Author's note: Winding down toward the end here. I suppose I should go back and add a warning somewhere about language. I've realized I get fairly foul-mouthed at parts as I've gone through and re-read this for editing. Hmm. Ah well, thanks for following me this far! Only a few more chapters to go.
The police station was oddly cold for how many people there appeared to be. It was like an anthill, each person moving, doing, being for the good of the whole while not touching the lives of anyone else unless absolutely necessary. It was disconcerting.
Detective McCann was a small man who carried himself with all the bearings of a man three times his size. He made Burt uneasy. At least he wasn't the one conducting the interview.
They'd placed Kurt in a small, bare room with a two-sided mirror. Burt could see the anxiety painted across his son's frame. "This won't take long, will it?"
McCann was curt, but polite. "No, sir. This shouldn't take long at all. We're just trying to fill in a few gaps in Kurt's story with this recorded statement.." He gestured to the blinking camera in the corner of the room.
Burt grunted, but relented, staring through the mirror/window/whatever and staring at his son's face as the other detective sat down. A woman, he noticed. She looked nice, safe. Kurt might be more at ease talking to her.
He didn't want to watch this, didn't want to hear this again, but he couldn't tear his eyes away. He couldn't do that to Kurt. He listened to his son stumble over his fractured recollection of the event. Kurt could only string together the tiny pieces of the event he could find in the back of his memory- he barely remembered waking up in Blaine's room, barely remembered his stained underwear, barely remembered his stumbling journey off Dalton's premises, barely remembered his garbled confession in the car. The haze of drugs and time had blurred the pictures together in his head, and it was clear in Burt's head as Kurt staggered through his story. He clearly remembered the pain, though: the pain the assault had left behind in his head, in his body, in his heart, and Burt found it hard to look at his son's tearful face. He didn't want to hear this.
Then, as suddenly as it started, it was over. The officers then wanted to talk to Burt, and Kurt was left sitting in the hallway clutching a cup of steaming tea given to him by that nice lady cop. They said they wouldn't keep his dad long, just needed to go over some legal something-or-other, and Kurt was left in a less trafficked area of the station. He should be okay. They'd be done soon. Then he could go home and forget for a little while. Bury the shame. His eyes burned as he stared at the dull concrete floor. He really, really wanted to go home.
"Well, well, well, what do we have here?"
Kurt recognized those shoes, the lilt of the voice. He looked up, heart racing to get out of his chest. Blaine.
"You haven't been answering my calls or responding to my texts. That's pretty rude, babe. I thought something terrible had happened to you."
Oh god, it really was Blaine. Standing there. In the station. Just standing there in jeans and a green button-down shirt. Kurt looked around nervously. There wasn't anyone else there. Where the hell were the cops?
"What do you want?" he hissed, fingers grinding into the cardboard cup of his tea, it's warmth no longer comforting. He couldn't look at that charming face. Not anymore. Not without seeing a monster.
"What do I want?" he leaned down. Kurt could feel the other boy's breath hot on his face. "I want you, Kurt. Isn't that obvious? And really, it's not my fault that you're such a prude. So much for outward appearances." He straightened with a snort.
"You shouldn't be here. How the hell are you here? You-you should be rotting away somewhere where I won't ever see you again." His voice kept rising in volume and pitch. He could feel heat rising into his cheeks, staining them with color. Oh god, how could this be happening? He just wanted to put this whole thing to rest, put this ugliness behind him, but it just kept coming back to spit in his face.
Blaine didn't move. His face was blank as he stared down at the smaller boy. "You've just got to know the right people, babe. I didn't do anything to you that you didn't want me to." His eyes narrowed with scrutiny when Kurt blanched. "Don't deny it; you were gagging for it, wanted it just as bad as I did. I just sped things up is all."
Kurt flew to his feet, throwing the hot tea to the floor where the cup exploded in a wave of scalding liquid over their shoes. "You raped me, Blaine! You brought me up to your room, put something in my drink, and you raped me! How the hell can you justify that?" His face was red, eyes burning, tears streaming down his face.
"Not according to the courts, I didn't. Just watch, you've got nothing against me, Hummel." His voice was cold and quiet. "Everything that happened that night was purely consensual. Face it-you wanted it. And I gave it to you."
Kurt's racing mind couldn't find the words to speak. His mouth opened and closed, but nothing came out. His chest felt too tight. He couldn't breathe. Where was his dad? Where was that terrifying little cop who had led him out here? The nice one who'd given him the tea? Why wasn't anyone doing anything?
Blaine stepped closer to him and whispered into his hair, far too close for comfort but never actually touching him. "Give up, Kurt. I've got some serious friends in high places. I own you now, and there's nothing you can do about it."
Kurt could feel himself trembling. He just wanted to throw up, to run away, to go back to this morning with Artie and Mercedes and put this whole thing behind him. He wanted his old boyfriend back, the one who'd wooed him with gentle encouragements and cheesy love songs. He wanted his room back at Dalton, or his room in the basement at home, even with Finn's ugly new décor. He wanted to run back to McKinley and Mr. Shue and the rest of the New Directions glee club. He wanted the slushie facials and dumpster dives and bruises from being shoved into hallway lockers. He'd even take Karofsky's dangerously sexual bullying if it would get him away from right here, right now. He really wanted his dad. He wanted things back the way they were, before everything became so fucked up. He just wanted to curl up in some dark corner and die.
"You son of a bitch."