"No one can find the rewind button now, so cradle your head in your hands and breathe, just breathe." Anna Nalick

.***.

October 5th 2010. The next day

Puck had lost his spleen to a bullet, and another one had broken off a piece of his pelvis, near the top of his left leg. He would need physical therapy. He may never be able to run right. And, oh yeah, there may be pain for days/weeks/months after all this was done.

He woke to reporters, to his mother and little sister. They were shaken, crying, happy to see him awake (but not half as happy as Puck was to see them, no siree bob. He started crying at the sight of Alice, real and vital and alive and not lying in a pool of blood like all girls in the hallways of McKinley). He woke to news, broken gently by his mother, of Mike and Brittney and Mr. Schuester, and Puck wanted to punch something.

Everyone left before all his questions were answered, a doctor shooing them out because Puck needed to rest. He just sat there, dazed. They'd called him a hero, but they'd let slip a statistic. Nineteen students had died, another forty had been shot, and fifteen more had been injured in the ensuing chaos.

A small voice from next to him, and Puck started. He'd forgotten about that other boy, since he'd had no visitors all morning and had been quiet with pain the same way Puck was. "Finn is okay. He wanted to see you when you woke up but his mom hauled him home for a good meal. He looked like death. Everyone else is basically whole, too." The boy gave a strangled laugh. "Whole. That's about the only word that's truthful anymore. Fine is just not enough, you know? I don't know if we'll ever be fine again."

Puck placed the face – that boy who had started going out with Kurt only last week, the one who the jocks had hazed, stupid homophobes. Puck wasn't into that shit anymore. He just didn't have the time.

"Thank you, by the way." The boy smiled, his thin face reminding Puck vaguely of Kurt – the same high cheekbones and long lashes, the feminine features. "Puck, right? Or Noah…Kurt calls you Noah." The kid shrugged, wincing as he moved. "You saved my life."

"I guess." Puck said, startled by this fact. He cleared his throat, figured he might as well connect with this guy. All the normal questions were out the window, though. This was not a normal situation. "Who?" Was the only word that sprang to mind.

"Who died?" The boy sighed heavily, "I don't even know them all. George. Do you know George Perry? He played tenor with me in the band. Was trying to get his girlfriend out and was shot in the chest. A ton of people were hurt, though. Kurt…" here his voice came out as a sob of relief, "Shot in the arm…umm…those girls? The cheerleaders you hang with? Both shot, but they're going to be fine. Physically." The boy shook his head. "I just don't know. I don't know about any of this anymore. Mitch and Brad are dead, of course, but I don't think they're in that number on the news. I don't think anyone's sad they died."

It struck Puck for a half second that this kid had called the shooters by name, as if he knew them. If he were Finn or Kurt or even Mike (aw, hell, now he was going to cry like a pansy because of Mike…) he would have asked about the connection, but Puck was just too damn tired.

"Hey," Puck said, turning over slightly and wincing as he pulled on the IV. "What's your name, man?"

The boy's face darkened for a split second, a sunny day that hit a sudden storm cloud. "You threw me in the dumpster for being gay and you don't even know my name?"

"Dude, I didn't throw you in a dumpster. I don't do that shit anymore – it's those fags Azimo and Karofsky that hate you homos." He realized the absurdity of that sentence and didn't care to edit it, though he saw the boy grinning a little. "You know what I mean."

"Yeah," the boy said, staring hard at Puck. "Yeah, I know what you mean." He paused for a beat, and Puck was drifting closer and closer to the black world where pain was finally silenced, the one that the happy juice kept bringing him to. "My name's Eric...Noah."

Eric looked over his shoulder, saw that Puck had fallen asleep with his face turned towards him. He'd meant his thanks sincerely, was going to repeat them to Finn the next time he had a chance. And he liked Puck's cocky, rebellious nature. It was refreshing.

"Noah, I think this is the start of a beautiful friendship."

.***.

Burt rubbed the sleep from his eyes, watching as Kurt slowly woke up.

