True Like
(or Looks Can Be Deceiving)


Chapter 2: Nursemaid

It was several long seconds after Kurt had shuffled the bags around in his hands to knock before there was a whimper of pain from the other side and the door swung open to reveal Blaine, standing there in boxer-briefs and an undersized Jimi Hendrix t-shirt that had seen better days. Many of them. He leaned heavily on the door, his unshaven face sporting an impressive black eye, and his hair was in total disarray. Kurt's lips quirked.

"Are you coming in, or what?"

"Hmph. One or two minor injuries and social niceties fly out the window. Which way's the kitchen?" He marched in and, with one brief glance at the layout, headed unerringly in the right direction to set down the bags. When he returned to the living room, Blaine had only gotten as far as closing the door and sagging against it, squinting and biting his lip. So Kurt sighed and went to help, tamping down the urge to simply watch. He couldn't take enjoyment from seeing a man suffer. Not even Anderson. "Here. Let me." Grabbing hold of Blaine's hand to duck under his arm caused another sharp wince and Kurt saw that, along with the more obvious injuries, his palms were pretty badly scraped too. Kurt was almost as sympathetic as he was curious. Almost. It was Anderson, after all.

The warm and spacious living room – yes, he could admit (to himself) that it was a nice apartment – had a hallway off to the left, presumably leading to the bedroom. Kurt supported Blaine's weight, keeping an arm around his waist for balance, and helped him hobble that way slowly and quietly. Well, it would have been quiet if not for Blaine's muffled grunts of pain. Kurt was the one who should be grunting, practically carrying a full-grown man, and no lightweight for all he was a tiny bit shorter. Kurt smirked. Once there, Kurt wasted no time dropping Blaine's heavy butt onto the bed so he could get back to the kitchen and put everything away. Refrigerated foods wait for no man, sprain or no sprain, and soon he was piling a tray with the things he needed. When he returned, Blaine was right where he'd left him, except he'd dropped backwards onto the mattress, his legs still hanging over the side.

"That can't be good for your ankle," he scolded cheerfully. "Now sit up. We need to ice and elevate your leg. Then I'll wrap it and you can rest until lunch is ready. I brought an apple and some crackers to tide you over until then. Where are your pills?"

Blaine opened his eyes to see his disgustingly perky guest looking entirely too pleased with the situation. He stretched his arms up over his head, gratified when Kurt's smug look disappeared and his startled gaze traveled down Blaine's body. His shirt had ridden up and the tight, knit boxers were low on his hips, showing off sharply defined, v-shaped obliques.

Kurt looked away from the too appealing sight of Blaine half-dressed, licking suddenly dry lips, his agitated voice coming out higher than usual. "Sit up, I said. You can't eat lying down. Have you eaten anything today? When was the last time you took your medicine?" Kurt set down the tray and looked around the bedroom. There were two windows and a set of double doors. "No master bath?"

"Which of those questions would you like me to answer first?" Blaine dragged himself up against the headboard and took a glass of juice from the tray. "No, I haven't eaten. Pills are in the nightstand, top drawer. I took two after you called. And this is a two bedroom, one bath. It's at the end of the hall." He took a bite of apple. "Thanks for coming over," he mumbled around the fruit.

Kurt turned his eyes back to the scruffy patient. "You're welcome."

"What's with the peas?" Blaine jerked a thumb at the tray and wiped his chin with the back of his hand.

Kurt rolled his eyes and thrust a napkin toward Blaine's beard-stubbled, juice-sticky face. "The ice pack needs time to get cold. Meanwhile–" He looked down at the swollen, discolored ankle that was now at least horizontal on the bed. "Hand me a pillow, will you?" Kurt carefully elevated the injured leg and covered his ankle with a dish towel and the bag of frozen peas. "It needs to be iced for 20 minutes."

"How do you know that? You've done this before?"

"I've never sprained an ankle. I make it a point to watch where I put my shoes. I looked it up on my phone during the cab ride."

Blaine nodded. "The doctor gave me a list of instructions. It's with the pills."

"Good. I'll look at it while lunch is cooking. Do you like halibut?"

