on, he sees his son staring at him, looking simultaneously relieved and confused. It's such a Blaine expression that Ben is almost tempted to laugh, but he doesn't think Blaine would take it well, so he doesn't. "That's the phrase you're looking for, isn't it? Gilding the lily?"
Blaine blinks at him, his brow furrowed. "Maybe?" he murmurs. "Maybe." He's still in his bed, propped up on a stack of pillows, but it's obvious he's been up and around a little bit -- he's got his glasses on, and is wearing an oversized sweatshirt that proclaims him to be Property of McKinley Titans Football, a pair of shiny polyester pants with snaps up the sides, white gym socks.
Ben doesn't wonder where he got those things; the answer is sitting at the foot of Blaine's bed, regarding them both with a soft, warm smile. He's only met the woman once, but fortunately for him, the encounter was... memorable. "Hello, Carole," he says, quietly, attempting to smooth some of the wrinkles out of his shirt.
She turns her warm smile on him; he wonders how long she's been here, taking care of Blaine for him. Long enough for the two of them to become friends, apparently, although that doesn't usually take long with Blaine. "Hello, Ben," she replies.
"You know each other," Blaine says, sounding faintly disappointed. "I was going to introduce you."
"Sorry," Ben says, leaning forward to pat at Blaine's hand. Blaine immediately turns his hand palm-up on the bed, gripping Ben's hand tightly, like he's afraid Ben is going to pull away. As if he would. As if he could. "I'm afraid Kurt's father already did that for you, yesterday. After he proposed to Carole. In front of my first-period AP Calculus class."
Carole laughs again; it's a welcome sound to hear in such a place, Ben thinks. "Is that what we were interrupting?" Carole asks. "Sorry; I think Burt was under the impression that it was just homeroom. Not that it would have stopped him, once he had the idea in his head, but..."
"Oh, no harm done," Ben reassures her, still squeezing Blaine's hand. It occurs to him how strange this is, that this woman he met exactly once is sitting on his son's bed, bringing him clothes and keeping him company. It's not the sort of thing he expects people to do; he has no real idea how to handle it. "I... ah, I apologize, for not being awake when you came in. I'm afraid I --"
"It's all right," Carole says, but her smile fades a little bit. "I barely slept at night when Burt was in the hospital, and of course, Kurt didn't --" She clears her throat, obviously a little uncomfortable with the subject, and it's all so strange. Ben didn't know her, or Burt, or even Kurt when the heart attack happened, although it was quite recent. They were strangers then. In many ways, they still are now.
And yet, here they are.
There's a short, uncomfortable silence, and then Blaine breaks it. "We were just talking about Carole's wedding dress," he says, reaching out with his free hand to grab at a magazine left open on his lap. Ben shifts forward in his chair, bending obediently over the pages, even though he really has no idea what he's looking at. "Kurt likes this one. And so do I."
"Well," Ben says, pretending to study the picture, although it's honestly not the sort of thing he particularly cares about. It's a dress. It's white. It looks expensive. There's not much else to be said, really. "Of course, it's up to Carole what dress she wears; it is her wedding."
Carole lets out an exaggerated sigh. "Thank you," she says, throwing up her hands. "Thank you, Ben."
Ben glances up at his son; Blaine is frowning at him, lower lip sticking out a little bit. "But if it were up to me, I would defer to your judgement. And Kurt's," he adds, and Blaine beams. Ben turns back to Carole, shrugging. "Sorry."
"Well," Carole huffs, but she's still smiling, and while Ben isn't entirely sure what to make of her presence here, he thinks he might actually welcome it. Not that it matters much, because she slides off the bed and stands up, smoothing down her skirt. "Since I'm obviously no good at choosing wedding dresses, I might as well do something useful, like getting coffee." Blaine perks up a little at that, and Carole shakes her head, fondly. "Don't worry," she adds, smiling at him. "I know what to get you. Kurt already told me. Ben, how about you? Burt said you're a tea man, but if you're still a little sleepy, I could --"
"It's fine," Ben says, ignoring Blaine's disappointed look. "There's a machine in the waiting room; if I need something, I can just --"
"I'm sure you can," Carole says, folding her arms; there's something in her expression that Ben can't quite place, something familiar. "You've been doing this on your own for a long time; believe me, I know what that's like. I know you can do this on your own, Ben. But you don't have to."
