~?~

As he is pinned to the wall, Kurt can feel the adrenaline thrumming through him, making his limbs quiver and breaths come quick. The metallic, tangy taste of blood is all around him, and with every inhale it seems that some is either sliding its way down his throat or up into his sinuses.

He can't go through this again.

He was just starting to come to terms with it having happened, with maybe getting some help to live with it. Because he doesn't think you ever truly got over something like rape, but maybe he could learn to thrive despite it. It would be better than wilting because of it.

So as Karofsky leans in, eyes intent on his neck, he jolts forward, opening his mouth and clamping down on the soft thickness of Karofsky's palm with as much power as he can.

He's not a fighter, but he's scared and he's pissed and he just wants to go home and be with his family. He wants to stop being afraid of this stupid, lumbering Neanderthal that has made his life hell. He wants his life back.

It's like all of the anger that he has been devoid of for the past couple of months is suddenly in him, curling in his stomach and in his chest.

As Karofsky releases his mouth, shaking his hand in pain, Kurt wrenches one of his arms from the tight hold it is in and punches forward. His knuckles catch Karofsky on the side of the nose, and Kurt feels something like satisfaction at the sound of crunching bone and cartilage, at the way Karofsky's nose caves beneath his hand.

Blood starts spurting from Karofsky's nose, running over his lips and down his chin to catch in the neckline of his t-shirt, spraying out in a fine mist as he yells, "Fuck!"

Having freed his other arm Kurt swings again, landing another blow to the side of Karofsky's head. The other boy sags to the left, head clutched in his hands, and Kurt tries to dodge around him, but the metal of a bathroom stall blocks his way.

Letting out a little scream of frustration, Kurt turns the other way, tries to shoulder past Karofsky's bulk, but the other boy is recovering from the blows and has stood up straight again.

There is no more deliberateness to Karofsky's movements as he grabs Kurt by the neck and slams him backward, pressing the smaller body into the wall hard enough to cut off all air. When the hold doesn't let up, doesn't allow Kurt to gasp in any precious oxygen, he grasps at Karofsky's hands, wrists and forearms with his own hands, prying and clawing in desperation.

When the pressure releases Kurt gasps, coughing and choking as he crumples inward, trying to breathe in as much as he can. He is only given a brief moment before a fist comes at him from his left, moving so fast that he is only afforded a split-second sight of blurred motion before it strikes.

When the knuckles connect with his face Kurt tries to move with the motion, tries to lessen the damage, but it came so fast that he doesn't have the time. The noise of Karofsky's fist hitting him is loud, too loud to be normal, and as Kurt falls to the ground from the momentum of it, he realizes why.

Once he's stopped moving, the unforgiving hardness of the floor beneath him, the agony takes him over so completely that his eyes go dark and his breath stops in his throat. His face is on fire, the pain radiating outward from his cheekbone to all reaches of his body. The hit has broken something, the loud crack accompanying Karofsky's fist was the sound of his own bones snapping.

Stunned and overcome by the sharp breathlessness of the pain, Kurt can't do anything to protect himself as Karofsky lands a kick to his stomach. When he can focus, just enough to try and curl inward to shield his stomach, Kurt cries out sharply as Karofsky kicks forward again.

"Stupid," Karofsky grunts as a kick catches Kurt in the chest, and he feels nothing but pain as something gives way, "little" another kick, another crunch of bone, "bitch." This time the kick lands higher, flipping him from his side to his back with the force of it. Karofsky is panting furiously, the blood from his nose dripping steadily downward where some of it lands on Kurt's face, warm and wet.

"Hey! What are you doing?"

Karofsky jerks his head around to look behind him, eyebrows pinned together in anger. "Back off, man. None of your business."

"Get away from him."

"Fuck you," Karofsky spits. "The little bitch is getting what he deserves. Back off."

Kurt groans, head lolling slightly on his neck. It hurts to breathe and the room is spinning around him in a sickening haze, floor and walls and ceiling blending and churning. All he can see of the newcomer is a flash of grey hair and charcoal business slacks.

Karofsky's feet are just out of his range of sight, but he hears when the boy comes toward him again, jerky and sudden in his anger.

"Stop," the stranger demands, his voice louder as he moves further into the bathroom to where they are.

