Limits
Summary: Taken from a prompt on the Glee Angst Meme. Burt Hummel's dead, Kurt Hummel's doing his best to stay under the radar of Child Services, and the bullying is quickly bringing him to the end of his steadily shortening rope. The tiny, unused razor in the jewelry box seems to agree with that assessment. So it is really any wonder that when he catches sight of a blue police box left open just a crack that he would run inside?
Disclaimer: Nope. No, no, no.
AN: Thank you for the feedback and for the reviews, alerts, and favorites! I read and appreciate every single one. I might not be able to reply to every one but I promise, I do read them. Also, about the short chapters… take into consideration that this is being posted comment by comment on a livejournal post. This means that the sections are naturally going to be a bit shorter than I'm used to writing and than what you're used to reading from me. However, I currently have over 34,000 words written for this fanfic, so bear with me because I'm also someone who's more accustomed to writing one-shots.
Also if you're paying attention, you'll have noticed that I've named all of my chapters. I wasn't sure how I wanted to go with it, but I think I've been properly inspired. If you're music-savvy, they'll be a hint that sets the tone of the chapter.
Chapter Six: Dirge
This had been a terrible idea from the start and the worst part was that they'd all kind of known it from the moment they'd stepped out of the TARDIS. The doors had opened into a world with a dim, cloud-covered sun that seemed to be permanently shrouded in darkness, cold and seemingly dead. The Doctor had glanced around and his jaw had gone tight and Rose had taken a step closer to him and Jack had shuddered just the slightest bit, and Kurt almost told the lot of them that he would be just fine safely staying inside for this little visit, thank you so very much, send flowers and a fruit basket for the wait.
That would have been fine if not for the fact that he hadn't calculated in the little detail that he was almost physically incapable of letting any of them go running off into imminent danger without him.
Where had it landed him?
There had been a skirmish with the locals (because that was such a shock) and they had gotten separated in the process and now Kurt was strapped onto a table, being loomed over by a couple of ox people holding what looked to be dangerously blunt and unsterilized surgical tools.
Funny, he used to pride himself on his sense of self-preservation. Where the hell had it gone? Did travelling through time just, like, make you lose all those instincts that had kept you alive so far? Kurt could have slapped himself because he could have and should have stayed in the TARDIS but noooooo, and oh god they were coming closer and those tools did not look safe and there wasn't any sort of anesthetic to be found.
Hell.
"Where is the sun-thief?" Ox-1 grunted at him and all Kurt could do was shake his head frantically from side to side because he didn't know and what the hell did they think he knew about a sun-thief? He was not going to cry, not here, not in front of ox people who were talking nonsense and probably going to get an intimate look at his insides.
Where was the Doctor? Where was Jack? Oh god, where was Rose?
Despite the fear that was making him shake, Kurt hoped fervently that they weren't in the same position he was. Kurt had never prayed in his life but he was seriously considering coming close even though God had never helped him before.
"I swear, I don't know what you're talking about," Kurt insisted, vulnerable and absolutely terrified, "I don't know anything about a sun-thief. Please let me go."
A hoof-hand reached out and roughly cuffed him about the side of his head, grabbing a section of his hair and tugging. Kurt yelped and squirmed.
"You lie."
"No, I swear I'm not lying. What will it take for you to believe me—oh my god, what are you going to do with that?"
Ox-2 answered this time, grim and serious. Kurt was sure that he'd never seen a blade like that before, twisted and curved, and it might have been pretty if it hadn't been encrusted with the same grime and foul-smelling dinge that seemed to cover the whole area.
"This world had life and warmth before it was stripped and left to wither, after you took what you wanted and left for the stars. You blocked out our sun, ravaged our soils, and left us to war. We demand penance, little thief. You will pay it with your blood upon our altar and your carcass paraded through the streets."
"No, no, seriously, you really don't want to bleed me out over anything, it's actually quite excruciating and my voice can hit notes that scare dogs away and oh my god why am I still talking?" Kurt rambled, eyes involuntarily filling with tears. For a brief moment, the large ears on Ox-1 and Ox-2 twitched warily but the movement was over as quickly as it had begun.
Kurt glanced half-hysterically around the room as if something that could help him might magically materialize to get him out of this.
Kurt Hummel had never, ever been lucky.
The knife was coming closer and closer and when it cut down it cut hard and sharp into his arm, pulling through skin and muscle and scraping on bone and Kurt could hear it in his ears and then he really was screaming, a howling, sobbing scream that echoed and bounced off of stone walls. He was crying and shrieking and begging, for them to stop, please just stop, for the Doctor, for Jack, then for Daddy, Dad, please don't let them kill me.
It seemed to go on forever, seconds and hours and days and Kurt continued to struggle. He'd given up before and no way in hell would he let them see him go down doing anything but fighting to the very last goddamned second.
And then the knife slipped, because strength counted for a lot but dexterity counted for more.
One of the leather straps holding his wrists and body tore and Kurt wrenched it free, desperate and afraid and thinking only of how to maybe stay alive long enough at least find out if everyone else was okay.