Ben wonders who that speech was meant for; he's not entirely sure it was meant for him. Admittedly, though, it does apply. "Really, Carole, you don't --"
"He takes his coffee black," Blaine offers, and squeezes Ben's hand as if in apology. "Also, he didn't eat breakfast, so if you could get like a muffin or something. Or a banana. Bananas are very healthy."
The smile returns to Carole's face; she nods at Blaine, although he's already staring at his lap, looking vaguely guilty. Then she turns back to Ben. "If I'm letting him pick my wedding gown," she says, "you can let him pick your breakfast."
Ben sighs, and shakes his head, and straightens his glasses. "Well," he says. "I suppose now we both know what it's like to be outvoted."
"I could call Kurt," Carole suggests, her expression turning a little sly. "If you wanted to make it official."
"That won't be necessary, thank you." Because Ben already knows perfectly what Kurt would say, what he would do. He's not very different from Blaine in these things. "Carole," he adds, watching her walk to the door, scooping up her purse as she goes. "Thank you."
She smiles at him one last time, before slipping out of the room.
Ben lets go of Blaine's hand -- he stands, stretches, tries to ease some of the ache in his back. He'll be stiff for days after this, of course; it'll make life that much more interesting. His back, Blaine's leg... They can't even get home from the hospital on their own -- his car and Blaine's are both still at McKinley; he had to make arrangements with Burt Hummel to have them towed back to the house. Kurt is coming to the hospital after school to take them home. Such small, simple things, but Ben's not sure he'd be able to manage them without the Hummels coming to his rescue. If he and Blaine do have to leave, if they flee Ohio and find someplace else to hide... The Hummels won't be there, then, to help them.
But they'll manage, of course. They've done it before. They can do it again. If they have to.
"Dad?" Blaine asks; when Ben turns around, he sees his son has scooted closer to the edge of the bed, has his hand outstretched. Ben reaches out to take it, his fingers closing around Blaine's. "Dad, I want to... I think we should... I know we don't usually -- or we never, but I..."
He falls silent and just looks at his father, like he's expecting Ben to understand him without words. Which he does. Of course he does.
"We will," Ben says, and squeezes Blaine's hand. "We'll tell them."
"And if they still want... If they still want to help us..."
Ben perches on the edge of the mattress, with just barely enough room to balance; it isn't comfortable, and he doubts he can hold the position for very long, but it's what Blaine needs right now, and he's not in the habit of denying his son anything. He leans in, kisses Blaine on the forehead. "Then I think we should let them," he says. "But it's up to you, Blaine."
Blaine looks up at him, all wide dark eyes and tousled curls, and sometimes it hits Ben like a knife to the chest, how much he loves his son, how lucky he is -- "Dad?" Blaine's voice is tentative, terrified, a child's whisper to the darkness, and it sparks something familiar in Ben's memory (footsteps in his bedroom, a man with sad dark eyes, his father's voice terrible), something that fades as Blaine shifts back, giving him more room to sit.
"I'm right here," Ben says, settling himself more fully on the mattress. "I'm right here, Blaine."
Blaine rests his chin on Ben's shoulder, and closes his eyes.
Ben squeezes his son's hand.
*
It's not that she doesn't feel guilty for eavesdropping, because she does, at least a little. She should have let Ben and Blaine have their private moment, privately; she shouldn't have hung around hoping to hear some kind of reason for what happened yesterday, something to explain why Burt's so worried about this, about them. Because it doesn't really matter if she's worried about her own family, if Burt's cryptic little hints and sudden urge to postpone the wedding -- which was, after all, his idea in the first place -- are driving her half out of her mind. It's still not a good reason to listen in on someone else's conversation.
