Spoilers: Pretty much everything up to 2.14 is fair game.
Warnings: talk of non-con, violence, language.
Word Count: ~3,250 this part
Summary: continuation of Your Sins Into Me (warning for explicit non-con).
A/N: Oh my goodness. I don't even know what to think about this part. I can't decide. But I hope that you like it, and that you take it easy on my not-so-wonderful and POV-challenged writing style.
:)
A/N2: I apologise if I confused anyone on Fannet - I continued to post the 'sequel' at the end of Your Sins Into Me - this is the second-last portion (the more organized/full versions of the fics are posted to LiveJournal) of In The End.
"Kurt, honey, can I take a look?" Carole asks as she approaches.
Kurt looks back at her, much of the heart-wrenching fear having dissipated, and nods. "Yeah."
Burt grabs hold of Kurt's arms, trying to ignore the slight flinch, while Kurt lifts his left foot into the air. Carole grasps his ankle tenderly, examining his sole.
"There's some glass stuck in here," she says. "I can't tell how big it is, and I really wouldn't want to risk making the wound any worse by pulling it out." She looks up at Kurt, sympathy radiating toward him. "We're going to have to get this looked at."
Kurt bites at his lip and looks over at his dad nervously. "Are you sure?"
Carole, who has grabbed the dish towel back from Burt, says, "There's no way around it. There could be an artery or tendons or muscles damaged, and we can't leave it in."
Seeming to realise that he can't get out of this, Kurt lets out a shaky breath. "Okay." His dad squeezes his arm, repositioning where he's standing. "What are you doing?"
Burt grunts, "I'm going to pick you up. You can't walk on that."
"No, dad, you can't," says Kurt. "Your heart."
Burt's lips pinch together and he nods roughly, rubbing a hand over his jaw. "Okay. We'll figure something out."
"I'll take him," Finn says, taking a step forward from where he has been standing.
When he sees the bigger boy, Kurt's eyes go wide. "Oh, Finn," he breathes, "I'm so sorry."
Finn looks confused for a moment, and then he puts one hand to his face, wincing at the contact. Both Carole and Burt look to see what Kurt was apologising about and see the bruise starting to blossom across Finn's left cheek.
"Honey?" Carole approaches Finn, raising a hand up to turn his face to get a better look. "What happened?"
"I hit him."
Carole turns and looks at Kurt, her mouth open in surprise.
"Oh my – I hit him. Oh my God, Finn. I'm so sorry." Kurt eyes are filling with tears and they start to drip down his face. "I'm sorry."
Finn pulls away from his mother and goes to Kurt. "Hey, Kurt, it's okay, man. It's not even that bad, see?"
When Kurt looks up at him, Finn tries to give him a reassuring smile, but it doesn't work. Kurt shudders and wraps the arm that isn't held by his father around his middle. It looks like he's hugging himself.
"I'm sorry. I'm sorry," Kurt says, repeating his apology.
Finn takes a half-step toward his step-brother, unsure of what to do; he wants to go up to Kurt and assure him that it's okay, but he doesn't want to make this any worse, either.
All Kurt can think of, all Kurt can see, is the pain that he's inflicted on someone who was just trying to help.
He hurt Finn.
Kurt sits on the hospital bed, surrounded by white-washed bricks and machinery. The air smells of disinfectant and urine, and there is a line of dark dust behind a cart in the corner of the room.
He doesn't hate hospitals; he knows that the people here are trying to help, that the things that happen here are to try and save lives. It doesn't make him want to be here, though.
His dad is seated in the uncomfortable chair next to his bed, elbows propped on his knees and hat discarded. He looks tired.
The doctor comes through the door in a flurry of white lab coat, holding a clip-board in his hands. "Kurt?"
Burt sits up, attention piqued.
The doctor moves to stand at the edge of the bed, almost hovering. "The x-ray shows about three quarters of an inch of glass penetrating your foot. It's a relatively thin piece, and we foresee little problem in removing it."
Kurt nods, feeling a bit queasy at the knowledge of that much foreign body being in him. The thought makes him itch.
"When are you going to… remove it?"
The doctor looks at Burt, brown eyes surrounded by a chorus of wrinkles. "Within the hour, most likely."
