Remind Me to Forget

Chapter 25

A blaring ringtone cuts through the night, its owner fumbling to answer in the darkness of the room.

“Hello?”

-*-*-*-

“Sir, sir can you tell me your name?”

“You're finished, Anderson!”

Bright lights shine in his eyes, before leaving –

A green truck speeds away, tail lights fading to darkness.

There's something around his neck, hands at his wrists. “My name's Angela; I'm going to help you feel a bit better, okay? Now, can you open those eyes for me, maybe tell me your name?”

“Couldn't believe it when Mitch told me he saw you at Meijer, but there you were. And workin' at a garage? What's a homo know about cars?

“My partner's getting your IV, okay honey? You might feel a pinch, but he's good at his job. Now keep those eyes open for me, it's not time to rest just yet. Mayne you can tell me if you have any allergies? I know medical bracelets aren't the coolest things to wear.”

Pain blossoms in his arm before it goes numb, a chill spreading from it to the rest of his body even as the concrete breaks his fall.

“Sorry, I know this hurts,” there's pressure on his side but he can't move, feels the scream get trapped in his throat. “Looks like you've got some bleeding, but we're gonna get you all patched up.”

His side is burning, but he can't move, the pain keeping him frozen even as it grows; something cracks and then it's harder to breathe.

“Hey, Blaine?” A blur of blue and brown and then pressure's back on his chest, “Is that your name? I'm going to guess that your ID is right; you look like a charmer. Do you remember what happened?”

Another kick and then he can't breathe at all –

“He's crashing! Dammit, kid –”

Blaine gives in to the darkness.

-*-*-*-

Kurt winces as his phone rings for the fifth time. It may be on silent, but vibrating phones are merciless on hardwood floors, the skittering hum audible even though Kurt's bag. When it starts again he moves to the edge of his seat, his annoyance at Blaine for forgetting their scheduled call at ten – or at his father for just wanting ‘check in' – fading.

His phone is still buzzing.

“Why don't we take a break,” Kurt's already standing as his classmate makes the suggestion, ignoring the hint of aggravation in the tone. He crosses the small space in quick steps and has his phone in hand seconds later, its screen lit up with a candid picture taken by the waitress when they'd all gone to Breadstix to celebrate Blaine's birthday.

“Hello?”

“Hey, kiddo.” His dad's voice sounds rough, and Kurt leans against the chair, clenching the phone. He recognizes that tone. It's the tone he heard when he realized his mom wasn't coming home, when his dad's check-up didn't go well, when Finn –

“Something's wrong, isn't it.” Kurt doesn't even make it a question, “What happened?”

“I –” Kurt bites his lip when his father doesn't finish the thought, listens to him pull in a breath. “I got a call, about ten minutes ago. Are you sitting down? You should be sitting down, and you're not alone –”

“Dad!”

“It's Blaine, Kurt.”

Three words. Three words and Kurt feels the world tip, change focus (what is it with three words?) as he takes in the new information, and then he's moving, his bag on his shoulder and the calls of his classmates fading as he exits the room.

“I –,” Kurt swallows, takes a breath as he leaves the building, “What happened?”

“Not sure, kid.” Again with the three words.

“What do you mean? You're not sure. How can you not be sure? What's wrong with Blaine?” Kurt winces, knows his voice has gone shrill, the last question a shout loud enough to earn him second looks even on a busy New York sidewalk. He makes himself forcibly let out a breath, ignoring the pressure behind his eyes as he focuses on the band of silver on his left hand.

His dad replies then, breaking his concentration, but it's just noise, pointless words about HIPPA and only knowing admittance. Kurt lets that information – too little, far, far too little – settle while stepping around a slow moving tourist, offering a half-hearted hum in reply to assure his father he's still on the line.

“I'm gonna find out what's going on, Kurt, but we don't know yet, so don't go borrowin' trouble.”

“He would have called.” Always call Kurt remembers, nervously swallowing, and Blaine would call, if he could.

“Not if his phone's dead, or broken.” Some small part of Kurt knows his dad is doing the same as him; grasping for the smallest hint of explanation, a way to protect Kurt from the hurt, the scary pieces of the world. And Kurt would be grasping too, but Blaine's dropped his phone on cafeteria tiles and New York sidewalks and countless tabletops, and never lets his phone fall below a forty percent charge. Blaine would have called.

And nothing good comes from a hospital phone call after ten at night. A pause and Kurt waits, hears the sound of breathing down the phone line. “We're almost to the hospital and then we'll know.”

“Which hospital?” The words are clipped as Kurt brings his focus back to the conversation, but he doesn't care. His world has shifted into two parts: facts about Blaine and everything else.  

“St. Rita's. We're ten minutes away.”

“Ten –” The word catches and Kurt blinks, his eyes feeling hot. He's almost six hundred miles away. “Dad the emergency credit card – I have to be –”

“Carole's already booked you a flight.” The statement cuts off the torrent of words, and Kurt knows that later, when he's able to feel things, he'll be grateful for his stepmother. “It's not til 5,” Kurt hears a rush in his ears; 5 AM is over seven hours away – “but you're on standby kid, anyone doesn't show for a flight to Columbus and you're on that plane.”