So if she finds herself nothing but frustrated and confused, feeling like she understands the situation even less than she did before she came to the hospital; well, that's what she gets for being nosy. She's only got herself to blame, in the end.
Carole sighs, straightens her bag on her shoulder, and starts heading for the elevator.
It's not difficult for her to understand why Burt's so dead-set on helping the Andersons out of whatever trouble they're in. Burt's that kind of man; Carole wouldn't even think about marrying someone who wasn't, not anymore. It's everything she loves about him -- his big heart, his capacity for empathy, his stubborn insistence on doing the right thing no matter what. His devotion to family, even, because while Burt wasn't exactly forthcoming last night, he did say that Ben Anderson had been a friend of his wife's, back when they were kids. So of course, Burt's going to want to do right by her memory. Carole understands all of that, honestly. She does.
But what she can't understand is how someone like Ben Anderson got himself in any kind of trouble in the first place. He's so... so incredibly ordinary, just an average little man with an average little life. It's hard enough imagining him having the guts to get Karofsky kicked off the football team; she can't picture him doing anything riskier than that.
But there must be something, something to justify Burt's twitchiness, the fear in Blaine Anderson's eyes when he said he didn't want Kurt getting hurt because of him, the way Ben said We'll tell them like doing so was tantamount to confessing some kind of deep, dark secret. The man's a math teacher, for pity's sake. What on earth could he have to tell?
And what if it is serious? What if it's something that could lead to Finn getting hurt, or killed? What does she do then? She doesn't want to leave Burt; he's a good man, and Kurt's a good boy, and she loves them, both of them. But she loves Finn more. Is she really going to risk him, for some strangers?
She stabs the button for the elevator with a little too much force and is almost immediately embarrassed about it, about her own behavior in general, really. Obviously, Ben's planning on explaining the situation; didn't she just hear him admit as much? And no, she's not entirely certain that she'll be included in that conversation, or at least she's not certain yet. She can make it certain; she will make it certain. She's a very convincing woman when she needs to be. If she can just wait a little longer; if she can just be patient... And, if nothing else, living with Finn has taught her patience. She doesn't need to do things like this, eavesdropping and spying. She'll wait, until Ben and Blaine are ready. Until they want to talk.
The elevator dings, the doors slide open, and a large man with a neat little beard and a fistful of balloons steps out. Carole slips past him, taking his place, still silently vowing not to push for any more answers. She'll get Ben and Blaine their coffee, make sure Ben's eaten something -- honestly, the man's acting the same way Kurt did when Burt was in the hospital, and she's not sure what that says about him or about her soon-to-be stepson -- and then she'll just --
"-- looking for Ben Anderson?" someone says, from the direction of the nurse's station, and Carole knows without having to think about it that it's the large man with the balloon bouquet.
And she knows, although she's not entirely sure why, that this is not a good thing.
She hits the hold button just before the elevator doors can close, and slips quietly back out into the hallway, making her way slowly and stealthily to Blaine's room. Because this isn't eavesdropping; this is something else entirely.
She's not sure what it is, but she knows it's something else.
*
The thing is, he's pretty sure he's pushing his luck with this. Assuming he has any luck left to push, which he's starting to doubt. But at the same time, it's not like he can afford to wait. Every second Ben Linus goes without hearing his side of the story -- the side of the story he's willing to tell, anyway -- is another second for doubts to creep in. For him to start wondering about who he can trust, and what's going on. Leslie can't afford to let him wait, not right now.
Anyway, he figures that as long as they're at the hospital, he's at least mostly safe from Linus's wrath. Even if the guy is the killer Juliet's made him out to be, he's not going to try anything in public. In front of his son, no less. The man's too smart for that.
He thinks. He hopes.
He knocks on the door that the nurse pointed out, tightens his grip on the balloons in his hand (balloons -- Christ, what was he thinking? Linus's son isn't five), and waits.
"Carole?" Linus calls, from inside the room. "Did you forget something?"
Carole? Jesus, is the guy running a harem in his spare time?
