Remind Me to Forget

Chapter 27

Burt watches as Kurt leaves, the silence of the waiting room seeming even more jarring in his absence. Kurt; who demands attention in his long sweaters and quest for solos and unwavering morals, who lives up to being an only child and claiming attention; has now left twice to avoid that very thing.

Absently, Burt wonders how often that happened when Kurt lived in Ohio. How many times had he taken Kurt's fashion at face value and missed the bigger issue? He certainly hadn't known how awful McKinley was until right before Kurt had transferred to Dalton. Burt shakes his head, sighing as he turns to face Carole.

“Give him a while, Burt.” Carole softly comments before he can get a word out. “He needs it.”

“He had time alone earlier,” Burt replies, leaning forward, “he shouldn't be by himself.”

“Kurt's never had any problem speaking up for what he needs. Besides,” Carole offers a small smile and catches Burt's hand, before nodding toward where Will and Emma are still standing, silent, “I could use your help.”

“Kurt didn't pull any punches, did he?” Burt winces as he remembers Kurt's sharp words; his son is the best person he knows, but Burt also knows Kurt's flaws, and when Kurt breaks, he's glass – pieces splintering and shattering, cutting those around him in the process.

Burt knows Kurt will regret his outburst later, will do his best to quickly apologize and then will work to pretend the event never happened. But it did, and for a moment Burt thinks back over Kurt's exclamation, wonders how much of Glee Club helping Kurt survive McKinley was through Will's influence and how much was the band of kids Burt knows far too much about from years of sleepovers and road trips to competitions.

Burt sighs and pushes the thought away – it doesn't matter. Not today, anyway.

“Will,” Burt turns away from Carole, makes sure his voice is loud enough to carry the few feet separating them. “Kurt, he didn't –”

“He's very upset,” Emma finishes, and Burt gives a grateful smile. “People often lash out in stressful situations,” she continues, “and he must be exhausted, too.”

“Right,” Will nods, “It's fine.” Will steps forward, takes Emma's hand before moving to the seat to Burt's left. “But Blaine – how is he, really?”

“He's stable,” Burt repeats the words that he's focused on since the nurse had taken Blaine to Radiology. “He's got a lot of recovery ahead of him, but for now he's as good as we can expect, given what he went through.”

“What happened, exactly?”

“That's the question,” Burt mutters, remembering the detective's card in his pocket.

Carole fields the question and Burt tightens his grip on her hand in appreciation. It's no easier hearing the information again, but he remembers seeing Blaine in the hospital bed – obviously beaten and looking smaller than ever but breathing and comfortingly alive under the wires and hospital gown.

“That's just awful,” Emma's comment draws Burt from his thoughts. he looks over to see her dabbing some antibacterial gel on her hands, “when – when will he be up for visitors?”

“I'm not sure,” Burt shares a look with Carole, “I know they're only allowing family for now.”

“How are Blaine's parents handling it?” Burt feels his eyes tighten at Will's question, even as he leans forward in his seat.

“What?”

“Blaine's parents,” Will repeats, “I'm guessing they're in Blaine's room? With Kurt? How are they handling this?” He slows at the end, uses his hand to gesture to the expanse of the room .

“They're not here,” Burt keeps the words short, tries to keep the anger from growing. “Haven't heard from ‘em.” Burt sees Will's and Emma's faces scrunch in confusion, “I called them not long after the hospital called me.” He releases a short sigh and looks away. “Haven't heard anything back, though.”

“I'm sorry,” Will leans forward, clasping his hands, “the hospital called you?”

“Blaine's been staying with us,” Carole answers, “there have been some…issues with his parents.”

“What do you mean?”

Burt waits a moment, considering. “Blaine's father,” Burt says the word quickly, hating associating the title with the man, “is away on business most of the time anyway, and his mother travels. Blaine's been staying with us in the meantime; with everything going on we figured it was better if he wasn't alone.” Burt shrugs, “It's a shorter drive to McKinley, too.”

“Blaine's been staying with you,” Burt blinks, wonders at Will's insistence on that point, “alright. But that still doesn't –” Burt watches as Will stops midsentence, shakes his head slightly before continuing, “the hospital called you?”

“I'm his emergency contact and medical power of attorney,” Burt replies, “it's easier, since his parents are out of reach so much.”

“He never said anything,” Will says, the words barely audible even from the short distance, “I'm his teacher and I didn't know –”

“He didn't want people to know,” Emma's quick to cut in, “he just wanted something to be normal, and school could be that.”

“You should have told me.” Will's comment holds a hint of the anger from before and Burt shares a look with Carole, “I'm their teacher – I'm supposed to help these kids. How can I do my job when I don't have all the relevant information?”

“You did your job, Will.” Burt sighs at Emma's response, glad that she seems to be working to ebb Schuester's irritation, that she's calm in spite of Will's somewhat cutting remarks. “Blaine needed you to be his teacher and lead Glee practice and that's exactly what you did.”

There's a pause and Burt leans forward a bit, hopes Will takes Emma's words to heart even as his mind treacherously remembers Blaine's worry at Nationals, his increasing focus on ensuring every Glee performance was perfect.

“Mr. Hummel?” Burt turns at the sound of his name, sees the nurse from earlier standing by Carole.

“Yes?”

The nurse glances around the room before offering a polite smile. “I just wanted to let you know that Mr. Anderson is back in his room. Your son is with him,” she pauses a moment, shifts her weight before continuing, “He's likely to be unconscious for a while yet, though.”

“But he's okay?”

Burt jumps a bit at Will's question, turning away from the nurse – Kara – in response.

“I'm sorry; I can only give out information to Mr. Anderson's family.”

“I'm his teacher,” Will adds, “and after this I have to go tell his friends. Surely you can tell me something?”

“I'm sorry,” Kara repeats, “but HIPPA prohibits –”

“Kara,” Carole interrupts, “How's Blaine doing?”

“There's been no change,” her voice is clipped and Burt feels his eyes widen in response. “The test went smoothly, however, and one of the residents should be by to talk about the results when they make rounds.”

