Because You Left, Part Two, Chapter One
Series: Because You Left, Part Two
Chapter: Chapter One -- The Beginning is the End (is the Beginning)
Pairing/Character(s): Ben Linus Anderson, Blaine Anderson, Kurt Hummel, Finn Hudson, Santana Lopez, Holly Holliday, Rachel Berry, Artie Abrams; Shannon Beiste (briefly), all New Directions members (briefly), Roger Linus (briefly), Horace Goodspeed (briefly); most McKinley faculty members mentioned, all Warblers mentioned, Tom Friendly mentioned, Amy Goodspeed mentioned, Ethan Rom mentioned.
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Wibbly-wobbly, timey-wimey
Word Count: Right around 10,000.
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: Ten years ago, Ben Linus killed several of his own people and left the Island on a stolen submarine, with a child that wasn't really his. They've been on the run together ever since. But no one can run forever. Eventually, there comes a time to stand and fight.
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 every two weeks on Tuesdays, barring fire, flood, corset-related disasters, and/or a complete inability to reach someplace with working wifi. Previous chapters and supplemental materials can be found on the masterpost.
Songs mentioned in this chapter are "Catch a Falling Star" (and if you haven't listened to the Emilie De Ravine version from the LOST Season 6 soundtrack, it is the stuff of nightmares and you should check it out right now) and "Blackbird."
Muchos gracias to my very long-suffering betas seldnei and the-rainbow-jen for talking me through every crisis so far and having opinions that invariably become plot points.
He pulls up alongside the curb, the car shuddering to a stop, puts it into park and just sits there for a moment, with the engine running and his son in the passenger seat. "Well," he says, glancing up at the rearview mirror to watch Kurt's Navigator pull into the parking lot behind them. "Are you ready for this?"
There's no answer for a little while, and when Ben looks over, he sees his son chewing his lower lip, thoughtful. "Actually," Blaine says, slowly, "I think I am." He looks back at his father. "How about you?" he asks.
"No," Ben says, immediately, and Blaine smiles, his eyes warming. "No, not in the slightest."
It will be gone before he turns thirty, replaced by a high whistling sound and an image of an empty rocking chair in an abandoned room, a relentless pounding of drums and the number 23 written in red crayon, highlighted by yellow.
And like everything else he's lost, nothing will ever give it back to him. There will be no sudden moment of realization, no crumpling of his knees as the memories wash over him and he finally understands. All that will remain is the song:
For love may come a-tapping on your shoulder
Some starless night
And he won't remember where he heard it, that first time, but he'll know what it means.
Blaine.
Blaine with his tiny head of sparse, dark curls; his small, perfect hands clenched into fists. Blaine on that very first night, after his mother had been killed, after Ben had saved him. He'd fussed -- after all, he'd had his reasons -- and Ben had held him close, blanket-swaddled and infinitely precious, and had sung that song to him by the dying embers of the campfire, softly, unwilling to let anyone else share in this moment, his first moment with his son.
Catch a falling star and put it in your pocket
Never let it fade away.
And honestly, why should he wonder where the song came from? Why does it matter if the song might once have been sung to someone else?
It's Blaine's song now. Nothing else matters.
*
now
He pulls up alongside the curb, the car shuddering to a stop, puts it into park and just sits there for a moment, with the engine running and his son in the passenger seat. "Well," he says, glancing up at the rearview mirror to watch Kurt's Navigator pull into the parking lot behind them. "Are you ready for this?"
There's no answer for a little while, and when Ben looks over, he sees his son chewing his lower lip, thoughtful. "Actually," Blaine says, slowly, "I think I am." He looks back at his father. "How about you?" he asks.
"No," Ben says, immediately, and Blaine smiles, his eyes warming. "No, not in the slightest."
"Dad," Blaine says, and settles his hand over Ben's, still resting on the gearshift.
Ben can hear the doors of Kurt's Navigator banging shut, as the boys climb out and grab their bags. They'll be at the car any second now, waiting for Blaine to join them. But Ben twines his fingers with Blaine's anyway, just for a moment.
They've done this about a dozen times now, the first day of school. After every attack, after every panicked flight, once normalcy is restored and they're safe again, this is the next cautious step -- they put a little bit of distance between themselves, let go of each other just the smallest of amounts. It's necessary, of course, but it's never easy, and this time it's particularly hard.
Which is strange, really, because the distance is smaller than it's ever been.
"I'll have Kurt and Finn," Blaine says, thumb stroking over Ben's knuckles. "And all of their friends. They'll look out for me."
"I know," Ben says, voice soft, and keeps his eyes on the steering wheel. "I know, Blaine."
"And if anything happens, Dad, anything at all, you'll be right there. I know you will." And he sounds so sure, so quietly and sincerely and completely sure, that Ben manages to look up at him for a moment. Then he's reaching out, awkwardly, the two of them still hooked in to seatbelts and pinned mostly to their seats but still somehow managing to get their arms around each other.
Blaine pats Ben's cheek as he sinks back into his seat. "You'll be right there," he says, again.
And he will. Because it doesn't matter what could go wrong -- it doesn't matter that the pain in his back is softening into a sort of numbness that is probably a very bad sign. It doesn't matter that at least two of the Oceanic survivors are still in Lima, still potentially a threat. It doesn't even matter that he'll no longer be able to carry his sidearm into McKinley. If he has to crawl through fire to get to his son, he'll do it. That's it. That's the only thing that matters.
"Well," Ben says again, and musters a smile. Finn and Kurt have made their way to the sidewalk just beyond Ben's little car, bags on their shoulders; they're both very carefully looking away from Ben and Blaine, up at the looming bulk of McKinley. "I suppose we'd better get a move on. Miss Pillsbury would like to talk to you before classes start, and I'd hate to keep her waiting."
Blaine looks at Ben for a long time, then he reaches out and pats Ben's hand again before undoing his seatbelt. And although Kurt is still pointedly looking away from Ben's car, he must somehow still manage to catch the movement, because as soon as Blaine's hand lands on the inside handle of the door, Kurt is scrambling to open up the backseat and pull out Blaine's crutches and his bag. Before Ben really even knows what's happened, the doors are shut again and Blaine's on the sidewalk with Kurt and Finn.
He rolls down the passenger-side window. "Remember," he says. "Wait right here for me. I'll only be a minute."
And Blaine rolls his eyes at him, and smiles, a little easier and more relaxed now that he's got Kurt and Finn with him. "Go park the car, Dad," he calls back.
So that's what Ben does. He puts the car into drive, pulls around behind the school, and parks in his old spot once again.
And he takes just a moment to look up at the school again, the way he's seen it so many times. It's unfortunate, really; he never really felt entirely comfortable here, but he came close, a time or two. And now, there's that threat, the memory of his son bleeding in the basement...
They haven't run, this time. But they're not home, either.
Ben takes a deep breath, takes the key out of the ignition, and slowly and carefully climbs out of the car.
*
"What do you think they're talking about in there?" Finn asks, leaning back against the display case outside Miss Pillsbury's office. It creaks under his weight and he jolts forward again, looking back like the case has betrayed him; Kurt has to work to hide a snicker.
"Just..." Kurt shrugs. "I don't know, the same things Santana and I had to talk about, probably. Post-traumatic Stress Disorder, flashbacks... She has this pamphlet on What To Do When You Can't Stop Shaking; I actually thought it was kind of helpful. Weird, but helpful." He sighs, watching the back of Blaine's head through the glass of Miss Pillsbury's office windows, wishing he could see his face, his expressions, watch the emotions going through his head. "Although I suppose they probably know all about that already."
"Yeah," Finn says, quietly, and leans into Kurt for just a second, his arm brushing against Kurt's shoulder in a way that makes Kurt give him a look of startled gratitude. It's still odd that Finn's willing to touch him now; it's something he can't quite get used to, not yet. "Did he... um... Did he sleep okay, last night? Blaine, I mean. Nothing... Nothing happened."
Nothing except Kurt waking up with his face buried in Blaine's hair, one arm and one leg splayed over him, Blaine's hand resting at his waist. Nothing except Kurt actually cuddling in closer, covering Blaine even more with his own body while Blaine's fingers tightened in his shirt and Blaine mumbled in his sleep, and even when Blaine's father knocked at the door again, they couldn't seem to will themselves into motion. Blaine just turned his head a little, and Kurt shifted downwards on the bed, and then suddenly Blaine's lips were right there, surprisingly pink and soft-looking, curving up into a sleepy smile, and for just a moment, Kurt almost thought he could --
But then Mr. Anderson called out, "You know, Kurt, if you'd rather sleep in a little bit, I can give Finn the first shower," and Kurt pulled back quickly, too quickly, so fast that he almost didn't see the way Blaine's smile fell from his face and his eyes widened with hurt. And Kurt wanted so badly just to slide back in and... He wasn't sure what he was going to do; he thinks it might have involved Blaine's pink lips and his hand on Kurt's waist and Kurt wrapping himself around Blaine like a shield.
But Blaine's father was right outside the door, so Kurt didn't do anything at all.
"No," he says, and has to work hard to keep the regret out of his voice. "Nothing happened."
"Good," Finn says, encouragingly. "I mean, I kind of figured, 'cause he was like, eating and stuff this morning, but." He pauses, looks over at Kurt. "I just hope it's not a problem tonight," he adds. "I mean, with Mom and Burt coming home, and everything, so Blaine won't have anyone to sing to him, or --"
Kurt swallows hard, stares at the back of Blaine's head, willing him to move just a little, just so Kurt can see his profile and know what's going on, what he's thinking about.
Then Miss Pillsbury passes a pamphlet over the desk and Blaine really does turn, staring at his father even as his father turns to give him a little shrug, and it doesn't loosen all of the tightness in Kurt's chest, but it helps. Because Blaine doesn't look scared, or traumatized, or helpless; he looks... confused. Like, whatever kind of guidance counselors they've got at Dalton, they're nothing at all like Miss Pillsbury. And maybe another time, Kurt might get defensive about that, get defensive on behalf of his school and his teachers and the weirdness that is his home, but after everything he and Blaine have already gone through together (they haven't even known each other a month yet, and yet --)
Honestly, it's just nice to see Blaine look okay for a second.
"He's got his dad," Kurt says. "He'll be all right."
And he's pretty sure it's the truth. Blaine has his father; he'll be fine if Kurt's not there. They've been doing this a long time; they'll be okay.
And if part of Kurt wishes he could go back for just one more night, just to see what might happen, what he might be brave enough to do (Courage, Blaine told him) ... Well. He'll keep that to himself, for now.
*
Santana passes her makeup bag over to the security guards before she makes her way through the metal detectors, just like every other day. Just like every other day, they pull everything out -- study her emery boards like they're trying to figure out how she'll turn them into shivs, cast a wary eye over her eyelash curlers and eyebrow brush. And just like every day, they give everything back to her in the end, let her flounce through the security checkpoint, ponytail bouncing.
But it's not like every other day. Because Kurt's standing outside Miss P's office, with Finn next to him. And as Santana gets closer, Miss P's office door opens, and that weirdo calculus teacher -- Mr. Anderson, with his little round glasses and his receding hairline and his sweatervest and his knowing too many things about how to use a gun -- comes out, holds the door for his son. There's no Dalton uniform anymore, but it's not like the street clothes are that much of an improvement; the kid's got a sweatervest of his own on, and a bow tie, black dress shoes polished to a shine and dark hair shellacked down to his head. Because obviously, transferring McKinley is a big deal, and the kid's got to be wearing his Sunday best to be here. No point in getting slushied if you're not wearing clothes worth ruining, after all.
It's not like Santana doesn't know what they're doing there; what she doesn't understand is why.
But it's not her place to ask them, and it's not like she even cares, so she doesn't.
She clutches her manila envelope to her chest and keeps walking on down to the admin section, through the warren of offices and desks to the very back. To the nurse's office.