"Halibut?" Blaine blinked at the strange question. "Sure. But we can just order pizza or something if you want," he offered helpfully.

"Pizza? Why would I want to eat two days' worth of fat and carbs in one sitting?"

"Uhh, because it's delicious?"

"Don't tell me you're one of those bastards who can eat anything and never gain an ounce," Kurt said with disgust.

"I guess I have a good metabolism. I've always been kind of energetic... Sorry." Blaine's words said 'sorry,' but his smile said 'suck it.' Enjoying Kurt's glare, Blaine stuffed a cracker into his mouth, still smiling.

Kurt's rejoinder was interrupted by a knock, luckily for Anderson, and he went to answer it, opening the front door to the gofer Sue had promised, along with one of Kurt's assistants. "Hi Jack. Brittany. Come on in. Thanks for your help. Just put those things on the couch."

"I like your apartment, Kurt." Brittany draped a few hangars of clothing covered by large plastic bags over the couch while her eyes roamed the living room.

"Thanks, Britt, but this isn't my apartment."

She looked confused. "Are you sure?"

"Yes, I'm sure. I've never been here before today." Kurt gave her a kind smile. Brittany might not be the sharpest knife, but she was one of the sweetest, most sincere people he'd ever known, and she was good at following directions.

"Oh, you mean you just moved in. I like the way you decorated to make it look like you," said Brittany.

"I don't know what you mean." He didn't bother arguing.

"You can tell someone nice lives here. Like a puppy or kitten."

Kurt didn't quite follow that, but he looked around at the tastefully decorated room. Surprisingly, there wasn't much he'd change about the decor if he lived here. The actual tenant, on the other hand, he needed work. Kurt decided the apartment must have been done by a decorator. Otherwise there'd be dark red shag carpeting and mirrors everywhere. Instead of an abstract bronze sculpture on the coffee table, there'd be a bowl filled with multi-colored condoms. The subtle, beautiful and expensive-looking artwork on the walls would be replaced by framed posters of muscle-bound men posing in front of shiny cars.

Kurt shook his head to clear it and looked through the bags Jack had been carrying. "Okay, Britt. I'm going to finish Orsino's and Malvolio's costumes, then I'll get back to Olivia and Viola. You and the others can take measurements of the extras and start on the attendants' and officers' wardrobes we talked about. Okay?"

"Okay, Kurt. Do you want us to work here?"

"No, Brittany. You can work at the theater. Call me if you have any questions and I'll stop by later to pick up the other things I need."

"Okay. Bye, Kurt!"

"Bye, Brittany. See you later, Jack. Thanks again."

xxxxxXxxxxx

Bandaging Blaine's ankle certainly took longer than it should have, because the man would not stop fidgeting. "Are you okay?" Kurt impatiently stabbed little hooks into the bandage to hold it in place.

"Yeah, fine. Could you– would you mind helping me get to the bathroom?"

"Of course," he chuckled, now that the squirming had been explained. "Come on you invalid." Kurt helped him stand.

"It hurts," Blaine whined pitifully.

"Tough. I'm not carrying you," Kurt shot down that unlikely possibility as they began their three-legged walk once again.

"I'd carry you," Blaine grumbled.

"I'll remember that. What happened to you anyway? Did your date's boyfriend show up? Or is this the result of a threesome gone horribly wrong?"

"Nothing so blogworthy. I stepped out of a cab and into a pothole last night. My foot stayed in the hole while the rest of me hit the sidewalk. Luckily my hands and face broke the fall. Too bad no one was recording. I could have gone viral online by now."

Kurt seconded that wish.

"Anyway," he continued, "the cab driver got out to see what happened and I asked him to take me to the hospital. Then I got another cab back here in the middle of the night when they finished poking and prodding and x-raying, only to tell me to go home and rest."

"That's terrible," Kurt said with concern. "Was your suit badly hurt?"

xxxxxXxxxxx

While the fish sautéed, Kurt nosed around the living room. There was a good selection of DVDs and Blu-rays, including some of his favorite musicals and a surprising number of Disney movies. Somehow he'd expected a lot of intellectually-challenged action flicks. Or porn. A closet near the front door held Blaine's various coats and jackets, where Kurt was able to put away the costumes, and then he cleared a side table near the window. He could use that as a desk later.