“Of course,” Carole offers a smile, “Would you happen to know when Blaine might be up for more visitors?”

“Not until he's in the step-down unit,” Kara says with a shake of her head, “as long as he's here it's family only, I'm afraid. Although,” she nods toward the hall, “the love-seat in the room folds out into a bed; one family member is allowed to stay the night, given the doctor's approval.”

“I'm sure Kurt will take you up on that offer,” Burt silently hopes Kara hasn't told Kurt yet – if she has, there's no way he'll get Kurt out the hospital for any reason.

“Okay.” Kara nods, turns to leave before stopping and turning back. “If you're hungry, the cafeteria should start serving breakfast in about half an hour.”

“We should leave, too,” Emma comments, looking to her watch as Kara heads back down the hall, “We need to get to the school before the kids.”

“Yeah,” Burt still doesn't envy them the task and he takes a moment to rub a hand over his eyes.

“They're gonna want to camp out here,” Will adds, looking around the room. “They're going to want to see him.”

“They can't,” Carole's voice is firm, and Burt glances to her, tightens his grip on her hand. “They're all great kids – wonderful friends to Blaine and Kurt – but they won't be allowed to see Blaine for a while, and they shouldn't –” she takes a breath, “we can't protect them from finding out what happened, but having them wait in the hospital won't be helpful for anyone. I'm sure Kurt will text once he's up for it, and I'll call when we know more, but don't let those kids suffer more by pointlessly waiting around a hospital.”

“I can't stop them from showing up,” Will's comment seems overly loud after Carole's quiet words, the sentence carrying across the small space. “These kids are close – I can tell them only family's allowed, but I can't stop them from coming here.”

“Maybe not,” Burt agrees, “but you can make sure they know how serious this is; how they'd just be sittin' in a waiting room.”

“We'll do our best,” Emma replies, standing and reaching for her purse, “Just keep us updated?”

“As soon as we know anything,” Carole nods, stepping forward and giving Emma a brief hug.

Burt steps forward too, shakes Will's hand before stepping back and taking Carole's hand, clasping it as Will and Emma disappear inside an elevator.  

Burt sighs, uses his free hand to reach up and rub across his eyes. The caffeine from the cups of coffee may prevent him from sleeping, but it hasn't taken away his exhaustion.

“Why don't you go check on the boys,” Carole comments, briefly squeezing his hand, “and I'll head down to the cafeteria, see what I can find for breakfast.”

Burt pauses for a moment, torn. He needs to see Kurt, needs to hug his son and see that he's okay –

But he needs to be with Carole, too.

“Go,” Carole offers a slight smile, “I'll meet you there, okay?”

A nod, and then Carole steps away, leaving Burt standing in the middle of the waiting room.

He needs more coffee.

Burt shakes his head, and with a familiarity he resents, he crosses the floor to the alcove where the coffee sits. He pours the coffee, waits a moment before pouring a second cup – Kurt was already upset, last he'd seen him; coffee – even weak, poorly made coffee – can only help.

He sets the second cup aside and then reaches for the packets of cream and sugar, only to pause, hand still outstretched.

He can't remember how Kurt takes his coffee.

He knows his son adds both cream and sugar, enough that Burt doesn't think the liquid in the cup should still be classified as coffee – he's certainly teased Kurt about that, but the exact amount of cream and sugar eludes him.

Blaine would know.

Burt lets out a breath, rests his hands on the counter for a moment while he stares at the steam rising from the Styrofoam cups. He leans back, lifts and flexes his hands before reaching into the baskets, pulling out handfuls of sugar packets and plastic holders of creamer and shoving them into his pockets. He grabs the cups then, carefully holding them as he turns and heads for the hallway that leads to Blaine's room.

He manages a nod as he passes the nurse's station, suppressing a grimace as the smell of antiseptic grows stronger. Burt pauses when he reaches room 309, stares at the closed white door. Through the window, he sees Kurt slouched in a chair, head dropped down, leaning forward over Blaines bed.

Burt lets out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding, shoulders relaxing at the sight of Kurt. His son's clothes are visibly wrinkled, the sweater hanging off one shoulder, his hair unkept and askew even to Burt's limited gaze. He cracks open the door – carefully opening it with an elbow not hindered by coffee – needing to be closer to his son. He needs to relish in the fact that Kurt's here, visible and breathing and –

asleep.

Burt stops, takes a moment to watch Kurt breathe, debates moving him to a more comfortable position – leaning forward over a bed can't be the best – before deciding to leave Kurt to his sleep. Kurt's face has lost the hardened, frantic edge it had when he was awake, the lines around his eyes – that Kurt will no doubt complain about for months – have vanished; he looks like Burt's little boy who invited him to tea parties not so long ago. He turns his gaze then, looks to where Blaine lays too-still, too-small in the hospital bed.

He sets the cups down on the small side table, winces as the path brings him closer to Blaine.

He feels the anger returning then, feels it rising as he takes in each bruise, the neat rows of stitches, and sling cradling Blaine's arm.

Burt looks to the monitors then, tries to focus on the sound of Kurt's breathing rather than their steady beeps (he can't). He only turns back to the bed when the lines on the monitors make no more sense even after minutes of staring.

He unclenches his fists then, stepping forward and resting one hand beside where Kurt is clasping Blaine's, the grip lax with sleep but steady just the same.

“Hey kid,” he keeps his voice low, not wanting to disturb Kurt even while he watches Blaine, looks for a hint that he's been heard. “I never got used to hospitals. I don't care for them; don't like it when family is here, either. So you keep fighting like Dr. Olt said – you focus on gettin' better so we can get back home.” Burt pauses for a moment, wonders how Blaine's relatives can stand to leave him in an empty house when Burt's already dreading the hours without him in theirs. “Our family can't lose any more members, Blaine, so you just take the time you need.” Burt lets out a breath, loosens his hand from where it's clenched the sheet. “You haven't let me down yet, kid; don't you dare start now.”

Burt reminds himself that he hadn't expected a response, that – like Kurt – Blaine is sleeping.

He just has the aid of narcotics.