Kurt lets out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding.

“And,” Kurt presses the phone a bit closer to his ear, needing to hear what his father says more than the stranger yelling in the storefront a yard away, “Jim'll pick you up from the airport; I'll let him know what time as soon as you board.”

“Jim knows?”

“I knew you'd be comin' here, Kurt, and that you'd need a ride home.”

“Of course,” Kurt agrees, tapping his foot as he waits at the crosswalk.

“Alight, I'm at the parking garage, Kurt. I'll call back as soon as I have news for you. Okay?”

“Yeah. Okay. I'll talk to you soon.” Kurt hates that the last comes out as a question.

“As soon as I have somethin' to share.” Another pause, “I love you, kid.”

“Love you too, Dad.”

The call is over, and Kurt begins to plan.

He's moving to the edge of the sidewalk moments later, hailing a taxi with the same hand holding a now-blank cell phone.

He taps his folded umbrella against his thigh as he waits, sighing when two taxis pass before one pulls aside. Ignoring the driver's comment about the weather, he slides into his seat, holding onto his phone as he buckles his seatbelt and gives his address to the driver. It's been one minute since he hung up with his dad.

One minute and three words since his world changed.

Blaine's not-yet-replied-to text remains at the forefront of his lock screen. Kurt twists his ring, feels the spin of the metal against his finger.

He has to help Blaine with his time-management, apparently.

(Two minutes.)

He needs to get back to the loft.

His phone is silent.

He has to email his professors, tell them he'll be absent from class, ask to turn in assignments over email, to do his Dance, Voice – and possibly Acting – finals over Skype.

He has to ask for Incompletes if his professors won't allow for alternative end-of-term assessments.

(Four minutes.)

He has to pack. He'll need jeans, it's muggy and there will be thunderstorms in Ohio – he'll need shorts for days when it's particularly sweltering.

He just did laundry, he should have plenty of shirts, and he'd washed Blaine's favorite –

He needs to write a note for Santana and Rachel.

He'll have to let Dani and Elliott know too; he's not going to make it to any of the band's performances.

(Nine minutes.)

His ring slides to his knuckle on his next spin, and he pushes it back down, spins it again.

He'll need his toiletries: shampoo, body wash, shaving cream, deodorant. His moisturizers and hair products.

He needs to find his suitcase; his carryon isn't going to hold enough of his clothes.

(Seventeen minutes.)

The cab arrives at the loft and Kurt pulls out his wallet, counting the bills and paying the driver, tapping his umbrella as he makes his way to his front door.

(Twenty-two minutes.)

Inside the loft, umbrella carefully balanced against the wall by the door, he makes his way to his room, turning on the minimal amount of light as he goes. The loft is mostly dark – silent, too; Santana may have wanted a night alone with her girlfriend, but not even she is going to be home before eleven on a Friday night.

At his desk, the flowers from Blaine – slightly thinner with some having been pulled for drying – provide a splash of color against the dull wood. Kurt pauses, takes in the flowers before he drapes his bag over his chair, pulling his computer out and placing it on his desk to boot up while he tugs his carryon out from under his bed. A glance shows Windows still loading so he crosses to his dresser, methodically pulling out his best blue jeans and carefully refolding them as straight as possible before setting them in his bag.

He manages three pairs before his computer chimes a welcome.

(Twenty-eight minutes.)

After entering his password he steps back, turning as the screen flashes, fading from blue to show him and Blaine at Blaine's birthday party, leaning together, hands thrust forward, rings proudly displayed in the foreground of the picture.

He blinks, spinning his ring.

He needs more jeans. And he hasn't even started packing his shirts.

(Thirty-one minutes.)

He pulls down his grey button down, his white short-sleeved polo. He folds them carefully, makes sure they'll end up as wrinkle-free as possible. His carryon is getting full, jeans and shirts taking up inches of space, the depth of the bag seeming smaller than before.

He moves to his bureau then: socks, underwear, pajamas. All necessary, all now added to the space between shirts and pants.

Zipping the carryon shut he drops it to stand on the floor, pulling the handle before moving back to his desk, quickly opening his browser and bringing up his email.

(Forty-three minutes.)

In his pocket, his phone rings. He jolts, stumbling out of his chair, answering the call before the ringtone makes it to the chorus.

“Dad – how is he?” Kurt stays standing, taps his left hand on the back of his chair when the wait lasts a beat too long.

“He's,” A sigh, and Kurt's hands clench, knuckles white points against his skin, “it's not good.”

Three words.

And Kurt's world shifts for the third time.

“What do you mean.” It's not a question.

“They just took him back for surgery.” Another pause, “There's bleeding, Kurt, looks like they might have to take out his spleen. He's got bruised ribs, some are fractured, and they're workin' to make sure they don't hit a lung. He's got a concussion, bruises – and his right arm's out of socket, but that's pretty easy to fix.” There's a sigh down the line, and Kurt briefly closes his eyes, waiting. “I wish I had better news for you, kid.”

“How long is the surgery?” The question is calm, even, and Kurt glances around his room, tries to remember if his suitcase is in the storage closet or buried in the corner while he waits for a reply.

