"Blaine?"

He hears his name, but can't make his brain and mouth work in tandem and remains mute.

"Mr. Anderson? Hey, you're waking up--stay with us. Blaine!" the voice pleads, tone and volume rising at the end of the sentence.

The sharp blast of sound resounds in his ears, startling him out of his fog.

"Wha?....I'm here. What?" he says.

Blaine's eyelids feel weighted, and raising them up enough to see clearly, feels like a monumental task. He focuses on trying to keep alert. There's a young woman leaning over the bed he's in, and he finds his sight drawn to the stethoscope dangling around her neck. It's swaying back and forth--light glinting off of the chestpiece.

"Blaine, I'm Doctor Stern. Do you have any idea where you are right now?" she asks.

He's fully aware that this shouldn't be a difficult question for him to answer, but as he struggles to respond, Blaine realizes that it really sort of is.

"Aren't I still at the hospital?" he wonders. The last thing he remembers vividly before oblivion struck was watching his mother's face crumpled in tears as he felt his eyes slip closed. There was a vague rumbling outside the window near his head--rainfall, maybe? There was that too--but that's all he's got.

"Well, you are in a hospital---of sorts. You've been transferred from the emergency department of Saint Luke's/Roosevelt Hospital, and you're now in a different building. You're in the detox unit--it's been almost a day since you arrived." Dr Stern informs him.

She pauses, letting her offered information sink in. Blaine's bleary mind hones in on the "detox" part. Oh. Charcoal...police...restraints... his internal voice offers.

Groaning slightly, and raising his head off of the plastic-covered hospital pillow cradling his head, Blaine croaks, "It's...it's been a day already? How...why can't I...?"

The doctor cuts him off, gently. "You've been under pretty heavy sedation, Blaine. We began to wean you off of all the medicines you were on to keep you sleeping. You're still on a number of meds which are not intended to sedate you necessarily--but to keep you on an even keel as the drugs and alcohol leave your system."

As she explains, she straightens her back, standing up fully and scribbling some notes on a metal clipboard. Blaine realises suddenly, that Dr. Stern must have been checking his vital signs as she tried to rouse him into full wakefulness.

It's a bit alarming to know that someone's been pretty much touching him wherever they pleased while he was down for the count--but with a small, painful, pang--Blaine knows that if he's honest? At least the doctor had good, pure, intentions--unlike some of the skeevy guys he has woken up next to after blurry, greyed-out, nights.

Blaine swallows deeply, willing words to come. None do. Instead, he is shocked to find hot, stinging, tears prickling at the corners of his eyes. Suddenly, everything seems like too much. Too much stimulation, too much information. Being awake is terrifying. For a searing moment Blaine wills the world to swallow him up again. Take me away, please...please...I just don't want to be here. I can't. I... his thoughts race. He doesn't want to cry--doesn't want to feel.

The memory of his mother's anguished face slams into his head, the image playing itself in stark clarity behind his tightly closed eyes. He wants it gone--but it refuses to dim. Over and over, he sees her honey-brown eyes--so much like his own--filling with tears, splashing drops falling from her lashes.

"Blaine...Blaine, baby....why? Where are you Blaine? I want you back--this isn't you. You're not my boy. The boy I know would NEVER give up--ever. Blaine, please....please..talk to me?" Maricris Anderson had begged.

No. Stay. Stop. Stop running. Just stand still. Breathe. Wake up. All you need to do is wake up and breathe. See what comes next, a quiet voice whispers in his ear. With a start, Blaine opens his mouth to speak, and lets the tears fall.

"Is my Mom here? Cooper?" he asks, his voice shaking.

Dr. Stern moves away from his bedside, and Blaine sees his tiny Mom rush toward him from a corner of the room. Gently, she caresses his cheek--wiping at the impossible stream of anguished tears coursing down his face. He feels her scent, rather than only detecting it with his nose. It envelops him--hits him like a direct punch to the solar plexus. Lilacs, sandalwood, safety and home.

"Oh, Ma---I, I don't know...I'm so so-" he sobs into her outstretched hands.

"Shhhhhh, nonoy..." Maricris whispers, "It will be alright. Shhhhhh, baby."