Burt frowns briefly, reaches out to straighten the blanket covering Blaine's legs before turning, carefully pushing the bangs out of Kurt's closed eyes, taking in the boys' still-clasped hands as he leans back.

Even in the dim lighting, the ring on Kurt's finger manages to shine; a contrast against the starched white blanket and Kurt's pale skin. Burt doesn't see Blaine's ring, but he bets it's still held in Kurt's hand, a cold comfort.

“You went and grew up on me.” Burt sighs, forces himself to step back, putting more space between him and the boys. He can't help them at the moment, and they need all the sleep they can get. He's back in the hallway moments later, leaning against the closed door and blinking at the change in lighting.

He takes one last look through the door's window, committing the sight to memory before forcing himself away; Carole should be heading up by now anyway.

*-*-*-*

Carole releases a breath as the elevator doors close in front of her, blocking Burt from view. She takes a moment to just breathe – even if it is stale air, heavy with the scent of cleaning supplies and the hint of medicine unique to hospitals – before hitting the button to take her to the floor with the cafeteria.

She crosses her arms, a futile attempt to ward off the chill of the building, the cool air just as offsetting as it first was hours ago. The doors open – before her floor, of course – and Carole steps back. Two young women, hospital employees, judging by their scrubs, take the offered space, and Carole spends minutes wondering how long they've worked that the pall of the hospital has not dimmed their emotions. For a moment, she hates their smiles, their mundane complaints of the early hour and too-tight pony tails. But then she takes in their youthful faces, remembers that it is a good thing that the hospital is not a symbol of everything wrong to these girls – young women – that it's just part of their day, a mundane building.

She wonders when hospitals stopped being that for her.

The elevator glides to a stop then, the automated voice announcing the floor even as the two women leave, having never spared a glance to Carole. She sighs, takes in her blurred, distorted reflection in the sleek doors before looking away, taking a moment to rub a hand across her eyes. She has two more floors before she reaches the cafeteria; idly, she hopes she can keep the elevator to herself until then.

Her hopes are dashed seconds later.

The orderly with the empty bed offers a nod, and Carole politely mimics a reply, but quickly looks away after, hoping he's competent enough in social cues to get the message that she's not in the mood for idle chatter.

He leans against the edge of the bed and stays silent.

She exits first, heads down the hallway even as she's blinking spots from her eyes. Here, the smell of coffee overlays the distinctive smell of cleaner and medicine, and the chatter holds the air of casual conversation, the hum more similar to a high school than –

Carole stops.

Around her, people carry on their business, their voices echoing off the tiled floor and walls that do nothing to soak up sound. On the wall to her left, the emergency exit route breaks the monotonous grey; absently, she wonders what the engineers were thinking.

In the event of a fire, it's a long line of red to the exit door.

She shakes her head before looking away, forces herself to move away from the sign. She keeps her head forward as she makes her way to the cafeteria, ignores the reminders on the walls to get yearly check-ups and the signs of a heart attack. Minutes later she's crossed the entryway and is in the cafeteria, and for a moment is overwhelmed by the smell of coffee and eggs.

The cafeteria is more crowded than the hall, though there's no line, as far as she can tell. The biggest group of people seems crowded around the counter that holds the coffee carafes, and Carole hopes that means the coffee there is better than the barely passable excuse she's been drinking the past few hours.

She eyes the choices around her, knows Kurt would be shaking his head and complaining about the high cholesterol and lack of nutritional value in the options. A small smile comes to her face as she thinks of her step-son, although it feels awkward on her face, unfamiliar, like wearing a sweater for the first time when the weather changes.

Carole thinks of Kurt, of how he'd snapped at Will, of how all he's wanted since he arrived at the hospital was to see Blaine, and how he'd frozen – for only a second, but Carole had seen it – when he'd finally been able to do so. Still, her step-son is sitting next to his fiancé's hospital bed, floors above her, and the least she can do is bring him breakfast.

She sighs before crossing the space, gathering three pre-wrapped breakfast sandwiches, carefully balancing them as she moves to get coffee. The liquid she pours is darker than the brew from the waiting room, and definitely smells like coffee, so she grabs three large cups and heads to register to pay.

The woman at the register takes Carole's credit card with a smile.

“Those are my son's favorite, too.”

“What?”

Another smile, along with a nod to the sandwiches. “My son could probably eat all of these and then ask for more. I always have to put a limit when he visits me here.” A pause. “It's amazing, what a teenage boy can eat.” She hands back Carole's card. “Would you like a bag?” It seems she doesn't need an answer, however, given the plastic bag she pulls out moments later. “Still, you must know what it's like.”

“What?”

“Sorry,” a wave to the bag, “it's just that it's a bit much for one.”

“Oh.” Carole agrees as she quickly takes back her card along with the bag and cups of coffee. “My husband and step-son are upstairs.” The comment is short, but luckily the worker seems to have remembered her place of employment then, given how her smile has turned sympathetic.

Carole leaves.

The smell of the coffee mixes with the smell of eggs and cheese from the bag, somehow managing to remind her of breakfasts in a noisy kitchen; she's shaken from her memories, however, when the smell of medicine and industrial cleaner overpowers her, reminding her she's not providing breakfast for her happy family at home.

Kurt isn't singing while he cooks at the stove, stealing glances at the coffee maker in hopes it will drip faster.

Burt isn't complaining about egg replacements and turkey bacon, voice alight with teasing humor.

Blaine isn't offering to help at every turn even while he trades lyrics with Kurt.

And Finn –

Carole shakes her head, pushes the memories away.

She's not at home: She's in a hospital, waiting for an elevator.

It hits her then – feels like a punch, forces the breath out of her even as her surroundings blur. She hears the tone announcing the arrival of the elevator, but she can't bring herself to move, can't take the steps inside.

*-*-*-*

Burt washes his hands, rinsing away the soap before wiping his still-wet hands across his face. The water doesn't take away the ache of exhaustion, but he feels an ounce cleaner, regardless. The paper towels are rough against his skin, but he keeps them clenched in his fists for a few moments before tossing them in the trash.