“That depends,” Kurt narrows his eyes, though he knows his dad can't see, annoyed at the drawn out words. “The doctor said they have to check the damage...they won't know what they have to do til they're in there.” For a moment Kurt thinks he hears a trace of irritation in his father's tone, but it's gone before he can fully tell. “It could be anywhere from thirty minutes to a few hours.”

And Kurt repeats his question from over fifty-seven minutes earlier: “What happened?” Because that much injury, for Blaine to be that hurt –

“He wasn't in a car accident.” It takes a moment for it to register, what his father is implying. It wasn't a car accident. So it wasn't an accident at all. And if it wasn't an accident –

“Do the police have who did it?” This time the silence stretches, and Kurt moves, unclenching his hand from the back of his desk chair and crossing to the corner of his room, raising a blanket to peer underneath. “They don't, do they.”

“Not yet.” And Kurt can practically see his father, face tightened in promise, in fury, even as lines show exhaustion.

Kurt hums in reply as he shifts a box of scarves, finally seeing his suitcase visible in the least-accessible inch of the corner. “Okay. I have to finish packing; the first standby flight leaves in just over an hour.” Kurt takes a breath and bites back a curse when his voice catches on his sentence, “You'll call?”

“You know better than that, Kurt. Soon as I know somethin' I'm dialing, okay?”

“Yeah. I – yeah. Okay. I'll talk to you soon, then.”

“Yes you will. And make sure you take a cab to the airport; use the credit card if you need to. Love you.”

“You too.” If his dad notices the hitch in his breathing as he replies, it's not mentioned.

(One hour and eleven minutes.)

He puts his phone back in his pocket and manages to free his suitcase, pushing everything else back into a pile before dragging it over by his bed. He moves to his clothes rack, pulling off shoes and belts, arranges them so they take up the least amount of space.

Back at his computer, he banishes the screensaver, starts composing a mass email to all of his professors and Madam Tibideaux. He keeps the subject line succinct and to the point: “Fiancé in hospital” – his English 101 professor should be pleased. He explains his impending absences, listing what he knows of Blaine's injuries, says that he'll drop his Theatre History paper in his professor's mailbox on the way to the airport, asks for extensions on his other assignments, requests non-traditional assessments for his other courses or for an Incomplete, but never apologizes for leaving.

(One hour and twenty-six minutes.)

He moves to the bathroom, gathering his toiletries. Shampoo, conditioner, body wash.

Razer, toothbrush, moisturizer. The thin drawstring bag is heavy on his arm, bottles clacking as he moves back to his room, placing the bag in the zippered portion of his suitcase.

He taps his thigh as he crosses back to his dresser, pulls out his blue pajamas and sweatpants. A pause, and then a slightly worn, long-sleeved black and white Henley joins the pile in his suitcase, carefully folded. He pulls out his phone, swipes past his home screen – 1 new message from Blaine - and uses his app to order a taxi.

(One hour and thirty-nine minutes.)

Bags packed, email sent, Kurt sighs and heads for the kitchen, starting a pot of coffee and grabbing a blank note from the magnetic pad on the fridge.

Seated at the table he taps the pen on the wood, considering his words. The coffee pot hisses on the counter, and Kurt begins to write as the liquid finally falls. It's short; he knows it's short – no matter his current situation with Rachel, and Santana being Santana they're still his friends – but he can't share more than he knows.

And all he knows is that Blaine's in the hospital.

He folds the paper, stands it in the center of the table before pouring a cup of the newly-brewed coffee into his travel mug.

He grabs his jacket from the hook by the door on the way to his room, slides it on as he pushes the curtain aside. He shuts down his computer, places it along with his larger textbooks in his still-open suitcase, securing the items before zipping it closed and moving it beside his carryon. His phone charger and tablet are taken from the bedside table, slid into the front pocket of his bag. The note from Blaine's flowers slides in his pants pocket too, the cardstock barely catching on the fabric.

His carryon strap bites into his shoulder as he leaves the room, his suitcase scraping along the now-dark floor. He grabs his coffee and keys, makes sure his note hasn't fallen.

(One hour and forty-seven minutes.)

The door slides shut with a bang, the echo shadowing him as he makes his exit. Muggy New York heat greets him as he leaves the building, but it's soon replaced with the air-conditioned (if stale) interior of his cab.

Kurt leans back in his seat, spinning his ring, the silver invisible in the darkness of the cab.

His coffee is bitter in his mouth, a touch too hot since it had no time to cool.

He has to drop off his paper – stapled and carefully sitting behind his tablet in his bag. He needs to organize his IDs, make it easier – faster – for him to get his boarding pass once he's at the airport.

He needs to find the central terminal for his stand-by flights.

(Two hours and nine minutes.)

Despite the late hour, NYADA students slump in various hallways and voices drift from lit practice rooms, sheet music and instruments littered around the tile floor. Luckily none offer more than polite nods as he walks to his professor's office, slipping his essay under the door.

The cab seems chillier after his brief walk outside and Kurt rubs his arms and drinks several swallows of coffee before pulling out his wallet, shuffling his cards so his ID is easily accessible, prominently displayed. A moment later Kurt pulls the note from his pocket, takes a moment to reread the poem – and rub his hand over Blaine's additional comment before sliding it into his wallet, protected from damage.