There's some gray-haired little old lady puttering around with the filing cabinet in the corner, talking to herself as she flicks through the folders, "So that's the one with the insulin shots, and then..." and Santana frowns and clears her throat, because seriously? Who the hell is this woman and why is she going through people's private medical information? The woman startles a little, turns around, and gives Santana a very distinct once-over. "If you're looking for your HGH injection," she says, with a sniff, "I can tell you right now that there won't be any of that under my watch, and I've already told your coach that I --"
"What?" Santana asks, leaning back and clutching the manila envelope a little tighter, because no one's supposed to know about the HGH, and especially not the nurse. And anyway, that's for the full-time bases. Santana's bottom of the pyramid now, but she's still a flyer. She'll always be a flyer, no matter what Coach says about her boobs weighing her down. Does she look fat or something? Do her boobs make her look fat? "No, I'm here for Nurse Burke. Where is she?"
The old lady rolls her eyes and turns back to the file cabinet, closing it with a brisk bang. "She's gone," the woman huffs, with way more attitude than she needs to have, considering. "Family emergency, I think. No idea when she'll be back. If she'll be back. So you're stuck with me." The woman turns around, folding her arms and glaring, and holy Jesus, what a mean old bitch. "So what is it, anyway? Condoms are still in the bowl on the desk, and if you're trying to get out of gym, then you'd better have some kind of proof that it's actually that time of the month, because I'm not just going to --"
"No!" Santana snaps, because holy shit, talk about uncalled-for. "No, I just... So that's it? She's just... She just left?"
"That's what they tell me," the lady says, and Santana's not sure why that makes her sag back against the doorframe; it just does. Because she's been working herself up all night over this, what she was gonna do, what she'd say, and now it's just -- It's not even necessary, and she kind of hates that. Being unnecessary. "Look, kiddo," the lady says, a little softer now. "Sorry if I've come off abrasive, but I work like four schools in this district; you get a little jaded, you know? But that also means that there's nothing I haven't seen, so if you want to tell me about it --"
Santana shakes her head, pulling in on herself. "No," she says, a little steadier now. Because okay, she doesn't have to have that talk with Nurse Burke, but maybe that's for the best, in the end. She never wanted to be involved in any of this in the first place, and now she's not, and that's fine. It's better than fine. It's perfect. "No, just... She was helping me. On this project. For health class. On boob implants. But it's fine, I'll just talk to Miss Holliday, I'm sure she --"
And then she just flat-out gives up and turns, and walks away.
Mr. Anderson's coming down the hall as she hurries out; he's got a little leather case in his hands, like something for shaving, and she has to wonder what's in it, but of course, she can't ask. He smiles at her as they get near each other, says "Hello, Santana," in his quiet, mild little voice.
She used to see the two of them together sometimes, him and Nurse Burke. It kind of blows her mind now, that they spent so much time together and he never figured it out. But then, even smart guys turn stupid when you shove a pretty blonde at them.
"Hey, Mr. A," she murmurs, and brushes past him, and wonders what he'll think when he gets to that nurse's office and sees a stranger there and realizes that Nurse Burke just up and bailed on him. She wonders if it'll hurt at all.
Not like it matters, in the end. And it's not like she cares.
Her part in this is over, and she couldn't be happier.
*
There's a note, at least; he finds it in his office, on his desk, once he's finished talking to their new part-time nurse (who had, if nothing else, been more than happy to let him take over Blaine's wound care -- in fact, he wouldn't be surprised if she nominates him to take care of everyone else as well). He turns the piece of paper over in his hands, contemplates it, what it might say, what it might mean. If it means anything at all.
It doesn't. Of course it doesn't. She was a colleague, a casual acquaintance and nothing more. And this is nothing more than a formality, a polite goodbye to someone who barely made a dent in her world.
And, after all, did she really mean so much to him, in the end?
Blaine is what matters. Blaine is all that matters.
He slides open the top drawer of his desk, slips the note inside, and closes it up again.
When he raises his eyes, Holly is standing in the doorway, smiling at him. "Well," she says, drawing the word out slowly. "Aren't you a sight for these sore eyes."
"Don't tell me my students have been giving you trouble, Holly," he says, raising an eyebrow. "Because even if they have, I'm not taking any of my classes back until Wednesday. So I'm afraid you'll just have to muddle through as best you can."
She shakes her head, laughing, and steps a little further into the room. "Are you kidding me?" she asks, crossing very, very slowly over to the desk. He knows that Holly's not seducing him; flirtation simply seems to be her default mode. It's just that sometimes, the effect is... Well. "Seriously, you've got those kids trained. No name switches, no buttered floors -- I think you have the only classroom in this building with absolutely no spitballs on the ceiling. Maybe the only classroom in the district." She sighs, flips her hair back over her shoulder, and perches on the edge of his desk. "It's going to be hard for me to give them up and go back to the usual heathen mobs, I'll tell you that."
Ben folds his hands on his desk and gazes up at her, all blonde hair and broad smiles, and it's still hard for him to comprehend how she can be so much more than she seems. But she is, plainly, so he takes a deep breath. "What if you didn't have to give them up?" he asks. "At least, not completely."
Holly's eyes widen; she purses her lips, a little bit. "I'm listening," she says, quietly.
"There's a... a medical issue," Ben says. "I've got a meeting with a specialist tomorrow, to finalize the treatment plans. And while I don't plan on being unable to work, it's possible that I'll be asked to... limit my activities, somewhat. I've mentioned this to Principal Figgins, and as you're fully qualified to teach up to the pre-calculus level, and that is the bulk of my classload right now --"
"This sounds serious," Holly says, but she doesn't really look surprised. Of course, Ben was never really expecting her to. She does know quite a bit about him. "This medical thing, I mean."
"It could be," Ben acknowledges. "And if it is, then I would appreciate having someone I trust ready to step in and take care of my students for me. If it comes to that."
Holly bites her lip and studies him for a long time, still perched on the corner of his desk. "I don't know," she says, quietly. "I mean, this sounds like it's gonna tie me down. I might have to buy real dishes and everything. I'm not even sure how to do that."
Ben smiles at her, because he doesn't know Holly that well, but he knows her well enough to be reasonably confident that she's just said yes. "I'm sure Blaine and Kurt would be willing to help you," he offers, leaning back in his chair.
"Blaine and Kurt?" Holly asks, and leans in a little. "So it's like that, is it?"
Ben just shrugs. "It is what it is," he says. "But they're certainly close. And they both share an affinity for housewares."
Holly's eyebrows go up. "I have to say, I'm a little surprised at you," she says. "For a crazy overprotective dad, you're remarkably cool with the idea that your only son might be about to make a love connection. A love connection with an affinity for nesting, no less." She leans in a little further, almost laying down on his desk. "Unless your goal is to have someone you trust ready to step in and take care of him, too."
That takes Ben back a little bit; he tries not to react too visibly, but it's hard not to suck in a deep breath when something so blunt is coming from someone else's mouth. "My goal," he says, "is to make sure my son is happy, Holly. If Kurt makes him happy, and he seems to, I plan on encouraging that. But I'm not leaving him. And I'm not leaving McKinley. Not unless I have absolutely no other choice."
Her eyes meet his, and for just a moment, there's something there. He doesn't understand her -- he's already decided that such a thing is completely impossible. But for a moment, he has faith in her. And it's enough. "Well," she says, and pushes herself back up until she's sitting with a little more dignity. "I guess I could get used to the idea of a full semester with no fear of a beat-down. From the students, anyway."
That draws a bit of a smile from Ben, and Holly beams back at him. "So you'll do it," he says.
She just shrugs. "If you need to take the time, and if Figgins approves it," she says. "Then I'll see what I can do." She slides easily off his desk and strides back towards the door, long legs taking long steps under her short, short skirt, and he does have to admire the blatancy with which she works; he can't deny that. "Oh, and Ben?" she asks, turning back towards him.
He says nothing, regarding her with one eyebrow raised.
"You should stand up now.”
His eyebrow stays up; he stays in his chair. “And why should I do that?”he asks.
“Because,” Holly says, beaming. “I'm taking you to lunch."
*
After Hydra Station, after Ben climbed onto a boat with his father and then just... stopped, he woke up -- months later, thirty pounds lighter, and wrapped in clothing that apparently used to be his but now hung on him so loosely that he thought it must have been from Tom's closet, not that he could remember the words "clothes" or "closet" or even "Tom." His fingers were so clumsy that he couldn't even fumble the buttons of his shirt out of their holes, his arms so weak he barely even had the strength to try. But Blaine was there, his childishly chubby hands making swift work of the buttons that his father couldn't manage anymore, his sweet clear voice singing --
catch a falling star and put it in your pocket, never let it fade away --
putting Ben to bed the way Ben had once put him to bed, before Hydra Station, before his father, before the boat.
And Ben concentrated hard on finding the right words, and managed to put together the first full sentence he'd spoken in months:
"It's not your fault."
It wasn't what he'd meant to say, but it felt close, somehow. Close enough to make Blaine stop singing, stare up at his father with huge, round eyes, and then fall forward into his father's chest, clutching his shirt and sobbing, and Ben found the strength to raise his arms and wrap them around his son, his beautiful son, and hold him close.
They stayed like that for a long time.
*
Somehow -- he's still not entirely sure how -- Ben finds himself walking down the halls of McKinley with his glasses tucked into his pocket and Holly Holliday's hands covering his eyes, with her body far closer to his than he would ordinarily ever be comfortable with, pushing him along. He has to wonder at himself a little bit; he never allows himself to be this vulnerable. It's possible that he's gotten a bit soft.
"You know, Holly," he says, and wonders why he doesn't feel the need to reach for his baton, just in case. "When you said you were taking me to lunch, I rather thought we'd leave the building."
She laughs at him, and really, this should be more unnerving than it is. "Still just a poor substitute, Ben," she says, and turns him abruptly to the left.
Ben's knee buckles and he stumbles forward, reaching out to catch himself with whatever's there even as Holly's hands fall away from his eyes and clutch at his shoulders. Between the two of them, they keep him standing, but it's a near thing.
Of course, he's been told repeatedly that this could happen. That if the tumor grows, or even if it shifts, there could be pressure on the nerves. That it could become difficult to walk. That he could fall. This time, at least, he has someone to help catch him.
"Sorry, sorry," Holly says, arms still wrapped around Ben's shoulders and chest. "Sorry. You okay?"
"Fine," Ben says; he settles back on his feet, gingerly testing the strength of his left leg. It seems to be holding. Could be just the suddenness of the turn, that something twisted that shouldn't have. Perhaps he needn't worry so much yet. "I'm... I'm fine."
"Sorry," Holly says again, still wrapped around him from behind. She pats absently at his chest before pulling back, hands settling loosely on his shoulders, body no longer pressed to his, letting him catch his breath. "Um... Maybe you should open your eyes now? We're here anyway, so."
"Of course, of course." Ben opens his eyes, blinks a few times, does his best to focus on what's in front of him. "Ah, the teachers' lounge," he says, noting with some amusement that the lights inside have been turned off. He wonders if anyone inside the room is actually hiding. The mental image is... Well, actually, it's surprisingly touching.
"You know," Ben says, softly. "I've never had a surprise party before."
"First time for everything," Holly murmurs in his ear. Then she's reaching past him to open the door, and Ben barely has a moment to think about it before he's letting his eyes flutter shut again. Holly's hands immediately come up to cover them, and she nudges him gently into the darkened room. "Anyway," she says, perhaps a touch louder than she needs to. "I could've taken you out, maybe, but I couldn't exactly pay for everyone, so I --"
"Everyone?" Ben repeats, feigning bewilderment.
Holly's hands fall away from his eyes and someone flips the lights on; Ben squints his eyes tighter shut for a moment in reaction, then lets them slowly open again.
"Maybe not everyone," Holly says, as Ben fumbles his glasses out of his pocket and puts them back on. "But close enough, right?"
