By five, Burt Hummel usually likes to be home. It gives him some time before Carole gets off work (if she's not working nights) to unwind with a cold beer. He'd tried cooking for her a few times, back when they'd first gotten married, but it had all been just as disastrous as it had been right after Elizabeth died. Unless it's grilling season, without Kurt here to boss him around Burt is helpless.

Today, though, he's running late. The paperwork has been piling up, and he's been trying to diminish to all day to no avail. At quarter after, he rubs his eyes, sighs, and calls it a day, shutting off the light to his office and stepping out into the main garage to let the rest of the guys working to know that he's going home.

When he gets there, he sees two unattended cars, one of which is due promptly when they open tomorrow morning. Looking around, he finally sees Jimmy, Manny, and Jack crowded in the corner around the TV. Burt narrows his eyes.

"I'm all for takin' a breather and everything," he says loudly as he approaches, "but I'm runnin' a business here, fellas."

The guys jump, and Manny turns around. His eyes are wide, horrified, and immediately Burt's stomach flips. Something has to have happened in New York. Something always happens in New York.

"Sorry, boss," Manny says, "but there's been a shooting. Can you believe it? Here, in Lima."

Relief begins to flood warm and relaxing over Burt, but it isn't complete. He's almost afraid to ask where, but he doesn't have to as the newscaster's voice interrupts the tense silence and all Burt can make out is "McKinley High School."

The warmth of relief is gone as his blood runs ice cold. Kurt may be safe, but his friends still go there.

"Shit," he swears uncharacteristically.

He makes it to his car before his phone rings, and he doesn't check the caller ID before answering.

"Dad." It's Kurt's voice, and Burt doesn't think he's even been gladder to hear it in his life. "Please don't get mad at me, but I really need you to come pick me up from the airport right now."

Burt starts his car without a second thought. "You heard about the shooting, huh?" He can't be mad at Kurt for caring, he just can't. Elizabeth would have done exactly the same thing.

A long pause, tense and thick, and Burt makes it out of the parking lot before Kurt speaks again. This time it's quieter, more scared and defeated. "You haven't heard about Blaine."

Not a question, just a statement. Burt's stomach feels like it drops off a skyscraper and he white-knuckles the steering wheel as he makes a turn. Blaine may have hurt his son, but he's still family, and Burt still cares about him. He's just a kid, and kids make mistakes. He still cares about Kurt, is willing to try and fix his mistakes, and to Burt that's what matters.

"No," he says, cautiously. "Kurt, what happened? Did he get shot?"

Silence again, only this time it's broken by Kurt's sob, loud and harsh. Kurt begins crying, and Burt doesn't stop him, can't stop him. He doesn't know what to do, what to say, because he doesn't know.

"H-he—he—" Kurt begins, sucking in deep breaths to calm himself. His voice crackles over the phone. "He was...raped."

Burt's blood runs cold as Kurt begins to sob again. Who would—no, who could—do this to someone? A kid? Blaine is just a kid, and now everything has been stolen from him. He's never going to be the same person ever again, that much Burt knows. Nothing is ever going to be the same again for anyone.

Slowly the chill in his veins heats until it's bubbling, scalding, until it's rage, white-hot and burning.

"I need to see him, Dad, I have to," Kurt says, desperate and pleading and terrified.

Burt nods, setting his jaw until it aches. "You will, Kurt. Don't worry."

Another thought passes through his mind, brief and gone in a flash, but in that tiny little space of a few seconds it leaves Burt sick. Because no matter how much he cares about Blaine, about those kids, Burt's just glad that Kurt wasn't there.

----

Blaine stays close to his mother's side when they enter their house. It still hurts to walk, but with the medication it's manageable, and Blaine's inside as fast as possible, hugging his arms to his chest and looking only at the floor.

Stella follows him, but she says nothing as she locks the door. The loud, metallic click seems to echo in the empty room, in Blaine's mind where he can still hear the jiggling of door handles, can still feel a cold gun's cruel press.

He squeezes his eyes shut, drawing himself into his own world. Stella's voice snaps him out of it, and he jumps, heart pounding. He turns, looks at her. His brows are furrowed, mouth set in a fine line. She looks unsure. "Do you...need anything, sweetie?"

Blaine shakes his head. "I just want to take a shower."

Stella nods, and Blaine walks cautiously up the stairs, listening to the creak of each step until he reaches the landing. It's quiet up here, and the hallway seems to stretch on forever. He avoids looking into shadows as he darts into the bathroom and locks the door, pressing his back against it as he tries to will his heart to stop beating so fast.

He's at home. He's safe. He knows, rationally, that there's no one here to hurt him. He also knows, irrationally, that he'd thought that only hours before. What he'd thought before is all a lie.