Burt is satisfied with the answer, and looks at Kurt, who isn't paying attention, staring at the wall across from him with unfocused eyes.
When they pull up into front of the house, the Hudson-Hummel family sit in collective silence for a moment.
Kurt is sitting in the back beside Finn, leg stretched out so that he can lean his calf against the front centre consol. Every once in a while he has been taking surreptitious looks over at his step-brother, eyes pinned to the dark bruise spreading across his cheek.
It looks painful.
Kurt knows Finn has been trying to play it down, has been pretending that his skin doesn't pull painfully every time he moves his jaw or smiles. He's doing it so that Kurt won't feel bad, and Kurt knows this. It makes him feel worse.
He and Finn haven't always had the best of relationships, and he won't even try to blame Finn for all of that, but they're brothers now. He should be doing everything in his power to protect his family, to make them happy, and instead he's squeezing the life right out of them.
Lost in his thoughts, Kurt doesn't even notice that Carole has slid from the front seat and popped the trunk, pulling out his new crutches and handing them to his dad. When his door opens, cool air brushing around him, he looks up and out. His dad is looking down at him, an unreadable look on his face with a hand held out to him.
Awkwardly pulling his bandaged foot down off of its resting place, Kurt takes his fathers' hand and exits the vehicle.
Blaine comes to visit him a few hours after he gets home from the hospital, and Kurt can't help but think of how lucky he is to have friends who care so much for him.
It was only last year that he didn't have any close friends, at least none like Mercedes or Blaine, or even Rachel; it was him and his dad. And he had been okay with that, but he wouldn't give up what he has now.
"I hurt him," Kurt says, leaning back against the couch cushions, foot propped up on the coffee table.
"Who?" Blaine asks as he sits beside Kurt, handing him a glass of milk.
"Thanks." Kurt takes the glass. "Finn. When he scared me today – I didn't even think, I just swung."
"You were scared; you weren't thinking straight."
"You say that like it's an excuse," Kurt says. "But it's not. I hit him, Blaine. Hard enough to bruise." Kurt goes silent for a moment. "What if it happens again? What if I'm with my dad or with you? I could seriously hurt someone."
"Have you thought about getting help?" Blaine looks nervous.
"What do you mean?"
"Come on Kurt; don't play like you don't know what I mean."
"I know," Kurt sighs. "I thought I could handle this. Well… I thought I could get through it."
Blaine shifts so that he is facing Kurt and places a hand on Kurt's forearm. "You don't talk to anyone about it, Kurt. No one even knew until months later – and that whole time we could see that something was wrong, that you weren't okay. And now," he says, staring intently into Kurt's eyes, "knowing what you went through, I don't know what to do to help."
Kurt is silent as he stares right back at Blaine, mind whirling.
"You're my best friend, Kurt, and I worry about you so much." Blaine's breath hitches and Kurt wishes he could erase the pain from him. "I want you to be happy, and you haven't been for a long time."
"I know," Kurt says. "I don't know what to do, Blaine." He can hear the strain in his own voice, and Kurt lets a small smile quirk his lips when Blaine's hand tightens on his arm, reassuring.
"I don't think anyone does, not really."
Kurt is leaned up against his headboard, foot elevated by a pillow with a textbook in his hands, highlighters scattered around him in multiple neon colours. He will be ever appreciative of Dalton's textbook policy; students buy and keep them, meaning that Kurt can write notes in the margins and highlight the important parts. It makes studying that much easier.
When the knock at the door comes he's almost expecting it. He has known this was coming, and he had thought that maybe he would have had a little more time, but it's here, and he might as well get it over with.
"Come in," he calls, closing the textbook and laying it aside.
When his dad comes through the door, shoulders held straight and high, Kurt takes a breath, lets it fill his lungs, and mentally prepares himself for a conversation he could never truly be ready for.
"Hey, dad," he says, clearing a portion of his bed of highlighters.
Burt takes a seat on the edge, and asks, "Studying?"
Glancing toward his discarded textbook, Kurt nods. "Yeah. Biology."
"Anything about frogs in there? I dissected one once for biology class."
"No," Kurt says, dragging out the word. "Not that I know of." Giving his dad a sceptical look, he continues, "I think we dissect foetal pigs. Or rats."
