Title: As A God
Summary: 18 years ago, Burt Hummel's girlfriend disappeared. He spent months desperately searching, but eventually he had to accept Kathy was gone. He eventually finds happiness in Carole, Finn, and even Finn's best friend. But then he gets a call. A call from NYPD, telling him a 17 year old admitted to hospital for a drug overdose and carrying a picture of Burt and Kathy. Burt's son? There's only one way to find out.
Warnings: Right, this is a long one. Violence, substance abuse, sexual violence, prostitution (including underage), swearing, 'phobic slander, angsty goodness, self harm, suicidal thoughts (possibly acts)…yeah, this will be quite dark at times, at least, the themes will be.
So, in a few days my best friend is going to be moving to the other end of the country. I'm feeling pretty sad about that. "The Break-Up" obviously hasn't helped my mood at all. Sorry it took so long to get here, but for some reason this chapter just refused to be written. I hope I've done it justice, and I hope I still have at least a couple of readers out there.
This is for Kyle and Stewart and anyone else making big changes in their lives this month, no matter how scary or new their futures are.
-SallyStorm
Over and out.
(chapter nine)
To you, your father should be as a god;
One that compos'd your beauties, yea, and one
To whom you are but as a form in wax
By him imprinted, and within his power
To leave the figure or disfigure it.
A Midsummer Night's Dream (1.1.50-4)
Carole's nerves were wound tight by the time the taxi pulled up outside the driveway.
Finn and Noah sat in the kitchen enjoying the grilled cheese sandwiches that Carole had passed sharing with them, claiming she wasn't hungry. In all honesty, she simply feared she wouldn't be able to keep anything solid down.
The skin of her hands was sore with constant wringing, the nervous habit from childhood that her anti-ageing obsessed mother had always warned her, even from a young age, would give her old hands by the time she was thirty. Although right now, as the taxi slowed to a halt in the street, wrinkles in her skin were the last thing on her mind.
Her eyes widened as her husband clambered out of the front seat, quickly heaved two bags out of the trunk, and made his way slowly to the front door. He was followed by a slight figure topped with brown hair. She watched Burt pause and turn to the boy, leaning in to speak quietly, shielding the boy's face from view. She saw the brown head nod jerkily.
"Boys!" she called over her shoulder as she moved away from her perch near the window. "Burt's home!"
There was a great clatter as two kitchen chairs fell victim to the nosy excitement of the teenagers, who raced to the couch where it had been decided they would greet their newcomer from a quietly unintimidating position.
Carole stood next to the coffee table, eyes on the door, and she flinched slightly at the click of the front door. The shuffle of the two pairs of feet in the hallway was even louder than the gentle mumble of one comforting voice.
Burt entered first, lightly pecking his wife on the lips and pulling her into a tight but brief embrace.
"Come on, kiddo," he said with a gruff fondness Carole had never before heard in her husband's voice as he looked to the doorway.
The boy that entered hesitantly upon command looked discomfited by the overwhelming attention of three new and curious pairs of eyes on him. His twitchy movements, with darting eyes and a bowed head, reminded Carole of a wild animal that had been caged for some time, desperate to escape but fully aware of the impossibility of such a wish being granted. Her breath constricted in her chest.
He was wearing a faded blue jumper, several sizes too large, so only the spidery tips of his pale fingers protruded from the sleeves, the neckline swooping low enough to expose the sharp angles of his collarbones.
Carole's gaze roamed across the blotchy skin of his bare neck and face, taking in mottled bruises of yellow and purple, occasional scarred lines of cold white and angry red, the tender break of an old split lip ruining the pink of his non-smile. His slender nose dipped softly in the middle like a badly fixed break, and his cheekbones were blushed with blue and purple like an ugly, discoloured flush that circled dark rings around his eyelids to match his sleepless shadows.
She paused as she met his eyes, which purposefully avoided the direction of the two teens on the couch sat ogling him with unabashed wonder. His eyes were as deep and dangerous as the oceans that coloured them, and they held Carole in a glance of wary distrust that she, mother and nurse, knew would not be fixed with a gentle word and soft lullaby at bedtime, like the mere remnants of a nightmare dispelled.
"And Kurt," she said softly, as if addressing a wounded dog, rabid but in pain. She was pleased with herself for maintaining her welcoming smile even as those cold eyes looked into her face, searching with an appraising disbelief.