He's waiting for the elevator minutes later, moves to stand in the corner once it arrives even as he keeps an eye out for Carole as the doors open and close, wondering if she got turned around in the crisscross of hallways. She doesn't appear, though, and so Burt heads for the cafeteria once he's reached the correct floor.  

A glance around the cafeteria doesn't produce his wife, and Burt resists the urge to simply start shouting.

He passes the cafeteria, walks down the hallway with a briskness that's haunted his steps since he answered his phone hours ago. Still, despite his searching, Carole isn't by the second set of elevators, and she's not sitting at one of many tables sipping a coffee either.

Burt reaches the end of the hallway and debates for a moment before turning and heading back the way he came. He makes it three-quarters of the way back, across from the cafeteria when he finally spots his wife leaning against an alcove in the wall near a water fountain, cups of coffee in one hand and a bag in the other.

It's only as he gets closer that he notices the rigid posture, the sheen to her eyes that's barely visible from her ducked head.

“Carole?” He keeps his voice soft, stops a few steps in front of her.

“Burt.” Her voice is soft, and Burt hates that he can't blame the early hour for her tone, “Oh – I was supposed to meet you after I got breakfast.”

“Hey,” he reaches out, places his hand on her shoulder. “Don't worry about it. Kurt's sleepin' anyway.”

“That's good. He needs the sleep.” She attempts a smile, and Burt silently thanks Kurt – again – for bringing Carole into their family even as he pulls her into a loose hug, her head beneath his chin. “I meant to go back, I just –” her voice trails off, and Burt leaves the sentence unfinished, but takes a step back, taking the coffees even as he guides her toward the elevator.

Burt keeps his eyes focused on Carole, resists the urge to narrow his eyes in impatience as they wait for the elevator. Luckily the wait isn't too long, and two floors later they're exiting, his hand still guiding Carole.

“Blaine's room is a floor up, Burt.” Her steps are slowed with confusion, hesitant.

“Yup.” He keeps walking.

He stops moments later, forces himself to stay still even when he hears Carole's gasp.

“Burt.”

“You came here after Finn. I just,” he shrugs his shoulders, looks away from the ‘chapel' sign, focusing on the ‘Top 10 avoidable illnesses' poster instead.

“Come in with me?”

The question is quiet, but Burt hears it anyway, over the announcements from various employees and the chatter echoing in the tiled hall.

“Of course,” he leans forward and opens the door, “you're much better than two sleeping teenagers anyway.” It's a bad joke, but some of the tension leaves Carole's shoulders, so he huffs a breath as she precedes him into the room.

He pauses for a moment when he sees the ‘no food or drink' sign before dismissing it out of hand; they won't be actually be eating in the chapel, just keeping hold of their breakfast until later.

He doesn't think God will hold it against them.

He takes a seat beside his wife moments later, carefully setting the coffees under his chair. It's quiet, and smelling faintly of incense and flowers rather than industrial cleaner, and he takes a deep breath, relishing in the change.

There's a few others seated in the room, a grey haired man near the front, a young couple leaning forward a few rows ahead of him, a thin blonde woman clutching a rosary to his right.

“I thought it would be okay.”

“What?” Burt matches Carole's whisper, but he does reach over and clasp her hand.

“Being here. I thought – I thought the circumstances were different enough from before, that it would okay. But I went to get those sandwiches, and that woman kept talking about how much her son eats, and all I could think about was all those trips to the grocery store to keep enough food in the house for Finn.”

Burt tightens his hold on Carole's hand. “Carole –”

“She couldn't have known,” she continues, ignoring Burt's interruption, “I know that. But suddenly I could only think about him and how it was, when we found out.” A pause. “We can't lose Blaine too, Burt. We just – we can't lose him too.”

Burt wants nothing more than to reassure his wife, but Carole's smart, and he can't lie. Not about this. He wants Blaine to be okay, to be discharged and have Kurt hovering while he monitors his fiancé's every move. But he knows, better than most, that there's a difference between what people want, and what happens.

Especially in hospitals.

“You heard Dr. Olt. Blaine's stable.” The words are calm, not betraying Burt's hatred of the phrase. Stable. What does that mean, really? “Blaine's a fighter.”

“Finn was, too.” Burt isn't sure if he was supposed to hear them, but the words carry in the near-silent room, striking him just as strongly as any blow.

He doesn't have a response for that.

*-*-*-*

The chapel is calming, and Carole tries to focus on that, tries to focus on the present, on the assurances of Dr. Olt about Blaine's condition. Burt's hand is a comfort, a warm reminder that she's not alone.

Carole loves Burt, loves the life they've built. She loves Kurt too; Burt was right when he said that “step” had no place in their family.

That didn't keep their family from being broken, though.

And right now, Kurt is probably curled up in some uncomfortable chair while Blaine is unconscious, beaten.

The fact that Blaine's alive is a small comfort; she can't see the boys right now.

Not yet.

She's in a hospital, again.

And Blaine may be stable, may be strong and a fighter. But right now, he's stable and broken.

And sometimes, what's been broken can't be fixed.

She releases another breath, turning when she notices Burt fidgeting, sees him raise his head guiltily. It's only when she chances a glance at her watch that she realizes they've been here over an hour.

“You should go check on them.”

“You –”

“I'll be fine, Burt. And I promise I'll be up soon – twenty minutes, if that.”

“I can wait, Carole; it's no trouble.”

“I know you could, but,” she pauses, leans over, offering Burt a kiss on the cheek, “I could use a few minutes to myself anyway.” She squeezes his hand. “Go check on our boys,” she turns and nods toward the bag with the sandwiches. “I'll see about finding a microwave, too.”

She's alone moments later, and she allows herself to slump forward a bit even as she turns hard eyes to the altar.

She hadn't wanted to speak before, hadn't wanted Burt to hear the bitterness that's as much a part of her as her need for air. She takes a moment, gathering her thoughts. She leans forward a few minutes later, rests her head on clasped hands, her whisper little more than the movement of her lips.

