fic: Sugar Spell It Out 4/5

[notfar]

back to part three


Part Four

Kurt could hear voices. Shouting and banging, and the heavy thump of many feet storming into the house. He squirmed, trying to sit up properly without separating his other shoulder in the process. Whatever happened, he had to give himself the best possible chance to defend himself.

There was a scuffle, curse words thrown around left right and centre, and then more footsteps as things quietened down a fraction.

That was. Confusing, mostly. Were the police really there? Were they going to rescue him, or had they just come for the men? Maybe, he thought, Brittany had forgotten to tell the authorities that Kurt was still in the house. Maybe they’d take the two men and leave him, and he’d stay tied to the bed until he died of dehydration or starvation or something.

That wouldn’t do.

“Hey!” he yelled. His voice was hoarse and barely-there, but maybe if he kept at it, somebody would hear him. “Hey! Anybody! Help!”

Nothing. It seemed like everyone had left already; coming and going in the space of minutes. Then he heard footsteps again, louder than before.

The bolt on the back of the door opened.

God, what if it was one of the men? What if the police had only found one of them, causing a big enough distraction to allow the second man to slip back into the room and finish Kurt off?

He hunched forward, injured arm curled around his injured ribs, bracing himself.

The door opened.

He saw shoes first. Immaculate white cross-trainers. A bright red tracksuit, complete with a whistle.

The face of Coach Sylvester.

When her eyes met his, she smiled, and that would ordinarily be terrifying if he wasn’t so grateful to see a familiar face.

“Ladyface,” Coach Sylvester said, walking closer. “Long time no see.”

Immediately she set about untying the rope around his wrist. He could feel her eyes boring into him, taking in everything; the shoulder and his position and his rumpled clothes and the stains on the sheets.

“Any internal injuries?” she asked, loosening the rope in one swift movement, somehow doing so without jolting his body at all.

“No.”

“Any head wounds, spinal injuries?”

“No,” he responded again.

“Alright then,” she said, leaning forwards and scooping him up into a fireman’s hold, his injured arm on the side furthest from her body.

Okay. That was unexpected. And completely, utterly absurd. In all of the rescue scenarios he’d imagined, back in the first week or so in the basement when he still allowed himself to imagine such things, he’d never come up with this.

Jack Bauer storming in? Sure, a dozen times. His dad driving a tank through the front of the house? Why not.

But Sue Sylvester, carrying him out in her own arms, handling him with something akin to tenderness?

Never.

That could be why, as she took him through the hallway and out the front door, walls and doorways blurring past, he didn’t feel so surprised.

Sue Sylvester was unpredictable. And always came up with the goods. And, if in this situation, he was the goods, well he could deal with that. Definitely.

Then they were outside, the cold morning air hitting his skin immediately, and there were people everywhere, all of them in uniform, moving closer as soon as they saw him. People were talking, shouting, somebody running for a medic, but he couldn’t hear anything. The sound buzzed senselessly in his ears, his brain not doing anything to convert the noise into words.

All he could hear was Coach Sylvester’s voice, soft as she murmured down to him, “That’s it, Kurt. You’re out. You’re okay.”

And all he could think, in the whir of activity following Coach Sylvester as she carried him down the stairs and towards a cluster of parked cars, was that that was the first time she’d ever called him by his first name.

It was so bright outside. That was the first thing Kurt noticed.

And they’d stopped moving, in front of the first of the squad cars parked away from the house.

The police had caught up to them, yelling at Coach Sylvester to stop, shouting things about ambulances and medics and procedure.

He couldn’t see the blue-eyed man or John anywhere, and he wondered where they went.

“Oh please,” Sue was saying, “two weeks is enough time spent in this soulless, barren hunk of earth. We’re not waiting forty minutes for an ambulance, and if you insist on refusing to call a rescue chopper in to lift us out, then I’m taking Ladyface to the helicopter myself. I know for a fact that it is equipped with a stretcher suitable for transport, just as I know that we have better things to do than wait.”

“Going down,” she told him, voice lowered, then she was sitting down in the front seat of the car, Kurt still in her arms.

“Drive,” she ordered the closest officer, who took the driver’s seat immediately. “And believe me when I say that I will castrate you with the bluntest house-key I can scrounge up if the car so much as rocks.”

The officer took the threat seriously, because the journey seemed to go on forever. It was almost surreal, being held like a child in Coach Sylvester’s arms in the passenger seat of a squad car, but the warmth of her palms against his skin kept his mind from drifting off and convincing him it was all a dream.

Then they were in a helicopter, and then it was landing and there were people waiting on the helipad with a gurney, and it felt like a scene straight from Grey’s Anatomy or ER, only he didn’t have any exciting, gruesome injuries, he was just kind of beat up.

They took him straight to x-ray, then somebody was shooting him full of lovely, lovely painkillers and suddenly his arm was back in the right position, and somebody was tying the sling into place, and Kurt was really quite sure that things didn’t normally happen this quickly in hospitals.

“Plenty of people waiting to see you,” Coach Sylvester said, and Kurt jumped. A doctor had just wrapped his ribs up, and now a nurse was wiping down his face. He hadn’t realised she was still there through all the bustle. “Gotta make you look presentable.”

Almost on cue, the door to the treatment room swung open and his Dad burst in.