It was awkward. Demanding reassurance from a man he did not fully trust, Kurt looked back to Burt, who smiled his sad, exhausted smile and nodded.
"Kurt, this is my wife Carole. This here's her son, Finn, and Finn's best friend, Puck."
Previous meetings and greetings had taught them that most people would be confused by the nickname Puck, and would need further explanation. But Kurt seemed unfazed by the peculiar nickname. In fact, he didn't seem fazed by anything at all. His expression didn't change and as the silence thickened like rapidly cooling custard, unpleasant and unwanted, Finn spoke.
"Uhh, hey dude."
Kurt's eyes snapped over to the boy sitting closest to him.
Finn did not share his mother's talent for hiding discomfort. He shifted awkwardly and blushed, but Noah's eyes held firm when Kurt's attention turned to him.
It was as if he was trying to figure the pale, underfed boy out. He smiled a smallest of smiles, barely a curve of the lips. It lacked the right amount of encouraging enthusiasm that Carole and Burt shared in their parental wisdom, but instead engaged a quiet understanding that caused Kurt in turn to look away, the translucency of the skin at his cheeks a little darker than before.
"Finn sleeps in the basement," Burt explained with a hum, determined not to let any silence drag too long, as if afraid what might be read into long, unspoken words. "Puck sleeps there too when he stays over, which is quite a lot."
A year ago, Noah would have ducked his head, embarrassed at such a statement. Instead he shrugged half heartedly, attempting nonchalance and achieving awkward indifference.
"We had two spare rooms," Carole explained, as if wanting to fully plant herself as a friendly figure to Kurt. "So I've made up one of them for you, and that'll be your room."
She wasn't sure what Kurt had been expecting, but this seemed to surprise him. It was his biggest reaction since entering the house, eyes widening a little and lips parting, though only breath escaped his throat.
"If you like, I could show you it now?" Carole offered, and out of the corner of her eye she saw Burt look to her with a grateful, sympathetic smile. He didn't seem to think it would be quite so easy to coax the boy into a response.
But Kurt did respond. He gave another jerky nod, like the one he had given Burt in the driveway outside, and a twitch of one shoulder that seemed to be half a shrug, in some universal sign of ok, if I must.
It was good enough for Carole. She walked slowly out of the living room, making no attempt to usher Kurt out. Rather, allowing him to follow of his own volition. And he did.
Kurt looked briefly back at the three men behind him, more of a flinch than a glance, and followed the woman into the hallway.
Burt, silenced in shock, paused for a moment before turning to his stepson and his friend.
"Hey," they both hummed, standing up and waving before offering a hug, which Burt accepted from each with equal gratitude.
"Hey there boys," he smiled wearily, taking a seat on the coffee table in front of them as they sat back down. "So, what have you been told then, kids?"
glee
The spare room in question was a soothing shade of blue. It washed paler than the boy's eyes, brightened by the autumn light filtering through the netting over the windows, and Kurt regarded it with an indifference that Carole had expected, and was not offended by.
Rather than pander and pester the reluctant boy behind her, she set about placing the bag she'd picked up in the hallway onto the foot of the bed, instructing in a casual, friendly manner to unpack in his own time, and to use as much or little of the space provided as he wanted. Not wanting to overwhelm him, Carole sat down gently next to the bag and made no move to encourage Kurt to sit, too. She simply left plenty of room for him to join her.
"You want to know something, Kurt?" the woman asked into the surprisingly calm silence echoing through the room. The boy made no acknowledgement of his name. He continued to stare at a particularly interesting blank patch of wall in front of him. "I have no idea what to do, either."
He turned. At least, his head jerked to the side but he paused half way, as if regretting the action. As he hovered in limbo between interest and indifference, Carole smiled warmly, affectionately. Motherly.
"But I'm happy to keep working at it until we get it right."
Lots of people - some of her closest friends included - assumed that Carole Hummel was the badgering, emotional type of nurse. The one to coddle her patients and coo and hum and soothe and pat them on the head.
They were wrong, though.
When Carole Hudson was not long qualified she had sat with a young man of fifteen years as he waited for his parents to fly home from a European business trip. With both legs strapped up, one arm in a cast from his wrist to his collar bone, and in a constant state of itchy anxiety as his skin grafts healed, he had attempted at first to make a dramatic joke about how he really, really should have listened to that talk on motorbike safety at school, or maybe just not allowed his friend to convince him to go on it in the first place.
