Kurt Hummel is screwed.
He’s at least two hours late for work, and his boss already dislikes him, he’s grimy and soaked through with sweat and a little blood, and he hurts all over.
It’s not a good day.
He’s sitting in an aggressively uncomfortable hospital chair – it’s almost as if they want to make sure that all visitors are miserable, be it from seeing a loved one sick and in pain, or simply from being forced to hunch over in an unnatural pose for hours – next to a hospital bed, and he’s about two minutes from biting his nails.
He has absolutely no business being here.
In fact, he doesn’t know why he’s still here, why he’s even allowed, but the sweet triage nurse keeps insisting he stay until the family gets here because, as she says, “It’ll be better coming from you, honey,” and Kurt can sort of understand. After all, he did save the guy’s life. The gorgeous guy, who’s been a staple on his morning commute to work for months now, (and Kurt has maybe fantasised about him for just as long) and who is now lying in a hospital bed, unconscious and hooked up to a myriad of machines, and still looking unfairly attractive despite everything.
Kurt looks at his sleeping face and decides to try and make his escape (again).
He gets up, cringing at the way his damp clothes cling to his body in the most uncomfortable places and turns around.
Through the glass wall he sees what must be at least ten nurses looking at him, cooing. The short, plump one even looks teary.
He sighs and sits back down.
He is so screwed.

His morning actually started out very promising.
He had (or was supposed to have, anyway) the morning shift with Mercedes, who is his absolute favourite person in the world. She can almost always cheer him up when he’s having a bad day and she makes him feel less desperate about being stuck working in a coffee shop which only just pays enough for him to make his rent and not starve.
Today, he had woken up the first time his alarm sounded, so he’d had time to have a proper breakfast and grab a sandwich for his lunch break, and when he’d arrived at the train station, it had been empty except for Gorgeous Stranger That Kurt Was Totally Going To Marry One Day and a group of gangly teenage boys guffawing over something on a camera phone and lazily passing a basketball around.
Kurt had indulged in a bit of harmless observation out of the corner of his eye – Gorgeous Stranger was wearing incredibly well-tailored trousers – and the loudspeaker had spewed out its usual warning about an approaching train, and then it happened. Kurt watched as, almost in slow-motion, the basketball soared through a pair of outstretched arms and bounced against the back of Gorgeous Stranger’s knee, knocking him off-balance. He had stumbled for a moment, too close to the tracks, before toppling over and out of sight without making a sound. There was a too-audible ‘crack’ as what must have been his head hit the ground, and then silence.
It had taken a few seconds for it to register in Kurt’s mind, and then he had dropped everything and raced to the edge of the platform. Gorgeous Stranger was lying spread-eagle across the tracks, face up, unmoving even as the train came into view. Kurt looked around in panic only to see the backs of the fleeing teenagers, then back down to the tracks, where a tiny pool of dark red was spreading under Gorgeous Stranger’s head.
It was as if his feet decided to move of their own accord. Kurt had no idea what he was going to do, but found himself jumping, landing on the tracks and shuffling across to the man. Close up, he was pale, but he still had a pulse, and when Kurt put his hand up to the man’s mouth, he could feel the tiny, warm gusts of air that meant that he was still breathing as well.
“Sir?” There was no reply.
“Hello? Sir, can you hear me?” Silence.
He hesitated, but then slapped the man lightly on the cheek. Still nothing. Kurt looked up to find the train much closer and panic squirmed in his stomach. He was no weakling, but he knew without even trying that he would never be able to get the man back up on the platform in time. He was simply too big, the train too close, the platform too high. Kurt looked around, desperately hoping for help, for some kind of solution, for shelter.
And then he saw it.
About three metres down the track, there was a dip under the platform itself. It looked just big enough for two people, if Kurt could just get there in time. He grabbed the man by his arms and half-carried, half-dragged him and reached the hollow as the very tracks began to vibrate. It took one desperate push and the man was concealed, and Kurt flung himself down on top of him seconds before the wheels of the train thundered past, boxing them in and making the tiny, confined space feel like a coffin with its lid nailed shut.