A hoof-hand tried to grab but fear and pain made him fast and quick. Blood-slicked, nimble fingers used to delicate work on a sewing machine untangled the last strap attached to his left wrist that kept him attached to that table and everything was red and slippery and oh no oh no oh no he was actually going to bleed out here and he couldn't.
Kurt ducked underneath and came out the other side, eyes blown wide with terror and then he was angry because what the fuck, he'd never done anything to them and how dare they do this to him. There was a roaring in his ears and he ducked Ox-1 or Ox-2 or who the fuck even cared anymore because they were trying to kill him tried to grab him again and Kurt grabbed back, gripping with both hands around the ring in its nose and yanking hard until it came out in his hands.
The creature roared in agony and rage and Kurt felt a sick sort of satisfaction because any pain they received from him was well deserved. It backed away and fled the room, nursing its ripped and bleeding nose.
Kurt screamed again, furious now, and his brain had jumped back to Lima and Karofsky and oh, what he might have been able to do if he'd been this angry then. He thought he'd known pain with the dumpster tosses and the blows when they managed to catch him, but those were nothing compared to this, this piercing and burning that sent shock waves through his nerves with every movement.
He roared and kicked and hit and kicked some more –who knew that steel toes combined with a killer high kick could be effective on nine-foot tall ox people?- and then the blade was in his face.
They weren't trying for a ritualized killing anymore; this was a fight and they didn't care anymore about any supposed sun-thief, this was just about him and Kurt could fight that because that's what he'd been doing for the last seventeen years of his life.
"You know, Porcelain, there's a point where you've just got to say 'to hell with everyone else' and take anything you want in this world. And you know what? If you think you deserve it enough, it's your right to take it."
"Sweetheart, bullies want attention. If you ignore them, they'll stop."
"Boy, if they do that again, just tell me and I'll cut them so hard they'll see stars."
"Kurt, you need to listen to me. I don't ever want to think about this, but if it comes down to it, if it comes down to it being you or someone else, I want you to choose you. Sometimes, you can't be soft and I know you don't like to hurt anyone and I don't ever want you to be in a situation where you'll have to hurt, but if it's you or them, choose you."
The knife came and Kurt chose himself, twisting to let it cut into his already-injured shoulder instead of his jugular.
Fuck fair, fuck nice, fuck everything but living and staying alive, and Kurt ducked the blow to skid to the other side of the room, grabbing a metal pipe off of the floor and fighting, fighting desperately like a wolf in a trap. The pipe hit and made contact, over and over again, and Kurt landed blows until his assailant stopped moving.
Then everything went silent.
Breaths heaving and ragged, Kurt backed away, blood from his mangled arm dripping onto the stone floor and the blood from his would-be executioner a deep purple-ish burgundy, seeping from the injuries that Kurt had caused, bruises and cuts and broken bones.
The pipe slipped from slackened fingers and hit the floor with a clatter and Kurt sagged against the wall.
Air had never felt so sweet in his lungs despite the smog and smoke and the fact that all the air in the world would never, ever be enough to make up for thinking that he was going to die.
He was alive because he chose it, and that thought was the only thing that lent him the strength to push open the door. Pain was shooting up the entire left side of his body but Kurt could only embrace it. Pain meant that he was alive.
The hallway was deserted and empty and Kurt was thankful for it because if he had to deal with another fight, that really would be it for him. He tried to quiet his breathing and listen, listen for anyone familiar. All he could hear was silence and Kurt realized, almost as if he was watching from the outside, that his cheeks were wet and that his breaths were broken every little bit with relieved sobs.
The trek to the entrance to the fort was excruciating and the door was thick, made of some sort of blue-green metal. There were no locks, knobs, or even hinges, and that made no sense at all because Kurt remembered it opening the first time he was dragged in here, but try as he might, he couldn't get it open. Kurt pushed and pulled with all of his might but it didn't budge, and the relieved sobs turned into disappointed, furious ones. He'd come all this way, was he to be finished off by a door?
He'd taken a life and fought with everything he had to be stopped by the thrice-damned door?
He had to find Rose and the Doctor. He had to know if Jack was safe. He had to make sure they stayed alive and unharmed and—and—
There was the quietest, softest buzzing sound that couldn't be anything but the sonic screwdriver and then the door opened to the outside and Kurt fell through it, landing in arms that were skin and not muscled fur and grime.
Someone spoke but as hard as he tried, Kurt couldn't for the world figure out what the words were. He fought to listen, to hear.
"I—They—Doctor, where's the—Rose, Jack—?" he babbled and a hand landed over his mouth to shush him.
"Easy, kid, easy," That was an American accent, easy to tell who it was, "We're all okay. I've got you, I've got you." A hand brushed his bangs aside and Kurt squinted helplessly because he'd unthinkingly wiped his eyes with his bad hand and gotten blood in them. "Here, here. We're here and we came to get you and we're getting back to the TARDIS right now. We're getting out of here."
A voice that he recognized, deep and strong and safe joined Jack's and Kurt reached out blindly for the source, his hand hitting warm leather.
"Close your eyes, we'll be there soon."