It is, in fact, very nearly everyone. Nancy, Eleanor, Henri, Mary Jo... And of course, Will and Emma are there, and Shannon standing at the front of the pack, holding a cake that reads Welcome Back! in wobbly, uneven letters. "I was gonna bake the cake myself," Shannon says, hesitantly, "but I ran out of time, and I... Sorry the letters are so weird; that girl at the Safeway had hands like an orangutan learning the clavinova, so --"
"It's fine," Ben says, and has to struggle a little to get the words out around the lump in his throat. It's only just occurring to him now that if he had fallen, if he hadn't been able to get up again, there was a whole roomful of people on the other side of that door who would have been willing to help raise him to his feet. He has no idea how to feel about that. "I -- Thank you," he says, first to the cake, and then, looking up, to the faces all looking back at him. "Thank you," he says again. "All of you."
Out of the people missing, the most prominent is Sue. And, somehow, that's a relief. He's not entirely sure how he'd feel about letting his guard down in front of her, even for a minute.
"Thank you," he says, a third time, and then Holly starts pushing him towards a table, and he thinks he should mind it, having her pressed so close, having all of these people so close. But he really doesn't mind at all.
*
"So," Rachel says, squeezing in at the cafeteria table next to Blaine, who looks at her with enormous eyes and maybe a little alarm and honestly, she feels so silly now, thinking he was going to sabotage them. Of course, it's obvious that he hasn't been faking any of his feelings for Kurt at all -- the crutches are proof positive of that. But more than that, he's so... guileless, with his adorable bowties and his big brown eyes. Charmingly innocent, with the sort of non-threatening, boyish sexuality that would make him the perfect foil for her drama and intensity. "Blaine. Now, I wasn't entirely sure what your range would be, since it's surprisingly hard to find clips of the Warblers on YouTube, and while I don't generally give advice to our competitors, I strongly suggest that you get in touch with whatever contacts you might still have at Dalton to encourage them to up their social media presence; it's a huge asset not only for the group, but for individual performers looking to apply to top-notch musical theatre programs or possibly even for --"
"Rachel," Kurt sighs, sliding in on Blaine's other side and placing a tray on the table between the two of them. Lunch for two, and there's something so precious about Kurt finally having someone to share a tray with (not that she shares a tray with Finn, mind; she packs her own lunch) that Rachel feels a strong urge to clasp her hands and beam at them, an urge that she represses only out of deference to Kurt’s dignity. "You're scaring him. I thought we discussed that. You, scaring people."
Rachel sighs, and valiantly pushes back the urge to snap at him. Of course, Kurt is a protective person -- he was willing to beat up Jesse St. James for her; that has to count for something. And he's bound to be particularly worried about Blaine, with his crutches and his big cartoon-character eyes. Still, though. "I apologize," she says, as politely as she can. "I realize that my focus and intensity can be somewhat off-putting to those who aren't used to me. But it's just that I'm very excited to have you joining us, and to see where our musical chemistry takes us, and to that end I've compiled a list of possible duets that I think we should consider for Sectionals."
She sets the paper down in front of Blaine, and his eyes go even wider and more alarmed. He looks at Kurt like he's looking for help, and it's adorable, but also possibly a little irritating, because she's Rachel Berry, and she's right there, and how does he not see that this is the chance of a lifetime?
"Rachel," Kurt says, quietly, and she realizes that she can't see his left hand and she wonders if it's on Blaine's knee, under the table -- she's actually tempted to check for just a moment, before sanity slips back in. "Blaine's not performing with us at Sectionals.”
“What?” That actually draws a flinch from Blaine, and Rachel feels a little bit bad, so she tries to cover up the damage as best she can. “I mean, not that... But if you’re worried about your ability to... I mean, we haven’t even picked our songs yet, so --”
Blaine sighs, and glances down at the table, before looking up at her shyly through his thick dark lashes, and this is such a waste of his talent and charm, and she’s going to have words with Kurt when this is all over. She realizes that yes, musical chemistry is often a sign of romantic chemistry as well, and it's not that she blames Kurt for being concerned. But she's with Finn, and even if she wasn't, Kurt's her friend, and she'd never just --
“It’s not...” Blaine shakes his head. “I'm not worried about learning the songs so much, Rachel, but -- Maybe you haven’t seen a lot of Warblers performances, but I’ve seen what New Directions can do. It’s pretty choreography-intensive. Right now, I can barely make it to my classes. I can’t --” He shrugs and looks at her with soulful hazel eyes and seriously, Kurt, this is criminal. “I just can’t. Not right now.”
Artie wheels up across from them, and Rachel’s eyes widen with delight. The perfect solution! God, she’s so clever sometimes it almost hurts. “So we’ll put you in a chair!”Rachel says, clapping him on the shoulder briskly. “Like Artie. And then it won’t matter -- you can do everything that we do.”
“That’s not how it works, Rachel,”Artie murmurs; Rachel ignores him.
“Admittedly, the height difference between us will be something I’ll have to overcome -- I’m not accustomed to looking down at my leading men, but --”
“Rachel,”Kurt says, as if calling her name out at the start of every sentence is the only way to get her attention (it might be the easiest way, but it’s not the only way). “No. Stop. Remember how hard it was for us to learn how to deal with the chairs last year? Even if Blaine wanted to, there’s no way he’d be able to get up to Artie’s level in a week. So let’s just --”
“Wait,”Rachel says, quietly, because what Kurt’s just thrown out there is something she can’t quite comprehend. She turns to Blaine, sitting small in his chair with his head lowered, eyes on his plate. “You don’t want to?”
Blaine gives Kurt another one of those helpless looks, and Kurt doesn’t say anything but there’s the smallest shift of his shoulder and he is totally squeezing Blaine’s knee underneath the table; Rachel knows it. “It’s not that I don’t want to perform with you,”Blaine says, “it’s just --” He takes a deep breath, looks around the cafeteria, leans in a little bit closer. “I just feel like, because I’m that kid who got shot, you know, and everyone knows it, and I just... I think I’ve got enough attention right now. I don’t know if I need any more.”
Rachel blinks at him for a few seconds, because she understands that there’s good attention, of course, and then there’s bad attention (like having crude cartoon likenesses of yourself appearing in the women’s restroom, or moustaches drawn on your yearbook photo, or eggs thrown at your head), but it’s hard to understand why Blaine might object to everyone knowing that he’s a hero. Because he is a hero -- he saved Kurt, and possibly also Santana, which was not only brave but incredibly charitable of him, and surely --
“Great job, new kid,”Artie sighs, picking up a fry and dipping it into the puddle of ranch dressing on his plate. “You just broke Rachel.”
“No,”Rachel protests, a little bit feebly, but still. “No, I...” And she looks out at the rest of the cafeteria, at all the people ignoring them, at all the people shooting curious looks their way, and she thinks about all the times that she and Kurt and Artie and everyone in glee club have proven themselves to these people, shown their talent and their strength and their worth, and she thinks about what they’ve gotten in return. And she smiles at Blaine and reaches out to pat his hand. “Of course. But you owe me a duet. When you’re settled, of course.”
“Of course,”Blaine says, and smiles politely (and perhaps still a little nervously) back at her.
And it is absolutely criminal that he won’t be joining them for Sectionals, but. That just means she’ll have to work extra hard to get them through to Regionals.
Is it too much to do “Don’t Rain on My Parade”twice in a row? She’ll have to think about that.
*
“Just for the record?”Artie asks, reaching up to close Blaine’s locker for him as Kurt slides Blaine’s textbooks into his backpack. He feels a little bit weird about doing this much for the guy, not because he doesn’t like him but because he does like him, and he doesn’t want to offend him by overstepping his bounds. But, on the other hand, Blaine still can’t use his hands for anything without dropping his crutches, and that’s just as embarrassing and a lot more dangerous, so. “You do get used to Rachel. Eventually. Kind of.”
Blaine tries to shrug, his shoulders hitching up a little bit, making him wobble slightly on his crutches, and Artie can’t help but think, just for a second, that Rachel might have a point about the chair being easier for him. Not that he’d advocate it or anything, but still. “She’s fine,”Blaine says, “really, I just -- I don’t know, maybe it's not the right time. I mean -- Maybe I... Maybe I shouldn’t join glee club until I’m, you know, able to really join --”
“Absolutely not,”Kurt says, slamming his own locker shut with a surprising amount of force. “Look, Blaine, we want you with us. Even Rachel wants you there. Maybe not as much as she wants a new duet partner, but.”
“Anyway,”Artie says, wheeling away down the hallway towards the school’s one and only elevator, leaving the others to follow him, “what’re you going to do for a the next week? You can’t sign up for another class and then drop it again once we’ve gotten past sectionals.”
“I could... I could sit in with my dad, maybe, or --”
There’s a pause and then Kurt says, a little uncomfortable, “I mean... if that’s what you really wanted to do, Blaine --”and Artie stops his chair, spinning it around fast enough that when he turns around, Kurt is half in front of Blaine, like a human shield, and it almost makes Artie angrier, even though he doesn’t really know why.
It’s just -- He doesn’t understand what’s going on anymore, not really. He knows there’s more to this Blaine situation, not necessarily because of anything that Kurt or Blaine or even Finn have said or done, but because of Brittany. Because she obviously thinks that something awful’s going to happen, or she wouldn’t be messing with that stupid time machine in the first place, and maybe it’s just her imagination, probably it’s just her imagination, but every time Artie looks at Blaine, he thinks about that purple lamp and that stupid toy mouse and the faint smell of cigarette smoke, and he hates that.
And he’s not going to take it out on Blaine, because he can’t believe that whatever’s going to happen is Blaine’s fault, because he just doesn’t think Brittany would be so intent on saving him if it was. But dammit, he can still be angry. He is allowed.
“No,”he says, firmly. “You’re not spending the rest of the week sitting in the back of A.P. Calculus with a bunch of kids you don’t know just because Rachel made you think that you can’t be in glee club unless you’re onstage for Sectionals. There’s no rules saying you have to compete the day you join up. Kurt and I checked. And we talked to Mr. Schue. Everyone is on board with this. So don’t you dare back out now. You’re joining glee club. Today. And that’s that.”
And then he pivots again and starts wheeling off towards the elevator without giving Blaine a chance to answer.
“Oh-kayyy,”Kurt says, drawing the word out like he’s trying to be scornful, but Artie’s pretty sure he’s more impressed than anything else. “Well. I told you we wanted you to join, Blaine. Apparently Artie wants it more than I thought he did.”
What Artie wants, more than anything, is a way to stop bad things from happening to people he likes. But he doesn’t say that out loud.
“You don’t even know me,”Blaine says, his voice quiet and maybe a little stunned. “I mean, why does it -- I’m not complaining, but you’re doing all of this for me, and you don’t -- You don’t even know me.”
Artie pulls back gently on his wheels, braking, and very slowly, very carefully turns around (so Kurt doesn’t leap in front of Blaine to protect him again). He looks up at Blaine, still wobbling a little on his crutches, and says, “I don’t need to. Welcome to glee club, Blaine.”
*
Welcome to glee club.
It turns out that the kid with the mohawk, the one who’d danced with Santana at the wedding, is named Puck. He sits next to Blaine in geometry and tries to feed him answers, all of which are wrong, and it is, in its incredibly misguided way, one of the nicer things that anyone’s ever done for Blaine.
Welcome to glee club.
English is with Mercedes and Tina -- they make him sit between them and proceed to spend the entire hour whispering McKinley gossip into his ears and giggling at his expressions. He thinks maybe the teacher assigned them some reading, but his head is so full of hot tubs and pregnancies and fights and cheating and love pentagons that he has absolutely no idea what it was.
Welcome to glee club.