It had been the week from hell. Not only was his head mechanic out of town (mother dead, family in ruins, how could Burt not give him paid leave?) but a shipment of parts was now six days late and he had a woman on his back, needing the car to buy groceries and clothing and other essentials for her four children.

Kurt didn't think that his father knew about what had happened at the movies, but he'd heard the soft conversation from the basement and had stopped to take a listen.

It wasn't eves dropping. Or, even if it was, it wasn't because Burt didn't trust his son. Kurt was mostly mature, honest, respectful. Burt just didn't trust the rest of the world.

The basement had been rebuilt for Finn, and Burt was happy to see a kind of camaraderie between the two teens. Something like friendship, or brotherhood.

"How'd the date go?" Finn's tone was genuinely interested, and Burt paused. He wanted to know, too, but Kurt seemed stuck on the word fine these days.

And the pattern held true now. "Fine."

Burt heard the scrape of a chair, footsteps, then the deep murmur from Finn, "Kurt, are you crying?" Concern now, and Burt almost threw open the door, almost went to comfort his son. But something held him back – some things, he knew, needed to stay between brothers.

As if he'd needed an outlet all along, the story of the woman at the movie theater came tumbling out. With each word, it was like Burt's worst fears for his son were being realized. So there was still bigotry in this god-awful world…

He'd crept away, meaning to talk to Kurt about it when he got back from the shop on Monday and it was just the two of them, Carol at work and Finn at football. And now…

Burt had never even thought to fear this, fear a stranger shooting his son in his own school. It had happened before, sure, once in a blue moon, but this was Lima. Nothing, absolutely nothing, happened here.

A customer had come into the store and told Burt to put on the radio. After a few seconds, the man had said, "Isn't that sick? Kids shooting kids? Wonder where they learned that?"

Burt didn't hear. He was already out the door, pulling his coat on, his car keys out. He needed to find Carol…no, he needed to go to the hospital….the school. Where would Kurt be? Where was his son?

The hospital didn't allow the parents in for two hours, trying to sort out the bullet holes and broken bones and dead children. Rumors ripples through the crowd, unconfirmed stories that this kid or that teacher died.

By that time, Burt had found Carol, and thanked God that she had some sort of news. "They're both alive." She said, burying her face in Burt's grease-stained coveralls. "Finn called me…"

"Are they injured?" Burt asked, staring at the hospital as if the building itself had the answers. He was beginning to think that nothing had the answers he was looking for.

Carol held him tighter, willing him to be okay with whatever the answer was. "Kurt was shot. In the shoulder…"

Someone told them later that Finn and Puck (Puck the Punk, Burt called him in his head, that kid who just wouldn't quit messing with Kurt) had been the ones to take down those two kids. Oh, and the shooters died, parents said, but good riddance, right? Death was too good for them. Ten…no, fifteen…no, twenty people, dead because of them, because they were playing with guns.

More ripples through the crowd, rumors spreading like wildfire. Remember that cheerleading coach, the one as hard as nails?...yeah, the one on that awful morning show…she took a bullet for that girl with Down Syndrome…shielded her with her body…oh, the coach is alive, I think…ICU…

Remember that teacher, the one with the Glee club…funny hair, you're right…well, he saved his Spanish class…went down in a hail of bullets…twenty kids…hero…

…I'll tell you who's a hero…you hear about that kid at the movies last weekend…plays the drums in the marching band?...my daughter called me, told me the shooters ended up in the band room…jumped in front of bullets to saved his boyfriend…yeah, he's gay…still a hero…

A hero.

Burt looked down at his son, just starting to shake off the anesthetic. "So you have your own personal hero, son?" That was the story Finn had told, anyway, and Burt felt a smile tug at his lips for the first time since the heart-stopping news.

Because having one more person look after his son couldn't hurt.

Blaine is messing up our story line, but we forgive him because he was Harry first and who can't forgive the Boy Who Lived?

Anyways, please review.