(Two hours and twenty-six minutes.)

The bright airport lights illuminate the interior of the cab, and Kurt blinks away the spots from the change in lighting. His suitcase clicks on the concrete before he enters the airport, boarding calls and echoes of chatter replacing the singular sound. He finds his airline, joining the line of soon-to-be passengers before arriving at the counter.

Most people want to leave Ohio; why are all the immediate flights fully booked?

He grips both tickets with a careful hand, puts his suitcase on the scale for baggage before heading for security.

(Two hours and thirty-seven minutes).

Kurt glances up at the boards, taps his thigh as he figures out the best way to get to his terminal. On the tram he stands by the door, is the first one off when they arrive at the correct exit.

His terminal is nearly empty, the bagel shop dark with its gate drawn. The plastic seat creaks as he sits down, placing his carryon beside him. Announcements blare over the speakers, and Kurt reads the weather and terror alert for the fifth time.

The terminal starts to fill.

(Two hours and fifty-three minutes.)

No empty seats.

Kurt thanks the flight attendant, confirms (again) that she'll call if there's been a miscalculation. If there's any space on the plane.

Kurt taps his thigh and returns to his seat.

He chooses to love Blaine every day; he knows Blaine is his one love, knows they were made for one another, but he chooses to trust him and show the world that with their rings.

Kurt looks at his hand again, takes in the glint of silver – makes a promise to himself that he'll never take it off.

No matter what happens.

So Kurt counts the turns of his ring and curses every fairy tale and romance he's ever read, because there is no red cord tying him to his soulmate; no sixth sense that lets him know when the worst has happened. Because he knows Blaine's hidden dreams and greatest fears and favorite food and brand of toothpaste, but while his fiancégot beaten and rushed to the hospital, Kurt didn't know.

(Three hours and eighteen minutes.)

There's no announcement.

(Three hours and twenty-six minutes.)

Another plane taxies on the runway. Kurt rereads his tickets, the fine-print and the details of his admittance based on a stand-by seat. New workers take their places behind the counter and Kurt stands, pats his wallet, gathering his tickets as he moves.

The employee is sympathetic, promises Kurt will be the first to know. Asks if he needs a blanket some water.

He needs to be in Ohio.

Kurt returns to his seat, plugs his phone in at the nearby charging station. His phone glows with the alert – 1 new message from Blaine.

A woman in a business suit takes a seat beside him, lamenting the state of the economy.

(Three hours and thirty-three minutes.)

Kurt stands before the announcer finishes his name, pocketing his phone and pulling out his ID and tickets as he walks.

Kurt Hummel has a seat.

(Three hours and forty-two minutes.)

-*-*-*-

“You'd think they could come out an' tell us somethin'! It's been over two hours!” Burt stands, unable to remain sitting for another minute, and rubs his hands over his face as he paces in front of their seats. Carole holds up the plastic pager, still silent, and Burt can't help but scowl. “They use those things at Breadstix – they shouldn't be in a hospital.”

“They keep people like you from harassing the poor nurses.”

“Is it really too much to ask for an update?”

“Apparently,” the word is tight, and Burt pauses, takes in Carole's tightly clasped hands, the straight, almost military posture.

And Burt is done waiting.

His phone beeps on his way to the nurse's station – Kurt's on a standby flight. Burt feels a bit of tension leave his shoulders; at least Kurt will spend a little less time in limbo.

The nurse – Laura according to her ID – looks up when he reaches the counter offering a polite if slightly distracted smile. “Yes? Can I help you?”

“Blaine Anderson? We've been waitin' on an update.”

Clicks on the keyboard and then Burt's spelling Blaine's name, giving his birthday, when asked. He's pulling out the paper in his pocket – hastily retrieved earlier from his nightstand drawer in near-darkness, added to the essentials of keys and wallet, too, ready to prove he's more than Blaine's Emergency Contact; he holds Medical Power of Attorney and he's not above showing every piece of that documentation to get answers (he still hasn't received a call back from the harried voicemail he left for the Andersons).

“So how's it feel to be an old man, Anderson?”

“He's not actually eighteen yet. And even if he was, I don't think that counts as old, Dad.”

“He had a party, and it's close enough. Besides, I wasn't askin' you, Kurt.”

He smiles as the boys laugh, taking in their sleep-mussed hair and tired eyes; it's early enough that there's more coffee in their mugs than in their stomachs, and he relishes in the fact that for these next twenty minutes he can out-think them.

“Well,” Blaine takes a bite of pancake, “It was a pretty amazing party, but can't say I feel any differently. It's been a wonderful weekend, though.” He looks down to his left hand before he flashes a smile at Kurt and Burt feels a swell of gratitude for this boy who makes his son blush.

It's later, after the coffee mugs have been emptied and refilled, that Burt manages to broach the undesirable topic that's haunted his thoughts – the rational but unwelcome thought that's been in the back of his mind since the countdown to the days when Blaine would no longer be a minor in the eyes of the law reached single digits.

“So, you're gonna be an adult soon.”

“Is there a reason you're repeating common knowledge, Dad?” Kurt laughs, but it holds an edge of exasperation. “That hasn't changed in the past few hours.”