Kurt watches as his father shifts uncomfortably, obviously building up to a bigger topic.
"So. Are you still liking Dalton?"
The question breaks the dam that he has built around his feelings for Dalton; on one hand he loves it, but on the other he wishes he never had to transfer in the first place. The guilt that crashes over him is the most powerful, though. He will never think of Dalton without thinking about how much his family has sacrificed for him.
"It's great," he acknowledges. "The curriculum is extremely intense, but everyone is nice."
"Good. That's good."
Shifting so that he is facing Kurt more fully, Burt looks like he is steeling himself. "Are you sure you won't-"
"Dad," Kurt interrupts, "no."
Kurt finds his dad's eyes searching his, like he could pull the answer from their depths.
"I know. I know, but Kurt you gotta understand-"
"I do," Kurt says. "I do understand, and I'm so sorry, but I'm not telling. Please," he practically begs, "please stop asking."
Kurt watches his father's throat bob as he swallows hard, like he's forcing down an onslaught of words. Kurt hates that he can't tell him, but it's for the best.
He's sure of it.
The way his dad's face crumples isn't obvious; it's in the tension around his brow, in the subtle bulging of his jaw muscles, the tint of his eyes as emotion takes them. Yet another thing that Kurt has inflicted on someone he loves; another branch in the wreathe of pain he's building for his family.
His father is quick to compose his features, and he's straightening his spine once again. "We need to talk about what happened today."
"I had expected so," Kurt whispers, tearing his eyes to stare at his hands interlocked in his lap.
"What happened, Kurt? Finn isn't talking about it; he's practically blaming himself for everything."
"It wasn't his fault. It was me."
"What do you mean?"
Sighing lowly, Kurt looks back up at his dad. "He was trying to help me. I slipped in the kitchen and he tried to catch me, but-" Kurt licks his lips. "When he grabbed me, there were suddenly these hands on me, and I couldn't think. Dad, I didn't mean to."
"I know, kiddo," Burt says, leaning in to brush a strand of hair off of Kurt's forehead. "It's not your fault."
Sniffling, Kurt wipes a single tear from under his right eye.
"I want you to consider something for me, okay?"
Biting his lip and trying to hold back the tears, Kurt asks, "What do you propose?"
Burt nods in approval. "We can start small. I know you don't want to do counselling, and before you protest, just hear me out." Burt pins Kurt with his eyes. "I don't know much about all that mind-therapy stuff, but I've done some research and talked with Carole, and we think it could help you."
Kurt has been protesting going to counselling, but the more it is brought up, the more he thinks about it, the better it is starting to sound. Maybe if he does this he'll be able to move on, try and dig himself out of this rut he's stuck in.
"If I start going to therapy – can I stop if I don't like it?"
Burt looks to be considering the idea. "If you go, and you give it a good try, and I don't mean one session, Kurt, and absolutely cannot stand it, then yeah. But I want you to try this, and I don't want it for me, buddy. I want to see you get through this for you."
Kurt nods his head, looking at his dad with warmth in his heart. "I love you so much, dad."
Kurt goes back to Dalton the Tuesday after he gets his crutches and is greeted by more concerned questions and gazes than he can take.
Jeff approaches him before he can even get to his first class and takes his backpack, slinging it over one shoulder as he walks beside Kurt in even strides.
"What happened?" he asks, gesturing to Kurt's crutches.
Trying to laugh as casually as possible, Kurt replies, "Oh, nothing, really. I stepped on some glass during the weekend and had to have it removed and stitched up."
"Ouch," says Jeff, handing him his backpack back as they reach the door to his class. "I hope it heals fast."
"Yeah, me too."
Kurt waves in goodbye as the other Warbler departs and turns to enter his class, only to be faced with Blaine standing right beside him.
"Hi," he says, looking down at his friend. "How was the rest of your weekend?"
"You didn't tell me you would be back today." Blaine looks disappointed.
Shrugging, Kurt says, "Yeah. I'm doing pretty good with the crutches, so we decided I could come back."
"I would have met you at your car if I'd known."
Smiling widely, Kurt leans awkwardly on his crutches so that he can bump Blaine's shoulder with his own. It's something that Blaine usually does to him, but it feels like the right thing to do. "I know. Thanks, Blaine."