He's so exhausted. His head pounds and his body aches. He's still wearing his uniform, and as he looks down at himself, sees the WMHS logo, the red-and-white that reminds him too much of the floor back in the choir room after everything had happened, he feels panic begin to swell like a balloon. Behind it is anger.

He lets out a choked, primitive sound and wrestles the shirt off, throwing it across the bathroom where it hits the opposite wall with a muted thump; tears fuzz his vision as he tugs off his shoes, and his pants follow his shirt, hitting the wall and falling to a crumpled red heap. Blaine nearly falls, only manages to steady himself with a hand on the sink, and he starts crying again as he slides to the floor where he curls in on himself.

Why did I have to be wearing that uniform? He wouldn't have chosen me if I hadn't been wearing that stupid fucking uniform.

From there on there are endless whys, questions of had I done this and had I reacted differently. Blaine doesn't know what to think anymore, what to feel. It's all a jumbled, fuzzy mess, and he thinks he might be suffocating. Taking a breath is hard, letting it out is harder. It's like his body doesn't want him to live anymore.

He closes his eyes; he sees the man, the faces of his friends, people he doesn't know how he'll ever face again knowing what they've seen. He opens his eyes; he sees the mess of his life, his uniform thrown across the room, the trembling of his hands and legs.

How long he's down there, he isn't sure. When he stands up his legs tremble. He steadfastly avoids his reflection in the mirror again when he pulls back the shower curtain, the rings squeaking on the pole. The water gradually warms up, hot clouds of steam floating down like a blanket, covering his reflection so he doesn't have to. Only then does he take off his underwear and step in. He makes the mistake of looking down when he steps into the tub.

On his hips he can see bruises, large and purpling. They're in the shape of hands.

----

When Burt's truck pulls up into the driveway of the Andersons' house, Kurt's stomach begins to flip, and he feels sick. He presses a hand to his stomach, thins his lips, and sees his father looking over across the console with concern.

"You all right?" he asks.

Kurt doesn't say anything. Ever since he'd gotten off the plane at the airport he's been terrified. Burt had cried when he'd hugged Kurt, and it had only taken seconds for Kurt, clutching at his father's back, to begin crying as well. It had been out of relief, Kurt knows, relief that he hadn't been there, that he'd been safe; he knows, also that it had been partly because of Blaine. Kurt isn't blind to the relationship, how, even if Kurt dates other guys, Blaine will always be welcomed like a son.

Back in the car, with the engine running, Kurt lets out a sigh, then shakes his head. "No. Not really."

Burt laughs, though it's hollow. He cuts the engine, and then they're sitting in silence. The façade that had always been so comforting to Kurt, that used to dredge up fond memories of their early relationship, is suddenly foreboding, a giant, empty castle with overgrown gardens and bleak windows.

Kurt's scared to know what he's going to find there. He closes his eyes, tries to remember Blaine smiling, laughing, so unfailingly optimistic despite everything that had gone wrong with his life. He tries to remember the boy that had taken his hand when no one else would, the boy that he'd fallen in love with. Blaine is still in there, physically the same. But Kurt's not stupid.

Stella answers the door when they knock. Her eyes are red, red-rimmed, and her smile is weary and not really there. She steps aside, says, "I'm so glad you called, Kurt."

Kurt tries to smile but is sure his is just as wispy.

Stella nods at Burt when he steps in behind Kurt. The door shuts and Kurt's heart begins racing again as he automatically seeks out the staircase. He just wants to know. He needs to see.

"Blaine should be in his room," Stella's saying. She discreetly wipes at her eyes. "I'll come upstairs with you just in case."

Kurt is acutely aware of his father behind him as they climb the staircase, and again as Stella knocks, says, quietly, "Blaine, honey?"

There's a muffled reply that must be in the affirmative, and Kurt is sure to remain out of sight as Stella steps in and says, "You have some visitors."

Blaine makes a pained sound, and Kurt's heart clenches painfully in his chest. But he must have said okay, for Stella reappears and steps aside, nodding for them to come in.

Kurt is first, and he's shocked at how...normal everything feels. Blaine's room is the same as it had been the last time he'd been in here before he'd left for New York. There's a photo set facedown on the nightstand, and with a sharp, painful jolt Kurt realizes that it's his. And if it's not put away it means that Blaine had done it recently.

Even Blaine looks the same. He's sitting at the head of his bed, legs crossed. He's wearing sweats, the baggy, shapeless ones he'd told Kurt were strictly for cold winter nights, and a loose shirt that gaps at the neck. He's looking down, tugging at his comforter, and his shoulders are hunched.