“No,” Burt drops back into his seat on the sofa, ignoring the glare his son shoots him as he's forced to resettle. “But eighteen year old adults don't have guardians.” He pauses, lets the words sink in, turns to look at Blaine. “You're still welcome here, kid,” he adds, emphasis on the last word, “but, legally, you'll be in charge of all your decisions, not me or Carole. And in three days if something were to happen to you, the law says to contact next of kin. And until you and Kurt are married, that means your parents will make decisions for you if you cant. Not Kurt, not us. So,” he pauses, taking a moment to watch as his son and his son's fiancé (and no matter how much he loves Blaine that is still weird) communicate through facial expression. “Blaine, there's a few different options, and hopefully we never have to use ‘em, but what would you like to do?”

Two hours later, Burt Hummel is asked to be Blaine Devon Anderson's medical power of attorney and emergency contact, at least until he joins Kurt in New York. Because, as the boys explain, if anything were to happen, New York is hundreds of miles away, and while they accept the responsibility that comes with planning for marriage, the commitment and all that entails, they also know that logistically, if Blaine's hurt, Burt's in the same zip code.

He found the signed papers centered on the kitchen table the morning of Blaine's birthday. There'd been no more discussion, no mention of the forms.

Just like it was unspoken that if they were ever needed, Burt's name would just be for show once Kurt arrived.

“Mr. Hummel?”

Burt raises his head, ignores the question in her tone. “Yeah.”

“I don't have any updates for you, Mr. Hummel; it looks like Mr. Anderson is still in surgery.”

“Blaine.”

“I'm sorry?”

“His name,” Burt swallows, “it's just Blaine. Not – he doesn't go by Mr. Anderson.”

“Right. Blaine, then. You were given a pager?” At Burt's nod she continues, “Just come back here when it goes off; I can't promise any more information on Blaine until that happens.”

Burt clenches his hands around the edge of the counter, reminds himself that Laura is simply doing her job, that it's not her fault that Blaine's in an OR with doctors and nurses too busy to share information outside of the four walls they're currently in.

He releases the counter, refolds and pockets his papers, absently thanking Laura before making his way back to Carole.

She's still sitting in the vinyl-covered chair, although a steaming cup of coffee now rests on the table to her left, and another is clutched between her hands. She nods toward the cup as he approaches. “It's not the best, but it's hot.”

Burt takes the offered cup with a weak smile, blows across the steam for a moment before taking a cautious sip.

Carole was right: it's nowhere near coffee, but it is hot.

A broken laugh and Burt turns, sees Carole setting her cup on the table, moving to cover her face. “When we got the call – when they told us about Finn –”

Burt feels the coffee burn in his stomach. “Carole –”

“Part of me wished for this.” A shake of her head, “Not this – we got the call too late. He – he was already gone. But part of me wished that I'd had a chance to hope.” Burt sets his coffee on the floor under his chair and pulls Carole in, blinks as he feels right shoulder dampen, almost misses the whispered confession. “I was wrong. This is worse.”

Burt closes his eyes, drops his head to Carole's shoulder and tightens his arms around his wife.

He held his eight year old son when the world took away his mother.

He held his second wife through shared grief as they lost a son (and if a secret, selfish part of him had been glad it wasn't Kurt, no would ever know), as they mourned and packed up football trophies and drum sets.

And now he holds his wife again, wonders if the Hummel men are cursed to watch as people they love are torn from their lives.

Carole tightens her hold then, and Burt returns the gesture, forces himself to banish the pessimistic thoughts.

Yes, he lost a wife and Kurt lost a mother, and they lost Finn – they wouldn't lose Blaine.

Blaine is in surgery.

Carole was right the first time: There is hope. And he tells her as such, pressing a quick kiss to her cheek as he does.

“You're a good man, Burt Hummel.”

Burt passes her a tissue.

In Carole's lap, the pager lights up. He and Carole are standing seconds later, crossing the short distance to the nurse's station in ten quick steps, and Burt practically throws the still-blinking pager at Laura.

“Blaine Anderson. He was brought in over two hours ago.”

“Of course. Blaine.” Laura pauses, reaching under the counter for something Burt can't see. “A nurse should be out soon to give you an update on his condition, but I do have his things for you.” She holds out a draw-strong plastic bag, a sticker with Blaine's name and information attached to it.

“Thanks,” Burt looks at the table as Carole takes the proffered bag, “but you're tellin' me there's no news?”

“Burt.” He ignores Carole's comment, the hand resting on his arm.

“They didn't say anythin' when you got that bag?”

Laura has the decency to look apologetic, offers a sad smile. “I'll page you when I receive any updates,” at Burt's stare she continues, handing back the now-silent pager, “if there had been any issues they would have called. And,” she hands over a clipboard full of pages, pen attached, “if you could fill this out?”

“Right.” Burt takes the clipboard and rubs a hand over his eyes, steps back from the counter. “Thanks.”

Back at their seats, Burt watches Carole carefully open the bag while he takes a sip of his now tepid coffee.

Keys, a wallet, a cracked cell phone, a silver ring with flecks of red.

“I'm gonna go wash this.” Burt stands, gripping the ring in a tight fist and stepping away before he can hear Carole's reply.