Leslie hesitates for a second longer; a second too long, because then Linus is pulling the door open, and the way his face changes when he sees Leslie is something that Leslie will never, ever forget. He doesn't look scared when he sees who it is; he looks furious, every part of his body tensing up so fast that he shakes with it, his hands clenching at his sides, his eyes widening and then narrowing again, jaw set. And this is what Juliet was talking about; Leslie sees it now.
Linus lets out a long, slow breath; it doesn't seem to relax him any. "Well," he says, his voice very soft and very, very dangerous. "If nothing else, I'll give you credit for having a lot of nerve." He tips his head to the side, seemingly thinking it over. "Or you just don't know who you're dealing with; I suppose I can't quite rule that out just yet."
"Dad?" his son calls out -- he's hidden somewhere inside the room, but Leslie can hear his voice quavering, and his traitorous memory suddenly supplies him with the image of a nature program he watched a long time ago, back when David was just a boy and the two of them used to watch tv together. It was something about bears, and how they don't attack humans, not unless their cubs are threatened. And he realizes that he's done something very, very stupid.
"Mr. Linus," he says, trying to get his shaky voice and shakier hands under control. "Listen. I just wanted to say how sorry I am that I -- I mean, that my son -- and I --"
Linus's eyes narrow even further. "I'm sorry," he says, not raising his voice a single bit. "What did you just call me?"
Crap. "I -- Sorry, sorry, I guess I just --"
"Dad!" Ben's son calls again, more urgent now.
"It's all right, Blaine," Ben replies, turning away for just a second to look back at his kid, and the moment his eyes are off Leslie, Leslie turns to bolt.
He makes it maybe two steps before colliding with some soft, fleshy, middle-aged broad, knocking her backwards, and for some stupid reason he reaches out to catch her, muttering "Sorry, sorry," under his breath as he hoists her back up to her feet. "Sorry, I just --"
"Carole!" Ben's voice is louder now, the anger no longer muted, but sharp, edged with more than a little fear. There is one last moment where Leslie thinks I can use this, when his hands tighten on the woman's arms and her eyes widen and he thinks about hostages, thinks about -- But then Ben grabs him, his fingers digging in hard enough to bruise, and Leslie realizes he doesn't have the nerve after all. Not enough for this.
He lets go of the woman; she steps back from him immediately, eyes still wide, both hands clinging tight to the straps of her purse. Her eyes flick from him to Ben, uncertain.
"Carole," Ben says again, his voice softer now. "Why don't you go sit with Blaine for a moment, while I show Dr. Arzt to his car."
Leslie thinks, for just a second, about protesting that that is not his name, that he's Paul Karofsky, that he -- But Ben's fingers dig into his arm even harder, and for once in his life, he keeps his stupid mouth shut.
"Sure," the woman says, a little breathy, carefully sidestepping around Leslie and behind Ben. "Sure, of course. Did you need me to..."
"It's fine," Ben tells her, and this time he doesn't take his eyes off Leslie, not even once. "And don't worry about the coffee. I'll get it on my way back up."
"Sure," the woman says again, and slips through the open door of the hospital room, closing it behind her. As soon as it clicks shut, Ben starts pushing Leslie forward, and there's a surprising amount of strength in him for such a small man.
"For the record," Ben hisses, hurrying Leslie back towards the elevators, his grip on Leslie's arm so damn tight that it's about to cut off circulation, "letting go of Carole Hudson when you did is probably the only intelligent thing you've done all day. You have no idea how much trouble you would be in if you'd so much as harmed one hair on her head. And do you know the best part? I wouldn't have even had to lift a finger." He stabs the down arrow for the elevators with one finger. "It's a shame, really; it's not often that I have these kinds of opportunities just fall into my lap. But I owe her and her family too much to put them through that. So I suppose I'll just have to take care of you myself."
The elevator doors slide open, and Ben shoves Leslie in, following after. There is an extremely awkward, tense silence until the doors slide shut again, and the elevator starts dropping down.