After that all Kurt registers hearing is a sharp 'smack' of flesh hitting flesh, the sound of running footsteps, and then silence.

When a hand gently rests on his shoulder Kurt jumps and groans out a high-pitched whimper as his injuries are aggravated.

"Sorry, sorry. Holy shit." The stranger is on the floor beside him, throwing occasional looks behind him as he reaches for his phone.

"Where?" Kurt tries to say, but his throat feels shredded and there is blood coating his mouth. The result is nothing more than a weak gargle of incomprehensible noise.

Kind eyes look down at him. "He's gone." The stranger then pulls his phone to his ear and smiles reassuringly at him. "It'll be okay. You'll be fine."

Kurt wants to believe him. He wants to believe him with all of his being, but he hurts so bad right now that he almost doesn't want to know what kind of damage has been done. And Karofsky's still out there. He could find him again.

Hearing the helpful stranger start to talk into his phone, Kurt feels his mind start to slip away. The adrenaline that had pulsed through him is seeping away, leaving him shaking and his mind disjointed.

Kurt doesn't have a clear recollection of anything other then a steady presence at his side and white-hot pain until the paramedics arrive with the sound of booted feet and rattling wheels trailing them. Kurt shifts to get a look, but the shooting pain from his ribs stops him from moving further.

"Hey, don't move, man." A hand gently pulls him back to rest on his side, a solid presence that remains steady on his shoulder.

As the first paramedic kneels down by him, voice ringing in his ears with all the clarity of tar, Kurt's mind loses what focus it had.

~?~

He doesn't remember much from the trip to the hospital. Little flashes are all that remain; the painful jar of the stretcher being loaded into the ambulance, the change in light and sound as he is wheeled into the hospital. Kind grey eyes that look down into his, ones that he has not seen again, but which he is grateful for nonetheless.

The first time he wakes up it is hard to breathe and his head feels like it is caught in a vice, all of this only counterweight to the grinding pain of his chest. He doesn't try to stay awake that time, instead letting himself slip back under into the blackness of sleep.

~?~

Kurt doesn't wake up all at once; instead, he comes back to coherence in parts, like a rising tide creeping up the beach in waves. His mind feels fuzzy, like he's been sleeping for too long and not enough time all at once, and his body is oddly disconnected.

Drifting there, half-awake and half-asleep, Kurt hears the sound of voices, one male and one female. As the fog of white noise that has filled his ears starts to lift, he can recognize his dad and Carole.

"I'm his father," his dad is saying, something in his voice that Kurt never wants to hear again. "I'm supposed to protect him."

The words stab him in the heart like a bolt of lightening on a clear day, harsh and unexpected. His dad is blaming himself. It is so wrong on so many levels that Kurt can't even formulate a response, can't think of anything he could say to make it better.

Carole murmurs something, too quiet for Kurt to hear, but loud enough to hear the compassion.

"It's my job, Carole." Kurt hears the sound of crinkling clothes. "It's my job to make sure he's happy and safe. And I failed him." The words sound like a revelation in the air. "I failed him," Burt whispers again.

Kurt rolls his head toward the voices and opens his eyes, sees his dad and Carole sitting side-by-side holding each others' hands.

It's so wrong that at first Kurt can only stare at his father in shock. He was the one that promised that he was safe. He was the one that had promised to tell his dad if he wasn't. He was the one that had lied. If there is anyone at fault it's him.

"Dad," he says, but his throat is sore and dry, leaving his voice a mere shadow of itself.

His dad looks over, eyes wide in surprise, mouth gaping open. "Kurt," he says, almost reverently. He stands and is at Kurt's side in a few quick steps, reaching out to hold Kurt's left hand in his own.

Carole comes up almost as fast and smiles at him, her eyes surrounded by dark circles of exhaustion. "It's good to see you awake." Carole looks between Kurt and his father, eyes misty and soft. "I'm going to go get Finn. I'm sure he wants to see you, Kurt."

Kurt looks up at Carole, thankful for her in ways that he never thought possible since his mom died. "Thank you," he says.

She just smiles at him and leans down, placing a single kiss on his forehead. "See you soon, sweetie."

And then she is gone.