“I know we've never been that religious, we don't go to church every Sunday; we don't even always make it on Christmas and Easter. But we've raised good boys. They're good and you already took one. Took one of my boys before he even started his life. And I can't change that; I hate it, but I can't change it. But don't you dare – don't take Blaine, too. They've already been through so much, and Kurt – Kurt wouldn't recover.” Carole pauses, takes a moment to loosen her fingers. “You gave me this family, I refuse to believe you'd be cruel enough to take it back, now. So don't. Just – don't.”

There's no response, of course. No clash of thunder or booming voice; there's not even the appearance of a chaplain, and Carole can't say that she necessarily feels better – that's impossible, given her location – but she's had her fill of the chapel, now. She's said her piece, offered all the prayers and bargains she can manage, and now she needs to be with her family.

She stands, gathering her purse and the bag of the now cold sandwiches as she does, quietly exiting the room and blinking in the bright light of the hallway. It takes a moment for her to get her bearings, but she makes it to the elevator easily enough. She exits on Blaine's floor with a sigh, and she eyes the bag in her hand for a second before heading for the bathroom anyway, setting it along with her purse on the counter while she washes her hands and face.

She feels more settled as she exits, turning and heading for the hall that leads to Blaine's room. She stops at the nurse's station, manages to get directions to the nearest microwave. It's in the opposite direction of Blaine's room, of course, in an alcove off the waiting room. She's heading back the way she came moments later.

“Mrs. Hummel!”

“Mrs. Hudson!”

The shouts catch her by surprise, and she stops in shock for a moment before turning, the bag swinging with the momentum.

Sam and Tina stand in the waiting room.

Carole suppresses a sigh, forces herself to smile as she heads toward them. They mean well, she's certain.

They meet halfway, and she takes in Tina's red eyes and Sam's bitten lip before offering a greeting. They're huddled in front of a cluster of chairs, but none of them sit.

“How's Blaine?” The question is rushed, and Carole sees Tina's cheeks flush in embarrassment. “Sorry, it's just – Mr. Schue said that he's in the hospital and we just want to see him. To make sure he's okay.”

Sam hasn't stopped nodding since Tina began talking.

Carole's glad Blaine has been blessed with his friends, but for a moment, she can't help but hate that they're here.

Children don't belong in hospitals.

“He's stable,” Carole replies, repeating the most general of the information she knows, ignores the frustration she sees growing on the teens' faces. “It's not –” Carole stops, lets out a breath. “What did Ms. Pillsbury tell you?”

“She just said Blaine got hurt,” Sam answers, his voice quiet. “She said he was here and that we wouldn't be able to see him, but – he's our best friend.”

“I know,” Carole offers a sympathetic smile. “And you've both been great friends to Blaine. But she was right; they're only letting family back.”

She's certain she wasn't meant to hear Tina's mutter of ‘you're not' but she does, and she can't help how her eyes narrow at the comment.

“Sorry!” Tina's wringing her hands, and Sam's glaring beside her. “I'm sorry. Just – you're not, technically. So can't we see him? Just – say we're cousins or something.”

“It doesn't quite work that way.”

“But –” Tina snaps her mouth shut, turns and glares at the room. “This isn't fair.”

For a moment, Carole's tempted to remind Tina that life isn't fair – that there's no great scale that keeps measure, no action and counteraction for right and wrong.

But then Carole really looks at Blaine's friends, sees the restlessness in their movements, the sheen to their eyes and is reminded of how young they are. They might be old enough to know that life isn't fair, but they're also still young enough that they hold the hope that it should be.

And Carole can't crush that, not today.

“It isn't fair,” Carole agrees, “none of this is. But Blaine – Blaine was hurt pretty badly, and they have him on some strong meds right now. He hasn't even really woken up yet. Look,” reaches forward then, takes their hands, “Blaine's gonna need you. He's going to have a lot of recovery and he's going to need his friends, and you both have always been wonderful friends for him, I know. I can't help you see him today; you probably won't even see him within the next week,” she ignores their looks of fear and outrage, “but as soon as it's allowed, you'll be the first ones back, I promise.”

“You're sure we can't see him? Just for a minute? We can…we can wait outside the door! Or I could get some costumes or –”

“Not right now, Sam. I'm sorry.” Carole hates that she can't help them in this, but they had to have known that coming here.

“What – what happened, exactly? How did Blaine get so hurt?”

Carole releases their hands at Tina's question, takes a moment to consider her words. “I need you to listen to me, okay? Listen and afterwards don't go running off and try to do something. Okay?” She waits for their assurances before continuing. “The police are looking into it. Blaine was attacked in a parking lot last night; we don't know who did it, or why. It just – it just happened.”

Sam's face has taken on a look of horror, but it fades quickly, shifts into anger before he ducks his head, hiding his eyes from view.

But Tina –

“Last night? This is my fault! I asked him –”

And suddenly, Carole remembers.

She remembers before that phone call. Remembers Blaine racing down the steps, half-heartedly complaining about how he'd forgotten that he'd told Tina he'd drop off the costumes for her since she had some meeting while Burt had jokingly commented about the size of the costumes in relation to Blaine.

Blaine had still been laughing as he stepped out the door.

Carole shakes her head slightly before grabbing both of Tina's hands. “This is not your fault, Tina. The only person whose fault this is – the only one – is the…person who hurt Blaine. Do you hear me? This is not your fault.”

Tina nods, but doesn't actually reply, and she's stumbling away moments later, offering only a vague comment about needing to leave.

Sam spares Carole a glance before he chases after her.

Carole stays there for a moment, wondering how she's managed to hate this situation more before forcing herself to focus.

She moves then, finding the alcove with the microwave a few minutes later. She carefully pulls the sandwiches from the bag, eyeing the paper wrapping before placing all three inside and setting the time.

She pulls out her phone while the time counts down; Tina's parents deserve a call.

*-*-*-*

Burt exits the elevator with a sigh, wonders how much more familiar these hallways will be in the coming weeks. The lights are a bit brighter and he idly wonders if all hospitals are so bright, or if it's just the reflection from the tiled floors.

