Being scared was making Quinn restless; she wanted to be back in control.

“With what, genius?” The same apparently made Lauren angry.

‘It’s like Rachel’s party all over again…’ Commented Finn to himself. He himself hadn’t managed to move on to any other emotion that absolute terror. But not for himself; well, at least mostly not for himself. It was for everyone. What would happen if one of them got hurt? How could they go on after something like that? And what if it was his mistake that made it happen? Maybe Quinn was completely right, maybe they should have piled up the chairs, books, music stands, whatever, against the doors. Or maybe they should have just made a run for it at those first shots, instead of crouching here in the darkness like sitting ducks. He was supposed to be the leader here, the co-captain. So why did he feel so useless?

There was some awkward moving behind him, legs tangling in legs, backs against backs as someone changed positions. He felt a hand on his shoulder.

“Hey…”

It was Rachel. No; he couldn’t think or talk about their relationship now, or whatever stunt she was trying to pull. He was with Quinn; they were happy, end of story. Finn didn’t turn round.

“Look, Kurt’s going to be ok, alright?”

Pain came rushing right back to the front of Finn’s brain. Kurt. His eyes overflowed again. How long had he managed to go without thinking of the one thing that might completely crush him? What the hell was Burt going to think of him?

Rachel failed to pick up on the shame underlying the terror in Finn’s face.

“I bet he’s just holding tight somewhere, humming showtunes? Or…or he’s already outside, gone to get help, playing the hero, and he’s going to be right out there waiting for us when the police get here, ok?”

Finn sniffed loudly, turning it into a firm cough to hide a sob. The police. Yeah. How long ago had Santana called them? He looked at his watch, but couldn’t see the hands in the darkness. It was late; really late. What was his mum thinking? Were they all supposed to be back by now? Burt wouldn’t be worried yet, Kurt was supposed to be going out to dinner with Blaine after this; he’d been given a late curfew and everything. He’d been looking forward to it all so much; it was all he’d bloody talked about at breakfast.

Even without light Finn knew what was directly opposite him across the floor of the choir room. He’d spent those last fading moments of daylight absorbing the sight as best he could. It was Kurt’s bag and jacket, abandoned on his chair. He’d thrown them both down, so carefree that he didn’t even bother to stop and precisely fold his jacket as customary, skipping onto Blaine’s lap as the pair sat down, and then even volunteering to run and get the music. Finn could have hit himself; why hadn’t he offered to go fetch it instead? Or why shouldn’t he have volunteered in Blaine’s place to go look for Kurt? His mind showed him the image of Blaine winking innocently at Rachel as he’d left the room. What had he shouted? Something about not taking forever, or making out, or something just as stupid, some other gay joke? Without thinking, he took hold of the hand which still rested on his shoulder.

“I’m so sorry Kurt.”

At the same instant, everyone’s heads snapped up. Along the corridor, once more, came the sound of the swinging cafeteria doors. No one breathed. Then all kinds of sounds began; crashes, a voice shouting, more crashes, one, then two shots.

“Do…do you think…is that him?”

Tina whispered. No one needed to answer, as the noises continued.

“What’s he doing?”

It was Brittany’s turn to voice what every one of them was thinking. Mike was the first one to realise.

“He hasn’t found anyone.”

‘Or hasn’t found anyone else…’ commented Finn’s mind.

“He’s angry; he’s freaking out. I guess he was planning to take the whole school down or something, and there’s nobody here.”

“Psycho…” muttered Santana.

“Ssshuush,” murmured Quinn, taking her eyes from the door and returning them to the burning gesture of Finn holding Rachel’s hand over his shoulder. The noises continued for minutes. And then, as suddenly as flicking on a light, they were silenced, as out over the distant night came the wail of sirens.
-
Dave staggered back from the showers, a splashing pail banging against his knee as he fought for balance. Walking was gradually getting easier, even as the pain in his shoulder was growing, minute by minute.

“Here.”

He said gently, placing it on the floor next to Kurt, who still sat with Blaine’s body resting against him, with his head on his chest, their legs mixed together. The poor kid was at breaking point, Dave could see. Kurt hadn’t spoken a word to Karofsky since they’d come back into the room, but his mouth was constantly moving, babbling nonsensically and inaudibly into Blaine’s ear. Dave had no idea what to do. First he’d tried reaching out to help; he could remember a tiny bit of the first aid training he’d taken as a kid in some scouts group or something, but Kurt had batted his hand away, wrapping himself round his unmoving…boyfriend…God, even after everything, the word still made him feel a little sick. Then Kurt had dragged the two of them, as one, over to the wall, leaning against it and resuming his sobbing monologue. Desperate to feel like he was doing something, he’d gone to get the water, but that was a useless act; what did it achieve? Christ, he hadn’t even been able to check if the kid was still breathing. His stomach turned another notch at the thought of what it would mean if he wasn’t.

David crouched to the ground again, keeping a metre’s distance from Kurt. He shut his eyes, trying to control the pounding in his own head that was returning. “Man up, idiot,” his inner voice spoke up to him. “This is up to you now.” Think. Think. And he opened his eyes, turning to look behind himself. An idea; yeah, it might work.

Crawling on all-threes, with his right arm pressed tight to his chest, Karofsky made his way towards the back of the locker room once more. And there they still were. He swept up the makeshift bandages Kurt had torn from that towel; how long ago that seemed in his head, and shuffled back towards the door.

“Kurt?”

The boy’s eyes lifted slightly, taking in the strange white offering held out to him.

“Look, we need to clean Blaine up, ok?”

Dave took one in his hand and dipped it in the cold water, wringing the spare drips from it, which plonked back into the pail.

“Look.”

He passed it forward, and Kurt reached out to take it.

Turning back, he seemed to get the idea, placing it as gently as a kiss on Blaine’s forehead and gingerly moving it back and forwards. Karofsky took up another in his hand, dipping it in the water just the same, and crawled forwards.

“Kurt?”

This time the boy did not look up, but Dave was sure he was listening.

“Can I help too?”

The tiniest nod.

This was all the chance he needed. Dave leaned in closer, placing the cloth in his injured hand for a moment and gathering a palm sized shard of glass in his good hand, as careful as he could be not to cut himself. Trying to match Kurt’s look of intent, he bent forward, raising the glass so that it was hidden in his hand but balanced an inch or so from Blaine’s mouth. He counted breathlessly in his head. One. Two. Three.

Slowly he sat back on his heels and held the shard out into the light. Kurt was watching now, mumbling again and not understanding, tears washing away as much of the blood as the water.

Then Dave let out a laugh; and another, and a third, a smile spreading across his face despite of himself. The glass was frosted with a film of vapour. He turned back to Kurt, dropping the splinter to the floor.

“He’s breathing. Kurt, he’s breathing. He’s gonna be ok.”

Kurt didn’t say anything. No more mumbling. He just looked into Karofsky’s eyes for a deep minute. Then, laying the now magenta strip on the floor beside the bucket, he picked up another and went back to nursing Blaine, dabbing at his hairline, scared to do anything more that might cause pain or harm to the vision before him. But as he did it he slid his free hand from the side of Blaine’s face where it had been resting, first placing it into Dave’s motionless one. A beat past, and Kurt gently squeezed, hoping to convey everything he absolutely couldn’t say.

Then he slid it out again, and reaching down, slipped it into Blaine’s open palm, running their fingers between each other and closing their hands. Gently and fervently he ran small circles with the pad of his thumb on the back of Blaine’s palm. And something inside him told him that he felt the fingers, every so weakly, squeeze back.