"You're gonna kill me," Leslie says, his eyes still on Ben Linus. It's stupid, maybe, but he wants it said out loud. He wants to acknowledge just what exactly is going on here. "Am I right? After everything that's happened, everything I had to go through, you're gonna kill me."
Linus's lips quirk upwards in what might almost be a smile; it's not a very nice one. "It's a tempting thought," he admits, his voice so bland and pleasant that it actually sends a chill down Leslie's spine. "Very, very tempting. But no, Dr. Arzt. I'm not going to kill you. If only because I don't want to risk getting caught and going to jail, particularly not now, when my son needs me." He eyes Leslie, his expression downright contemptuous. "Not that I'd expect you to understand that," he adds.
Leslie straightens his jacket, tries to at least look offended. "I came back for David," he spits out, glaring at the floor.
"No," Ben says, still in those bland, pleasant tones, and Leslie can't help but feel like an idiot, because that's how Linus has been talking to him all along. The mild voice of a mild-mannered guy. And Leslie never suspected a thing, even when he damn well knew better. "You didn't. You wanted off the Island. Of course you did, after everything you had to go through." He says it mockingly, and Leslie bristles, but he's not quite angry enough to argue. Not when he's pretty sure Linus could just kill him right in this elevator if he really wanted to.
"David was your ticket to freedom, and you used him as such," Linus continues, still so pleasant-sounding, so reasonable. "And then you used him to get to me. And if I think for one second that you're going to try to use him again, as some kind of bargaining chip? I will reconsider my decision not to kill you."
The elevator shudders to a halt, and Ben's hand settles back on Leslie's elbow, a little looser now, but still a threat.
"Oh, and by the way?" Another chill goes down Leslie's spine at the soft friendliness of Ben's voice. "And only because I don't want you to get the wrong idea. I'm not going to kill you. But you are going to die."
The doors slide open, and Ben drags Leslie out before his numb, terrified brain can spit some kind of rational response at him.
*
He can't say he's exactly surprised, when the call comes. A little disappointed, maybe, a little apprehensive. Or a lot apprehensive; he'd been thinking about it all day, trying to minimize it in his head, make it so he was overreacting, thinking things were worse than they really were, that he was making a big deal out of nothing. But then he hears Ben's voice, a little strained, a little agitated, and he realizes that it's still every bit as serious as he thought it was last night.
Still, that doesn't stop him from saying, "You know we don't have to do this now, right? I mean, you've had a long couple days, and I'm sure Blaine's pretty worn out, and you've gotta be --"
"Burt," Ben says, quietly. "I do appreciate your patience. But, believe me, if you'd been at the hospital just now --" He sighs. "It has to be tonight. It can't wait."
"All right, all right," Burt sighs, looking across the garage. Hell, it's not like they're that busy today anyway; he can leave the boys to finish up if he has to. And it looks like he has to, so. "I'll call Kurt, tell him not to bring Finn along when he comes to pick you guys up at the hospital; we can --"
"No." Ben's voice is sharp, clipped. "Have him bring Finn."
Burt raises his eyebrow, even though Ben's not exactly there to see him. "With all due respect, Ben, I'm not so sure that's such a good idea. Finn's kind of... Well, he's kind of a blabbermouth, and I don't know if he'll --"
"Let me worry about that," Ben replies, and his voice would almost be gentle if it weren't for that weird edge. Burt has to wonder what happened; whatever it was, it obviously shook Ben up pretty bad. "Just... It needs to be all of you. And it needs to be tonight."
"All right," Burt says, again, because he doesn't know what's happening, but he knows not to fight it. Not yet, anyway. "All right. We'll be there."
"Thank you," Ben says, his voice a little softer, maybe a little relieved. "Thank you, Burt." Then there's a click, and he's hung up. Gone before Burt could ask too many questions, or any questions at all, really.
Not that it really matters, not when he'll find out everything he wants to know in... Burt glances at the clock; it's just before noon. Three o'clock, he'll be at Ben's house, waiting.
He'll get all the answers then, whether or not he wants them. Him and his whole family -- they'll get all the answers.
God help them.