Just like with Finn, he could see a lot of himself in Noah Puckerman. The strong, silent type of guy who didn't like to have anyone see him as anything less than a total badass, with a strange pride in being what Burt's dad would have called a delinquent (and had called Burt, on occasion). Which, Burt remembered well, often meant pretending not to care about anyone else at all.
It was clear, though, that Noah did care. He wouldn't have stepped in at all if he didn't. At least, not on Kurt's side.
It was also plain to Burt, who'd been there himself, that Noah's protective image had been temporarily overwhelmed by this evening's events. No matter what kind of tough-guy-coat he tried to put on over it.
"Kid, like I said, you were there when it counted. You weren't the one stuffing him into a trunk, and you weren't the idiot driving drunk. Yeah, I could wish you'd kept them from taking him in the first place, but you couldn't know this would happen. You didn't abandon him, you did what you thought would help, -you did help - and I can't fault you for it. Stop beating yourself up about how you didn't handle it. Because you did."
Puck still looked vaguely guilty, but the approach of one of the ER doctors interrupted them. "Are you the Hummels?" she asked as his approach caught their anxious attention.
Burt nodded, releasing Puck and turning to face him, trying to get a read on the news the matronly woman might be carrying. "I'm Burt, I'm Kurt's father. How is he?"
She gestured for the four of them to sit, but her weary half-smile was reassuring. "He's going to be all right, I think. It will take some time, and a lot of patience," Burt let out a pent-up breath, and Carole leaned her head on his shoulder in relief. "He got pretty banged up," the doctor continued, "and he has numerous lacerations - some deep cuts that needed stitches. We had to give him a couple of units of blood, as well."
She paused to let the information sink in before continuing. "We're about to send him up for X-rays now; he's got at least one broken rib, and we want to see how badly his knee is injured. I have to warn you, that his patella- his kneecap—might be broken as well, but we won't know without an X-ray since it's so swollen." Puck and Finn exchanged grim glances, as did Burt and Carole; either of those injuries would sideline Kurt for weeks. If his knee was broken, it could mean months.
She got to her feet again. "Before we send him up, though, he's awake and he wants to see you." Burt almost leaped to his feet. "He's a little groggy, we gave him something for pain, but he's a little bit... insistent." That almost drew a smile from Burt, and matching snorts from Finn and Puck. She led him towards the exam room where they'd taken Kurt.
Carole hung back with the boys until he turned back to her, half-extending a hand, and the lost look in his eyes made her rise to follow him. She dug a twenty out of her purse and handed it to Finn. "Go get something to eat, guys," she told them. "Bring us back some coffee and... I don't know, something." Then she hurried off after Burt.
Most of the ER personnel had cleared out of the small exam room, save for an orderly who was cleaning up the ragged, blood-stained remnants of the clothes Kurt had been wearing, cut away as they had worked on his injuries. As she bagged the pieces of ruined cloth, Burt felt a sudden, odd pang of distress - he would never understand Kurt's taste in clothing, but he knew how important his clothes were to Kurt, how he used them to define who he was to the world. To see them destroyed, reduced to scraps... As soon as he went home, he vowed, he would replace that jacket. Whatever it cost.
He dragged his attention away from the ruined clothing to the boy on the narrow gurney, and his heart constricted painfully.
The bed had been raised so Kurt was half-reclining, and he still wore an oxygen mask. A sheet covered his usually very modest son's hips and one leg, but the other was exposed, the knee and lower leg swollen to nearly twice their normal size, and an ugly shade of purple. Burt had stop and take a breath before taking in the rest of the injuries, and he heard Carole's sharp, pained gasp beside him. Thankfully, Kurt's eyes were closed, giving his father a moment to take it all in and compose himself at least a little bit.
Someone had cleaned the blood from Kurt's skin, at least. A bandage on his forehead might have given him a rakish air - if it had been the only one. Burt could see where they'd had to shave his hair over one ear to stitch a cut that ran into his hairline. (He's gonna pitch a fit over that, Burt thought absently.) His face was bruised, and Burt had an ugly suspicion that the one that mottled the side of his face from chin to cheekbone had been from a hand.
Every mark stood out starkly on his son's too-pale skin, a road map of the accident and its aftermath, from the sutured and bandaged gashes on his torso to the deepening purple bruising on his chest and shoulders. Even his hands and wrists were scraped and abraded, and one of the nurses slipped in to begin cleaning and bandaging them as Burt stood there.
When he stepped forward and gently claimed the freshly-bandaged hand from the nurse, Kurt turned his head and opened his eyes, knowing his father from the hundred tiny clues familiarity provided - the scent of his aftershave combined with that of motor oil and sweat and the laundry detergent they used, the weight of his father's step in work boots, compared to the near-silent scurrying of the medical staff.
He attempted a reassuring smile, could see that his dad was also attempting the same. "You doin' ok, kid?" Burt asked him gruffly.