Said Kurt, leaning back from Blaine with a shivering sigh. He felt exhausted, how long had he spent crying? With another gentle squeeze he released his hand from Blaine's, feeling the weak fingers resist slightly. Kurt couldn't stop himself from leaning forward.

"I'm still here Blaine."

He ran his finger down that cheek, from dark, almost purple eyelids, to stubbled chin.

"When you get better, I'm definitely teaching you to shave properly...But I'm still here, ok? I'm not going anywhere; I'm never going anywhere. But right now I need to help Dave, alright?"

He could of sworn he felt the fingers pull back stronger still at the mention of Karofsky's name. He didn't care that he was sitting just across the room, leaning against a row of lockers. He didn't feel reconciled to the bully, but then again, he couldn't exactly maintain his anger at him. However much harm he'd done in the past, this guy had helped him get Blaine back, at least in part. Kurt owed him something for that.

Dave had lifted his head at the mention of his own name.

"My turn for what?"

His voice was thin and strained; nothing except sitting on the floor seemed possible at the moment, whatever Kurt had in mind for him, he was sorry, but it would be impossible.

About five minutes or so ago, or it could have been an hour, time was slipping past at strange paces, he had almost asked Kurt if they should think of doing what the kid had been about to do all that time ago, slipping out the back door? But then Dave had realized this was impossible. He could hardly move, Kurt could hardly lift Blaine, and at any rate the poor kid probably shouldn't be moved. No; they were stuck until someone came for them. At that point, Dave had made his goal to be conscious when that time came. Now all he could think was that he wished that help would get here soon.

Kurt shuffled forward on his knees, ignoring the stinging in them from the tiny studded scratches of the broken glass. On reaching where Karofsky sat he reached back and dragged the pail of water after him. He looked into the thin crimson water in the darkness, seeming to consider a meaning in it, then lifted his head in conclusion. Karofsky was still looking down in pale confusion so Kurt pointed to make his meaning clear.

"Your arm."

"Oh."

It was all he could manage. But then, a kind of grudging remnant of ingrained character, he muttered.

"'s ok."

But Kurt, ignoring him, had already placed himself alongside the lockers and begun to pull back the collar of the ruined jacket. Dave shuddered involuntarily at the proximity of Kurt's damp, cold fingers to his neck.

"You need to sit up."

He obeyed silently, wriggling and bending so that Kurt could slip the sleeve off of his uninjured left shoulder. Then Kurt, quickly sending a glance over his shoulder at the silent, almost sleeping, figure of Blaine, gently drew the jacket across the lockers so that all except the tattered right sleeve lay in his lap. Karofsky closed his eyes and leaned back against the metal doors, silently praying for the strength to take the coming pain. But he opened them when he felt nothing happening.

Silently, next to him, Kurt was unbuttoning his shirt, pulling it over his head to reveal a simple white T-shirt. He didn't need to look down to know that the white was now stained by a wide dark oval, slightly tacky on his bare skin underneath. Taking his shirt in his hands, ignoring the identical, if enlarged, mark it too had, Kurt opened out the collar and, using his teeth, for the second time that night, began to tear it into strips. Karofsky could only watch as the only boy he'd ever known carry a compact and two spare outfits in his locker sacrificed the very shirt off his back.

When Kurt had finished, looking at the small pile of cloth with an almost sigh, he reached forward and took hold of the cuff of Dave's sleeve. Glancing up, their two pairs of eyes met in the inky darkness, sharing an understanding. Then, steadily, Kurt began to peel back the fabric, which crackled with dried blood. Bit by bit it came away, with fibres stretching and then breaking from a hundred gashes of a hundred sizes. Drops of freshly freed blood ran down his already stained forearm, showing garishly scarlet against the rusted brown. Slowly Kurt was unable to pull back the sleeve any more, the cut tightening around Karofsky's bicep, and so he began moistening it with the water and slowly plucking the jacket away from the skin. In a few places the glint of glass still showed from inside a wound, but Kurt didn't dare to touch it. "Leave it to the professionals," he muttered to himself, "they'll be here soon." But Kurt didn't fail to notice that as he worked higher and higher, Karofsky had begun to swear continually under his breath.

