Title: Daddy's Boy
Summary: Kurt knew his father loved him, he just didn't realise how hard Burt found it at times. Burt didn't mean what he said; not really. He was just tired, and talking with an old football friend reminded him a bit too much of what he had given up for Kurt.
Pairings: Puckurt, Burt/Kurt father-son troubles
Warnings: Homophobic slurs, bad language, sexual references. Burt might come across as a real dick at first, but no fear, ultimately he's still kind and loving Burt Hummel.
Major apologies to anyone whose messages I am yet to reply to. For those who don't know, I have had a week of hell at work.
Me and Mr. Jones - sorry sorry sorry, I totally wanted to reply to you before you got your next chapter out, but clearly I failed =( Hope you can forgive me! I have lots to tell you! natztash - Thank you so much for that little message! It really made me happy that someone was actually asking me about updates! WaitingForThisMomentToBeFree - I hope this is up to your standards, despite being a tad short, and I hope I've avoided the word 'reckon' ;) I dedicate my addition of Blaine to you! DiDiGlee - Gosh, I feel like I've been ignoring you; if it seems that way, I swear it was unintentional! How are you darling? Hope everything is well down your end, and I'm still working on my Blink-182 piece! Also, I've moved your request to the next chapter, because I am too tired to write anymore tonight.
Ok, I realise now that I love Blaine too much to not let him feature. So I added this first section in, it's kind of combining a different memory with the story of Daddy's Boy. Please enjoy, you faithful readers who can find it in your hearts to forgive this erratic updater.
-Kyle
Over and out.
(six)
Thankfully it wasn't too cold, because in his hurry to escape the caging confines of his house Kurt hadn't had time to grab a coat. He'd panicked as he heard Finn's lumbering steps trodding down the stairs, and he'd had to rush to make it to his car in time.
Within ten minutes, having broken at least two traffic laws in his haste, possibly three, he found himself sitting in the booth of a twenty-four hour café. For a short while he enjoyed the silence of being the only customer, ordering his mocha and wincing when the waitress informed him it wasn't non-fat.
He sipped, not happily, but comfortably at least. He was well concealed in his booth, close to the corner, barely noticeable by anyone who didn't specifically know he was there to be seen.
His hands shook every time he brought the cup to his lips, and the muggy liquid scalded his tongue and throat. He kept drinking, trying his best not to confront the screaming of his inner voice yelling coward! at him repeatedly. He tried not to listen to the memory of Finn's confused shouting. He tried not to recall how wonderful it had felt to be safe in his father's arms for those few short moments, before his panic pulled him unnecessarily away, out of the door and all the way to here.
If only he had the courage to stand up, walk to his car, and drive home again.
As he bowed his head with shame, there was the creak and scurry of the café door opening, the distinct sound of at least two pairs of feet hurrying inside. The new customers failed to notice Kurt's presence, but he caught a glimpse of them before they sat in the booth adjacent to his own.
The small glimpse was of two males, their features startlingly similar; tan skin and dark hair. The taller had his arm around the younger, who was holding one hand to the left side of his face while the other fisted his companion's shirt. The younger man, a boy, really, sniffled and coughed as they sidled into their booth behind Kurt.
Kurt couldn't bear to think of himself as an eavesdropper, but the opportunity arose, and it seemed so much better than filling his head with his own troubles. So he sat back against his seat, his head tilted naturally to the side, and let the muffled voices wash over him.
A young man's voice was humming over hiccoughed whimpers. Hush now. Shush now. Hey now. Come on now.
Somewhere in the deeply buried compassionate corner of his heart, Kurt felt a twinge of pain for the boy.
The cheerful voice of the bustling waitress took their orders, a water and hot chocolate each, and there was a whispering, feverish silence until she had served them their drinks.
Kurt remained still, concerned, flatly ignoring the buzzing of fearful memories in his head trying to push their way to the forefront of his thoughts, images of his father haunting him.
"Come on now, drink up." Sternly thoughtful, the elder.
"N-n-n-" Fretfully refusing, the younger.
"Don't cry, sweetheart. Look at me, please," the young man sounded pleading, and Kurt was reminded painfully of his father calling his name as he ran out of the door. "Blaine, look at me. Take your hand away, Blaine. Take it aw…there you go. Here, hold the water glass to it. There you are. That feel better, hmm?"