How long they stayed like that Kurt had no idea. The train had screeched to a halt, presumably letting passengers on and off, but also effectively trapping him and dousing him in exhaust fumes. It made his eyes water and his throat burn, and he was feeling light-headed when, finally, a shrill whistle sounded and the train started moving again.
He wiggled out, stumbling over the tracks, and promptly had a coughing fit that sent him toppling down on all fours. The clean air bit into his lungs like icy needles and it was all he could do to stop himself from throwing up.
“Sir! Hello? Sir! Are you alright?”
A round-faced, sweaty man was running towards him on the platform, his uniform jacket open and flapping behind him.
Kurt waved a hand in answer, still busily gulping down lungfuls of fresh air, and the man – presumably a security guard – came to a halt in front of him, peering down on the tracks, searching.
“Where’s the other guy? The first one?”
Kurt scrambled over to the hollow, crouched down and managed to drag Grimy But Still Gorgeous Stranger out on the tracks again. The security guard jumped down on the tracks and kneeled to take a closer look.
“He’s still breathing,” he said.
Kurt let out a relieved sigh.
“Saw the whole thing on the surveillance monitor. He’s lucky he didn’t break his neck, the way he fell. He needs to go to the hospital right away. You think you can help me get him up on the platform?”
Kurt nodded weakly, and together they half-lifted, half-heaved the man up on the platform concrete and climbed up after him. Kurt collapsed on the ground, his limbs wobbly like over-boiled noodles, but the security guard was already talking rapidly into first his walkie talkie, then his mobile phone. Kurt was barely paying attention, too intent on steadying his heaving breaths and periodically checking Gorgeous Stranger’s pulse and respiration. Only when paramedics arrived and lifted the man up on a stretcher did he feel like his legs might again support his weight, but when he got up, he promptly felt dizzy and started coughing again. There were hands gently guiding him along the platform after the paramedics, and he thought he might have heard a comment about “inhaling the diesel fumes for I don’t know how long, the poor kid, and he was hacking out his lungs by the time I got there,” but he concentrated on simply breathing and walking.
He managed to catch his breath long enough to insist that he come along in the ambulance, and took his place, clutching Gorgeous Stranger’s hand like a lifeline. The last thing he heard, before the doors of the ambulance swung shut was the gruff voice of the security guard.
“You saved his life, kid. That’s something to be proud about.”

And now Kurt is here, stuck in this hospital chair, and while he is happy he was able to help, he also can’t help but feel that something’s distinctly off. The nurses have all but forced him back into the chair every time he’s tried to leave, and the bubbly one – Sugar, he hears people call her – keeps trying to reassure him that it will be better if he’s there when the family arrives, so they’ll know Kurt was by Cooper’s side the whole time. Because that is Gorgeous Stranger’s real name; Cooper Anderson. It says so on his chart, which Kurt has taken to memorising while waiting for Cooper’s family to show up so he can finally go home.
When there’s finally a knock on the door at about noon, he sighs in relief. The door opens and Sugar the nurse appears, followed by a middle-aged couple with harried looks on their faces, an older lady, who looks to be in her sixties or seventies, and a young man, who’s probably around Kurt’s own age. They all look equally perplexed to find Kurt already there, and Kurt feels vindicated – clearly, there was no need for him to stay this long, whatever the nurses may think.
It’s the middle-aged man – probably Cooper’s father – who speaks up first.
“I don’t mean to be rude, but who are you?”
For some inexplicable reason, Sugar’s face falls. “You’ve never met?” she asks, confused.
“No,” Kurt says. “I’ve been trying to tell you.”
There is an awkward pause, but then the middle-aged woman holds out her hand, with a pleasant smile.
“Well, better late than never, dear. I’m Veronica Anderson, Cooper’s mother,” she says.
Kurt shakes her hand. “Kurt Hummel. I’m – “
But Kurt never gets any further, because at that precise moment, something snaps in Sugar and she practically squeals:
“And he’s Cooper’s fianc�!”