She had smiled endearingly and mothered him.
To her surprise - and, though at the time she wouldn't have admitted it, heartbreak - her attitude had snapped something inside him. Apparently he didn't want to hear about how it was all going to be ok, and everything would turn out all right, and they would get it sorted. Apparently, between hanging out with friends he didn't even really like and living with parents so desperately trying to hide their failing marriage from him, he'd had enough of lies and softened blows.
Ever since that fateful evening Carole Hudson, and then Carole Hummel, had been the friendly nurse that everyone liked and, more importantly, respected; the one who wasted no time pandering to fussers.
Like the boy on the motorbike it seemed Kurt quite enjoyed being treated to a little honesty.
He didn't rush to Carole's arms and allow himself to be held in a tight embrace at her confession. He didn't so much as take a step forward, or smile. But something in his expression warmed, perhaps hidden in those steely eyes.
It was subtle, and it couldn't even really be counted as a baby step, but it was there nonetheless.
glee
Burt loved his stepson dearly, sometimes to the point of forgetting they were not strictly blood relatives. He was proud to go to Finn's football games and point him out, cheer him on, be the supportive dad that the teen both wanted and needed him to be.
But lacking a blood connection to the boy did give Burt some measure of objectivity, however slight, when regarding Finn as a young man. And Burt was more than aware of how impressionable Finn Hudson could be, how easily he fell into the category of the majority, just because it was easier than standing out as the individual he could be.
He knew all about the bullying in early high school, and though Burt was very aware that Finn (and Noah, of course) had stopped being the jock stereotype he had moulded himself into in previous years, Burt also knew that his stepson was not always very comfortable when it came to accepting what he didn't understand.
Burt highly doubted Finn understood homosexuality. Or prostitution or drug addiction, for that matter, but Burt wasn't going to make the mistake of slotting all three of them into the same category again.
So hearing Finn explain what he and Noah had been told by Carole about Kurt in a calm manner had been something of a shock - pleasant, but a shock nevertheless. They knew that Kurt had lost someone very dear to him, and that that someone had been a boy. They knew that New York had been cruel to Kurt, and he was going to be delicate and possibly ill for quite a while. They knew that time was going to be needed, and they announced with great certainty that they were more than happy to give the boy as much time as he needed.
Finn had stuttered over a botched statement of Kurt having a hard life in New York that made Burt wonder if he'd underestimated his stepson, that maybe he could guess what a hard life in New York meant for a young teen.
Noah's face had remained in his default setting of stonily indifferent, frustratingly unreadable. Finn was the same open book that he'd been as a pre-teen when Burt first met him.
"I know I'm asking a lot of both you boys," Burt said, firm but unapologetic. "I really think we can help Kurt a lot. I need to know you'll be there to look out for him."
"Sure!" The hero dazzle in Finn's eye twinkled with excitement. "He can stick with us at school. We'll make sure at least one of us is in each of his lessons, right Puck?"
Noah nodded slowly, silently, watching Burt curiously as if expecting him to say no. Which, of course, he did.
"That's the thing, Finn. Kurt's not going to McKinley with you."
It was unclear whether Finn was confused or offended by this.
"Why not?"
"Kurt…he didn't have much chance to go to school, Finn. We're getting him a tutor to help him catch up."
"But can't he just…I don't know. Can't he just start in a lower year? We'll still look out for him, even if he has to be a freshman. We can-"
"Finn," Burt cut in, a little louder than he intended. But he was exhausted, and it felt as if he hadn't had a moment to himself in years. Responsibility lapped in waves high over his head as he struggled for air. "He needs a tutor, son. And in any case, I don't think he'd be too happy about being somewhere so busy as McKinley when he's so far away from where he's grown up."
He couldn't quite bring himself to call New York Kurt's home.
Silence followed. Perhaps the gentle nod of Finn's head was a spark of understanding as he realised that the bustling hallways of William McKinley High School came second, that Kurt really couldn't go to high school yet. Or perhaps it was just a nod of acceptance.
Before Burt could find out, however, there was a creak of stairs being descended and they turned as Carole appeared in the doorway.
"I've left him some time to himself. I told him he can come down when he wants, or we'll fetch him when dinner's ready."