Kurt went weak with the words and obeyed, settling into a world of darkness and sound, of pounding footsteps and shouts and low muttering that said nothing but meant everything.
"I chose me," he whispered to no one the second the doors of the TARDIS closed, "I'm so sorry, I chose me. I chose me, I chose me."
"Good," the Doctor's voice was warm in his ears, "I'm glad you did."
The world went fuzzy but Kurt didn't fight it because the Doctor had never let him down before and he didn't think that he'd choose now to start.
The world came back into focus slowly.
Kurt was grateful for this because, as nice as it was to be alive, the world was bright and the light was quite painful until he got his bearings back. Kurt had expected excruciating pain in his arm and was surprised to find himself with naught but a dull, throbbing ache.
He almost got excited about it until Rose informed him that he was drugged to the gills with painkillers and that if he knew what was good for him, he wouldn't even try to get out of bed yet.
In the words of the Doctor, fantastic.
Kurt's arm and shoulder healed well but would have permanent scarring, starting with the twisted starburst at the very base of his neck to the sweeping, curving slash that snaked all the way down to his wrist. They'd managed to stave off infection (somehow, because that blade had been disgusting) and with enough care, Kurt was able to retain a full range of movement even though it had taken longer than he liked to get the strength back into it.
There was no saving the skin though, and even after the wounds had healed, Kurt refused to go anywhere in short sleeves for months because there were only so many times that he could look in the mirror and hear the word ugly repeated over and over again in his head without flinching.
"Hello," Kurt greeted softly, padding into the control room.
"This hasn't happened in a while," the Doctor commented. He wasn't submerged in the floor panels but instead hunched over the control boards. He didn't look like he was doing maintenance, more like observation. An open copy of A Tale of Two Cities lay open next to him, and Kurt idly remembered someone, probably Rose, mentioning that the Doctor was a fan of Dickens. "You'd actually been sleeping through the night."
The boy shrugged.
"Just…couldn't. Haven't for the last couple of days. Not since…" he trailed off and ever so gently brushed his hand against the tender, bandaged and medicated length of his arm. "I don't know."
The Doctor raised a single brow at him. Kurt sighed, resigned.
"Okay. I totally know. But there's nothing I can do about it. It's done, it's over, I can't take back what I did. I don't even want to take it back because I lived and I don't regret it. But…"
"It's never easy," the Doctor remarked, gruffly, "It's never easy and it never gets easier no matter how often it has to happen."
"I kind of figured," Kurt replied, hand idly running through his hair. "I just… I can't help but feel sorry for them. Not for them specifically because they shredded me, but as a whole. It seemed like they really got the short end of the stick with the whole black sun, war, and blight thing." He shifted uncomfortably. "I know I didn't do it, and then I just start wondering why I feel so guilty, then I start wondering why I don't. I didn't want to kill them, I didn't! But…"
"You know," the Doctor began, pushing away from the consol and passing through the door to one of the hallways, "Some of the most common advice involves getting rid of your guilt."
Kurt had already begun to follow him unthinkingly, and blinked quizzically at the comment.
"…yes?"
"Thing is, you can't just 'get rid of' guilt."
Kurt knew that, oh did he know that.
"You can only work with it. Put it away, box it up, compartmentalize it. It's a sword and if you don't know how to use it, it cuts you, weakens you. But you can use it to be stronger."
Blue eyes went shuttered and Kurt watched the ceiling and those even, perfectly spaced and absolutely useless circles that lined the walls.
"How?" he breathed, sounding more desperate than he thought he'd felt.
The Doctor stopped and stepped in front of Kurt, stopping him in his tracks.
Large hands found their way to the boy's shoulders and squeezed, heavy and strong and safe.
"You have to tell yourself that instead of them perishing, you lived. If they had lived, you would have died. You have to be able to see it as a victory because that's the only way someone with a strong heart can survive. You might have to do it again at some point, but you have to see it as a victory in some way or you'll just break yourself. The only people who will ever tell you to 'get rid of it' are those who don't have to carry it and don't know the weight."
Kurt didn't know quite how to respond to that and said nothing. All he had to do was think about how that pipe had felt in his hands for a chill to start its slow creep up his spine and it was so easy to remember how all that blood had looked, spattered and smeared all over the room. He shuddered and shook his head, looking up just in time to realize that they had stopped in front of his room again.
"What are—?" he asked, catching a half-smug, half-knowing tilt of the lips in return.
"The night is young; we've probably got about two hours or so before you collapse-"
Kurt scowled.
"So we might as well spend the time doing something productive."
"Like…" Kurt began, running a finger over his lower jaw, "Getting that pair of boots that Jack and I were drooling over so I can brag at him and wear them out tomorrow?"
The Doctor rolled his eyes.
"I was thinking a snack, silly me for forgetting that you ran off of shoes and retail-"
"And froyo," Kurt added helpfully.
"-And froyo. So hurry up and get dressed if you want to actually be back by the time your swanking opportunity comes along."
"My God, you're awesome."
AN: And chapter six is finished! Some proper action and violence for you people. As always, please review and leave feedback if you enjoyed this, or even if you want to clobber me with a rock for making Kurt save himself.