In the bathroom he carefully rinses the ring under water, rubs his calloused fingers over the metal until it gleams, untarnished.

He slips it into his shirt pocket.

He takes a moment to stare at himself in the mirror, winces at the shadows under his eyes, the crooked baseball cap, and the wrinkled shirt he'd thrown back on while heading for the car. He splashes some water on his face, drying off with some paper towels before exiting the room.

Why is it always the kids?

Carole's still in her seat in the waiting room, but she's not alone: two uniformed officers stand beside her.

“Burt,” Carole looks up at his approach, “these are Officers Randall and Daniels; they have some questions about what happened to Blaine.”

“Yeah?” Burt eyes the two policemen, wonders at Daniels – who looks all of sixteen – and feels the anger return. “I got some questions about what happened to Blaine, too.”

“Burt –”

“You got anything on what happened to him?”

“Sir,” Randall steps forward, in front of his younger partner, and Burt resists the urge to roll his eyes. “I get that you're upset –”

“Damn right I'm upset!”

“Burt,” Carole sighs, places a hand on his arm, “they're just trying to do their jobs.”

A pause and then Randall speaks again. “You're Burt Hummel? Blaine Anderson's emergency contact?”

“Yeah.” Daniels has pulled out a notepad, starts writing notes.

“Can you tell us what happened tonight?”

“What happened tonight?” Burt clenches his hands. “What happened is I got a call from this hospital tellin' me my – tellin' me Blaine was admitted.” Burt keeps eye contact, lets out a breath, “Turns out somebody used him as a punching bag.”

“Does Mr. Anderson –”

“His name's Blaine.”

“Does Blaine have any enemies?”

“He's a gay teenager in Ohio,” Burt huffs, rubbing a hand over his face, “So only every homophobic bastard in the state.” Burt keeps his voice even, watches, waits for the look of disgust, itches for the ensuing argument.

But Officer Randall doesn't react, at least not that Burt can see. “Anyone in particular?” A pause. “I notice Blaine's parents aren't here.”

“We called them, but they're away on business,” Carole smoothly answers, “Blaine's been staying with us.”

“Friend of the family?”

“My step-son's fiancé.” Carole smiles then, and Burt feels a well of gratitude, reaches to squeeze her hand.

“Okay,” Randall pauses, and Burt brings his focus back to him, “So, no known enemies; no one who you can think of who would want to hurt him?”

“He's eighteen,” Burt snaps, “what eighteen-year-old has any enemies?”

“We're just trying to follow all possible leads, Mr. Hummel.”

“Well Blaine's currently bein' cut open, so I'm not sure what leads you're lookin' for, here.”

“Look Mr. Hummel,” Randall sighs, takes a step forward, “I'll be honest with you. Right now? We got a 911 caller who found Blaine unconscious in the Advantage Cleaners parking lot with no one else around, and no camera in the area. We got Blaine's clothes from the ER nurses, and the admitting doctor's statements that his injuries are consistent with a physical attack, but that's it. Unless he wakes up and gives a statement we have no leads; no suspects –”

“You mean when he wakes up?” Burt knows his voice is too loud, too harsh but he can't stop it, doesn't try. “Someone beat my – Blaine's undergoing surgery, has been since we got here so we haven't even seen the kid! He has injuries I can't even pronounce – but there's nothing you can do?” Burt remembers dropped tools and a conversation over cookies and mugs of coffee, “But that's nothing new, right? There was nothin' to be done in 2009, either.”

The room seems too silent after his words and Burt waits, listens to his breathing as the spark of anger fades.

“What happened in 2009?”

Burt turns, sees Officer Daniels looking surprised by his own question. “Blaine took a friend to a dance at his old school in Marysville; apparently some of his classmates didn't approve – put him in the hospital.” Burt sighs, “I don't know all of it, but I do know no charges were ever filed, and Blaine transferred schools not long after.” Burt lowers his voice, looks to the doors he can't enter. “The kid can't catch a break.”

“Without evidence we're going blind, Mr. Hummel. We'll do everything we can, but we're limited. Now,” Randall pulls out a card and passes it to a too-quiet Carole, “this has my number at the station and my cell. When Blaine wakes up, or if you think of something, you give me a call, alright?”

The officers leave moments later and Burt moves back to seat, taking his place beside Carole, who is carefully putting the officer's card in her wallet. She switches her purse for the bag of Blaine's items then, and Burt looks away, drinks some of his coffee.

“His phone's broken,” she comments, looking down, “won't even turn on. We'll have to get him a new one.”

“Hm,” Burt glances at the pager before turning back to face her, “I'm not good at this part.”

“No,” Carole reaches to clasp their hands, “you're a man of action. But,” she briefly tightens her hold, “if it helps, I don't think anyone is good at this.” A pause, and then her voice cracks. “All this, and he was just dropping off the dry-cleaning. Just another stupid errand.” She releases his hold then, taking a breath and nodding to the abandoned clipboard in answer to his questioning glance. “Do you think we should call his parents again?”

Burt huffs and leans forward in his seat, keeps his voice quiet even if the tone is cutting. “I left them both messages after we got the call. I'll answer when – if they call back, but I'm not killin' my battery tryin' to get in touch with them.”