“Oh my god,” he breathed. “Kurt. I almost didn’t believe it when they called.”

Kurt hadn’t spoken since Sue untied him from the bed. He hadn’t had anything to say; nothing that couldn’t be communicated with nods and shakes of his head. Everybody - even Coach Sylvester - had been treating him with a strange sort of reverence, and it had taken all of his energy to keep it together. He didn’t need to reveal that his voice was just as shaky as his body felt. But there, with his dad in front of him for the first time in two weeks, words had left him for an entirely different reason.

His dad looked exhausted, like he’d lost weight. And since he entered the room, he’d gone pale. His dad was crying, Kurt realised, and having not looked in a mirror since he’d met up with Britt and Santana for Cheerios practice two weeks ago, Kurt wondered just how terrible he looked.

Because it had to be pretty goddamn bad if it brought his father to tears.

“Kurt,” his dad was saying, finally coming closer and taking Kurt’s hand into his. “Kurt. Kurt. Kurt. Thank god.”

And, trembling under the mass of blankets the nurses had buried him in, Kurt couldn’t do anything but squeeze his father’s hand in return as he watched the man break down beside him.

~

Burt was at the garage when he got the call. The journalists following the story had multiplied tenfold since Brittany was found, and it was pretty evident that the vultures had no respect for the fact that the family of the kid who was still missing might appreciate a bit of goddamn privacy.

He answered anyway, ready to bark another gruff no comment down the line to whoever it was this time, but the voice on the end stopped him.

“Mr Hummel.” He knew that voice. It was the officer detective guy in charge of the case. He could feel his heart beating in his chest. “We’ve found him.”

Christ. He almost dropped the phone, barely hanging on long enough to hear the details - they were in a chopper en route to the General, no serious injuries, they’d be arriving in twenty minutes.

He spluttered out his thanks to the officer - because that could come later, it really could - and set about calling Carole and letting her know. She was at work, but she answered immediately, promising to call Finn, who could let all of Kurt’s school friends know.

His boy was alive, and dammit if he wasn’t going to beat the helicopter to the hospital.

It didn’t matter anyway; they kept him waiting outside the white doors in the emergency department, telling him to take a seat, they were treating him, they’d come for him as soon as the doctors had treated him.

Okay. He could do that. Sitting he could do. No serious injuries, the man on the phone had said. Plenty banged up, but he was alive and not mortally wounded.

That didn’t prepare Burt for the moment when he actually laid eyes on his kid.

“Jesus,” he whispered. Tears were already blurring his vision, but he didn’t care about that. He’d cried more over the past two weeks - in dark rooms, usually with Carole by his side - than he had in his entire life. That didn’t matter. What mattered was his kid; a pale face and a set of bony shoulders peeking out of a mound of blue hospital blankets.

Kurt was blinking at him, face pale, dotted with discolourations and cuts and swelling. He looked gaunt and tiny and frail, but jesus, he was alive.

“Oh my god,” he said, before the shocked settled enough that the urge to move, to gather his boy up in his arms and never let go kicked in.

He couldn’t do that - he didn’t even know what Kurt’s injuries were like - but he could find Kurt’s hand in the folds of blankets, murmuring his name over and over again without realising he was doing it. And when Kurt squeezed back, staring at him with wide eyes surrounded by dark shadows, that was what broke him.

In between sobbing like a baby and thanking the faceless gods for bringing his boy back to him, he noticed Kurt’s cheerleading coach leaning against the window, arms crossed as she casually surveyed the pair.

She tilted her head up when she saw him looking.

“Fine kid you got yourself,” she told him. “Occasionally a little on the teary side, but now I see it runs in the family.”

He couldn’t understand exactly what she was doing there, or how she got into the room before he did - he was Kurt’s father for christsake. Kurt tugged on his hand a fraction, seeing his confusion.

“She. She saved me,” he said, his voice rough with disuse. That alone was enough to make Burt watery-eyed again. He looked back to the coach.

“Thank you. Thank you so much.”

She shrugged, straightening up. “I’ve been considering adding a Cher number to my extensive Cheerios repertoire. It was necessary. See you at practice, Kurt.”

Then she left, the door swinging in her wake, and all Burt could do was clutch at his kid’s hand with both of his and smile in pure, unadulterated relief until his face split in half.

~

Finn was at his locker when his cell phone rang. It was his mom, which was kind of strange, because he was pretty sure she was at work. Then again, life in general had been kind of strange lately.

Her voice was really squeaky when she was excited. It reminded him a little of Rachel - but holy crap, they found Kurt. Finn threw his phone into the locker and took off down the corridor. He had to find everyone and let them know.

It occurred to him as he rounded the corner, sneakers squeaking on the linoleum, that it would’ve been faster just to text everyone. They were all in class, like he should’ve been, but the teachers had been really friendly to him lately, and they usually didn’t mind if he came in late or left early or fell asleep on his textbook. It was third period, so Finn had English. Tina and Matt were in the same class, and he was pretty sure Tina always carried her phone. She could text everyone else, and then Finn could get his butt over to the hospital and see Kurt.

He didn’t bother knocking or entering quietly, because this was something worth disturbing the class over. Instead, he shoved the door open, and all the heads of his classmates turned in his direction.

“Matt, Tina,” he panted, “they found Kurt! He’s okay! They’re taking him to the hospital.”