######################

Three days later, and Blaine is a little bit more sure that things might actually be alright. It's been 72 hours of shaking, vomiting, creepy-crawlies, and bad dreams. He's actually managed to start keeping down solids, so whooo!, that's a plus, he thinks to himself wryly as he drags himself out of his small room, and into the hallway---ready to join what he's been informed is, "the rest of the gang", in the cafeteria for breakfast.

Today is the first day he'd woken up on his own, without an orderly shaking him gently, or a Nurse tapping a clipboard against his bed frame. Hey, it's the little things, I guess, he'd observed, as he pulled on some nondescript sweatpants and a t-shirt picked from a neat pile on top of the chipboard dresser in his room.

The mirror in Blaine's tiny, en suite bathroom had reflected back a pretty sad sight. His hair? Blaine felt that "insane guy on the F-Train" probably described it well. As he brushed his teeth, he half-heartedly looked around for some mouthwash. Finding none, it slowly dawned on him that Listerine was pretty much composed of pure alcohol--and had probably been removed in case he entertained any idea of drinking it.

As if I'd drink fucking Listerine. I'd never be that desperate to be high , he ranted to himself--not willing to acknowledge that if he'd been pushed enough--all bets would have been off on that pronouncement.

Putting on his most fake rock star smile, he gave himself a "thumbs up" aimed at the mirror, watched his expression return to one of slight terror--and began journeying down a nondescript corridor. Looking for all the world like every hallway in every hospital he's ever been in--Blaine lets the half-nauseating, half-enticing smells of cafeteria food guide his way.

As he gets closer to where this mystical land of "the rest of the gang" must be, sounds of clinking plates and rumbled conversations reach his ears. Leaning against a yellow-tiled wall, he takes a moment to steady himself before venturing into the large room.

Blaine hasn't always been afraid. He's fronted a world-famous rock band--sung for the President, helped countdown the New Year on CNN, performed during the World Series...all things which required a certain amount of fearlessness and bravery. Somewhere along the way, the fear stole in.

It robbed him of his friends, his career, his dignity, and his basic ideas of who he was. He hasn't known who he is for at least a year now--and by walking into a bustling room full of strangers, he's about to find out.

And at this precise moment? Blaine is certain he's never been more terrified in his life.

"Excuse me? Um, are you going to go in....or?" inquires a soft voice directly behind him.

With a jump, Blaine figures out that he must be somehow blocking part of the entryway. There are two glass doors to choose from though, and he's just about to mention that to the person behind him, when a sweater clad arm reaches around him gently and pulls at the right hand door.

It doesn't open.

"They keep this side locked for some reason. One way in, one way out...see?"

Blaine feels like his tongue has inexplicably grown so large that it won't fit his mouth correctly. The soft voice belongs to a man, and, Blaine is no blushing, virginal, teenager--but jesus if he isn't the most stunning one he's ever laid eyes on. Blue eyes, no, green-blue, no, a kaleidoscope of colour ...wide and questioning, sweep over Blaine's face.

"Hey? I'm hungry. Could you please move aside? Do you need help? Are you okay...." the guy asks.

MOVE ASSHOLE! Work your legs...move, damn it! Blaine's mind shrieks at him.

"Oh! Yeah, I, uh...I'm new, and...." he trails off, feeling supremely defective.

"Oooookay. New guy? Not readily apparent or anything. I'm Kurt. I'm un-new. Well, compared to you, I guess. This food doesn't start off too delicious when it's new, so I'm going to get some before it's old. Let me know if you need anything."

Kurt slides past Blaine, not really giving him much of a chance to actually move aside--apparently tired of politely waiting for normal amounts of personal space to open up.

As Kurt strides into the room, he calls back to Blaine, "I can't help you with caffeine though...brace yourself, new guy. It's all decaf--all the time here. What's your name?"

He stops walking for a pace or two, and waits, his head cocked backwards to listen for Blaine's answer.

"Um...Blaine. I'm...Blaine. Thanks, Kurt." he calls, his voice raised, and cracking slightly.

Kurt laughs briefly, the sound of his voice barely audible over the noise levels in the room, "You're welcome Blaine. C'mon, food's getting cold...er."