Burt Hummel sat nervously in St Agnes Hospital, anxiously waiting to see his son. He'd been in that same spot for hours and he'd heard nothing. All he needed was a doctor, or even a nurse to say three simple words – he'll be okay – was that too much to ask? Was the world so terrible that it would take away his only son? Would it make him sit in a deftly silent waiting room that stank of anaesthetics, with a bucketful of unanswered questions.

'Mr Hummel?' A forty-something woman, with shoulder length chocolate hair, asked as she approached the only man in the waiting area at 4am on Thursday morning.

'Burt Hummel?' She persisted.

The man finally recognised his own name and responded by retrieving his worried face from callused hands and looked directly at her. She was quite petite, wearing ink scrubs with matching nails. Her hands grasped a clipboard as she sported a genuine, caring smile that reached her green eyes.

'Uh, yeah, that's me. Sorry. I'm just...It's been a long day.' Burt fumbled, releasing a sigh once he'd finished.

'I understand.' She smiled, taking a long reassuring pause, staring into Burt's hollow eyes. 'My name's Carole Hudson,' the woman extended one hand, to which Burt shook lazily, 'I'll be taking care of your son while he's here. Kurt's down the hall right now, I can take you to him if you'd like?'

'Yeah,' he stood, nodding his baseball capped head, 'is he going to be okay?' Hope soaked his tired eyes and his body went rigid in anticipation of Carole's answer. Before answering, she gestured him down the hallway, to Kurt's room, allowing them some privacy. The two came to a halt at an open doorway, a few minutes down the deserted corridor. Inside laid an 18 year old Kurt, slightly propped up against the right-hand wall.

'Well, Mr Hummel, I'm sorry to have to tell you this but Kurt, he, he's in a coma.' Her eyes fell to the floor, it was too painful to look at the expression on Burt's face. He almost keeled over at that one word, coma. His eyes were fixated on his son's form, lying, tucked into that hospital bed. Burt could feel the tears threatening to escape and that all too familiar lump in his throat.

'When will he be awake?' Burt inquired, his face filled with pain as he saw his son lying motionless in the hospital bed.

'I honestly couldn't tell you Mr Hummel. It could be a few hours, days, weeks? …You do need to prepare yourself for the worst though.'

'What do you mean? What could possibly be worse than this?'

'Well,' her voice was shaky, 'there's the, um, possibility that he, well, he may never wake up...' She trailed off, emerald eyes focusing on Kurt's frame. That poor boy, he's only young, he's got his entire life ahead of him. God forbid this ever happen to a child of mine.

'Oh, right, that…'

'I am so sorry Mr Hummel, I'll do all I can to help, but at this rate, that doesn't look like a lot.'

'Please, call me Burt. And thank you.'

'It's my pleasure Mr-Burt.' The nurse stated before leaving Burt to be alone with his unconscious son.

Burt walked into the small room and sat in the perfectly placed chair to the right of Kurt's bed. The room was worn and deathly outdated, definitely in need of some TLC. Considering the amount people pay for health insurance, you'd think they could provide a decent standard of living whilst in hospital. No matter how much this room was in dire need of a new coat of paint, that wasn't at the forefront of Burt's mind at this very moment however. His concentration was on Kurt – his son. His eyes studied Kurt's every facial feature; examined his now flattened hair, the darkened eyes and paler than normal skin. This was not the Kurt he knew and loved; the Kurt he'd raised singlehandedly ever since his wife passed away; the Kurt who ordered hair care and facial products in bulk and stopped at his locker with every opportunity that arose in order for him to re-apply the bucket-load of hair spray that resulted in his usually flawless quiff.

'Kurt?' Burt whispered as he held his son's hand, 'Kurt, buddy, it's me. It's your dad.' He wasn't surprised when he received no response. 'I know this is stupid and if you were awake you'd laugh at me, but I read somewhere, I dunno in the newspaper or something, that some people in comas can actually hear you when you talk to them. So, buddy, if you can hear me, you better wake the hell up or I'll confiscate your face creams for a month and I know how addicted you are to that stuff.'
Burt began to squeeze his son's hand, noting how cold to the touch Kurt was. It was as though the life was draining out of him by the second. The tears were breaking the barricades faster than Burt anticipated and before long he was fully bawling, not caring who heard him because this wasn't about him, it was about Kurt, his son.

Oblivious to how much time had passed whilst he sat weeping into his son's bedside, Burt greeted Carole, the nurse, when she came to check up on both of them the next day.

'You should really head home, get some rest. You look exhausted.' Carole advised as her frame occupied the doorway.

'No. No way. I can't leave him alone in this hospital.' Burt refused profusely.

'Well then, I suggest you come get a cup of coffee with me. We won't be gone long, I promise. Plus, we'll still be in the building if anything changes. You won't miss a thing Burt, scouts honour.'

Carole was happy to see that her enthusiasm was met with Burt's monstrous laughter. It was nice seeing him happy, it suited him.

'You don't look like a Girl Scout to me.' Burt almost teased.

'Ah, well, I can assure you I was the best Girl Scout this county has ever seen! Now, come on. Let's get some caffeine running through those veins.'

To that, Burt left his son and followed Carole downstairs to the coffee shop.