When lunch was ready, he carried the tray and a script to the bedroom. His nemesis was in bed, awake, looking delightfully miserable. "How's my little patient doing?" he sing-songed.

Blaine grunted and sat up. "Feel like I got in a fight with a professional wrestler."

"I'm sure you would have enjoyed that," Kurt replied, setting the tray over Blaine's lap.

Blaine eyed the fish and carrots on his plate and tucked a napkin into his shirt. "This smells great," he said suspiciously.

"Naturally. It's seasoned with cinnamon, cayenne and mint for a Moroccan flavor. I found the recipe online and played with it until I got it just right."

"Aren't you eating?" Blaine took a bite of the flaky white fish. "It's good."

"I was going to eat at the table and leave you to wallow in your pain alone, but if you'd prefer company–" Kurt let the question hang in the air.

"Yes, please. I'm bored out of my mind. Wallowing gets old. I need something to think about other than my throbbing ankle."

Kurt left to get his own lunch and returned to sit at the foot of Blaine's bed, careful not to bump his leg.

"What are you doing here, really?" Blaine asked between bites.

"I'm here to help you, of course. Take care of you. Make sure you don't starve or tumble down any flights of stairs – accidentally. I'm assuming none of your boy toys could be bothered."

Blaine made a derisive snort. "M'sure they'd be glad to if they knew I was hurt."

"Of course they would," Kurt patronized him. "If only you could remember a name, you might have called someone. No doubt they're all very special people."

"Special like you? Are you playing nurse so you can give me a sponge bath? You didn't have to go to all this trouble. I'd have taken pity on you and let you blow me. You only had to ask."

Kurt's usual scowl was firmly in place again, making Blaine's ankle feel inexplicably better. He popped a warm carrot into his mouth and waited for the inevitable comeback.

"In your weakened condition I'm not sure you could handle a blowjob from me. You've seen my work: my designs, my stage performance. Now you've tasted my cooking. I don't do things half-assed. When I enjoy something, I give it my all." Kurt raised a hand slowly, ostentatiously pointing at his own face. "Overachiever. Comprenez-vous?"

Blaine's fork hung mid-air on its way to his mouth. He felt a little light-headed and his appetite had vanished. Pushing away his nearly empty plate, he slithered under the sheet, sulking.

Kurt grinned. Ha! I win. "If you're going to sleep, I'm going out. There are some things I need to do, but I'll be back later and then we can rehearse your lines." He smiled brightly at the dirty look from Blaine, who'd pulled the sheet up to his nose.

"I knew it," Blaine muttered. "You're here to make me work. Sue sent you, didn't she?"

"I'm going to leave a copy of the script right here in case you need something to read. Try to get some rest." Kurt patted him on the head condescendingly. "You need it. You look like shit."

Kurt picked up the tray and closed the door on his way out, a spring in his step. After cleaning the kitchen, he helped himself to Blaine's keys, leaving a note on the off chance the one-legged man went looking for them.

Blaine waited until he heard the front door close, then picked up his phone to make a call. "Hi, Ethan. Listen, I'm sorry but I have to cancel for tonight... It's stupid really. I sprained my ankle and I have to stay off it for a week or two... No, it should be fine by opening night... Yeah, I'll call you. Bye."

He frowned at his phone after hanging up. He shouldn't be surprised, really, that Ethan's concern was for the show and not him. Ethan was an out-of-work actor and they'd been dating for a while, but he still felt no connection with the guy at all. Obviously the lack of feeling was mutual, but Blaine would have had the decency to pretend to care. He needed to break it off as soon as he was back on his feet. He had a bad habit of trying to make doomed relationships work. Putting the phone down, he took his medicine and decided to get some sleep. When he woke, maybe he wouldn't look like shit. Blaine chuckled at Kurt's less than flattering, though not untrue comment.


A/N: Chris Colfer = Overachiever. Comprenez-vous?