Then he jogged back to his locker to get all his stuff before the English teacher lady could frown at him for shouting in the middle of quiet reading time.

Tina was a quick texter; most of the glee club made it out to the parking lot at the same time as Finn. That was handy, because he didn’t have a car, and it didn’t feel right to take Kurt’s without asking permission.

There were a bunch of people with notepads and microphones and cameras clustered out the front of the hospital. Finn wondered if they were the same people that wouldn’t stop calling the house.

Burt was in the family waiting room. He was sitting beside Coach Sylvester, who seemed to be playing the bubble-popping game on her iPhone.

“Where’s Kurt?” Finn asked, as the rest of the glee club caught up to him.

Coach Sylvester rolled her eyes, stabbing viciously at her phone.

“The police are in with him,” Kurt’s dad said. “But I saw him.”

“Is he okay?” Mercedes asked from behind.

Burt stared down at his hands for a moment before he answered, but when he did, he was smiling a little. “He’s alive.”

Finn really hoped his mother would arrive soon. Burt really looked like he could use a hug.

The officers stayed with Kurt for what felt like hours. Long enough for Finn’s ass to go numb sitting on the hard bench, and long enough for his mom to arrive, kissing him on the forehead then heading straight across to Burt.

Santana and Brittany came soon after. Brittany was tucked against Santana’s side, wearing jeans and what looked like one of Mike’s hoodies. They headed straight to Coach Sylvester, sitting beside her, Brittany in the middle.

Then a nurse came in, announcing that they were moving Kurt out of emergency to an actual hospital bed two floors up. The whole group headed for the elevators, with the exception of Coach Sylvester, who had set upon the two cops as soon as they came out of the room.

The ward they’d moved Kurt to didn’t have a waiting area, and they were left milling around the reception desk while the nurses got Kurt settled and the orderlies gave them dirty looks for blocking up the corridor.

Burt went in first, coming back outside a few minutes later to tell everyone that Kurt was very tired, he was sorry, and maybe they could all come back tomorrow because he wasn’t very good company when he was asleep.

Finn couldn’t really argue with that - and if Burt said that Kurt was okay, it probably meant that he was.

“Brittany,” Kurt’s dad called, just as the group was beginning to shuffle in the direction of the exit, all of them shooting looks back in the direction of Kurt’s room. “He wants to see you, if you’re up to it.”

Brittany straightened up, tugging the sleeves of the hoodie down over her hands.

“Okay,” she said, and started walking over, Santana’s arm looped through hers.

~

Kurt hadn’t really had the time to form an opinion of the police officers handling his case. It seemed to him that Sue had done all the heavy lifting, but then, he’d been out of the picture for two weeks, so who really knew.

Still, he knew he’d have to talk to the police at some stage, make a statement or a comment so the charging and prosecution of the two men could proceed. And it made sense that they’d want to talk to him as soon as possible, while everything was still fresh in his mind. Privately, Kurt didn’t think they needed to worry about that so much. He didn’t think he would ever forget what happened.

But the two officers who came in to talk to him were stony-faced and professional. Their expressions didn’t change when he got to the gorier end of the ordeal, and for that he was very grateful. He didn’t want sympathy or pity, but more than that, he didn’t want to be judged.

Then of course, in light of what he’d told the officers, an examination had to follow. It was humiliating and painful, and Kurt kept his eyes closed for the entirety, until the nurse was kindly tucking the blankets back over his legs and informing him that they had a room ready for him, they’d be moving him in just a minute.

That was over, at least. The officers were gone, and the nurse took her sample-bags out through a different door, and in a perfect world, he could just close that chapter of his life and never look back.

Theory didn’t always translate to reality. Kurt knew his father was waiting to hear his story. So were his friends. Heck, the whole school would probably want to know what actually happened to him on some vague, curious level.

Kurt still had control of his tongue, if nothing else. His body was weak and his muscles had all but disappeared from lack of use and nutrition. His bones were broken and he had a tube in his arm to treat dehydration and stop him screaming with pain every time he moved, but his mouth still worked, and if he could control what he said, then he would.

Maybe his father would have to hear the whole story eventually. Maybe the whole town would, if things went to court and the newspapers found out the details. But Kurt didn’t want to be the one to say it. It was bad enough that it was all he thought about, every time he closed his eyes. He didn’t need to add the heartbroken expression on his father’s face when he found out to the pile of images that would haunt his dreams every time he tried to sleep.

They didn’t need to know. And if they did, then they could hear it from somebody else. Kurt had said it once, in explicit, excruciating detail. Once was more than enough.

His new room was two levels up. The nurses took him in a wheelchair, because he wasn’t a complete invalid, and helped him into the bed there, hooking the bag of fluid and painkillers onto the stand for him and adjusting the blankets up to his chest.

Then they left him alone, and for four whole minutes Kurt sat in silence, looking down at the wide, scabbed rings encircling his wrists. A souvenir from the ropes. He hoped they wouldn’t scar.

His father came in. He looked slightly less emotional, taking the seat by the bed again. And now that the moment of oh my god, I almost stopped believing that I’d ever see my father/son again but here he is had passed, there was a sense of tension in the air overlying the relief.