“I know it’s your first day,”Kurt says, apologetically, pulling one set of textbooks and folders out of Blaine’s bag and replacing them with new ones (and Kurt has color-coordinated Blaine’s notebooks, and he’s running this whole thing like a general, and Blaine is just so impressed sometimes that it’s hard to stand it), “and I know you’ve got a lot to remember as it is, but I really think Finn’s going to fail American History if he keeps forgetting to show up, and since you’re in the same class anyway, if you could just --”
“It’s okay,”Blaine says, and it is okay; in fact, it’s better than okay. Because while he’s impressed by Kurt’s management skills, and touched to the point of being overwhelmed by how kind everyone is (or at least, by how kind the glee club is; everyone else just sort of stares at him for a few seconds then pretends he isn’t there), it’s kind of a little frustrating to feel so helpless all the time. And yeah, to an extent, he kind of is. But not completely. And he doesn’t want that to be the place he carves out for himself at McKinley. He’s more than that. “Don’t worry about Finn. I’ll take care of him for you.”
And Kurt blinks for a few seconds, and then he smiles at Blaine, that little surprised, pleased smile that throws Blaine for a loop every time, because it’s obvious that Kurt doesn’t expect Blaine to remember the things they've talked about, to do things for him, to care about him, and that hurts. Because Kurt deserves to be cared for. Kurt deserves everything.
“Okay,”Kurt says, still smiling.
Blaine smiles back at him. "Okay," he says, and then turns away to go find Finn.
Welcome to glee club.
Santana doesn’t really talk to him, even when she shows up at his locker and Kurt says she's going to take Blaine to Spanish class. She gives Blaine a little half-a-smile, and she stays at his shoulder just like the rest of them do, but she doesn't really talk to him. At all.
But when someone’s foot catches the base of one of his crutches and he almost wipes out in the middle of the hallway, she’s there, catching him and hauling him back up to his feet while simultaneously hurling threats at the guy who tripped him. Then she asks him whether he’s on a diet or whether it’s his elven heritage that makes him so slender, and then goes into a short diatribe about hobbits that reveals a far deeper knowledge of the Lord of the Rings novels than Blaine would have suspected. Then she implies that he's related to Rachel, and he's pretty sure it's supposed to be insulting, but it's almost sweet at the same time, even if he couldn't say why.
Then, when he's got his crutches under him again, she goes silent again, and stays that way all the way to Mr. Schuester's classroom.
Welcome to glee club.
He obviously can’t take gym, so he takes home ec instead.
He’s pretty sure that he’s the only one who thinks it’s a good idea.
Admittedly, when he walks into the room and sees the bolts of red calico on the wall, he’s not sure it’s such a good idea either. It’s just that by then, he’s committed. So he closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly, and keeps going, crutching through the center aisle down to the very back table, with Quinn Fabray hovering behind him the entire time.
(He glances over at the bolts of red fabric just one more time, after he’s gotten settled but before class has really started, and he has to close his eyes again. This time, he doesn’t open them until he feels Quinn’s hand come to rest gently on top of his, soft and comforting. The first thing he does when he opens his eyes is to smile at her.
She smiles back.)
Welcome to glee club.
He's a little surprised that Kurt isn't sitting next to him on the risers in the choir room, that it's Quinn on his left side and Mercedes on his right.
Maybe surprised isn't the best word.
Maybe hurt would be a little bit better.
Admittedly, it's not like he hasn't seen Kurt all day -- their lockers are right next to each other, and they sat with each other at lunch, but still. This is the only class they share; it's the only time he's not in a room full of virtual strangers, and he just doesn't understand --
But then he sees his father trailing into the room after Mr. Schuester, standing by the door, and he realizes that this is part of Kurt's plan, somehow, and he takes a deep breath in, and he lets it out slowly, and he trusts.
"Guys," Mr. Schuester says, pulling everyone's attention towards him. "I'm sure that, by now, you've all noticed that we've got a new student in our midst." And just like that, everyone's attention snaps back to Blaine, and he almost wants to hide, but Mercedes takes his hand and Quinn rubs at his shoulder, and he lifts his chin and tries to get through it. "Now usually we ask that our new members introduce themselves to us with a song --" and here Blaine starts to panic a little, because he sang bits of things when he and Kurt were working out the wedding playlist but he hasn't really sung since -- "but Kurt has asked to do the honors and, under the circumstances, I agreed that might be the best. So. Kurt?"
Then Kurt is stepping down off the risers to stand in front of the group, and Blaine realizes that he's probably going to lose it in front of all these people, and the best he can hope for is that someone has tissues for him.
Kurt's eyes meet his, soft, beautiful, and Blaine swallows hard. "Hi," Kurt says, softly.
"Hi," Blaine replies.
Someone giggles.
"So I had this speech," Kurt says, hands knotting together nervously in front of him, "and it was a really good speech, honestly; I mean, I've been writing my Tony acceptance speech for years, so I've had a lot of practice. But this speech... See, I couldn't really think of a way to say what I wanted to say, without..." He catches himself, shakes his head, smiles a little. "So I decided to just let the song speak for me," he finishes, and looks over to where Puck is picking up an acoustic guitar, slinging the strap over his shoulder, settling himself on a stool. There's a look, and a nod, and then Puck starts playing, the tune surprisingly delicate.
Blaine swallows hard, then swallows again, and Kurt hasn't even started singing yet, but then he does, and oh.
Blackbird singing in the dead of night
Take these broken wings and learn to fly
All your life
You were only waiting for this moment to arise --
Blaine has just long enough to wonder if this song isn't maybe a little too appropriate, before movement at the back of the room catches his eye. His father is opening the door, letting someone in, and it isn't someone; it's --
"Oh my God," Blaine whispers, the words lost underneath the sound of Kurt's voice, floating sweetly above the Warblers' harmonizing vocals. The Warblers, still in uniform, filing into the choir room because they're there for him, there to say goodbye to him, and he doesn't know how to deal with this, he really doesn't.
All your life
You were only waiting for this moment to be free.
He has his wits about him just enough to notice when the New Directions chime in, the girls' voices rising to soar with the tenors, the boys' voices heavy with the baritones and basses, and Kurt's voice, so clear and pure and distinct even amongst all the others that it takes his breath away, and it's so much, so much, and all that keeps him from losing himself entirely is Mercedes' hand holding his, Quinn rubbing circles between his shoulder blades, Wes's dark eyes steady on his, and there in the back, his father watching over it all. His father nods at him, smiling, and Blaine tries to smile back but he's crying, a little because he's saying goodbye but also a little because he's saying hello, and it's just so much.
It's so much.
You were only waiting for this moment to arise.
Welcome to glee club.
*
"Dad?" Blaine calls, and Ben frowns, pushing his chair back from the kitchen table. Blaine's been very insistent about being self-reliant since before the wedding -- he handles his own bathing, dresses himself, does everything but change his own bandages. But there's that note in Blaine's voice now, that sort of... need, Ben supposes, and while Blaine's proven himself perfectly capable of getting ready for bed on his own...
Ben worries.
But when he steps into Blaine's room, his son is already in bed with the lights out -- Ben can just make out the shape of him, supine on the bed with his left leg bent at the knee and propped up with a pillow to keep him from being too uncomfortable, arms folded over the blankets. "Blaine?" he asks, quietly, and wonders if he's hearing things.
"Dad," Blaine replies, voice very soft, very young. "Would you... Just for a little while. Could you sit with me?"
"Of course," Ben says, and crosses immediately to the bed, settling himself against the headboard. Blaine's washed his gel out, could never sleep with it in, and when Ben strokes his fingertips lightly through his son's dark curls, Blaine shifts, angling himself towards his father. Honestly, Ben's not sure why he's surprised; they've been doing this a lot lately -- that night in the hospital and then the one after that as well, and then again after Kurt and Finn came to give their family's decision. And he imagines they would have been in the same position Saturday after the wedding, and Sunday as well, if Kurt hadn't already been here.
What was it Holly had accused him of? Your goal is to have someone you trust ready to step in and take care of him, too. Which, of course, is not the case at all. Ben's goal is, as it has always been, to find a way to get free of the Island, so that he can raise his son in the (relative) peace and safety of the outside world. He does not want -- he would never want -- to leave his son for any length of time.
But he is a pragmatic person, and as such, he recognizes the importance of having a backup plan. Granted, he would prefer that the backup plan not be a sixteen year-old boy, but. Needs must, and all.
"I miss sleeping on my side," Blaine murmurs, eyes fluttering open for just a moment; Ben chuckles, still drawing his fingers gently through Blaine's hair in the way that's always lulled him to sleep the fastest.
"You could, you know," he suggests, scratching lightly at Blaine's scalp. "I'm sure we could arrange it so you're more-or-less comfortable."
Blaine frowns a little, his eyebrows drawing together, and doesn't reply.
"Or not," Ben adds, and goes back to combing his fingers through Blaine's curls.
The little crease between Blaine's eyebrows smooths itself out again. He's not quite asleep, not yet; Ben knows him too well to be fooled, knows all his son's tells by now, so he keeps letting Blaine's hair slide between his fingertips, trying to lull him. After a few moments, he even starts humming, and Blaine's lips curve up in a smile.
"Kurt sang that to me," he murmurs, eyes still shut. "Said he learned it from his mom."
It almost feels like it should remind Ben of something. Like he should be able to hear Annie's sweet childish voice singing the words along with him. But there's nothing there -- just a brief afterimage of an empty rocking chair, a whistling sound, and he shudders and stops trying to remember.
Blaine tips his head in Ben's direction, though his eyes are still closed when he asks, "Did you learn it from her? Like Kurt did?"
"Of course," Ben says, and doesn't even feel guilty for lying. Blaine would only worry anyway; he hates the holes in his father's memory, blames himself for them although it's not his fault. "Of course I did."
Blaine smiles sleepily, relaxing into the mattress.
Ben keeps stroking his son's hair, keeps humming to him, but doesn't let himself sing.
Catch a falling star and put it in your pocket --
*
1980
(But before Hydra Station, before Ben woke up, unable to even raise his arms to undress himself, before he forced his rusted voice to speak for the first time in months --
(Before all that, there was this:)
Mr. Horace was in the living room with his dad; there were beer cans scattered around them. Mr. Horace was crying, hiccuping into his dad's shoulder, and his dad was awkwardly hugging back. "This is my fault," Mr. Horace was saying. "If I'd been there -- I should've been there; I should've --"
"It wasn't your fault," Ben's dad said, and he looked right at Ben when he said it, and Ben didn't need his father to say whose fault it was. He already knew.
Kinda hard to celebrate on the day you killed your ma, his father had told him, laying on the couch with a DHARMA beer clutched in his hands, and just like that, all the warmth that Ben had carried with him from Mr. Pace's house went right out the window. The same thing his dad had been telling him for years -- that Ben had been born a killer, that his very first victim was his own mother, who died so Ben could be born.
But it wasn't Ben's fault she was gone. He'd never asked to be born, he'd never... He'd never wanted this life. It just happened to him. But he hadn't wanted it, and he hadn't done anything to deserve it, and if he could change things, he would. But he couldn't. And that wasn't his fault either. It wasn't.
But he couldn't say that, not with so many beer cans scattered around, so he just slipped out the door when his dad wasn't looking, and headed off into the night. He wasn't sure where he was going, just --
Everything had always been his fault, ever since he was a baby. And it wasn't fair that he'd had to start that way; he hadn't deserved it. And Miss Amy's baby; he didn't deserve it either.
Someone needed to tell him so.
As Ben neared the infirmary, he saw some people standing on the porch, talking. One of them was a little away from the others, near the stairs. Tall, thin -- Ben thought maybe it was a man, or at least a teenager. He had something cradled in his arms; it must've been Miss Amy's baby. The man, who might've been a teenager, was singing, his voice high and sweet and clear:
Catch a falling star and put it in your pocket, save it for your rainy day --
Ben climbed the stairs and sat down at the very top, near the man who might've been a teenager, and listened.