Since his visit to the Anderson house back in March he hasn't heard from Blaine's parents, though he knows they've received invoices for Blaine's therapy (he had been ready to pay if the claim had been denied) and he vaguely recalls something about gift cards on Blaine's birthday. But there have been no phone calls. No communication.

Burt unclenches his fists and lets out a breath.

A glance shows Carole shaking her head, balancing the clipboard in her lap even as she carefully pulls Blaine's wallet from the bag. “I still don't – being out of touch from you child.” A sigh. “Do you know Blaine's social?” 

Burt pulls the papers from his pocket again, reading off the string of numbers before setting them aside on the off chance they hold some information Carole needs.

He manages a few swallows of now-cold coffee before Carole's gasp has him turning, confusion turning to worry when he sees the pager silent and still on the table.

On top of Blaine's open wallet a worn, creased letter sits in Carole's shaking hand.

“I was looking for his insurance.”

Curious, Burt reaches over and takes the letter.

Hey Blaine,

Now that I have the stationary and pen this seems somewhat silly, but it seems even sillier to stop before I've even started. First off, Happy Birthday! I hope your day was amazing, and hopefully Dad remembered to give you your gift from me. I can't have my fiancé missing his signature bowtie while touring L.A. And by now Dad should have given you his and Carole's gift too, so I expect to see the bowtie in one of your many, many videos.

When I first thought of writing this letter, I held off (only partly because Santana could ruin me if she found out) because I couldn't find the words. I still don't know if I can, but you deserve for me to try.

You're so brave, did you know that? When I first got to know you, after you grabbed my hand and led me around Dalton – and don't lie, there never was a short cut – I couldn't understand how you were so comfortable with yourself, how you were always unapologetically you, even when you were doing your best to help anyone (everyone). You noticed me when no one else did. You went with me to confront a bully (and I'm just realizing how strong you are, to have done that) after knowing me for less than a week. I think I started to fall in love with you then.

You were amazing, Blaine. You were amazing when you were serenading me with ‘Teenage Dream' and you're still amazing now that you're my wonderful fiancé with a questionable sense of humor. I know I'm in New York and you're in Ohio, but never doubt that you inspire me. I choose to be with you every day, and whether my professors know or not, every song I sing is dedicated to you, is perfected so we can build our future here.

I know you're struggling right now, and I absolutely hate that I'm in another state. I love you so much, Blaine, and there are times I hate the 594 miles that separate us. I want to hug and kiss you goodnight (and before sleep, actually) every day, but I can't. Not yet, at least. But I can tell you these things – or write? – and hope that it helps, at least a little.

Sometimes you need to see the words, and life means that I can't always immediately answer the phone. So I thought that I'd give you this letter, so you can keep the words with you – I guess I still am a silly romantic.

I love you, Blaine Devon Anderson.

I love you, and you're brave, and no matter what you're feeling, no matter what has happened or what life throws at you I will always love you. We're soulmates after all. And I choose to love you with everything because I know that's how you love me in return.

Just remember that for me, okay?

Yours always,

Kurt

Burt refolds the letter and drops his head to his hands. He knows his kid. Kurt will cry because Bambi's mom died, and shed tears of empathy for a friend's broken heart, but for all that he shows the world his anger at injustice, at heart Kurt keeps his feelings silent; uses gestures rather than words.

Burt knew his son loved Blaine long before he heard the words.

Blaine had never just been ‘a friend from school.'

He knows what it cost for his son to write this, for him to put his emotions to paper. He understands what it says about Blaine's place in Kurt's life – in Kurt's heart – understands that the letter shows an acceptance the ring in his pocket only hints to.

He remembers the phone call earlier, Kurt's cold voice on the other end of the line. Burt knows his son, knows Kurt better than anyone (except maybe, possibly Blaine) but he had never heard that tone before, a flat voice and brisk sentences. The Kurt in the letter was gone; missing.

Why is it always the kids?

“You didn't tell him Blaine crashed.”

“What?” Burt looks up, meets Carole's eyes.

“When you called Kurt earlier,” her eyes cut to the letter at the mention of Kurt's name, “you told him about the other…injuries. But you left that out.”

The pager lights up then, buzzing as its own momentum sends it skittering across the table.

He grabs it with his right hand even as his left reaches for Carole's and they're moving seconds later. Burt hands Laura the pager with a steadiness he doesn't feel.

“Dr. Collins just called,” she comments with a slight smile turning off the pager before passing it to Carole, “he helped treat Blaine when he was admitted. He's on his way with an update.”

Absently, Burt notes Carole nodding and expressing their thanks, but his attention has shifted, his focus on the wide white doors to his left. He follows Carole a little further down the desk, and then doors open.

The dark-skinned man in blue scrubs looks around before meeting Burt's eyes, walking forward. “Family of Blaine Anderson?”

“That's us,” Burt comments with a nod as he and Carole follow the man to a small cluster of chairs.

“Mr. and Mrs. Anderson? I'm Dr. Collins; I've been working on Blaine.”

“It's Hummel, actually,” Burt corrects with a slight smile. “But Blaine's a member of the family.”