His dad was itching to ask what happened, Kurt could tell. He was on the edge of his seat, the question on the tip of his tongue, but he held back. Kurt was thankful. He’d told it once already and he was exhausted. Besides, his father didn’t need any more of a push towards seeking retribution, and hearing even the abridged version of events might send him over the edge.

Nobody, not even Kurt or Carole, would be able to stop Burt if he decided to get his own revenge against the two men. And Kurt needed his father there, by his side. Not in a jail cell.

So instead of opening up that can of worms, his father asked him how he was feeling. What his injuries were.

That was easy. Those were questions Kurt could answer almost automatically. Which was good, because he had a feeling he’d be answering them a lot come visiting hours.

“I’m fine,” he said. “Kinda sleepy. I think it’s the pain meds.”

A dislocated shoulder on the left and three fractured ribs on the right was enough to earn him the good stuff. It probably was making him drowsy, but he hadn’t really slept well for two weeks. It was like a defense mechanism, he guessed. His body held out as long as it could, and then when it was out of danger, it crashed.

Ten minutes of conversation with his dad and he was fighting a losing battle to stay with it.

“A lot of people are waiting to hear how you are,” his dad told him. “But I don’t think anybody’ll hold a grudge if I tell ‘em to come back tomorrow.”

Kurt nodded gratefully. Then something occurred to him.

“Is Brittany there? Is she - is she okay?”

“Skinny and worn out like you, but nothing serious,” his dad said. “She’s out there with her friend. The really bossy one you do cheerleading with. I’ll send her in?”

“Thanks,” Kurt told him, slightly breathless.

That was something else he wasn’t used to - talking so much. Speaking with the police and then with his father had been hard work, and his ribs didn’t agree with it. His natural instinct was to take shallow breaths and avoid aggravating them further, but doing that made conversation tricky. There was a clicky-button attached to his pain medication which would solve the problem entirely, but he suspected that if he pumped any more drugs into his body he really would pass out. And he needed to see Brittany.

The door opened again less than a minute after his father left. There she was, Santana following close behind.

“Oh my god, Kurt. Hi!” Brittany said, and then leapt upon him, somehow managing to climb on the bed and throw her arms around his neck without bumping anything painful. “I waited for you. I’m sorry. I waited, and I didn’t have a watch, but I thought it was two hours, and then there was a truck coming so I jumped up and waved at him.”

“Are you okay?” Kurt asked her.

“Are you?” Santana asked in response. She was leaning against the wall, arms crossed, but she didn’t look nearly as bitchy as usual when she was dressed down, hair loose over her shoulders.

“I’m alive,” Kurt replied after a pause, because that was as good an answer as any. He could feel Brittany’s smile, her body fitting in beside his on the narrow bed as she released her hold on his neck and took his hand instead.

“I’m glad,” she told him. “I told Santana how we’re going to get married, all of us.”

“And drink daiquiris by the pool,” Santana added fondly, coming closer to the bed.

“That’s the dream,” Kurt said, and he swore he saw the corner of Santana’s mouth twitch upward.

“I missed you,” Brittany said, lacing her fingers through his. “I missed Santana, and then I had her again but I didn’t have you, but now I have you both. And we’re going to go shopping, okay.”

Kurt nodded, fighting back a yawn.

“Isn’t it weird,” Brittany continued, leaning into him when his head started to droop towards her shoulder. “I think it’s so weird, falling asleep without you right next to me. They made me stay in the hospital, and they wouldn’t let Santana stay, and I had to fall asleep without anyone. I couldn’t, though. But S snuck in and let me sleep on her, and then I could. I like sleeping with you more. Your hair never gets caught up in my mouth. When you get out of hospital, you can come and sleep with both of us. It’ll be nice.”

“Okay,” Kurt said, blinking over to see how Santana felt about the proposal. She’d sat down on the chair at some stage, her hand curled around Brittany’s forearm. She looked almost startled when she noticed Kurt’s eyes resting on her.

“Yeah. Whatever. I’m just. We’re both glad you’re okay.”

“Thanks,” Kurt said honestly, taken aback by the emotion in her voice. It was surprising, but not unpleasant.

And then he really couldn’t keep his eyes open any longer, giving up the struggle just as he felt another hand overlap with his and Brittany’s.

~

He only woke up because a nurse needed to take his vitals. He was in the same position beside Britt, head on her bony shoulder. They both had their phones out, thumbs tapping away.

“Are you - are you guys texting each other?” he asked, voice coming out croaky. “Two feet apart?”

“We didn’t want to wake you,” Brittany said.

“But now you’re up,” Santana said, tucking her phone away and taking Brittany’s when she passed it across. “And I’m pretty sure your dad’s been pacing outside the entire time we’ve been in here.”

That was very believable.

“We just wanted to say bye while you were awake,” Brittany told him, hugging him once more before sliding off the bed. “My mom doesn’t like it when I’m away for too long.”

“So, bye,” Santana said, turning Brittany in the direction of the door. “We’ll come back later.”

“Okay,” Kurt said, raising his hand. “Thanks for coming.”

Santana rolled her eyes. “You’re welcome.”

His dad came back in the minute they left.

“Finn and Carole are going to bring you some stuff from home,” he said. “Pyjamas, soap, that sort of stuff. The doctors want to keep you a couple days, make sure you’re okay. Speaking of -” he pushed the tray table closer. Kurt hadn’t noticed it earlier. Sandwiches and jello, not the most appetising thing he’d ever seen. But then, Kurt had been running on sweat and adrenalin for two weeks. He wasn’t about to be picky.