It was a strange thing to think, but it felt like he was being forgiven.
Chapter: Chapter One -- The Beginning is the End (is the Beginning)
Pairing/Character(s): Ben Linus Anderson, Blaine Anderson, Kurt Hummel, Finn Hudson, Santana Lopez, Holly Holliday, Rachel Berry, Artie Abrams; Shannon Beiste (briefly), all New Directions members (briefly), Roger Linus (briefly), Horace Goodspeed (briefly); most McKinley faculty members mentioned, all Warblers mentioned, Tom Friendly mentioned, Amy Goodspeed mentioned, Ethan Rom mentioned.
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Wibbly-wobbly, timey-wimey
Word Count: Right around 10,000.
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: Ten years ago, Ben Linus killed several of his own people and left the Island on a stolen submarine, with a child that wasn't really his. They've been on the run together ever since. But no one can run forever. Eventually, there comes a time to stand and fight.
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 every two weeks on Tuesdays, barring fire, flood, corset-related disasters, and/or a complete inability to reach someplace with working wifi. Previous chapters and supplemental materials can be found on the masterpost.
Songs mentioned in this chapter are "Catch a Falling Star" (and if you haven't listened to the Emilie De Ravine version from the LOST Season 6 soundtrack, it is the stuff of nightmares and you should check it out right now) and "Blackbird."
Muchos gracias to my very long-suffering betas seldnei and the-rainbow-jen for talking me through every crisis so far and having opinions that invariably become plot points.
He pulls up alongside the curb, the car shuddering to a stop, puts it into park and just sits there for a moment, with the engine running and his son in the passenger seat. "Well," he says, glancing up at the rearview mirror to watch Kurt's Navigator pull into the parking lot behind them. "Are you ready for this?"
There's no answer for a little while, and when Ben looks over, he sees his son chewing his lower lip, thoughtful. "Actually," Blaine says, slowly, "I think I am." He looks back at his father. "How about you?" he asks.
"No," Ben says, immediately, and Blaine smiles, his eyes warming. "No, not in the slightest."
It will be gone before he turns thirty, replaced by a high whistling sound and an image of an empty rocking chair in an abandoned room, a relentless pounding of drums and the number 23 written in red crayon, highlighted by yellow.
And like everything else he's lost, nothing will ever give it back to him. There will be no sudden moment of realization, no crumpling of his knees as the memories wash over him and he finally understands. All that will remain is the song:
For love may come a-tapping on your shoulder
Some starless night
And he won't remember where he heard it, that first time, but he'll know what it means.
Blaine.
Blaine with his tiny head of sparse, dark curls; his small, perfect hands clenched into fists. Blaine on that very first night, after his mother had been killed, after Ben had saved him. He'd fussed -- after all, he'd had his reasons -- and Ben had held him close, blanket-swaddled and infinitely precious, and had sung that song to him by the dying embers of the campfire, softly, unwilling to let anyone else share in this moment, his first moment with his son.
Catch a falling star and put it in your pocket
Never let it fade away.
And honestly, why should he wonder where the song came from? Why does it matter if the song might once have been sung to someone else?
It's Blaine's song now. Nothing else matters.
*
now
He pulls up alongside the curb, the car shuddering to a stop, puts it into park and just sits there for a moment, with the engine running and his son in the passenger seat. "Well," he says, glancing up at the rearview mirror to watch Kurt's Navigator pull into the parking lot behind them. "Are you ready for this?"
There's no answer for a little while, and when Ben looks over, he sees his son chewing his lower lip, thoughtful. "Actually," Blaine says, slowly, "I think I am." He looks back at his father. "How about you?" he asks.
"No," Ben says, immediately, and Blaine smiles, his eyes warming. "No, not in the slightest."
"Dad," Blaine says, and settles his hand over Ben's, still resting on the gearshift.
Ben can hear the doors of Kurt's Navigator banging shut, as the boys climb out and grab their bags. They'll be at the car any second now, waiting for Blaine to join them. But Ben twines his fingers with Blaine's anyway, just for a moment.
They've done this about a dozen times now, the first day of school. After every attack, after every panicked flight, once normalcy is restored and they're safe again, this is the next cautious step -- they put a little bit of distance between themselves, let go of each other just the smallest of amounts. It's necessary, of course, but it's never easy, and this time it's particularly hard.
Which is strange, really, because the distance is smaller than it's ever been.
"I'll have Kurt and Finn," Blaine says, thumb stroking over Ben's knuckles. "And all of their friends. They'll look out for me."
"I know," Ben says, voice soft, and keeps his eyes on the steering wheel. "I know, Blaine."
"And if anything happens, Dad, anything at all, you'll be right there. I know you will." And he sounds so sure, so quietly and sincerely and completely sure, that Ben manages to look up at him for a moment. Then he's reaching out, awkwardly, the two of them still hooked in to seatbelts and pinned mostly to their seats but still somehow managing to get their arms around each other.
Blaine pats Ben's cheek as he sinks back into his seat. "You'll be right there," he says, again.
And he will. Because it doesn't matter what could go wrong -- it doesn't matter that the pain in his back is softening into a sort of numbness that is probably a very bad sign. It doesn't matter that at least two of the Oceanic survivors are still in Lima, still potentially a threat. It doesn't even matter that he'll no longer be able to carry his sidearm into McKinley. If he has to crawl through fire to get to his son, he'll do it. That's it. That's the only thing that matters.
"Well," Ben says again, and musters a smile. Finn and Kurt have made their way to the sidewalk just beyond Ben's little car, bags on their shoulders; they're both very carefully looking away from Ben and Blaine, up at the looming bulk of McKinley. "I suppose we'd better get a move on. Miss Pillsbury would like to talk to you before classes start, and I'd hate to keep her waiting."
Blaine looks at Ben for a long time, then he reaches out and pats Ben's hand again before undoing his seatbelt. And although Kurt is still pointedly looking away from Ben's car, he must somehow still manage to catch the movement, because as soon as Blaine's hand lands on the inside handle of the door, Kurt is scrambling to open up the backseat and pull out Blaine's crutches and his bag. Before Ben really even knows what's happened, the doors are shut again and Blaine's on the sidewalk with Kurt and Finn.
He rolls down the passenger-side window. "Remember," he says. "Wait right here for me. I'll only be a minute."
And Blaine rolls his eyes at him, and smiles, a little easier and more relaxed now that he's got Kurt and Finn with him. "Go park the car, Dad," he calls back.
So that's what Ben does. He puts the car into drive, pulls around behind the school, and parks in his old spot once again.
And he takes just a moment to look up at the school again, the way he's seen it so many times. It's unfortunate, really; he never really felt entirely comfortable here, but he came close, a time or two. And now, there's that threat, the memory of his son bleeding in the basement...
They haven't run, this time. But they're not home, either.
Ben takes a deep breath, takes the key out of the ignition, and slowly and carefully climbs out of the car.
*
"What do you think they're talking about in there?" Finn asks, leaning back against the display case outside Miss Pillsbury's office. It creaks under his weight and he jolts forward again, looking back like the case has betrayed him; Kurt has to work to hide a snicker.
"Just..." Kurt shrugs. "I don't know, the same things Santana and I had to talk about, probably. Post-traumatic Stress Disorder, flashbacks... She has this pamphlet on What To Do When You Can't Stop Shaking; I actually thought it was kind of helpful. Weird, but helpful." He sighs, watching the back of Blaine's head through the glass of Miss Pillsbury's office windows, wishing he could see his face, his expressions, watch the emotions going through his head. "Although I suppose they probably know all about that already."
"Yeah," Finn says, quietly, and leans into Kurt for just a second, his arm brushing against Kurt's shoulder in a way that makes Kurt give him a look of startled gratitude. It's still odd that Finn's willing to touch him now; it's something he can't quite get used to, not yet. "Did he... um... Did he sleep okay, last night? Blaine, I mean. Nothing... Nothing happened."
Nothing except Kurt waking up with his face buried in Blaine's hair, one arm and one leg splayed over him, Blaine's hand resting at his waist. Nothing except Kurt actually cuddling in closer, covering Blaine even more with his own body while Blaine's fingers tightened in his shirt and Blaine mumbled in his sleep, and even when Blaine's father knocked at the door again, they couldn't seem to will themselves into motion. Blaine just turned his head a little, and Kurt shifted downwards on the bed, and then suddenly Blaine's lips were right there, surprisingly pink and soft-looking, curving up into a sleepy smile, and for just a moment, Kurt almost thought he could --
But then Mr. Anderson called out, "You know, Kurt, if you'd rather sleep in a little bit, I can give Finn the first shower," and Kurt pulled back quickly, too quickly, so fast that he almost didn't see the way Blaine's smile fell from his face and his eyes widened with hurt. And Kurt wanted so badly just to slide back in and... He wasn't sure what he was going to do; he thinks it might have involved Blaine's pink lips and his hand on Kurt's waist and Kurt wrapping himself around Blaine like a shield.
But Blaine's father was right outside the door, so Kurt didn't do anything at all.
"No," he says, and has to work hard to keep the regret out of his voice. "Nothing happened."
"Good," Finn says, encouragingly. "I mean, I kind of figured, 'cause he was like, eating and stuff this morning, but." He pauses, looks over at Kurt. "I just hope it's not a problem tonight," he adds. "I mean, with Mom and Burt coming home, and everything, so Blaine won't have anyone to sing to him, or --"
Kurt swallows hard, stares at the back of Blaine's head, willing him to move just a little, just so Kurt can see his profile and know what's going on, what he's thinking about.
Then Miss Pillsbury passes a pamphlet over the desk and Blaine really does turn, staring at his father even as his father turns to give him a little shrug, and it doesn't loosen all of the tightness in Kurt's chest, but it helps. Because Blaine doesn't look scared, or traumatized, or helpless; he looks... confused. Like, whatever kind of guidance counselors they've got at Dalton, they're nothing at all like Miss Pillsbury. And maybe another time, Kurt might get defensive about that, get defensive on behalf of his school and his teachers and the weirdness that is his home, but after everything he and Blaine have already gone through together (they haven't even known each other a month yet, and yet --)
Honestly, it's just nice to see Blaine look okay for a second.
"He's got his dad," Kurt says. "He'll be all right."
And he's pretty sure it's the truth. Blaine has his father; he'll be fine if Kurt's not there. They've been doing this a long time; they'll be okay.
And if part of Kurt wishes he could go back for just one more night, just to see what might happen, what he might be brave enough to do (Courage, Blaine told him) ... Well. He'll keep that to himself, for now.
*
Santana passes her makeup bag over to the security guards before she makes her way through the metal detectors, just like every other day. Just like every other day, they pull everything out -- study her emery boards like they're trying to figure out how she'll turn them into shivs, cast a wary eye over her eyelash curlers and eyebrow brush. And just like every day, they give everything back to her in the end, let her flounce through the security checkpoint, ponytail bouncing.
But it's not like every other day. Because Kurt's standing outside Miss P's office, with Finn next to him. And as Santana gets closer, Miss P's office door opens, and that weirdo calculus teacher -- Mr. Anderson, with his little round glasses and his receding hairline and his sweatervest and his knowing too many things about how to use a gun -- comes out, holds the door for his son. There's no Dalton uniform anymore, but it's not like the street clothes are that much of an improvement; the kid's got a sweatervest of his own on, and a bow tie, black dress shoes polished to a shine and dark hair shellacked down to his head. Because obviously, transferring McKinley is a big deal, and the kid's got to be wearing his Sunday best to be here. No point in getting slushied if you're not wearing clothes worth ruining, after all.
It's not like Santana doesn't know what they're doing there; what she doesn't understand is why.
But it's not her place to ask them, and it's not like she even cares, so she doesn't.
She clutches her manila envelope to her chest and keeps walking on down to the admin section, through the warren of offices and desks to the very back. To the nurse's office.