Another sniffle. Kurt carefully gulped a little more of his mocha.
"I'm sorry." And this time it wasn't the same man's voice. This was younger, thick with stuttering tears, less concerned, more heartbroken.
"Don't be sorry…what are you sorry for? You don't have anything to be sorry for. You hear me? Now let me see your face."
There was a moment of silence, during which Kurt realised he was leaning back harder into his seat, and his eyebrows had actually downturned in worry about this boy who needed to hold a cold glass of water to his face.
"Not too swollen, you're ok. Bit of a bruise, but you can pull off the cheeky fighter boy look for a while, right? Right? Of course. Drink up. We'll have to go home-"
"No!" The younger voice sounded panicked as he shouted his protest, and Kurt flinched in surprise, jerking his head forward a little. "Please no, Coop. Please don't take me back there."
He was crying again, not quite silently, but the sound was definitely muted, as if being muffled by a shoulder, or a collar bone. Kurt flatly ignored the prickling in his own eyes, unsure whether the sadness swelling his heart was for himself, or this boy - this other boy who didn't want to go home.
"We're going to have to go back some time, Blaine."
"Please…please…" the boy whispered, and his chant sounded more like a breath of wind to Kurt.
A young couple had entered the café, filling some of the aching silence with their lovestruck chatter as they took their seats at the counter, ordering from there to the cheery waitress.
The young man, in his desperately firm tone, had started talking again.
"…promise you, you hear me? Nothing is going to happen to you. I swear, Blaine. He didn't mean to. He wants to see you, to talk to you. You can't…Jesus, Blaine, we need to fix this. We can't just ignore it. Please. I'll be there the whole time, I promise. I swear I won't leave you alone with him."
The boy was struggling to breathe, Kurt could hear his gasps.
"I just don't know what I did wrong. What I've ever done wrong."
"You didn't do anything wrong, you hear me?" And this time the older voice sounded almost...angry. "He was wrong. Not you. Don't you dare blame yourself for this. But Blaine, you also need to let him explain."
"Explain!" The boy, the anguished Blaine, yelped. "You want me to go back there and listen to his excuses? You want me to go back there and listen to him tell me it's my fault he hit me?"
The young couple had ordered milkshakes, and the blender behind the counter was old, it made a racket as the waitress prepared their orders. Kurt found himself straining to hear what the elder's reply was.
"…never blame you. He would never mean to hurt you like that. He loves you, Blaine. You hear me? I've never seen him look more heartbroken than when he realised what he'd done. But he couldn't apologise because you'd left- Please, Blaine. I can't lose you…but I can't lose dad, either."
Kurt wasn't sure at what point he'd started comparing this boy to himself, but he could feel the burning blush of his cheeks as he realised with shame that he had run away from a attempted apology, and this boy had run away from a raised fist.
It concerned him how emotionally invested he was in these two brothers (were they brothers? He assumed so…) but he continued to listen. He ignored his cold mocha still clutched in his hands.
"I never thought I'd be scared of him. I knew I could resent him…or hate him…or be indifferent…but I never thought I'd be scared of him, Cooper. I didn't think it was possible to be really scared of him."
Kurt wondered vaguely if it was possible for his heart to break for a person he'd never met, and probably never would meet.
"I know. I know, sweetheart. It's ok. It'll be ok. I'll drive you back to Dalton instead, how's that? We're going to sort this out. I promise. Drink up, and I'll take you back to your friends, ok? I swear, Blaine, he won't ever hurt you again. Even if I thought he was capable, I wouldn't let him." The fierce love in this man's voice, the protectiveness of this man Cooper, astounded Kurt. He saw a brief flash of a sheepish Finn standing beside a fancy lamp, his own father shouting with all the fierce love he had inside him, and Kurt could feel the similiarity in tone.
Suddenly, very suddenly, he decided he really missed his father.
"I don't think I can forgive him, Coop. I really don't think I can do it."
And Cooper, with a gruff hum, didn't reply for quite some time. When he did, it was slow and melancholy.
"I know…but can I just say something, Blaine?"
The teenager must have nodded, because the tentative older voice continued after a brief pause.