"Hey buddy." His dad sits on his bed, keeping a hold of his hand. Like he can't stand the thought of ever letting go. "How are you feeling?"

Kurt swallows, his throat protesting wildly to the action, and tries to evaluate the numerous twinges in his body. "Sore. Confused." His voice sounds weird, not anything like he is used to hearing. For a moment he feels panic rise in his chest; what if his voice has been damaged? What if Karofsky had ruined that for him, too?

He tries not to think about it.

"I was so worried, Kurt," Burt says. He looks little better than he did after getting home from the hospital after his heart attack. As Kurt's eyes peruse his father's face, he thinks that maybe he looks even worse.

"I'm sorry," Kurt whispers, the words slipping out easily.

His dad looks confused and stunned, and then he's shaking his head vehemently. "What for? Kurt, you have nothing to be sorry for."

"I couldn't stop him," Kurt whispers, clenching his dad's hand. "I wasn't strong enough."

Burt makes a noise in the back of his throat, in protest or in agreement, Kurt can't tell. "Kurt, buddy, that's not your fault. None of this is your fault."

"I know," he says, voice high and tight. "I know that logically, but I still feel like – like it was."

His dad's eyes are boring into his and Kurt watches as wetness builds and then spills over. A spike of pain pierces his chest, seeing his dad so upset.

"I'm sorry dad, I'm sorry I couldn't-"

"Kurt, stop," Burt says, leaning forward to hold him tight. "Please just listen to me, okay?"

Kurt looks down, focusing on the pattern of plaid on his father's shirt. He can understand what his father is telling him from a logical standpoint, but it doesn't parallel what he is feeling. Not at all.

His dad pulls away, holding his shoulders in his large palms, just looking into Kurt's face, searching with his eyes. He then puts his hands to either side of Kurt's face, careful to navigate around the bandages on the left side, his calloused skin rough against Kurt's own. Kurt is trapped by his father's eyes, unable to look away.

"Kurt – you never be sorry for this. Okay, buddy? You never apologise for what that bastard did." His dad's voice is strong and gentle, like his hands.

Kurt licks his lips, tastes the salty tang of tears, and nods. "Okay," he whispers, lips trembling. When the word passes his lips, no matter how much he wishes he could mean it with all of his being, it still feels like a flimsy caricature.

His dad's thumb strokes his right cheek, wiping at tears. "I'm so proud of you, Kurt," he says gruffly. "You are so strong, just like your mom."

Kurt sobs and leans into his dad's hands. Hearing that, hearing his father's belief in him, makes him feel good and accepted. But he's not that strong, he's not made of concrete and rebar. If anything he feels like he's made of glass, thin and cracked, but not wholly broken.

~?~

Blaine comes into the room with a vase in hand, the bright flowers fresh and graceful, obviously well-arranged. Once he has passed the threshold he hesitates, looking at Kurt with his mouth slightly agape. It only lasts for a moment, but Kurt knows he was taking in Kurt's face, how bad the damage is.

"Where should I?" Blaine indicates the flowers he's holding before glancing around the room.

Kurt smiles lightly and gestures at the window sill. "They're lovely." And they are.

Blaine looks nervous and unsure. "I thought you might want something nice to look at and smell while you're in here."

The bed dips as Blaine sits down, sheets and blankets crinkling under his weight. He is wearing his Dalton uniform, the tie slightly crooked from nervous fiddling – a habit Kurt has tried to break him of, but has been largely unsuccessful in doing.

"How are you feeling?" Blaine's voice is calm and familiar.

"Sore," Kurt says, throat protesting. He reaches for the glass of water at the table by his bed, hand steadier than it had been, and he feels Blaine's eyes on him so strongly that he pauses.

Looking up at the other boy, he traces Blaine's line of sight to the hand that he has reached out. It's his right one, which is splinted and bandaged over his ring and pinkie fingers. Pulling his arm back toward himself, Kurt holds his hand in Blaine's direction. "I broke two fingers when I broke Karofsky's nose."

Blaine licks his lips and nods. "Good."

Kurt raises his brows, which catches Blaine's attention to what he had just uttered.

Immediately apologising, Blaine's mouth is half-open as he shakes his head. "I didn't mean it like that. I just – I meant 'good' that you broke his nose. Not that you broke your fingers."

