Mad World

by Mytay

A post-Never Been Kissed fic. Kurt has been incredibly sad, hurt and tired lately. Burt finds out why . . . and then gets angry. Very angry. In the meantime, a few people are waking up to reality and Kurt is not as alone as he may think he is.

8. No Tomorrow

OOOOOOOOOOOOO

No Tomorrow

OOOOOOOOOOOO

The thing was, after all that had happened, Mercedes expected to walk into McKinley and see . . . Well, she didn't know what, exactly, but something that stood out, that marked change: uniformed police officers, waves of concerned parents, or an armed guard standing watch with metal detectors and dogs. She thought some kind of huge, tangible difference would be waiting for her. But on Monday morning, she lifted her eyes to her school, hitching her bag higher on her shoulder and stared – because everything looked exactly as it had been the week before.

And it shouldn't.

Her best friend had almost . . . in that building. How could it look the same? How could anything ever be the same?

"Do you think there's going to be an announcement or something?" Tina asked, appearing next to her.

Mercedes turned, seeing the Goth staring at the school too, looking just as confused and dazed as Mercedes felt.

"Yeah, or something," Mercedes murmured, unable to believe that everything looked completely unchanged, even though she felt like a different person. She rubbed at her bruised knuckles self-consciously.

"Are you guys nervous about walking in there? Because, personally, I feel like there may be a hefty dose of retaliation just beyond those doors."

Artie had wheeled up on Mercedes' other side, followed by Puck and Brittany. Without any words said, the rest of the Glee club (less Finn, Kurt and Rachel), congregated around her, and they all looked at the school, at the student's milling about it like normal, as if it was going to explode at any second, or shoot off into space.

"Well, I ain't scared of those assholes." Puck rolled his shoulders, scowling defiantly at them all. Mercedes watched as he clenched and unclenched his fists. "We've already taught them a lesson. We'll just teach it to them again if we have to. And again." He nudged Artie in the upper arm, "Personally, I think we could take 'em." Artie smiled up at Puck, but he looked nervous, pushing his new glasses further up his nose with a shaky hand, the bruise on his forehead peeking out from beneath his bangs.

"I'm not going to make out with any of them for, like, a whole week," Brittany added solemnly. "Maybe even a whole month – Kurt's the best, and nobody should have hurt him like that. It's . . . wrong. Like restaurants that don't give you free breadsticks. They're, like, evil."

Santana reached over and gave Brittany's hand a reassuring squeeze, letting go quickly but sticking close to the blonde.

Mercedes narrowed her eyes, turning back to face the double doors that lead into William McKinley High School. She tapped into that rage she felt when she first saw Kurt on that stretcher, looking almost dead, blue-lipped and bright red blood coating his head. Her head jerked up, her hands following Puck's example as they clenched into fists, pulling on her bruises. It was a comforting sort of pain. "Damn straight – I will lay them all out if they try anything. Let's go."

They set forth as a group, ignoring any stares, silencing whispers with some serious cut-eye, courtesy of Santana and Quinn. The blonde-headed cheerleader made her way to Mercedes' side, grabbing a hand in hers. "Is there a plan for if we do get in there and there's nastiness waiting?"

"Yeah. You and I team up on the first letterman jacket we see. By the way, it was cool, you helping me out with Morris and Santerelli."

Quinn flashed a quick and malicious smile, her cut lip mostly healed. "They never saw it coming, did they?"

Mercedes couldn't help but grin back. She remembered this Quinn, the one who had lived with her for a couple of months, who'd watched chick flicks, and helped her do the dishes and the laundry while singing to their iPods on shuffle, laughing when embarrassing songs came up (Quinn had a hidden stash of old boy bands going back to New Kids on the Block, and Mercedes had her own secret playlist of kids' music from Barney and other preschool shows, so it all evened out in the end). Quinn seemed to get what Mercedes was feeling, because her smile shrunk down to something wistful. "You know, I haven't been avoiding you because I'm back to being . . . this" – she gestured down at her Cheerio's uniform – "or because of Sam . . . I just . . . I don't know."