She'd left him still standing, eyes hovering between her face and the wall, looking a little less on edge than he had done upon entering the house. She hadn't told him about the locks on the windows, though. She wondered vaguely whether they'd be necessary.
glee
Motherhood, by Carole Hummel's standards, consisted of three defining elements: singing while ironing, laughter, and a steaming kitchen. The first, as an embarrassment to the children who just want to grow up. The second, for the children to grow up in a happy, optimistic environment. The third, because woman stereotypes aside Carole Hummel loved to cook, dammit, and that didn't mean making sandwiches.
As she bustled between cupboards and the cooker and the fridge, Carole hummed a half forgotten tune in her head, relishing the scent of root vegetables that wafted through the room.
"Finn, sweetheart, can you go fetch Kurt please? He- Finn!" she scolded, and in a flash the wooden spoon in Finn's hand had flown across the kitchen in fright as he thrust it from his mouth, a guilty flush in his cheeks. "Get out of my kitchen!" Carole ordered, shooing her son away. "And fetch-"
"I'll do it, Mrs H," Noah, who had been watching the exchange with some amusement, volunteered, sauntering out of the room as Finn eyed the wooden spoon hungrily where it lay on the floor.
Noah wasn't entirely sure why he was so eager to be the one to call Kurt down for dinner.
Perhaps it was the subconscious knowledge that Finn would more than likely bound into the room with barely a knock of warning and end up frightening the kid into a coma or something. But even if that was the case, there was one undeniable fact that Noah was not entirely sure he understood himself.
This Kurt kid was all kinds of fascinating.
It was frustrating to know he couldn't bombard him with questions about New York, about a city, about being somewhere other than Ohio. It was also frustrating being teased with the knowledge life in busy ol' NYC hadn't been kind to the boy.
Because Noah was perfectly willing to accept he didn't know a lot of things, but what he did know was that in a city as big as New York City, there were plenty of ways it could be unkind to a person, especially a teenager.
He paused outside the closed door to the spare bedroom, frowned at the wood in front of him.
For some reason his hands felt incredibly empty, as if he should have brought a peace offering of some sort to present to the newcomer.
Noah turned, backtracked a few paces, and peered through the banister to the bottom of the stairs.
Burt's bag was still balanced precariously on the shoe rack, and leaning beside it was an object that definitely did not belong to Mr H.
Darting down the stairs Noah stared for a moment, then reached down, picked up the battered guitar case with the affectionate delicacy of one who knows the exact importance of loving an instrument so precious, and carried it upstairs.
He knocked immediately this time, three taps that were possibly a little too hard, but he was all of a sudden too nervous to feel guilty. He felt a little like touching the worn case was some direct invasion of deepest privacy.
This feeling only intensified when the spare bedroom door opened. The boy that opened the door tentatively, cautious eyes of widest glasz staring at him, shrank back upon seeing the identity of his visitor, but the guitar case caught him by surprise. He looked up at Noah with a pleading gaze, as if worried Noah was holding it hostage.
A wordless cry escaped the boy's throat and he glared at the case with a furious love.
"Hey, dude, no, wait, umm…" Noah stammered and held the object out with weak hands. "I just thought, because I know Mr H…umm, Burt doesn't play guitar so it was probably yours. I was just bringing it to you."
Kurt snatched it close to his chest like it was an infant, cradling it with a tender touch, but when Noah glanced at the boy's hands he couldn't help but wonder how someone could play for any length of time and manage to avoid finger pad calluses. He shook the matter aside, returning his eyes to the bruised, flushed face before him.
Noah smiled awkwardly, stuffing his hands in his pockets and shrugging with slight unease at the wavering distrust in those shiny, glasz eyes.
"I didn't mean to scare you like that, dude. Sorry about that."
He watched as Kurt, never quite turning around completely, backed into the room to place the guitar case reverently at the end of the bed. Once assured it was quite safe from harm, Kurt turned back to the boy in the doorway, expression expectantly confused.
"Oh, yeah, umm. Dinner's ready. I told Carole I'd come get you. It's soup. Mrs H makes the best soup ever."
Kurt didn't make a move until Noah slowly turned to walk back down the landing to the stairs, and even then, shutting the door behind him a firm click, he followed several paces behind, always further than an arm's length away.