The pain meds had left him feeling vaguely nauseated earlier - but that could’ve been related to the talk he had with the police just as much - but the feeling had faded a little. Enough that he could bite into the sandwich and swallow without too much effort. It was worth it for the expression on his father’s face.

“So, uh, you want them to bring you anything else?” his father asked, picking up from the same thread. “They’re home right now, I can just call.”

Home. There was a thought. His bed, and his shower, and his wardrobe - and his windowless basement bedroom, the only entry or exit the doorway at the top of the stairs. His stomach turned, and he set the half-eaten triangle of sandwich down.

“Uh,” he said, trying to think of a response before his dad could question why he’d come up in goosebumps all of a sudden. “My ipod, I guess?”

That was probably impossible, he realised a second later. His ipod had been in his bag, along with his wallet and his emergency scarf and his notebook and the copy of To Kill a Mockingbird they’d been studying in English. He hadn’t seen his bag since the blue-eyed man dragged him out of the SUV and tied him up in the basement. Who knew where it was now.

“…or maybe my laptop,” he corrected, frowning to himself.

His father patted his hand. “No problem.”

It was afternoon, Kurt noted, tilting his head to read the face of his father’s watch as he put in a phone call to Carole. Eight hours since Coach Sylvester had barged into the bedroom. A little over six hours since the helicopter had landed and he’d been whisked away into the hospital. It felt like days had passed since he'd been in that room, and at the same time, when he let himself get distracted for a second and lose track of reality, it felt like was still there. Time was such a strange thing.

“…been taking this really hard,” his dad was saying, and it took Kurt a moment to realise that he wasn’t on the phone any more. “I don’t want to make you do anything you’re not okay with, and if you don’t feel up to it that’s completely fine. But it’d mean a whole lot if he could just see that you’re okay. That you’re here.”

“Who?” Kurt asked, hoping his father wouldn’t be offended by his non-existent attention span. Hopefully the cotton-wool head was just a side-effect of the drugs.

“Finn. He’s coming in with Carole, they’ll be here in a few minutes.”

“Sure,” Kurt said absently. He’d have to face everyone eventually. He had Brittany and Santana down, and that’d been okay. Might as well get another reunion out of the way.

The faster he could prove to everyone that he was okay, the faster everything could go back to normal.

~

Keeping his eyes open was hard work. They felt gritty, even through the bubble-wrap fogginess that was clouding up every other part of his body. Or maybe just his brain. His dad was talking still, telling him about the news and the weather and the garage. Kurt figured he wouldn’t mind too much if he just closed his eyes a little…

When he opened them again, there was somebody casting a gigantic shadow over the bed, leaning down to talk to his father.

“There’s, like, twice as many people out there now,” Finn was hissing in the worst stage-whisper Kurt had ever heard. “Even a dude from CNN, I think.”

“Just ignore them,” his father replied. “Say nothing, and they’ll give up and leave us alone. Kurt doesn’t need the stress.”

“What stress?” he asked, half-mumbling into the pillow.

“Oh. Uh.” Finn straightened up, giving Kurt a half-smile. “There’s a bunch of reporter people in the hospital lobby. The story’s gone national. You’re kind of a big deal, man.”

“Glad you finally noticed,” Kurt said, turning his head from the pillow and trying not to be grossed out by the drool that was drying on his chin. That was 100% the drugs’ fault, he was certain.

Finn grinned properly then, the 200-watt smile that would’ve had made Kurt melt a year ago, had they been standing in the corridor at McKinley. The crush had finally died once and for all the second time Finn and his mom moved in. Kurt had found it very hard to remain infatuated with a boy who apparently didn’t know how to use a shower, a washing machine or a can of deodorant. It never would’ve worked.

“I missed you,” Finn told him, then seemed to remember that he was holding a bag full of Kurt’s stuff. “Oh! I brought some junk for you.”

He dug into the bag, pulling out Kurt’s macbook, a few sets of pyjamas and what looked like half of his collection of moisturisers, setting everything down on end of the tray table.

“And there’s this,” Finn said once the bag was empty, tossed unceremoniously onto the floor. “It’s not fancy like your iPhone, but Santana said that Brittany said that your old one got broken. I got mom to stop by the mall after we left here.”

“Oh. Thank-you.” He took the little cell phone, turning it over in his hand.

“I put everyone in it already,” Finn said, shoving his hands in his pockets now that he had nothing left to hold. “And texted them all your number, so they’ll know who you are.”

‘That’s. That’s really nice of you,” Kurt replied.

Finn shrugged. “Everyone was really worried. I guess they still are. The hospital won’t let anybody else in today, so. Maybe you could call. Figure you’ve got two weeks of texting to catch up on.”

Everybody he talked to seemed to need to remind him of that. Two weeks. Like he’d forgotten; been away on vacation and lost track of which day of the week it was. He didn’t need to be told how long he’d been gone.

With difficulty, he swallowed down the venom that had risen out of nowhere, realising that Finn was still watching him intently.

“Yeah,” he said finally. “I will. I’ll do that.”

Finn smiled, satisfied. “Mercedes’ been kinda crazy without you. I mean, we all lost it a little bit. Or a lot, really. But her especially. Did you know she could cry?”