And then he realized the reason for this. So far he'd been working quickly and methodically, but then the cloth suddenly became harder to move, entirely stiffened and glued. And as Kurt dripped more and more handfuls of the pink water onto the now soaking arm, he saw a pattern: rings of congealed blood, radiating outwards from something that looked nothing like a glass wound. It was deep and dark and round, and sunk into the very ball of his shoulder.

“David?”

Kurt whispered weakly and incredulously. Karofsky had followed his eyes and now realised what he had seen. But even so he had no idea what to say. After a pause of a moment or two whilst Kurt gazed transfixed at the wound, overcome by the fact that this boy…of all the people in the world…had sat there, helped him, made no fuss, after being…being…Kurt didn’t want to think the word but it came through nonetheless. Shot.

“It was meant for me.”

Kurt mumbled to himself.

“What?”

“N-nothing.”

Blinking, he went back to work on freeing the sleeve. Minutes passed like hours, but finally it was free enough to slowly, ever so achingly slowly, slide the leathery shreds over his hand and away. Kurt picked up the jacket and neatly folded it to one side. The sight of the arm, bare and bleeding, drew both their eyes morbidly, with Karofsky’s teeth now gritted in fresh pain.

“It needs a tourniquet.”

David’s voice was matter-of-fact and painful. With his good arm he managed to shift his weight awkwardly on the floor, as pins and needles ran excruciatingly through both his legs. Kurt nodded, picking up the longest strip of cloth and passing it under Dave’s arm. He looked up but then quickly back at his hands, suspended in mid air.

“Here?”

“No, a bit lower. Just below the joint, and as hard as you can.”

“How do you know all this?”

Kurt’s hands tightened on the knot. There was no answer. The fabric bit deep into the limp muscle of his arm, only half an inch above the horrible wound.

”Can you feel that?”

He gave a small grunting cough, then, “Yeah…thanks.”

This time Kurt didn’t answer. Instead he began to bind the arm as best he could, careful not to push any glass deeper than it already was. Every second or third knot he glanced back at Blaine, still lying to the side of the door. Kurt wanted to hold his body again, to hold them against each other and whisper that he was always going to be there for him, no matter what. More than anything he wanted Blaine to be out of this nightmare; away, clean, comfortable, safe. Anything he could give him. His fumbling hands worked faster and faster.

“You want to go back to him…”

The mumble was faint; Karofsky had shut his eyes again, but some little colour, or what Kurt could see in the darkness, had returned to his cheeks. Was it a question or a statement?

“Yeah.”

Kurt replied, noncommittally. In both cases it was the truth. Picking up the last strip, he wound it over and around the arm, almost reaching the last of the cuts.

“There,” he added.

Gingerly, Dave raised his arm slightly, wincing, and held it against his chest.

“Oh, wait.”

Said Kurt, a second idea forming in his mind. He reached back behind himself and grabbed the folded jacket, turning it out and folding it again in a different manner.

Reaching out he placed the padded body under Dave’s elbow and forearm, and at as much arms length as he could manage, passed the two sleeves around his back and tied them over his good shoulder; a sling. Karofsky gave a genuine smile and tiny snort of laughter. Then when the moment passed he raised his right hand and gave Kurt a small shooing motion; permission to go back to Blaine. And Kurt didn’t need a moment more.
-
A few minutes later, with Kurt once again sitting against the wall with Blaine’s head on his chest, their hands interlaced, a colossal crash came from overhead, and the heads of the two conscious boys snapped to the ceiling. Then a shot rang out, and another. But Karofsky’s head swivelled at the sound of the second one. He caught Kurt's eye.

“Those weren’t from the same places. One was outside.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah. From the quad side. And that first,” he said, gesturing with his thumb to the ceiling, “was from the cafeteria. They’re coming for him. So, then, they’ll come for us.”

In silence the boys waited for something else to happen; for an end.