Noah, while a little hurt, didn't mention it. He sauntered back down the stairs and into the kitchen without comment, saving a quick smile thrown over his shoulder as he headed to the dining room table.
"Here we are, Kurt," Carole said gently, tapping the back of the chair opposite Finn's without ushering the slender boy towards it. Kurt sat gingerly, eyeing the bowls and cutlery as if confused.
The expression only deepened when a large helping of soup was placed in front of him.
"I know you probably won't finish all that, Kurt, but just have as much of it as you like. Even just a few mouthfuls."
Kurt shrank a little deeper into his seat, wishing the woman would stop drawing attention to him.
"Thanks, sweetheart," Burt accepted his own bowl gratefully and, unlike the two boisterous teens grinning loudly about an x-box marathon with some of their Glee Club friends, waited for Carole to serve herself and sit down before eating anything.
It was only once everyone else at the table had gulped down several mouthfuls each that Kurt tentatively reached for his spoon. It was heavy and cold in his hand, and the steamy heat wafting from the pot and bowls at the table was starting to crowd the air. He breathed through his nose, letting the scent waft a shiver down his spine as his stomach burned with eager hunger, even as it throbbed gently under the lull of pain medication.
He could feel four pairs of eyes on him as the head of the spoon dipped into the dark green soup. Burt merely glanced out of the corner of his eye and continued eating, and it seemed Carole was as eager to know Kurt liked the soup as she was to make sure he was eating at all. The two teenagers sat opposite him, however, were not quite as subtle. Their conversation took a definite turn for the quieter as he raised the spoon to his lips and swallowed.
The smile of encouragement he received from Carole wasn't patronising, the way he'd feared it would be. Only gratefully pleased.
It was left without words. Even though barely ten mouthfuls later Kurt felt as if another drop would be the end of him, he allowed himself to enjoy what he could. He was (to his deepest gratitude) left out of the conversations that ensued, allowing him to focus on his food and then his silence in peace, the incomprehensible noise of the words exchanged across the table enough to fill the emptiness that had, over the past few days, threatened to envelop him completely.
Once everyone was finished Finn and Noah had, with only mildest grumbling, cleared the table and began to wash up. Alone with the two adults Kurt turned his interest to his hands, wondering if the new warmth in his fingertips was just his imagination.
"I hope you don't mind, we thought it best if you just stick to some easy food for a while, Kurt," Carole explained with an honest face. "Hence the soup. I promise, I can cook more than just soup."
She smiled brightly, and again wasn't surprised or offended when she received no such sentiment in return.
"Carole's a wonderful cook," Burt agreed heartily, proud of managing to contribute to the conversation and compliment his wife in one. Whoever said men can't multitask?
His gaze flickered between his wife and the boy between them, to see Kurt's teeth worrying his lower lip.
"The soup was lovely, thank you."
It was less than a whisper, and his eyes never left his interlocked fingers, but Carole felt her heart stutter in her chest. The urge to reach over the table, to hug the boy, to thank the boy for the compliment, to thank the boy for speaking to her at all, almost entirely overpowered her.
"I'm glad you liked it, Kurt," she replied calmly, though Burt could detect the slight tremor of excitement in her voice. "Thank you."
"You must be tired," Burt said after a moment, scrutinising Kurt's exhausted face.
There was something about the twist of Kurt's lips that made Carole worry the boy wasn't all too keen about his thoughts and feelings being assumed and announced in such a way. She cut in with a smooth tenderness.
"Would you like to come to the living room with us? We were going to watch a film. Or if you like, you can just get some rest. It's your choice."
Kurt's eyes turned from man to woman, sparkling in dilemma.
"I…" he began, but his voice cracked. Swallowing once, twice, he tried again.
"I think I'll just go to bed."
They hadn't noticed the silence coming from the kitchen as Noah and Finn stopped their usual wrestle over the assignment of washing and drying. They hadn't noticed two figures watching with curious eyes.
"Dude!" Finn cried, and not only Kurt, but Burt and Carole, flinched in shock. "Your voice is like, so high!"
The silence lasted less than a moment, and then shattered. The chair was on the floor with a bang and the slight, slender figure of a boy hovering somewhere between Kurt and Porcelain was running, out and up and fast and desperate until the spare bedroom door had slammed hard behind him and a heavy guitar case was cradled in his trembling arms.
No matter how hard he gritted his teeth, the cries could not be stopped.