Stella leaves. Kurt has to swallow several times before he can open his mouth and say, "Blaine?"

Hesitant, it's a few seconds before Blaine looks up, and Kurt nearly takes a step back in shock at the dead, lifeless look in Blaine's eyes. There is no emotion on his face as he looks at Kurt.

It lasts only seconds, then Blaine's eyes flit over Kurt's shoulder where Burt is standing, and that hollow stare is replaced with panic; then Blaine is scooting back, drawing his knees up to his chest and shaking his head, saying, over and over, "No, please, Mr. Hummel, don't hurt me, please, please."

This time Kurt does take a step back, and when he looks he sees that his father's eyes are wide, terrified, hurt.

"Blaine, you know I would never hurt you," Burt tries, but Blaine shakes his head, curls in tighter. His words are muffled, bordering on hysterical, and all Kurt can make out is "don't hurt me" and "please get out of here."

"Dad," Kurt says, softly, "maybe you should go."

Burt sets his jaw, stands his ground for a few seconds longer, but he leaves when Blaine lets out a horrible, terrified whimper. He leaves the door open and disappears down the hall, his footsteps echoing on the stairs until they fade out.

"Blaine," Kurt whispers. He suddenly feels drained, like he's just run a mile. He doesn't move, too afraid to, and waits until Blaine looks up.

Blaine sucks in a deep breath, wipes at his eyes and shakes his head. "Go away, Kurt. Please. Just leave me alone."

"I just flew all the way from New York," Kurt says. "There's no way I'm leaving you now."

Blaine laughs hollowly. "You shouldn't have. I don't deserve to see someone like you."

"What are you talking about?" Kurt asks. He takes a step forward, and when Blaine doesn't say anything he takes another, then another, until he's standing at the foot of Blaine's bed. "Of course you do."

Blaine avoids the question. "Who told you?" he asks as he wraps his arms around his legs.

"Sam."

"I should have figured," Blaine says, and Kurt's surprised to detect bitterness.

"It's not like that," Kurt tries, taking another step. "He knew you needed someone."

"So he calls my ex-boyfriend who lives in New York and who's seeing another guy?" Blaine scoffs. "Yeah, he chose someone great."

Kurt clenches his fist at the surge of anger. He knows why Blaine is doing this. He understands (at least partly). Blaine is lashing out before he needs to, because it's building up and building up.

"I'm not seeing anyone," Kurt says, "and you know I care about you, Blaine. Despite everything that's happened I don't want to ever see you get hurt."

Blaine turns away, resting his chin on his shoulder. It's a long moment before he speaks again, and this time it is bereft of the anger, of the bitterness and hostility and fear. It's worn-out, defeated. "Yeah, well, it's too late for that, huh?"

"Blaine, listen to me," Kurt says, stepping closer, and when Blaine looks up his eyes widen in surprise to see Kurt standing just shy of the edge of his bed. "You are important to me. You always will be, and nothing is going to change that. Not what happened before, and not what—what happened today. You're Blaine Anderson, one of the most talented, amazing, astounding boys I've ever met. If anyone can get through this you can."

Blaine's eyes flash dangerously, and his voice is low when he says, "You think it's that easy? You think after a few weeks, maybe some therapy, I can get over this?"

Kurt's jaw drops, eyes widening in surprise. "No, god, no, Blaine, that's not what I meant—"

"It's not that easy!" Blaine's voice rises sharply. He blinks rapidly, tears streaking down his chest. "I had to take an HIV test and now I have to wait for the results. I jump if someone moves too fast. I can't look at myself in the mirror. I can't look at you because I know that I've let you of all people down so many times that I can hardly stand myself."

Kurt is crying before he realizes it, one tear, then anther, slipping down his cheek. Blaine's chest heaves, and slowly his eyes narrow, soften, before turning distant again. He rests his forehead on his arm, and his voice is muffled when he says, "Please leave me alone, Kurt. I don't deserve to see you."

Kurt hesitates, wants to reach out. His body trembles, and his own breaths are short and hiccupping as he struggles through them. He isn't sure he's ever hurt so much in his life, isn't sure if he's ever felt so powerless. He doesn't want to leave. He can't leave.

But he does.

When he reaches the door be turns around, watches Blaine's back shake, hears hitching cries. Blaine looks so small huddled up in his big bed, and Kurt wonders what will ever make this right.

"I'm staying here for the rest of the week," he says softly, hand on the door. He isn't even sure if Blaine can hear him. "Call me if you need anything."

Blaine doesn't say anything, like Kurt expected, and it's only once he's shut the door that he claps a hand over his mouth, squeezes his eyes shut, slides to the floor, and allows himself to cry.