There's some gray-haired little old lady puttering around with the filing cabinet in the corner, talking to herself as she flicks through the folders, "So that's the one with the insulin shots, and then..." and Santana frowns and clears her throat, because seriously? Who the hell is this woman and why is she going through people's private medical information? The woman startles a little, turns around, and gives Santana a very distinct once-over. "If you're looking for your HGH injection," she says, with a sniff, "I can tell you right now that there won't be any of that under my watch, and I've already told your coach that I --"
"What?" Santana asks, leaning back and clutching the manila envelope a little tighter, because no one's supposed to know about the HGH, and especially not the nurse. And anyway, that's for the full-time bases. Santana's bottom of the pyramid now, but she's still a flyer. She'll always be a flyer, no matter what Coach says about her boobs weighing her down. Does she look fat or something? Do her boobs make her look fat? "No, I'm here for Nurse Burke. Where is she?"
The old lady rolls her eyes and turns back to the file cabinet, closing it with a brisk bang. "She's gone," the woman huffs, with way more attitude than she needs to have, considering. "Family emergency, I think. No idea when she'll be back. If she'll be back. So you're stuck with me." The woman turns around, folding her arms and glaring, and holy Jesus, what a mean old bitch. "So what is it, anyway? Condoms are still in the bowl on the desk, and if you're trying to get out of gym, then you'd better have some kind of proof that it's actually that time of the month, because I'm not just going to --"
"No!" Santana snaps, because holy shit, talk about uncalled-for. "No, I just... So that's it? She's just... She just left?"
"That's what they tell me," the lady says, and Santana's not sure why that makes her sag back against the doorframe; it just does. Because she's been working herself up all night over this, what she was gonna do, what she'd say, and now it's just -- It's not even necessary, and she kind of hates that. Being unnecessary. "Look, kiddo," the lady says, a little softer now. "Sorry if I've come off abrasive, but I work like four schools in this district; you get a little jaded, you know? But that also means that there's nothing I haven't seen, so if you want to tell me about it --"
Santana shakes her head, pulling in on herself. "No," she says, a little steadier now. Because okay, she doesn't have to have that talk with Nurse Burke, but maybe that's for the best, in the end. She never wanted to be involved in any of this in the first place, and now she's not, and that's fine. It's better than fine. It's perfect. "No, just... She was helping me. On this project. For health class. On boob implants. But it's fine, I'll just talk to Miss Holliday, I'm sure she --"
And then she just flat-out gives up and turns, and walks away.
Mr. Anderson's coming down the hall as she hurries out; he's got a little leather case in his hands, like something for shaving, and she has to wonder what's in it, but of course, she can't ask. He smiles at her as they get near each other, says "Hello, Santana," in his quiet, mild little voice.
She used to see the two of them together sometimes, him and Nurse Burke. It kind of blows her mind now, that they spent so much time together and he never figured it out. But then, even smart guys turn stupid when you shove a pretty blonde at them.
"Hey, Mr. A," she murmurs, and brushes past him, and wonders what he'll think when he gets to that nurse's office and sees a stranger there and realizes that Nurse Burke just up and bailed on him. She wonders if it'll hurt at all.
Not like it matters, in the end. And it's not like she cares.
Her part in this is over, and she couldn't be happier.
*
There's a note, at least; he finds it in his office, on his desk, once he's finished talking to their new part-time nurse (who had, if nothing else, been more than happy to let him take over Blaine's wound care -- in fact, he wouldn't be surprised if she nominates him to take care of everyone else as well). He turns the piece of paper over in his hands, contemplates it, what it might say, what it might mean. If it means anything at all.
It doesn't. Of course it doesn't. She was a colleague, a casual acquaintance and nothing more. And this is nothing more than a formality, a polite goodbye to someone who barely made a dent in her world.
And, after all, did she really mean so much to him, in the end?
Blaine is what matters. Blaine is all that matters.
He slides open the top drawer of his desk, slips the note inside, and closes it up again.
When he raises his eyes, Holly is standing in the doorway, smiling at him. "Well," she says, drawing the word out slowly. "Aren't you a sight for these sore eyes."
"Don't tell me my students have been giving you trouble, Holly," he says, raising an eyebrow. "Because even if they have, I'm not taking any of my classes back until Wednesday. So I'm afraid you'll just have to muddle through as best you can."
She shakes her head, laughing, and steps a little further into the room. "Are you kidding me?" she asks, crossing very, very slowly over to the desk. He knows that Holly's not seducing him; flirtation simply seems to be her default mode. It's just that sometimes, the effect is... Well. "Seriously, you've got those kids trained. No name switches, no buttered floors -- I think you have the only classroom in this building with absolutely no spitballs on the ceiling. Maybe the only classroom in the district." She sighs, flips her hair back over her shoulder, and perches on the edge of his desk. "It's going to be hard for me to give them up and go back to the usual heathen mobs, I'll tell you that."
Ben folds his hands on his desk and gazes up at her, all blonde hair and broad smiles, and it's still hard for him to comprehend how she can be so much more than she seems. But she is, plainly, so he takes a deep breath. "What if you didn't have to give them up?" he asks. "At least, not completely."
Holly's eyes widen; she purses her lips, a little bit. "I'm listening," she says, quietly.
"There's a... a medical issue," Ben says. "I've got a meeting with a specialist tomorrow, to finalize the treatment plans. And while I don't plan on being unable to work, it's possible that I'll be asked to... limit my activities, somewhat. I've mentioned this to Principal Figgins, and as you're fully qualified to teach up to the pre-calculus level, and that is the bulk of my classload right now --"
"This sounds serious," Holly says, but she doesn't really look surprised. Of course, Ben was never really expecting her to. She does know quite a bit about him. "This medical thing, I mean."
"It could be," Ben acknowledges. "And if it is, then I would appreciate having someone I trust ready to step in and take care of my students for me. If it comes to that."
Holly bites her lip and studies him for a long time, still perched on the corner of his desk. "I don't know," she says, quietly. "I mean, this sounds like it's gonna tie me down. I might have to buy real dishes and everything. I'm not even sure how to do that."
Ben smiles at her, because he doesn't know Holly that well, but he knows her well enough to be reasonably confident that she's just said yes. "I'm sure Blaine and Kurt would be willing to help you," he offers, leaning back in his chair.
"Blaine and Kurt?" Holly asks, and leans in a little. "So it's like that, is it?"
Ben just shrugs. "It is what it is," he says. "But they're certainly close. And they both share an affinity for housewares."
Holly's eyebrows go up. "I have to say, I'm a little surprised at you," she says. "For a crazy overprotective dad, you're remarkably cool with the idea that your only son might be about to make a love connection. A love connection with an affinity for nesting, no less." She leans in a little further, almost laying down on his desk. "Unless your goal is to have someone you trust ready to step in and take care of him, too."
That takes Ben back a little bit; he tries not to react too visibly, but it's hard not to suck in a deep breath when something so blunt is coming from someone else's mouth. "My goal," he says, "is to make sure my son is happy, Holly. If Kurt makes him happy, and he seems to, I plan on encouraging that. But I'm not leaving him. And I'm not leaving McKinley. Not unless I have absolutely no other choice."
Her eyes meet his, and for just a moment, there's something there. He doesn't understand her -- he's already decided that such a thing is completely impossible. But for a moment, he has faith in her. And it's enough. "Well," she says, and pushes herself back up until she's sitting with a little more dignity. "I guess I could get used to the idea of a full semester with no fear of a beat-down. From the students, anyway."
That draws a bit of a smile from Ben, and Holly beams back at him. "So you'll do it," he says.
She just shrugs. "If you need to take the time, and if Figgins approves it," she says. "Then I'll see what I can do." She slides easily off his desk and strides back towards the door, long legs taking long steps under her short, short skirt, and he does have to admire the blatancy with which she works; he can't deny that. "Oh, and Ben?" she asks, turning back towards him.
He says nothing, regarding her with one eyebrow raised.
"You should stand up now.”
His eyebrow stays up; he stays in his chair. “And why should I do that?”he asks.
“Because,” Holly says, beaming. “I'm taking you to lunch."
*
After Hydra Station, after Ben climbed onto a boat with his father and then just... stopped, he woke up -- months later, thirty pounds lighter, and wrapped in clothing that apparently used to be his but now hung on him so loosely that he thought it must have been from Tom's closet, not that he could remember the words "clothes" or "closet" or even "Tom." His fingers were so clumsy that he couldn't even fumble the buttons of his shirt out of their holes, his arms so weak he barely even had the strength to try. But Blaine was there, his childishly chubby hands making swift work of the buttons that his father couldn't manage anymore, his sweet clear voice singing --
catch a falling star and put it in your pocket, never let it fade away --
putting Ben to bed the way Ben had once put him to bed, before Hydra Station, before his father, before the boat.
And Ben concentrated hard on finding the right words, and managed to put together the first full sentence he'd spoken in months:
"It's not your fault."
It wasn't what he'd meant to say, but it felt close, somehow. Close enough to make Blaine stop singing, stare up at his father with huge, round eyes, and then fall forward into his father's chest, clutching his shirt and sobbing, and Ben found the strength to raise his arms and wrap them around his son, his beautiful son, and hold him close.
They stayed like that for a long time.
*
Somehow -- he's still not entirely sure how -- Ben finds himself walking down the halls of McKinley with his glasses tucked into his pocket and Holly Holliday's hands covering his eyes, with her body far closer to his than he would ordinarily ever be comfortable with, pushing him along. He has to wonder at himself a little bit; he never allows himself to be this vulnerable. It's possible that he's gotten a bit soft.
"You know, Holly," he says, and wonders why he doesn't feel the need to reach for his baton, just in case. "When you said you were taking me to lunch, I rather thought we'd leave the building."
She laughs at him, and really, this should be more unnerving than it is. "Still just a poor substitute, Ben," she says, and turns him abruptly to the left.
Ben's knee buckles and he stumbles forward, reaching out to catch himself with whatever's there even as Holly's hands fall away from his eyes and clutch at his shoulders. Between the two of them, they keep him standing, but it's a near thing.
Of course, he's been told repeatedly that this could happen. That if the tumor grows, or even if it shifts, there could be pressure on the nerves. That it could become difficult to walk. That he could fall. This time, at least, he has someone to help catch him.
"Sorry, sorry," Holly says, arms still wrapped around Ben's shoulders and chest. "Sorry. You okay?"
"Fine," Ben says; he settles back on his feet, gingerly testing the strength of his left leg. It seems to be holding. Could be just the suddenness of the turn, that something twisted that shouldn't have. Perhaps he needn't worry so much yet. "I'm... I'm fine."
"Sorry," Holly says again, still wrapped around him from behind. She pats absently at his chest before pulling back, hands settling loosely on his shoulders, body no longer pressed to his, letting him catch his breath. "Um... Maybe you should open your eyes now? We're here anyway, so."
"Of course, of course." Ben opens his eyes, blinks a few times, does his best to focus on what's in front of him. "Ah, the teachers' lounge," he says, noting with some amusement that the lights inside have been turned off. He wonders if anyone inside the room is actually hiding. The mental image is... Well, actually, it's surprisingly touching.
"You know," Ben says, softly. "I've never had a surprise party before."
"First time for everything," Holly murmurs in his ear. Then she's reaching past him to open the door, and Ben barely has a moment to think about it before he's letting his eyes flutter shut again. Holly's hands immediately come up to cover them, and she nudges him gently into the darkened room. "Anyway," she says, perhaps a touch louder than she needs to. "I could've taken you out, maybe, but I couldn't exactly pay for everyone, so I --"
"Everyone?" Ben repeats, feigning bewilderment.
Holly's hands fall away from his eyes and someone flips the lights on; Ben squints his eyes tighter shut for a moment in reaction, then lets them slowly open again.
"Maybe not everyone," Holly says, as Ben fumbles his glasses out of his pocket and puts them back on. "But close enough, right?"