He pushes the thought away as he passes the nurse's station, offers a weak smile to the one nurse who looks away from her monitor. He makes his way to 309 with steady steps, and soon he's peering in the small window, feels some tension ease when he sees both Kurt and Blaine. Kurt's awake, from what he can tell, although he hopes he's managed to get a few hours sleep with his most recent nap added to the one earlier; Burt quietly opens the door with his elbow – his hands full of recently reheated coffee – and takes a moment to just take in the sight of Kurt being here, sitting next to Blaine's bed singing –

He's quiet, the tune barely audible across the space, but the song is clear, the notes the brightest thing in the room.

Burt pauses just inside the doorway, can't bring himself to move on the chance that he interrupts –

No one can hurt you now, come morning light, you and Ill be safe and sound –

He can't remember the last time he heard Kurt sing.

Hold onto this lullaby, even when the musics gone, gone –

Burt doesn't recognize the song, but he closes his eyes against the sting anyway, breathes in the smell of antiseptic even while he strains his ears to hear Kurt over the beeping monitors and murmur in the hallway.

Kurt finishes far too soon.

“I know it's meant for a group, but I meant it, Blaine.” There's a pause, and Burt manages a step before Kurt starts talking again, “And I know they said you'll sleep because of the meds and you need to sleep but I really wish you'd wake up again because I need –”

Burt steps fully into the room, clearing his throat and letting the door fall shut behind him.

“I – Dad.” Burt watches as Kurt's shoulders slump – though one hand stays clasped in Blaine's – even as he offers a weak half-smile. Burt crosses the small space with sure steps, sets the coffee on the end table and wonders when his son decided he had to be the strong one, when he decided that he needed to attempt a smile for his father even as his fiancé lays in a hospital bed.

Burt can't pinpoint when his son stopped being his little boy, can't remember when Kurt started attempting smiles to hide his fear rather than the other way around, and despite the fact that Kurt has a fiancé – Burt spares a glance to the hospital bed – Kurt is still his son, and so Burt does the only thing he can.

He steps forward and pulls Kurt out of the chair and into a hug.

He pretends he doesn't hear Kurt's breath catch, ignores the way Kurt's hands tighten in time with his breathing.

“Sorry,” Kurt sniffs as he steps back some time later, wiping a hand across his face even as he crosses back to Blaine's bed, adjusting a pair of headphones – picking one up from the comforter – Burt hadn't seen before. “It's silly,” Kurt murmurs, smoothing down the blanket, “but I put on songs he sent me – ones he picked for Glee or that we sang or,” Kurt stops abruptly, his teeth clacking together even as he keeps his eyes on Blaine. “I thought it might help him wake up. I just – he needs to wake up, Dad. I need him to wake up.” The last words are whispered, barely carrying across the few feet separating them.

“They have him on some heavy meds, Kurt.”

“I know!” The words are rushed, loud and jarring in the room, and Kurt's hand flies to his mouth immediately after. “I know – and he needs the rest. I'm being selfish; I know I'm being selfish –”

“Kurt –” Burt takes a step forward, reaching out only for Kurt to step closer to the bed, his focus solely on Blaine.

“He only said my name,” Kurt faces him, and Burt forcibly keeps his arms at his sides despite Kurt's watery eyes, reminds himself that he can't protect Kurt from this. “He woke up earlier and said my name but I don't,” a pause and he watches as Kurt takes measured breaths, as he twists the ring on his left hand. “I don't know if he knows I'm here. He went through – I just need him to know I'm here.”

“Kurt,” Burt does step forward then, resting one arm on Kurt's shoulder and the other on Blaine's wrist, finding a comfort in the steady pulse that had been lacking in the beeps from the monitors. “He knows you're here. Don't doubt that, okay? He knows.”

Kurt hums in reply, noncommittal, before resting a hip on the bed, carefully moving until he's beside Blaine – quiet, unmoving, too-still Blaine – his left hand clasping his fiancé's. Burt looks away when he sees Kurt carefully smoothing circles where Blaine's ring should be.

Burt looks to the monitors then, glad for the monotonous drone in spite of the fact that the spikes and numbers mean nothing to him. He lets out a breath, settles into the empty chair beside Blaine's bed, and takes a moment to really look at Blaine.

He tries to look past the stitches, past the bruising, past the bandages and wires and see the smiling, charming, exuberant boy his son fell in love with.

He can, but the injuries persist like shadows, and he's not sure if that's worse or better, to compare the silent form on the bed with the brightness that is Blaine.

Burt rubs a hand across his eyes, blinks away the starbursts in its wake. On the bed, Kurt has shifted, is carefully pushing the bangs off Blaine's forehead. Burt watches the gentle movement, sees the echoes of Kurt's mother even as he turns his gaze away.

“Kurt,” Burt leans forward in the chair, squeezes Kurt's shoulder. “I'm gonna go see what's keeping Carole.”

Kurt doesn't offer a response, but he does lean into Burt's shoulder, and Burt offers a one-armed hug to his son – and a pat to Blaine's shoulder – before leaving the room.

He forces himself to ignore how final the sound of the door shutting sounds.

-*-*-*-

Kurt clenches his fist around Blaine's ring even as his right continues to gently push back Blaine's bangs.

(Thirteen hours and forty-seven minutes).

“Please wake up,” His voice breaks and Kurt ducks his head, rests it on the mattress beside Blaine's even as he breathes in the industrial detergent and forces himself to ignore the scratchy cotton sheets.

He'll have to see about switching them later. Blaine deserves comfort.

Kurt sighs, raises his head to shoot a glare at the beeping monitor. He wants – needs – to hear Blaine's voice, not the beep of monitors and murmur of what seems like every other voice in the hospital.

“I'm going to stay right here,” Kurt moves to clasp Blaine's hand, “You know that, right? Blaine?”

On the bed, Blaine breathes.

Kurt feels his eyes sting, carefully counts his breaths even as he matches them to Blaine's.

“They said you can hear me; I don't –” Kurt pauses, breathes out. “I don't know if I believe that. But, in the movies – in those movies and stories the person always wakes up…so I sang, earlier. And I know it was silly, thinking that would work, especially after what happened. But I thought there was a chance –” Kurt stops himself, chokes on a breath that's a cross between a laugh and a sob. “You got half the show choirs in Ohio to get together to propose; if anyone were going to wake up to a song, it would be you.”