“I was aware,” Kurt said dryly.

Finn nodded intently. “A lot.”

“I’ll call,” Kurt promised, reaching forwards to slip the phone onto the edge of the table. It was more painful than he expected, and he winced as he sat back against the pillows, ribs protesting the movement.

“What is it?” his father asked immediately, picking up on the grimace. “Pain? I’ll get a nurse.”

“s’okay,” Kurt said, pulling his good arm away from his ribs to grab the button that dispensed more medication. “Got it right here.”

“Oh. Good.” His father watched him until he pressed the button. Then he stood up. “Should let you rest. C’mon, Finn. I need to talk to your mom. Be right back, kiddo.”

Finn waved, and as they left, Kurt reached forwards for the phone. With clumsy fingers he found the contacts list, arrowing down til he reached MERCEDES. He hovered over the name for a moment before the pain meds kicked in properly. The idea of pressing the button was exhausting. The thought of keeping up with a conversation even more so.

He put the phone down. He’d call her later.

He didn’t call. When he woke up to the dark room, breathless, his father snoring in the chair beside him, the phone was the first thing he could grab. But he didn’t stay on Mercedes’ name; scrolling down to a name lower in the alphabet and hitting the call button.

“What’s up, Hummel?”

Santana didn’t seem so bothered that he was calling in the middle of the night.

“Nothing,” Kurt said, wedging the phone between his ear and his shoulder and pulling the blankets around his body closer.

“Bullshit. You sound like you just ran a marathon. Nightmare?”

“No,” he said. “It was just. Dark. I panicked.”

“Happens,” Santana replied. “We keep the lights on mostly. Hold up, I’m putting you on speaker. It’s Kurt.”

“Hi Kurt,” Brittany chirped. “I finally remembered that song.”

“What song?” he asked.

“You know.” She hummed into the phone, and oh, that song.

“The Nickelback song you had stuck in your head for a week?”

“Yeah! Nickelback. I couldn’t remember the name, but then S was like Britt, what the fuck are you humming? Since when do you hum? and I told her about it.”

Kurt wasn’t sure he’d ever heard Brittany swear before, but her Santana impression was spot-on.

“So we went on itunes, and we found it,” Brittany finished. “You wanna hear?”

“Sure,” Kurt said, since Brittany was already holding the phone up to a speaker.

He never really imagined that he would find a Nickelback song comforting. It was a terrible excuse for brainless generic rock, and the associations alone should’ve made him feel sick. But instead he started to feel calmer, his heart-rate starting to slow and the shaky-anxious feeling slipping away.

The song ended, and he heard Santana’s voice in the background.

“No, B, once is enough. I swear, we’ve listened to it a dozen times already. Seriously. Don’t you dare.”

He heard Brittany squawk, and the distinct sound of a pillow making contact with somebody’s face.

“Gotta go, Kurt!” Brittany said, closer to the receiver, giggling wildly. “I threw a cushion and Santana looks mad. I’ll make her burn the song for you later, okay? Call whenever, we like your voice.”

“Bye,” Kurt said, hanging up as he heard the song start over again, and Santana’s bitch, you didn’t!

He kind of felt better already.

Then it was morning, and his father looked so pleased when Kurt nodded in response to his question of whether he’d slept well.

Finn came by again, right after somebody’d dropped off a tray of scrambled eggs and cold toast for breakfast. Kurt knew it was too disgusting for human consumption when even Finn curled his lip at it.

“We should sneak you out and go for waffles,” Finn said, looking hopefully at Burt.

“Eat the toast, at least,” his dad told him. “You don’t have any weight to lose. I’m letting Carole unleash the full force of her comfort foods on you as soon as we get you home.”

Finn looked positively thrilled.

“Oh!” He held up the piece of cardboard he’d carried in. “So Rachel made this for you,” he said, passing over what looked like a chart.

“She wanted to make sure everyone had a fair and equal opportunity to visit,” Finn explained, sounding very much like he was quoting Rachel verbatim. “So she made a visitation roster.”

Kurt took a closer look at the glossy table. Rachel had split up the two hours of visiting time, pairing everyone in Glee up. The first thirty minutes had been allocated to family, followed by Rachel & Finn, Mercedes & Quinn, Artie & Tina, Matt & Mike, Puck, then Mr Schue & Miss Pillsbury. They’d all been given thirteen-and-a-half minutes of time with him. Plus Rachel had set aside nine minutes for Kurt to ‘rest’. Kind. Still, he felt almost charmed by the chart, in the most bizarre of ways.

“Did people actually agree to this?” he asked.

Finn shrugged. “Sure. Mercedes said Rachel had to switch it so her and Quinn could go first or she’d take her to the floor, or something, but yeah.”

“Why’s Puck by himself?”

Finn shrugged again. “He got in a bunch of fights. Rachel says he’s expressing his sorrow through violence. And he won’t be able to, like, break down in relief that you’re back if he has an audience.”

“Okay then…” Kurt looked at the clock on the wall. It seemed his thirty minutes of family time had run out. “Guess we better get started then.”

~

“Oh my god, baby.”

Mercedes was by his side an instant after stepping through the door, eyes wide.

“Hey, you.” He took her hand with his, aware that his cold, shaky hand was probably far from comforting.