It is, in fact, very nearly everyone. Nancy, Eleanor, Henri, Mary Jo... And of course, Will and Emma are there, and Shannon standing at the front of the pack, holding a cake that reads Welcome Back! in wobbly, uneven letters. "I was gonna bake the cake myself," Shannon says, hesitantly, "but I ran out of time, and I... Sorry the letters are so weird; that girl at the Safeway had hands like an orangutan learning the clavinova, so --"
"It's fine," Ben says, and has to struggle a little to get the words out around the lump in his throat. It's only just occurring to him now that if he had fallen, if he hadn't been able to get up again, there was a whole roomful of people on the other side of that door who would have been willing to help raise him to his feet. He has no idea how to feel about that. "I -- Thank you," he says, first to the cake, and then, looking up, to the faces all looking back at him. "Thank you," he says again. "All of you."
Out of the people missing, the most prominent is Sue. And, somehow, that's a relief. He's not entirely sure how he'd feel about letting his guard down in front of her, even for a minute.
"Thank you," he says, a third time, and then Holly starts pushing him towards a table, and he thinks he should mind it, having her pressed so close, having all of these people so close. But he really doesn't mind at all.
*
"So," Rachel says, squeezing in at the cafeteria table next to Blaine, who looks at her with enormous eyes and maybe a little alarm and honestly, she feels so silly now, thinking he was going to sabotage them. Of course, it's obvious that he hasn't been faking any of his feelings for Kurt at all -- the crutches are proof positive of that. But more than that, he's so... guileless, with his adorable bowties and his big brown eyes. Charmingly innocent, with the sort of non-threatening, boyish sexuality that would make him the perfect foil for her drama and intensity. "Blaine. Now, I wasn't entirely sure what your range would be, since it's surprisingly hard to find clips of the Warblers on YouTube, and while I don't generally give advice to our competitors, I strongly suggest that you get in touch with whatever contacts you might still have at Dalton to encourage them to up their social media presence; it's a huge asset not only for the group, but for individual performers looking to apply to top-notch musical theatre programs or possibly even for --"
"Rachel," Kurt sighs, sliding in on Blaine's other side and placing a tray on the table between the two of them. Lunch for two, and there's something so precious about Kurt finally having someone to share a tray with (not that she shares a tray with Finn, mind; she packs her own lunch) that Rachel feels a strong urge to clasp her hands and beam at them, an urge that she represses only out of deference to Kurt’s dignity. "You're scaring him. I thought we discussed that. You, scaring people."
Rachel sighs, and valiantly pushes back the urge to snap at him. Of course, Kurt is a protective person -- he was willing to beat up Jesse St. James for her; that has to count for something. And he's bound to be particularly worried about Blaine, with his crutches and his big cartoon-character eyes. Still, though. "I apologize," she says, as politely as she can. "I realize that my focus and intensity can be somewhat off-putting to those who aren't used to me. But it's just that I'm very excited to have you joining us, and to see where our musical chemistry takes us, and to that end I've compiled a list of possible duets that I think we should consider for Sectionals."
She sets the paper down in front of Blaine, and his eyes go even wider and more alarmed. He looks at Kurt like he's looking for help, and it's adorable, but also possibly a little irritating, because she's Rachel Berry, and she's right there, and how does he not see that this is the chance of a lifetime?
"Rachel," Kurt says, quietly, and she realizes that she can't see his left hand and she wonders if it's on Blaine's knee, under the table -- she's actually tempted to check for just a moment, before sanity slips back in. "Blaine's not performing with us at Sectionals.”
“What?” That actually draws a flinch from Blaine, and Rachel feels a little bit bad, so she tries to cover up the damage as best she can. “I mean, not that... But if you’re worried about your ability to... I mean, we haven’t even picked our songs yet, so --”
Blaine sighs, and glances down at the table, before looking up at her shyly through his thick dark lashes, and this is such a waste of his talent and charm, and she’s going to have words with Kurt when this is all over. She realizes that yes, musical chemistry is often a sign of romantic chemistry as well, and it's not that she blames Kurt for being concerned. But she's with Finn, and even if she wasn't, Kurt's her friend, and she'd never just --
“It’s not...” Blaine shakes his head. “I'm not worried about learning the songs so much, Rachel, but -- Maybe you haven’t seen a lot of Warblers performances, but I’ve seen what New Directions can do. It’s pretty choreography-intensive. Right now, I can barely make it to my classes. I can’t --” He shrugs and looks at her with soulful hazel eyes and seriously, Kurt, this is criminal. “I just can’t. Not right now.”
Artie wheels up across from them, and Rachel’s eyes widen with delight. The perfect solution! God, she’s so clever sometimes it almost hurts. “So we’ll put you in a chair!”Rachel says, clapping him on the shoulder briskly. “Like Artie. And then it won’t matter -- you can do everything that we do.”
“That’s not how it works, Rachel,”Artie murmurs; Rachel ignores him.
“Admittedly, the height difference between us will be something I’ll have to overcome -- I’m not accustomed to looking down at my leading men, but --”
“Rachel,”Kurt says, as if calling her name out at the start of every sentence is the only way to get her attention (it might be the easiest way, but it’s not the only way). “No. Stop. Remember how hard it was for us to learn how to deal with the chairs last year? Even if Blaine wanted to, there’s no way he’d be able to get up to Artie’s level in a week. So let’s just --”
“Wait,”Rachel says, quietly, because what Kurt’s just thrown out there is something she can’t quite comprehend. She turns to Blaine, sitting small in his chair with his head lowered, eyes on his plate. “You don’t want to?”
Blaine gives Kurt another one of those helpless looks, and Kurt doesn’t say anything but there’s the smallest shift of his shoulder and he is totally squeezing Blaine’s knee underneath the table; Rachel knows it. “It’s not that I don’t want to perform with you,”Blaine says, “it’s just --” He takes a deep breath, looks around the cafeteria, leans in a little bit closer. “I just feel like, because I’m that kid who got shot, you know, and everyone knows it, and I just... I think I’ve got enough attention right now. I don’t know if I need any more.”
Rachel blinks at him for a few seconds, because she understands that there’s good attention, of course, and then there’s bad attention (like having crude cartoon likenesses of yourself appearing in the women’s restroom, or moustaches drawn on your yearbook photo, or eggs thrown at your head), but it’s hard to understand why Blaine might object to everyone knowing that he’s a hero. Because he is a hero -- he saved Kurt, and possibly also Santana, which was not only brave but incredibly charitable of him, and surely --
“Great job, new kid,”Artie sighs, picking up a fry and dipping it into the puddle of ranch dressing on his plate. “You just broke Rachel.”
“No,”Rachel protests, a little bit feebly, but still. “No, I...” And she looks out at the rest of the cafeteria, at all the people ignoring them, at all the people shooting curious looks their way, and she thinks about all the times that she and Kurt and Artie and everyone in glee club have proven themselves to these people, shown their talent and their strength and their worth, and she thinks about what they’ve gotten in return. And she smiles at Blaine and reaches out to pat his hand. “Of course. But you owe me a duet. When you’re settled, of course.”
“Of course,”Blaine says, and smiles politely (and perhaps still a little nervously) back at her.
And it is absolutely criminal that he won’t be joining them for Sectionals, but. That just means she’ll have to work extra hard to get them through to Regionals.
Is it too much to do “Don’t Rain on My Parade”twice in a row? She’ll have to think about that.
*
“Just for the record?”Artie asks, reaching up to close Blaine’s locker for him as Kurt slides Blaine’s textbooks into his backpack. He feels a little bit weird about doing this much for the guy, not because he doesn’t like him but because he does like him, and he doesn’t want to offend him by overstepping his bounds. But, on the other hand, Blaine still can’t use his hands for anything without dropping his crutches, and that’s just as embarrassing and a lot more dangerous, so. “You do get used to Rachel. Eventually. Kind of.”
Blaine tries to shrug, his shoulders hitching up a little bit, making him wobble slightly on his crutches, and Artie can’t help but think, just for a second, that Rachel might have a point about the chair being easier for him. Not that he’d advocate it or anything, but still. “She’s fine,”Blaine says, “really, I just -- I don’t know, maybe it's not the right time. I mean -- Maybe I... Maybe I shouldn’t join glee club until I’m, you know, able to really join --”
“Absolutely not,”Kurt says, slamming his own locker shut with a surprising amount of force. “Look, Blaine, we want you with us. Even Rachel wants you there. Maybe not as much as she wants a new duet partner, but.”
“Anyway,”Artie says, wheeling away down the hallway towards the school’s one and only elevator, leaving the others to follow him, “what’re you going to do for a the next week? You can’t sign up for another class and then drop it again once we’ve gotten past sectionals.”
“I could... I could sit in with my dad, maybe, or --”
There’s a pause and then Kurt says, a little uncomfortable, “I mean... if that’s what you really wanted to do, Blaine --”and Artie stops his chair, spinning it around fast enough that when he turns around, Kurt is half in front of Blaine, like a human shield, and it almost makes Artie angrier, even though he doesn’t really know why.
It’s just -- He doesn’t understand what’s going on anymore, not really. He knows there’s more to this Blaine situation, not necessarily because of anything that Kurt or Blaine or even Finn have said or done, but because of Brittany. Because she obviously thinks that something awful’s going to happen, or she wouldn’t be messing with that stupid time machine in the first place, and maybe it’s just her imagination, probably it’s just her imagination, but every time Artie looks at Blaine, he thinks about that purple lamp and that stupid toy mouse and the faint smell of cigarette smoke, and he hates that.
And he’s not going to take it out on Blaine, because he can’t believe that whatever’s going to happen is Blaine’s fault, because he just doesn’t think Brittany would be so intent on saving him if it was. But dammit, he can still be angry. He is allowed.
“No,”he says, firmly. “You’re not spending the rest of the week sitting in the back of A.P. Calculus with a bunch of kids you don’t know just because Rachel made you think that you can’t be in glee club unless you’re onstage for Sectionals. There’s no rules saying you have to compete the day you join up. Kurt and I checked. And we talked to Mr. Schue. Everyone is on board with this. So don’t you dare back out now. You’re joining glee club. Today. And that’s that.”
And then he pivots again and starts wheeling off towards the elevator without giving Blaine a chance to answer.
“Oh-kayyy,”Kurt says, drawing the word out like he’s trying to be scornful, but Artie’s pretty sure he’s more impressed than anything else. “Well. I told you we wanted you to join, Blaine. Apparently Artie wants it more than I thought he did.”
What Artie wants, more than anything, is a way to stop bad things from happening to people he likes. But he doesn’t say that out loud.
“You don’t even know me,”Blaine says, his voice quiet and maybe a little stunned. “I mean, why does it -- I’m not complaining, but you’re doing all of this for me, and you don’t -- You don’t even know me.”
Artie pulls back gently on his wheels, braking, and very slowly, very carefully turns around (so Kurt doesn’t leap in front of Blaine to protect him again). He looks up at Blaine, still wobbling a little on his crutches, and says, “I don’t need to. Welcome to glee club, Blaine.”
*
Welcome to glee club.
It turns out that the kid with the mohawk, the one who’d danced with Santana at the wedding, is named Puck. He sits next to Blaine in geometry and tries to feed him answers, all of which are wrong, and it is, in its incredibly misguided way, one of the nicer things that anyone’s ever done for Blaine.
Welcome to glee club.
English is with Mercedes and Tina -- they make him sit between them and proceed to spend the entire hour whispering McKinley gossip into his ears and giggling at his expressions. He thinks maybe the teacher assigned them some reading, but his head is so full of hot tubs and pregnancies and fights and cheating and love pentagons that he has absolutely no idea what it was.
Welcome to glee club.