"He loves you. He'll always love you, Blaine. You don't see the way he smiles so proudly when people ask about you at work, or the way he looks so worried every time you come home late, because he's scared something's gone wrong. Don't…don't forget that, ok?"
"Ok," was all that was whispered in reply, another breath of a word that Kurt's ears barely caught.
"And even more importantly, I love you. And you're not allowed to bottle this up. You hear me? No bottling. We're going to talk about this. Or I'll give Mrs Chambers' daughter your number, then you'll never be free of her stalking. You hear me?"
There was a watery, choking chuckle from what sounded like the younger man, along with a deeper laugh from the speaker.
"I promise. No bottling."
They left not too long after their light, if a little forced, laughing spell.
Kurt remained motionless, his head still tilted and his fingers still around the coffee cup. Downing the last of his mocha, grimacing as he remembered about three seconds too late that it was stone cold, he dropped some change onto the table and followed the two young men out into the darkening sky, making straight for his car.
DBDBDB
Noah was starting to regret not wearing a proper jacket.
He had been so sure he knew Kurt well enough to guess correctly where he would run to. Had something happened? Was he truly wrong, or had Kurt had an accident? Noah couldn't be sure.
But too scared of missing him, and with no clue as to where else he could look, Noah remained on the bench of the cemetery nearest to the area of Lima that Kurt lived in. He waited with strained ears listening desperately for the sound of a car, strained eyes searching desperately for the glimpse of a pale figure approaching.
He was close to shivering by the time he was rewarded with company.
His prickling ears caught the hum and chutter of a car engine slowing to a crackled halt, the swing-slam of a car door opening and closing in one fluid motion. His eyes on his knees, he listened to the blessed crunch of feet walking up the path until a warm body settled beside him.
There was a comfortable pause of acceptance and understanding, before a pale voice spoke into the swelling darkness.
"Am I really so predictable?"
Kurt sounded exhausted, but there was no hint of pain in his voice, nor a tremor of a cry. Just exhaustion.
Noah grinned silently, leaning back on the bench. He shifted to make room for Kurt to lean on him, but the younger boy seemed reluctant to relax. He perched on the bench, knees tightly locked together, ankles hooked around one another, fists clasped in his lap, shoulders rigid. That same exhausted strength seemed to fill the air around him.
"When I need to think, I go to the old fishing lake out past Lima Heights."
Kurt's head tilted a little to his companion in confusion, and Noah seemed to realise this was quite an odd statement to reply with, so he continued.
"When I was younger I went fishing with my dad. There's this old barn near the water edge. My dad used to say he was going to buy it and fix it up, and that's where we'd live - in this huge house. Ever since he left, I go there when I need to think. Kind of like I'm getting advice from my dad."
Kurt sighed quietly.
"So I am that predictable."
Noah's lips involuntarily smiled around his reply. "No, you're just a human being, Kurt. Nothing wrong with that."
This idea didn't seem to please the countertenor, unfortunately.
"Why are you here?"
Kurt was still frozen in what looked to be an incredibly uncomfortable sitting position, and his voice was edged with frost as he asked the question, twisting his neck a little to address his friend without fully looking at him.
"Because you don't believe in God, Kurt," Noah answered honestly. "So you haven't come here to talk to Him. And talking to someone who can't help you, no matter how much she'd want to, will only make you feel worse. And you know it."
Kurt gulped the fresh cold air, intimidated by Noah's blunt honesty - and worse, his blunt accuracy.
"I'm not allowed to miss my mother?" he snapped sharply. "She died, you know. She didn't want to leave me. She wanted to be there for me."
Kurt bit his lower lip, eyes flitting to the boy by his side. But no matter how much he frayed the pink skin beneath his teeth, he couldn't bite back the cold words, or more importantly, their cruel insinuations. He wasn't stupid enough to hope Noah wouldn't read his true meaning.
He noticed the curl of Noah's fingers scratching into fists on his knees. He wondered if Noah would hit him.
He couldn't bring himself to flinch prematurely.
But Noah didn't hit him. He exhaled once…twice…thrice…
"No need to be a bitch, Hummel."
Kurt found himself flinching at the surname. He already missed being Kurt to the mohawked boy. But he deserved that one.