"Don't worry about it," Mercedes dismissed. "Things get away from us sometimes, I mean, I – I wasn't exactly talking with Kurt a whole lot either, until just last week, and he's been my friend longer than I've known you so . . ." She blinked back unexpected tears. Why did even just thinking about her boy make her want to cry?

Quinn tangled their fingers, her own eyes suspiciously bright. "You're one of the best friends I've ever had, Mercedes, and I'm not just saying that because you ironed out Franco with one knee to the groin. Which was awesome and more than a little frightening."

Mercedes snorted. "Please, you could've broken Morris' jaw with that freaky-ass high kick."

"I know," was all Quinn said, bracing herself as they finally pushed through the doors.

And, well, Mercedes had wanted different, hadn't she?

Huddles of students were speaking in much lower tones than usual, pressed in close to the walls, all wide-eyed and gossiping a mile a minute, everything tense and uncertain – and then it all stopped.

The stares felt like a raw and heavy weight pressing in all around her; more eyes were zeroing in on Mercedes than the others – it was no secret that she was Kurt's best friend. Most of these students had been there, watching her freak out and accusing any and all of them of beating Kurt. She'd been screaming, crying and then lashing out as Finn brought Karofsky down, kicking off the almost-riot.

Quinn squeezed her hand once, and Santana stepped in front of them both, crossing her arms and walking to her locker in an aggressive march, her ponytail bobbing fiercely. The crowds parted for her without a sound. She whipped around in their midst, staring back at the Glee club. "Let's get going – I've got things to do."

No one questioned what these 'things' might be – they all just marched after her, through the pathway she had created. Sam appeared on Quinn's other side, and he shot Mercedes a look over the blonde head of his girlfriend – a grim smile and nod. They were in this together. She straightened up out of the shrinking she hadn't even realized she'd been doing, and stared ahead towards Santana, ignoring everyone who wasn't a fellow Glee club member.

"H–how's Kurt doing?" It was soft, hesitant, and echoed in the near silent hallway.

They all froze, looking towards a small girl with frizzy hair and braces, who was now wincing as Mercedes narrowed her eyes at her. "Do I know you?"

"No." The girl shifted uncomfortably. "But Quinn, last week, the day that . . . Quinn saved me from a slushie facial." Quinn nodded, confirming this, though her own scrutinizing stare didn't lessen in intensity. "And I just . . . wanted to know if your friend was okay?"

Somehow, Mercedes had turned into the Glee club's spokesperson in Rachel's absence (for reasons that had yet to be explained to her, Rachel mysteriously disappeared after the epic McKinley Battle – but Finn promised them all she had good reason), and no one else seemed willing to take the position from her, so she addressed the girl. "He's . . . he's going to be okay."

There was a ripple amongst the students crowding them – Mercedes didn't want to share details in front of these strangers, but she managed a half-hearted smile for the girl. "What's your name?"

"Kelly. And I don't know Kurt personally, but . . . I'm sorry that it happened."

Someone behind Kelly, a lanky boy wearing a big grey hoodie, nodded in agreement with her, and suddenly Mercedes didn't know what to feel – maybe she should be nice, considering that these people were interested in the welfare of her closest friend. Maybe she should be kind because they were being sympathetic. However, another meaner, resentful side of her was wondering where the hell was this sympathy before? She shook her head, dispelling any bitter sniping that might rise to the surface of her thoughts, because she hadn't been much better (God, she, his best friend, hadn't done anything, and she had to smother the guilt down viciously because it was like bile at the back of her throat). Not only that, but nearly every one here had been slushied at some point or another – made to feel afraid by a flash of red amongst the crowds.

She nodded back at the boy, mumbled a quiet 'thanks' to Kelly, and kept on her way, the rest of her friends falling in behind her.