“I know it’s your first day,”Kurt says, apologetically, pulling one set of textbooks and folders out of Blaine’s bag and replacing them with new ones (and Kurt has color-coordinated Blaine’s notebooks, and he’s running this whole thing like a general, and Blaine is just so impressed sometimes that it’s hard to stand it), “and I know you’ve got a lot to remember as it is, but I really think Finn’s going to fail American History if he keeps forgetting to show up, and since you’re in the same class anyway, if you could just --”
“It’s okay,”Blaine says, and it is okay; in fact, it’s better than okay. Because while he’s impressed by Kurt’s management skills, and touched to the point of being overwhelmed by how kind everyone is (or at least, by how kind the glee club is; everyone else just sort of stares at him for a few seconds then pretends he isn’t there), it’s kind of a little frustrating to feel so helpless all the time. And yeah, to an extent, he kind of is. But not completely. And he doesn’t want that to be the place he carves out for himself at McKinley. He’s more than that. “Don’t worry about Finn. I’ll take care of him for you.”
And Kurt blinks for a few seconds, and then he smiles at Blaine, that little surprised, pleased smile that throws Blaine for a loop every time, because it’s obvious that Kurt doesn’t expect Blaine to remember the things they've talked about, to do things for him, to care about him, and that hurts. Because Kurt deserves to be cared for. Kurt deserves everything.
“Okay,”Kurt says, still smiling.
Blaine smiles back at him. "Okay," he says, and then turns away to go find Finn.
Welcome to glee club.
Santana doesn’t really talk to him, even when she shows up at his locker and Kurt says she's going to take Blaine to Spanish class. She gives Blaine a little half-a-smile, and she stays at his shoulder just like the rest of them do, but she doesn't really talk to him. At all.
But when someone’s foot catches the base of one of his crutches and he almost wipes out in the middle of the hallway, she’s there, catching him and hauling him back up to his feet while simultaneously hurling threats at the guy who tripped him. Then she asks him whether he’s on a diet or whether it’s his elven heritage that makes him so slender, and then goes into a short diatribe about hobbits that reveals a far deeper knowledge of the Lord of the Rings novels than Blaine would have suspected. Then she implies that he's related to Rachel, and he's pretty sure it's supposed to be insulting, but it's almost sweet at the same time, even if he couldn't say why.
Then, when he's got his crutches under him again, she goes silent again, and stays that way all the way to Mr. Schuester's classroom.
Welcome to glee club.
He obviously can’t take gym, so he takes home ec instead.
He’s pretty sure that he’s the only one who thinks it’s a good idea.
Admittedly, when he walks into the room and sees the bolts of red calico on the wall, he’s not sure it’s such a good idea either. It’s just that by then, he’s committed. So he closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly, and keeps going, crutching through the center aisle down to the very back table, with Quinn Fabray hovering behind him the entire time.
(He glances over at the bolts of red fabric just one more time, after he’s gotten settled but before class has really started, and he has to close his eyes again. This time, he doesn’t open them until he feels Quinn’s hand come to rest gently on top of his, soft and comforting. The first thing he does when he opens his eyes is to smile at her.
She smiles back.)
Welcome to glee club.
He's a little surprised that Kurt isn't sitting next to him on the risers in the choir room, that it's Quinn on his left side and Mercedes on his right.
Maybe surprised isn't the best word.
Maybe hurt would be a little bit better.
Admittedly, it's not like he hasn't seen Kurt all day -- their lockers are right next to each other, and they sat with each other at lunch, but still. This is the only class they share; it's the only time he's not in a room full of virtual strangers, and he just doesn't understand --
But then he sees his father trailing into the room after Mr. Schuester, standing by the door, and he realizes that this is part of Kurt's plan, somehow, and he takes a deep breath in, and he lets it out slowly, and he trusts.
"Guys," Mr. Schuester says, pulling everyone's attention towards him. "I'm sure that, by now, you've all noticed that we've got a new student in our midst." And just like that, everyone's attention snaps back to Blaine, and he almost wants to hide, but Mercedes takes his hand and Quinn rubs at his shoulder, and he lifts his chin and tries to get through it. "Now usually we ask that our new members introduce themselves to us with a song --" and here Blaine starts to panic a little, because he sang bits of things when he and Kurt were working out the wedding playlist but he hasn't really sung since -- "but Kurt has asked to do the honors and, under the circumstances, I agreed that might be the best. So. Kurt?"
Then Kurt is stepping down off the risers to stand in front of the group, and Blaine realizes that he's probably going to lose it in front of all these people, and the best he can hope for is that someone has tissues for him.
Kurt's eyes meet his, soft, beautiful, and Blaine swallows hard. "Hi," Kurt says, softly.
"Hi," Blaine replies.
Someone giggles.
"So I had this speech," Kurt says, hands knotting together nervously in front of him, "and it was a really good speech, honestly; I mean, I've been writing my Tony acceptance speech for years, so I've had a lot of practice. But this speech... See, I couldn't really think of a way to say what I wanted to say, without..." He catches himself, shakes his head, smiles a little. "So I decided to just let the song speak for me," he finishes, and looks over to where Puck is picking up an acoustic guitar, slinging the strap over his shoulder, settling himself on a stool. There's a look, and a nod, and then Puck starts playing, the tune surprisingly delicate.
Blaine swallows hard, then swallows again, and Kurt hasn't even started singing yet, but then he does, and oh.
Blackbird singing in the dead of night
Take these broken wings and learn to fly
All your life
You were only waiting for this moment to arise --
Blaine has just long enough to wonder if this song isn't maybe a little too appropriate, before movement at the back of the room catches his eye. His father is opening the door, letting someone in, and it isn't someone; it's --
"Oh my God," Blaine whispers, the words lost underneath the sound of Kurt's voice, floating sweetly above the Warblers' harmonizing vocals. The Warblers, still in uniform, filing into the choir room because they're there for him, there to say goodbye to him, and he doesn't know how to deal with this, he really doesn't.
All your life
You were only waiting for this moment to be free.
He has his wits about him just enough to notice when the New Directions chime in, the girls' voices rising to soar with the tenors, the boys' voices heavy with the baritones and basses, and Kurt's voice, so clear and pure and distinct even amongst all the others that it takes his breath away, and it's so much, so much, and all that keeps him from losing himself entirely is Mercedes' hand holding his, Quinn rubbing circles between his shoulder blades, Wes's dark eyes steady on his, and there in the back, his father watching over it all. His father nods at him, smiling, and Blaine tries to smile back but he's crying, a little because he's saying goodbye but also a little because he's saying hello, and it's just so much.
It's so much.
You were only waiting for this moment to arise.
Welcome to glee club.
*
"Dad?" Blaine calls, and Ben frowns, pushing his chair back from the kitchen table. Blaine's been very insistent about being self-reliant since before the wedding -- he handles his own bathing, dresses himself, does everything but change his own bandages. But there's that note in Blaine's voice now, that sort of... need, Ben supposes, and while Blaine's proven himself perfectly capable of getting ready for bed on his own...
Ben worries.
But when he steps into Blaine's room, his son is already in bed with the lights out -- Ben can just make out the shape of him, supine on the bed with his left leg bent at the knee and propped up with a pillow to keep him from being too uncomfortable, arms folded over the blankets. "Blaine?" he asks, quietly, and wonders if he's hearing things.
"Dad," Blaine replies, voice very soft, very young. "Would you... Just for a little while. Could you sit with me?"
"Of course," Ben says, and crosses immediately to the bed, settling himself against the headboard. Blaine's washed his gel out, could never sleep with it in, and when Ben strokes his fingertips lightly through his son's dark curls, Blaine shifts, angling himself towards his father. Honestly, Ben's not sure why he's surprised; they've been doing this a lot lately -- that night in the hospital and then the one after that as well, and then again after Kurt and Finn came to give their family's decision. And he imagines they would have been in the same position Saturday after the wedding, and Sunday as well, if Kurt hadn't already been here.
What was it Holly had accused him of? Your goal is to have someone you trust ready to step in and take care of him, too. Which, of course, is not the case at all. Ben's goal is, as it has always been, to find a way to get free of the Island, so that he can raise his son in the (relative) peace and safety of the outside world. He does not want -- he would never want -- to leave his son for any length of time.
But he is a pragmatic person, and as such, he recognizes the importance of having a backup plan. Granted, he would prefer that the backup plan not be a sixteen year-old boy, but. Needs must, and all.
"I miss sleeping on my side," Blaine murmurs, eyes fluttering open for just a moment; Ben chuckles, still drawing his fingers gently through Blaine's hair in the way that's always lulled him to sleep the fastest.
"You could, you know," he suggests, scratching lightly at Blaine's scalp. "I'm sure we could arrange it so you're more-or-less comfortable."
Blaine frowns a little, his eyebrows drawing together, and doesn't reply.
"Or not," Ben adds, and goes back to combing his fingers through Blaine's curls.
The little crease between Blaine's eyebrows smooths itself out again. He's not quite asleep, not yet; Ben knows him too well to be fooled, knows all his son's tells by now, so he keeps letting Blaine's hair slide between his fingertips, trying to lull him. After a few moments, he even starts humming, and Blaine's lips curve up in a smile.
"Kurt sang that to me," he murmurs, eyes still shut. "Said he learned it from his mom."
It almost feels like it should remind Ben of something. Like he should be able to hear Annie's sweet childish voice singing the words along with him. But there's nothing there -- just a brief afterimage of an empty rocking chair, a whistling sound, and he shudders and stops trying to remember.
Blaine tips his head in Ben's direction, though his eyes are still closed when he asks, "Did you learn it from her? Like Kurt did?"
"Of course," Ben says, and doesn't even feel guilty for lying. Blaine would only worry anyway; he hates the holes in his father's memory, blames himself for them although it's not his fault. "Of course I did."
Blaine smiles sleepily, relaxing into the mattress.
Ben keeps stroking his son's hair, keeps humming to him, but doesn't let himself sing.
Catch a falling star and put it in your pocket --
*
1980
(But before Hydra Station, before Ben woke up, unable to even raise his arms to undress himself, before he forced his rusted voice to speak for the first time in months --
(Before all that, there was this:)
Mr. Horace was in the living room with his dad; there were beer cans scattered around them. Mr. Horace was crying, hiccuping into his dad's shoulder, and his dad was awkwardly hugging back. "This is my fault," Mr. Horace was saying. "If I'd been there -- I should've been there; I should've --"
"It wasn't your fault," Ben's dad said, and he looked right at Ben when he said it, and Ben didn't need his father to say whose fault it was. He already knew.
Kinda hard to celebrate on the day you killed your ma, his father had told him, laying on the couch with a DHARMA beer clutched in his hands, and just like that, all the warmth that Ben had carried with him from Mr. Pace's house went right out the window. The same thing his dad had been telling him for years -- that Ben had been born a killer, that his very first victim was his own mother, who died so Ben could be born.
But it wasn't Ben's fault she was gone. He'd never asked to be born, he'd never... He'd never wanted this life. It just happened to him. But he hadn't wanted it, and he hadn't done anything to deserve it, and if he could change things, he would. But he couldn't. And that wasn't his fault either. It wasn't.
But he couldn't say that, not with so many beer cans scattered around, so he just slipped out the door when his dad wasn't looking, and headed off into the night. He wasn't sure where he was going, just --
Everything had always been his fault, ever since he was a baby. And it wasn't fair that he'd had to start that way; he hadn't deserved it. And Miss Amy's baby; he didn't deserve it either.
Someone needed to tell him so.
As Ben neared the infirmary, he saw some people standing on the porch, talking. One of them was a little away from the others, near the stairs. Tall, thin -- Ben thought maybe it was a man, or at least a teenager. He had something cradled in his arms; it must've been Miss Amy's baby. The man, who might've been a teenager, was singing, his voice high and sweet and clear:
Catch a falling star and put it in your pocket, save it for your rainy day --
Ben climbed the stairs and sat down at the very top, near the man who might've been a teenager, and listened.
It was a strange thing to think, but it felt like he was being forgiven.