The only reply is the continued beeping of the monitors. Kurt resists the urge to scream.

“Blaine, please –”

The door opens and Kurt turns, attempts a smile when his father and Carole enter.

“I brought breakfast,” Carole comments, holding up a bag, “sorry it's later than planned, but it's hot.”

Kurt nods, leaning back in the chair even as he reaches for the bag.

“Actually,” Burt comments as he takes the bag from Carole, “why don't you eat this outside, Kurt. You could use a break from this room.”

“No,” Kurt's shaking his head even as he narrows his eyes. “I need to stay with Blaine.”

“You want to know what took Carole so long, Kurt?” Burt pauses, and Kurt feels his face wrinkle in confusion, but he stays silent. “She ran into Sam and Tina outside. They were ready to run past nurses and start causin' a scene to get some answers.” Burt sighs, takes a moment to run his free hand over his head. “I get that you want to stay with him, Kurt. I get it. But you're not the only person who cares for Blaine; I'm sure you've been gettin' some calls from New York. That's your world, Kurt, and your friends – and Blaine's – deserve to hear from you.”

Kurt opens his mouth to reply, feels indignation rising, but then he actually looks at his parents and feels all his arguments leave in a rush.

Sometimes, he hates that his father is almost always right.

“We'll stay right here with him,” Carole adds, nodding toward Blaine's bed. “And the waiting room is right down the hall; you can call from there.”

Kurt nods and squeezes Blaine's hand. “I'll be right back, okay?” His keeps his voice soft, tilts his head closer to Blaine's ear. “I'm just going down the hall.” He presses a kiss to Blaine's cheek and whispers ‘I love you' as he forces himself to stand, keeps his hand in Blaine's until he's too many steps from the bed to hold the connection. Blaine's hand falls back to the bed and Kurt winces as he steps further away, takes the proffered bag – and his cell phone – from his father.

(Fourteen hours and two minutes).

Kurt stops. His phone makes the bag crinkle where it sits, clutched in his hand, and he keeps his left clasped around Blaine's ring. Around him, people sit huddled in groups, save for the few off by themselves.

Kurt takes a step toward an empty chair before the thought of sitting makes him nauseated. He moves back toward a wall within seconds, takes steady breaths and closes his eyes to quell the feeling.

When he opens his eyes, the waiting room hasn't changed, but his hands are steady as he sets down his bag and unlocks his phone.

He ignores his message alerts – 1 new message from Blaine – and brings up his contacts.

And then hesitates.

His ‘favorites' list is long, too long to be a convenience, really, but the first few names haven't changed in years, despite his changing locations. He thinks back over his dad's words, even as his hand hovers over his phone.

He doesn't know who to call.

All of his friends deserve an update, he knows they do, but Kurt also needs a short conversation and sympathy without twenty questions.

Kurt looks back to the hallway leading to Blaine's room and sets his shoulders. He presses Elliott's name before he can second guess his decision. He balances the phone on his shoulder as the call connects, leaning down and pulling the sandwich from the bag with careful fingers.

Elliott answers with a burst of words more reminiscent of his audition than the man Kurt has come to know.

“Hi,” Kurt cuts in, his voice steady. “Sorry I missed our performance.”

“Kurt –”

“Blaine hasn't woken up, not really,” the words are hurried, flat, and Kurt rushes to continue. “He's stable, though.”

There's silence on the other end of the phone and Kurt takes a bite of the sandwich, forces himself to chew to swallow despite not feeling hungry. “I'm glad to hear that,” Elliott's voice has gone quiet, and for the first time since Kurt's met him, Elliott's words hold a touch of hesitance, as if he's unsure of what to say.

Kurt thinks they should start a club.

“Yeah.” The silence stretches, and Kurt sets the sandwich back in its wrapper, takes a breath to start saying that he has to go – he has to get back to Blaine – when Elliott manages to speak again.

(Fourteen hours and seventeen minutes.)

“And how are you handling things?”

It's on the tip of his tongue, the ‘I'm fine' he'd told Jim when he'd picked him up from the airport, the repetition he'd told his father and Carole, the line he'd given the nurse while waiting –

But it's not there.

“I don't know.” Kurt lets out a breath. “I just…I need him to wake up so I know he's okay. He's stable,” Kurt says the word like a curse, briefly closes his eyes in exasperation. “Like that's a comfort. All that means is that he's breathing. He's breathing and there's a low chance that there's going to be an emergency. But just because he's stable, that doesn't mean he's okay. He's – he's got broken bones and they took out his spleen and he's so still. Blaine's never that still, Elliott. He's just not. He's jumping on tables and dancing in hallways and starting flash mobs. I don't –” Kurt huffs a slightly hysterical laugh, “I don't even know that he realizes I'm here. Everyone keeps saying that he does, that he has to but they can't know that. There's no test. And since I was in the middle of a damn run-through while my fiancé was getting beaten to hell I don't have the most faith in their platitudes.”

There's a beat before Elliott replies. “No one expects you to be happy right now, Kurt.”

“How considerate of them,” Kurt snaps before sighing, dropping his head. “I'm sorry – I didn't mean that.”

“I think you're entitled to a little venting,” Elliott comments, and Kurt feels his lips twitch in response as he takes in Elliott's words. “No one's going to deny that.”

And then he notices the change in sound.

Kurt waits, keeps the phone pressed to his ear, and so he hears the whispers, the echoes of another conversation.

“Elliott,” Kurt pauses after he says the name, takes in a steadying breath. “Am I on speaker?”

For a moment, there's nothing. And then a sigh sounds down the line. “I was on the way to the loft when you called.”

“We made him, Kurt. Please don't be angry. We were just worried.” Dani's voice is tight, nervous in a way he's never heard from someone who normally speaks so bluntly.

“Your note was irritatingly vague,” Santana cuts in, and Kurt tightens his grip around Blaine's ring. “We actually care about the hobbit too, Hummel.” The words are soft, if quick, and Kurt is suddenly reminded of when Santana sang in the choir room for Finn.