"For what?"
"Just thanks," Kurt says, earning a smile back.
A few weeks later Kurt's foot is nearly healed, only the slightest twinges left to haunt him, leaving only a slight limp. In celebration of his newly-acquired mobility, Kurt decides to go shopping, taking a Saturday evening to indulge in retail therapy.
The mall is relatively calm when Kurt gets there, the heavy crowd having cleared off. He used to enjoy the rush of people, the press of bodies shuffling through too-small isles.
Now it's too much. Someone standing too close to his back, just out of view, will send his heart pounding and his limbs cold. A shadow moving close from behind him will lengthen and fasten his stride and he will send little glances behind him.
But this is okay; this relative calm of the evening. It's enough that he can go through a couple of shops, examining articles of clothing with a trained eye. He really is in his element.
It isn't long, though, before his foot starts to ache, so he heads for the food court. When he gets there he buys a bottle of water and sits at a table, taking the weight from his injury and watching people move about.
There are families sitting in groups, various foods spread across their tables, couples laughing over frozen yoghurt, elderly people sitting around with their canes and walkers to chat. It's like any other time he's gone to the mall.
Kurt sees him as he's exiting the food court, plastic water bottle clenched in one hand with its lid off and starting to spill over from the pressure. The broad shoulders and red jacket send a spike of panic right to his core. The hairs on his neck stand up and he can feel as the blood rushes away from his skin, leaving his hands cold and stomach tight.
Kurt hasn't seen Karofsky in months, but even this slight glance from far away affects him like there has been no separation at all.
Trying to keep calm, Kurt turns sharply to the right, ducking into the hallway leading to the bathrooms. He takes a quick look over his shoulder as he walks with quick, long strides, and sees no one following him.
As soon as he reaches the entrance to the men's washroom he goes in, looking back once again and seeing nothing.
Hands shaking and feeling nausea crawling in his stomach, Kurt lets out a low breath, imagining all of his tension draining away. He just has to wait here for a couple of minutes, and then he'll make his way through the most open parts of the mall to where he's parked.
Confident in his plan, Kurt backs up to the end of the bathroom, keeping watch on the door, and stands by the hand dryer with his back to the wall.
He waits for about five minutes, just standing with his back to the wall, and no one enters. Feeling a little calmer, Kurt blows out a breath and shrugs his shoulders a couple of times to release the built-up tension there.
Pushing off from his place at the wall, Kurt takes a moment to look in the mirror. He is satisfied, and turns to leave, but as he faces the exit he is blocked, a large chest pressing him until he hits the wall again.
"Hey there, slut," Karofsky leers, pressing his face in close. "You just couldn't keep away, could you?"
"Get away from me," says Kurt, loud enough that the words bounce around the room in a distorted echo.
"Awe c'mon, Fancy, didn't you enjoy it last time?"
Scared and angry, feeling dizzy and sick, Kurt feels determination settle in him. Tensing his abdomen and keeping his head and shoulders still, Kurt rams his knee upward, catching Karofsky in the groin.
The taller boy hunches forward with a groan, hands reaching to cup himself through his pants. "Little bitch," he snarls.
And then he's grabbing at Kurt's body with harsh fingers, pinning both of Kurt's arms to his body with one of his own. Once he's got a relatively secure hold, Karofsky's free hand reaches down to grasp Kurt's privates tightly.
Screaming in pain as his genitals are handled so violently, Kurt kicks forward, catching Karofsky's ankle with the toe of his shoe.
"Fuck," Karofsky pants, "feisty little fairy." He then smashes his lips forward into Kurt's, pressing hard and with no finesse.
Kurt rips his lips away, twisting his head hard to the left, feeling as Karofsky's light spatter of stubble scratches across his face. Taking in a deep breath he yells, "Stop! Let me go!"
"Shut up!" snaps the bigger boy, pulling his hand from groping at Kurt's pants to cover his mouth, pressing down on Kurt's swollen lips with enough pressure to slice the inside of Kurt's mouth with his own teeth.
Whimpering as blood floods around his tongue, Kurt can only snuffle short breaths in through his nose.
"That's better."