Quinn came closer at a slightly more sedate pace, but she beamed at Kurt with the full force of her perfect pearly white teeth.

“I’m so glad you’re okay,” she told him, reaching out to touch his arm. “We didn’t stop thinking of you.”

“Missed you so much,” Mercedes said, squeezing his fingers and blinking back budding tears. “Don’t you ever disappear again.”

“We’re not above keeping you on a leash,” Quinn added.

“I’ll do my best,” he told them both. “I missed you guys.”

Quinn bit her lip, blinking down at him. Then she reached over, smoothing his hair back from his forehead.

“I wouldn’t,” he warned. “Your hand’ll get stuck.”

“Spa day,” Mercedes decided. “Your dad told me they’re taking you home tomorrow. So, when you feel better, we’re coming over. You’ll be back to your fabulous self in no time.”

He smiled at her. “I’ll hold you to that.”

Rachel enforced the thirteen-and-a-half-minute time limit with a stopwatch, a  bell and an iron fist, but Kurt wouldn’t have expected any less. It was nice, seeing everyone again - even Puck, who didn’t break down, but did hold out his fist for Kurt to bump and spent the remaining thirteen-and-a-quarter minutes talking about fight club and how he hacked Rachel’s facebook and uploaded some very inappropriate images “to cheer her up”.

By the end of things, even with Rachel’s very generous nine minute rest period, he was completely worn out.

Everybody was exactly the same. They were all the same people he’d left behind when he followed Brittany into the SUV. And they’d all been as enthusiastic as he was to avoid all talk of what had happened, aside from the obligatory I missed yous and Glad you’re backs.

But what he realised, more and more, was that acting normal was hard when he didn’t feel anything close to normal.

Everybody was happy he’d come back, and was ready to move on from the incident. Help him heal. That was what he wanted. It was. But it was like something was broken. He could smile, and squeeze their hands and agree that, yeah, broken ribs hurt like a bitch, but he couldn’t stop feeling so disconnected. Like all of a sudden he was running on a different wavelength. None of it felt like reality. None of it felt like anything.

Brittany and Santana hadn’t been on the visitation chart. Kurt assumed it was because they’d already visited him, and Rachel was all about fair allocation of time, right down to the second. What he should’ve realised was that it was really because Santana didn’t care for rules, and she definitely didn’t care for visiting hours.

She strolled in an hour into what was strictly considered to be private rest time. Brittany was by her side, a CD in her hand.

“Hi Kurt,” she said. “I brought the song!”

Santana raised one eyebrow at him as she leaned forward, flipping his mac open. She slid the disk into the drive, then stepped back, letting Brittany take over.

“Heard you had a few visitors,” she said, settling into the chair by the bed.

He sat up. “Guess I should be glad Rachel didn’t orchestrate a song-and-dance number to motivate me to get better faster.”

Santana snorted. “That’ll come.”

She was probably right.

“So,” she said, stretching her arms over her head. “You talk to your father yet?”

Kurt shook his head. Santana looked at him expectantly.

“He hasn’t asked.” Santana rolled her eyes. Kurt sighed. “He was crying, okay? I could very happily live the rest of my life without having to see my father cry again. And that was without knowing anything. Just knowing that two psychos locked me in a basement. I can’t do that to him.”

“It’ll come out eventually,” Santana told him. “You probably haven’t realised it, because you’ve only been back for a day, but a lot of people have been watching the story. Turn on the news tonight and you’ll see. Police files and court records have a habit of falling into the wrong hands when there’s a newsworthy story on the line. You can’t hide away forever.”

“You just said, it’s been a day,” Kurt replied. “Cut me some slack.”

Santana just shrugged. “You’ll have to talk to someone sooner or later. Trust me.”

Finn, Carole and his dad came to take him home the next morning. Finn pushed his wheelchair down the hallway to the elevator, and right out to the front doors of the hospital. There really were a lot of reporters and photographers out there - by Lima standards, in any case. Kurt didn’t care about them so much - he had Finn and his dad, both big guys, on either side of him, plus Carole, who was as fierce as anybody. Plus he had sunglasses and one of his dad’s baseball caps to cover his face, and one of Finn’s hoodies, because there was no way he could have made one of his own cardigans work with the sling he had to keep his hand in. Altogether, it was an outfit unlike anything he would ever wear. Which was why he didn’t care that he was being photographed and filmed in it; footage that could quite possibly make it all the way to national outlets. With the hood up and the sunglasses on, nobody could prove it was him.

Then there was also the part where he didn’t even care what he was wearing. Anything was better than the hospital gown. Anything was better than the cheerleading uniform.

Walking, really, was the only component of the whole situation that made him nervous. They had to leave the wheelchair in the lobby, and even with Carole bringing the car closer, there was still a lot of ground to be navigated between the hospital doors and the pick-up area of the parking lot. Really, the only walking Kurt had been allowed to do was between his bed and the bathroom, bringing the IV pole with him for support.

That had been a shock greater than having Sue Sylvester rescue him from the house - seeing his reflection in the mirror. He didn’t recognize himself, honestly. His cheek was still swollen and shiny, and his face was decorated with fading bruises and two weeks worth of stubble - admittedly not that much. There was more to it, though. His face was narrower, paler. Cheekbones more prominent. Even his eyes were different.

He just. Looked like a stranger. It was fitting, really, with the way he felt like a stranger inside his own body, inside his own life sometimes.