"But really, if my dad's such an asshole," Noah mused in a tone that only tensed Kurt's muscles further, "Shouldn't you be back home taking advantage your totally awesome dad, who just wants to say sorry so you can be happy again?"
Finally Kurt braved a sneaky glance over Noah, only to find he was being watched by a pair of glittering hazel eyes. The pale boy blushed dimly in the descending darkness, breaking his poise to hunch ever so slightly.
Guilt flooded to his fingertips, squeezing his chest tightly.
"I know," he whispered under his breath.
Noah, tired of waiting for Kurt to relax enough to lean against him, wound his arm around the smaller boy's frame and pulled him in a little closer. He accepted Kurt's apologetic silence with a hum that turned into an unfamiliar tune vibrating in his throat. Tentatively Kurt rested the side of his head against his companion's collar bone.
"Where's your mom?" Noah spoke into the emptiness around them. He didn't know whether or not it was proper of him to ask, but he had never been one for tact or etiquette.
"Three down and four to the right from that elm tree." Kurt indicated vaguely and Puck squinted, trying to find it. He thought he had it, but from such a distance it was impossible to tell if he had the right one. So he just nodded, and mumbled an incoherent oh in response.
Their silence was filled by a comfortable awkwardness that was almost pleasant with its tense anticipation.
"What kept you?" Noah asked after a while.
Kurt shuffled to sit back up, but he felt Noah's jacketless torso shiver beneath him, so he stilled, letting his own body heat gently radiate over the larger teen. "What do you mean?" he asked.
"Where did you go before you came here?" Noah asked. He didn't like dancing around subjects.
Kurt didn't question Noah's certainty that he had gone somewhere else before the cemetery - he was correct, after all.
"Café," Kurt sniffed. Noah couldn't decide whether to scoff or laugh, so he settled for a choked mixture of both. Kurt closed his eyes, his head filled with the soft hums of two voices he'd likely never hear again. "Two guys…they sat behind me," he said quietly.
Noah shifted, and there was an ominous growl in his throat as he cut in fast. "They didn't try anything, did they?"
"No!" Kurt cried, flinching at Noah's gruff tone. "Nothing like that. They were…one of them was about our age, and there was an older guy. Maybe twenty years old? They sat behind me."
"Oh," Puck replied lamely, unsure what the correct response was to this seemingly irrelevant detail.
"I heard them talking," Kurt admitted, his teeth nipping at his lip as he squirmed guiltily at the word eavesdropping pounding in his head. "The younger one…he didn't want to go home. I think they were brothers. He was…his dad had hit him. He was scared of going home."
Puck's silence was one of realisation and understanding. His fingers clasped around Kurt's bicep, and he pulled the boy even closer to his chest.
"And I just felt so…ashamed," Kurt stammered. "Because I ran away from my dad again. And my dad would never hit me. I'm such a coward-"
"You're not a coward, Kurt," Noah assured him softly.
"No, I am," Kurt nodded, his hair tickling the base of Noah's neck. "I shouldn't have left my dad like that tonight. We got so close, but I panicked and ran before we could resolve anything."
Noah mulled this over for a moment before dropping his chin firmly onto the crown of the boy's head. "That makes you a bit dumb, Kurt. Not a coward."
For some reason, Kurt's sniffle of a response sounded amused.
"What?" Noah demanded, and this time Kurt let out a throaty chuckle.
"Never thought there'd be a day when Noah Puckerman had cause to call me dumb."
"I'm actually pretty smart, you know," Noah sulked jokingly, earning another confidently amused laugh, muted slightly by Kurt's face being half-pressed into his chest. Kurt shook his head fondly, sitting upright and staring straight into Noah's knowing eyes.
He wondered about the boy in the café. It occurred to him that there was a very small chance indeed that their situations were similar in any way whatsoever, but in his mind he'd already constructed the assumed fantasy - a gay teenager, a supportive brother, a father struggling to adjust, perhaps a mother hovering on the sideline. For some reason he drew strength from this assumption. Strength, and motivation, and courage.
He opened his mouth abruptly, intending to state his newfound courage and gratitude clearly, to inform the world (if only directly to Noah) that he was Kurt Hummel: unafraid and ready to fix things with his father. Instead, his disobedient lips found a different phrase, coloured with confusion that hinted at delight.
"Since when are you gay, anyhow?"