“It –”

“I can be on the next plane.” Rachel's voice cuts through Kurt's reply, and his hand tightens further; he feels the ring digging into his palm. “I've already starting packing, and I can just –”

“No.” The quiet word brings it all to a stop, and Kurt hates everything. “No,” he repeats, blinking away the sting in his eyes. “Stay in New York. You have the show and –”

“Kurt! Blaine is in the hospital! You think I care about Funny Girl when –”

“I didn't say that!” Kurt interrupts, the words louder than he planned. “And I know Blaine's in the hospital, trust me, I know! But I can't –” Kurt lets out a breath, “I need to focus on Blaine right now, Rachel. Once he's awake, once he's okay and discharged and home I'll need all of you, but right now I have to focus on him.” Kurt turns and looks to the wall leading to Blaine's room. “I'll call you later, okay? I promise.”

“Kurt!” Rachel's shout stalls Kurt's hand on his phone, and he waits, counts his breaths even as he hears the murmurs of four voices on the line. “Kurt,” Rachel's voice finally cuts through, “I'm not saying you shouldn't focus on Blaine; I'm not saying that at all. But,” a pause, and Kurt feels his hand tighten on his phone even as his breath quickens for a reason he's not yet sure of, “you were there for me when Finn – you were there for me, then. Let me be there for you, now.”

“No!” The word is louder than he planned, and Kurt ducks his head to avoid the curious looks from others in the waiting room. “Blaine's stable, Rachel. He's stable and not – he's going to be fine.”

He hangs up before he can hear a reply.

(Fourteen hours and thirty-one minutes.)

Kurt stares at his phone until the screen goes black, taking measured breaths and slowly loosening his grip on Blaine's ring.

He knows Rachel was just trying to help, trying to show support, in her way. But this is different.

Blaine isn't Finn.

He can't be.

And for all that he brought Rachel tea and blankets, and wrapped her in hugs and assured her that the world hadn't ended (even if part of theirs had), this is different.

Blaine will not die.

Blaine is stable, he's breathing and slightly broken, but he's alive, and even Dr. Olt knows Blaine's a fighter.

Kurt leans against the wall as the treacherous, pessimistic part of his mind reminds him that stable isn't a permanent condition.

His phone clatters to the floor then, and Kurt follows, resting his head on his bent knees as he releases the sob he'd held back during the phone call. Because without meaning to, Rachel had hit on the one fact Kurt has been ignoring since his dad first called.

Blaine's in the hospital.

And the last time a member of Kurt's family was in the hospital, they never came out again.

Kurt tightens his arms around his knees, takes in gulping hitches of air and ignores the steady dampening of his sleeves.

Blaine could die.

Kurt squeezes his eyes tighter, shakes his head as if the simple negation will make the possibility nothing more than a nightmare. Because Blaine is stable – currently – but he hasn't woken up.

Saying Kurt's name (once, slurred, and without opening his eyes) does not count.

He tries to remember his father's assurances that it's just the medication, Dr. Olt's optimism that Blaine is a fighter, but superimposed is the image of Blaine in the hospital bed, still but for the slight rise and fall of his bandaged chest.

Blaine could die, and there's nothing Kurt can do about it.

It's not rational, he knows, but Kurt gave up on fairy tales the day he replaced his mother's hugs with her old blanket.

He almost started again, when he met Blaine on a staircase, but then Finn's bedroom became a shrine.

Kurt raises his head then, stares out through blurred vision at the waiting room.

Around him, impatient friends and family loiter and fetch coffee while the nurses wear the same placid smile that had haunted him yesterday. The world is still moving, and Kurt is struck by the injustice of it all.

He just hung up on some of the best friends he could ask for because he can't handle their support.

Kurt still avoids people wearing letterman jackets, crosses to the opposite side of the street if he sees members of the McKinley football team when he visits his family.

Because life isn't fair, and years of behavior don't just vanish.

Karofsky may have been bullied, may have been outed, but as far as Kurt knows he's still more likely to make a snide comment about a Pride float than praise it.

He's moved on from Karofsky, to an extent, made his peace when he visited him in this same hospital. But despite the football player's coming-out and ill-advised crush (which had given Kurt chills when he'd thought on it later) Kurt can't say he's forgiven Karofsky – he took Kurt's first kiss, and no matter how many times Blaine's said it ‘doesn't count, not really,' Kurt can't help but think of it as something else that Karofsky stole.

Like he stole Kurt's feeling of safety, and his sense of belonging.

So when Kurt visits he avoids places he might see Karofsky altogether because his former tormentor may have left his bullying behind him, but Kurt can't help but remember a forced kiss, hear the echo of  ‘You tell anyone else what happened? Im gonna kill you" when he sees him.

Kurt has the occasional nightmare, too.

And Blaine, Blaine had the courage to ask a friend to a dance, and in return got enough nightmares to last a lifetime.

He still had the courage to take Kurt's hand.

Yet now, down the hall Blaine is stable – but not awake – after being attacked for the second time, since apparently Kurt's fiancé dealing with the ghosts of his past attackers wasn't enough for the universe.

A small, secret part of Kurt can't help but think that of all the people who could be beaten and put in the hospital, Karofsky is still higher on that list than Blaine will ever be.

Kurt closes his eyes again, focuses on the feel of Blaine's ring in his hand, forces himself to remember instead their proposals: remembers Blaine is a gorgeous suit and falling rose petals, remembers a magical staircase; remembers Blaine's surprised face when Kurt had shown up, how Blaine had nearly tripped over the piano bench in his haste to cross the room.

He and Blaine are getting married. They are.

Blaine just has to wake up first.

Kurt opens his eyes and picks up his phone, turning it off before slipping it back into his pocket. He methodically chokes down half of the now-cold sandwich before standing and dropping the remaining bit into the trash and turning for Blaine's hall.

Blaine's the strongest, bravest man Kurt's ever met, and Kurt's going to tell him so, as soon as he wakes up.

(Fourteen hours and thirty-eight minutes.)