“Of course,” he replies as they take their seats. “I'm sorry for the delay in updating you,” the doctor begins, and Burt appreciates the frankness of his tone. “But obviously Blaine is our primary concern.”

“How is he?”

Burt squeezes Carole's hand at her question, listens as Dr. Collins re-lists Blaine's injuries, and then goes into detail. He describes the severity of the damage to Blaine spleen; the rupture and how the best option given his condition is a splenectomy.

He listens to the expected time to complete the surgery – performed by one of the on-call surgeons, the possible complications, to the changes Blaine will have to make to get by without the organ.

But Blaine will be alive, and right now, Blaine's bleeding in an OR.

Burt signs the consent forms, waits until Dr. Collins has vanished back behind the doors before he slumps back against the chair, the severity of the action hitting him.

“Blaine's strong,” Carole comments, “even Dr. Collins said so.”

Burt manages a grunt of agreement before Carole pulls him to his feet, leading him back to their chairs, jackets and papers evidence of their occupancy.

“I never answered your question.” Burt remarks as he sinks back into the uncomfortable chair.

“What?”

“Before,” Burt pauses, casts a glance to the doors where Dr. Collins disappeared. “You asked why I didn't tell Kurt about the ambulance; he didn't need to know.” Burt sighs and slumps against the back of his seat. “You didn't hear – he's a mess, Carole. Sounded like a damn robot. It's bad enough with the other – he knows how serious it is.” He glances to the pager. “It wouldn'a changed anything, and he…he didn't need to know.”

“You're right.” His head rises at Carole's agreement, and Burt knows his face is betraying his confusion. “I just saw that letter…” Carole pauses and Burt watches as she pinches the bridge of her nose, takes a breath. “They're still teenagers. And Kurt is an amazing kid, but I don't even know why I asked.” She shakes her head and meets Burt's gaze, “He shouldn't – no one should hear that over the phone.”

Burt fights down the comment that no one should have to hear that ever, least of all his son. The anger is back – not that it ever fully left – because someone hurt his family. And Blaine is in surgery with a list of injuries and he doesn't know –

Blaine's going to fine.

Because Kurt needs him to be, and Burt knows Blaine will do anything for Kurt Hummel.

“I'm gonna get more coffee,” Burt grabs his cup and stands, gestures to Carole's cup, “you want some, too?”

Carole passes him her paper cup before turning back to the clipboard. Burt takes his time walking to the alcove with the water and coffee dispensers, ignoring the vending machines when the thought of food makes his stomach turn.

He dumps out the old coffee and then systematically crushes the empty cups, squeezing the flattened paper before throwing them away and pulling new ones from the stack on the counter. He fills them absently, hoping whoever brewed this pot did a better job than before.

At least it smells like coffee, the bitter scent replacing the smell of disinfectant and medical supplies.

Burt takes a moment to breathe, to actually accept the situation and curse at the world.

By the time he rejoins Carole, the majority of the clipboard's papers are flipped upward, and she's scribbling on the last page. He sets her cup on the table when she makes no move to stop her writing, and turns to face the television, drinking his own coffee (brewed by someone who knew how to make coffee, luckily) and reading the closed-captions.

He manages a story about some freak weather in California and the promise of more rain for the Eastern United States before he hears Carole flip back the pages. “I'm going to drop this off; you need anything?”

“A kiss from my pretty wife?” It's not a great joke, but Carole seems to appreciate the effort, smiling in response before pressing a chaste kiss to his cheek.

He takes another sip of his coffee before reaching into his pocket to pull out his phone and check the time.

Carole's back then, sans clipboard, stretching before settling into her chair.

“Laura said to let her know if we get tired; she can get us some spare pillows or blankets.”

“Don't think I'm gonna be sleeping.”

“Maybe not,” Carole agrees, “but we'll have to try at some point. We're no help to anyone if we're falling asleep on our feet.”

“You tired?”

Carole keeps her eyes forward, away from Burt. “I didn't say that.”

“Yeah,” Burt leans over, wraps an arm around her shoulders, “Me either.”

“You know what I keep thinking about?” A hint of something that might be a laugh, and Carole continues, “Dinner. That dammed casserole. It wasn't even anything special, but he kept putting more in that bowl. And I don't know where he puts it, small as he is, but when he got seconds it's just – that's such a teenage boy.” A hiccup, “Of course he voluntarily did the dishes, but – he's just a teenager, Burt.”

“He's gonna be fine.”

“Burt –”

“You heard the doctor; he's a fighter. Besides,” Burt forces a smile. “Kurt needs him to be okay; when have you ever known the kid to let him down?”

A sigh, but Burt sees the hint of a smile, so he leans back in his seat and drinks some more coffee, not quite as good with its cooler temperature. On the television, a special about tornados plays on and he loses himself in the monotony, ignores the calls over the announcement system, the sounds of hospital beds being wheeled down halls, the beeps from innumerous cellphones joining those from the elevators.

A discord, and Burt looks up.

Kurt stands in the entrance to the waiting room, pale in jeans and a NYADA t-shirt and ill-fitting sweater, his carryon still on his shoulders.

“Dad.” His voice breaks, and Burt just catches him as he falls.