He avoided looking in the mirror after that. Brushed his teeth with his back turned. It was just easier not to. He didn’t need the physical proof that things really were different. If he ignored what was literally staring him in the face, it was easier to hang on to the hope that it was all in his head.

The feelings of isolation. Pain. Anger. Betrayal that all of his friends had kept on living while he was tied up at the mercy of two sociopaths. The knowledge that nothing would ever be the same again.

No. If he ignored it, it didn’t have to be true.

And maybe then there would be some hope that he might go back to feeling like a normal human being one day.

~

His house looked just like he remembered. He wondered if anybody had gone into his room while he was gone.

“C’mon, honey,” Carole said, the paper bag full of pain medication and vitamins in her hand. She crooked her finger at him with a smile, urging him forwards.

They weren’t touching him at least. The injuries were probably the only thing keeping them away, though. They had no reason to suspect anything further; no reason why even the idea of being hugged by somebody, a body pressed against his own, made him shiver.

Brittany was the exception. But then, Brittany was the exception to a lot of things.

Hands he could do. Hands were easy. They could be held, and held far away enough from him that he didn’t find himself flashing back to the smell of the blue-eyed man slumped down over him.

Kurt knew he was kind of fucked up.

But he was alive. That was what everyone kept saying. He was alive, therefore he was okay.

And maybe they were right. It just depended on the definition of ‘okay’.

“We left everything just how it was,” Carole said, pushing open the door concealing the basement stairs.

They all waited for him to go first.

Kurt froze.

“This is going to sound ridiculous,” he said slowly, “but I can’t go down there.”

“Is it the stairs?” Carole peered around him. “You’re right; the railing is on the wrong side for your arm. I could go first, if you like -”

“It’s not the stairs,” he cut her off, stepping back away from the door altogether. He looked at them all in turn; his dad, up to Finn, across to Carole. “I’m not sure how much Brittany told, or how much you all heard. But they kept us in a basement. For a long time. I’m not sure I can go back down there again.”

“That’s alright,” his dad said immediately. “we can sort something out.”

“No, you don’t need to. I’ll just sleep on the couch,” Kurt said.

“Dude, no.” Finn shook his head. "Take my room, I don’t mind.”

“You don’t mind swapping for the basement?” his dad confirmed.

Finn shrugged. “Sure, why not?”

His dad turned back to him. “How’s that sound, Kurt?”

Really, really good. “Better,” he said. “Thanks so much Finn.”

Finn grinned at him. “No problem. C’mon, I’ll give you a tour. It’s kinda messy, I hope you don’t mind.”

“Not at all,” Kurt replied, following Finn towards the central stairs. He glanced back in time to see his dad and Carole exchanging proud smiles.

Finn’s bedroom had been their project for the summer. They’d converted what used to be the upstairs deck into an enclosed room. It was long, and a little narrow, with wide windows looking out to the backyard.

It was perfect.

“Here ya go,” Finn said, swinging the door open. “Hold up, just let me tidy up a little.” He went in first, kicking a few pairs of boxers out of sight and shoving the pile of books on the desk into some semblance of a pile.

Kurt went straight to the window. They still hadn’t gotten around to sorting out curtains or blinds for the windows in the room.

“Finn, hypothetically speaking,” he said, looking down over his backyard. “And this is purely hypothetical, because I don’t want you to think I’m abusing your kindness in offering to let me stay here, and I know this was built just for you. But. How would you feel about us switching rooms on a more… permanent basis.”

“Huh?”

“What are your thoughts on us swapping rooms long-term?”

Finn thought about it for a moment.

“Awesome,” he said.

Kurt tilted his head, turning away from the window. “Really?”

Finn walked closer. “You mean I get to live in the basement, and you take my room? Seriously?”

Kurt nodded.

“Awesome,” Finn said again. “Dude, the basement is, like, five times as big as this. Plus there’s a TV, and a couch, and a bathroom.”

“It’s closer to four times the size, but you’re right.”

“So - yeah, I’m totally cool with that,” Finn said. “But. Do you really want to live in here? You have an entire room for your clothes downstairs. This room just has the slidey-door cupboard thing. I’m not sure if all your things will fit in there.”

“Don’t care,” Kurt said. “You’d really be okay with this?”

“Definitely.” Finn sounded very enthusiastic. “Sometimes it’s kind of creepy having Rachel over when my mom’s in the next room. With your dad.”

"The basement is good for privacy,” Kurt replied, hesitating before he asked the next part. “Finn, there’s just one more thing. I need a favour. I wasn’t exaggerating, I really don’t think I can go down there. I don’t want to go down there. So. Do you think you can bring my stuff up sometime?”

Finn nodded eagerly. “Yeah, dude, sure. I’ll go find some boxes right now, you don't have to do a thing." He pointed to the bed. "You know, you should rest. You look kinda tired.”

That actually sounded like a good idea. The journey from the hospital hadn’t been long, but it had used up more energy than Kurt expected.

“My mom cleans when she’s stressed or upset,” Finn said. “I swear, she’s changed the sheets a dozen times since you went missing.”

“Cool,” Kurt said, sitting down on the mattress. “Thanks Finn. Really.”

Finn shrugged, shooting Kurt a quick smile. “You’re pretty much my brother. This is nothing.”

part five