Chuckling, and then wincing at the movement as it transfers through his ribs, Kurt puts his uninjured hand on Blaine's arm. "It's okay. I got that."

Looking sheepish and unsure, Blaine nods his head.

It's odd, and something that Kurt has noticed a lot over the past day, that the people who are not hurt, the ones who have to deal with it from the outside looking in, they are the ones that seem to stumble through. So he takes pity on his friend.

"I guess I should have let my dad teach me how to throw a punch." He throws in a little laugh at the end, low and sincere.

Blaine's brows pull together and he cocks his head. "Huh?"

"When I was little my dad wanted to teach me how to fight." Kurt chuckles self-depreciatingly. "He must have known I'd need it back then, too." When he looks up at Blaine, the other boy is staring at him like he wants to protest, but can't find the words.

Kurt almost wishes that Blaine would tell him 'I told you so', that anyone would. Because the guilt that he feels, however constantly-evolving in form it is, is creeping under his skin and coiled in his chest like some creature. Just waiting to spring awake.

Maybe if it was all out in the open, maybe if his dad and Blaine would just tell him he should have done something about it, told someone so that Karofsky could be punished, he wouldn't have to deal with it alone.

Because, and this is where Kurt wishes he didn't know himself so well, maybe if he could talk about these things they would become less about him and more about other people. If he could lay this all out, spread-eagle and naked, someone would reassure him that he didn't do anything wrong. But it feels like he did, like this second encounter was all because he was too afraid to act.

Blaine shifts, bringing Kurt attention back to him. "How long are you going to be here?"

Kurt shrugs slightly. "I don't know yet. They had to operate yesterday," he says, pointing at his bandaged face. "Karofsky broke my," he hesitates slightly, saying the word carefully, "zygomatic arch, and it needed to be moved back into place and fixated. They screwed metal plates into the bone."

Kurt watches Blaine's face, sees his expression of mild horror and concern, and almost wishes he'd informed him with a little less aplomb. A silence stretches between them, Blaine taking in Kurt's revelation, and Kurt focusing on the flowers that Blaine brought him.

As he traces the long green stems and luscious petals with his eyes, Kurt takes in a little breath. "Blaine?" he asks. "Do you think this is my fault?"

"What? No." Blaine's response is immediate, no thought involved. "Of course not."

Kurt looks at Blaine. "But I didn't tell anyone. I didn't ask for help." His face feels hot as he ducks his head.

"Kurt – I can't even begin to imagine what you have gone through." Blaine grabs his left hand in both of his and just holds on. "You not telling anyone, not going to anyone for help; I understand. As best I can. Do I wish you would have come to me? Yeah." He squeezes Kurt's hand. "But I don't blame you for it. I don't think anyone does."

Kurt averts his gaze, face flushing even more.

"Except you," Blaine says and then sighs. "I know you can't just change how you feel. But the people who care for you, the people who love you, we don't think that. We just want what's best for you. For you to be happy. Okay?"

"Yeah," Kurt says, voice hoarse and low.

Blaine's hands tighten on him one more time and then let go. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out an iPod and headphones. "I thought you might like this," he says, handing the device to Kurt. "I couldn't find yours, and I know you like your privacy, so I didn't think you'd want me looking around too much." He bites his lip. "That's mine."

Kurt smiles as best he can, cheek too swollen and sore to allow much, and sniffs lightly as his eyes start to tear. "It's perfect."

"We like a lot of the same music, so I thought maybe you would like what is on there. Lots of Broadway. But you might want to watch out for all of the Top 40." He looks so unsure, like this kind gesture is something to be worried about. It makes Kurt want to lean forward and pull him into his arms.

"It really is perfect Blaine." He runs his fingers over the case of the MP3 player, across the smooth length of the cord to the earplugs. "You are amazing, Blaine Anderson."

Blaine huffs and leans in close. "You're not so bad either, Mr. Hummel."

~?~

A/N: I'm on the verge of a third dan in Taekwon-do, but cannot write a fight/struggle scene for the life of me. Ack. I am also NOT a student of medicine – although I did research for surgical techniques, I am likely to have made mistakes. And I lied. There will be another part.

Let me know what you think?