They took only two or three more steps before the next face emerged from the quiet multitude lining the walls – and this one had Puck, Sam, Mike and Artie springing up beside and in front of Mercedes, like they had practiced regularly at being bodyguards.

Langenthal, the former kicker of the football team (Beiste had moved him to some defensive position, something Finn had informed them all of since apparently the boy was insanely good at it), had stepped away from a group of those red letterman jackets. He stood in front of them, hands shoved deep in his pockets, and staring at Mercedes – or what he could see of her from between Sam and Puck's shoulders.

Mercedes couldn't remember if he had been there when the fighting broke out, but she couldn't see any visible marks on him, so maybe he hadn't been. He didn't look threatening. In fact, he was sort of hunching in on himself, and shifting on his feet a lot.

"I . . . I don't think this means anything, or whatever, but . . . I'm sorry too, and I hope Azimio gets locked up for what he did. Hummel never hurt anyone, and . . ." He shrugged. "I don't know . . . I just know it wasn't right, what happened."

Mercedes had no clue what to say to that, but Sam stuck out a hand, the partially healed scrapes on it plainly visible to everyone in the vicinity. "It's cool, man. Thanks for saying so."

Puck relaxed in his stance, but he didn't move from in front of Mercedes until she pushed past him, facing Langenthal herself. She didn't say anything at first, just looked at him. Then, "One of your buddies shoved Kurt into a locker so hard that he had the shape of the lock on his arm for days."

The football player didn't respond to that right away, just looked at his feet for a moment before saying, "Yeah. And he wasn't sorry. I bet he still isn't. But I am."

Mercedes stared at him for a minute before cleanly sidestepping him and moving right past the group of jocks. No one else approached them after that, and Mercedes was grateful for it – she didn't want to deal with any more apologies or sympathetic words, all far too late and meaningless.

She heard Brittany say quickly, "I'm not making out with any you. You can't touch this," and Mercedes assumed that she was gesturing at her boobs or ass, or maybe both, "until Kurt's all better and back with us again." Which might never – Mercedes cut that thought off viciously and banished it to the furthest corner of her mind.

They stopped at their lockers, mindlessly gathering the appropriate books and the like. Santana reappeared from her own locker trip, looking distinctly annoyed. "You guys need to come see this." She flounced away, leaving them all blinking before they walked quickly after her.

Santana was waiting near the principal's office, glowering at the glass walls. They all huddled around her.

There, sitting in the office, were Finn and his mom. There was a man in a suit, and Mercedes could just make out the badge glinting on his belt. Mr. Schuester, fresh stitches lining his temple, was frowning as Figgins and the policeman talked about something. Mrs. Hudson had a hand around Finn's back and while Mercedes couldn't see her facial expression from this angle, she figured the woman was pretty pissed off – everything about her was stiff and stand-offish.

"They're not the first," came a voice from somewhere behind them. They whipped around; Langenthal had followed them, though he was studiously avoiding making eye contact. "A bunch of others have been called in since, like, seven this morning – they're getting suspended for fighting."

"What?" Artie exclaimed. "How many? Who? Why –"

"My friend, Clark, the one that . . . anyway, he told me that they're going by teacher accounts of what happened, so they've been working through a list. Karofsky's been suspended too and a bunch of other guys from football and hockey. There's a whole bunch that've been kicked off their teams or gotten detention. Now, it's your turn." He took a second to give them a sad smile. "Sorry – I don't think you guys deserve any of this." He turned away and headed back to his group of jock friends.

Mercedes exchanged glances with the others, the same thought reflected on all their faces – our turn?

"So, they're finally actually doing something," Artie mused. "Just in time for us to get in trouble. Isn't this just the Alanis Morissette definition of ironic?"

"No, I think it may actually be really ironic," Tina sighed out. Mercedes didn't offer her opinion since the definition of ironic was something she was never totally clear on and right now all she really wanted to do was let out a streak of cussing at the unfairness of this whole damn thing.

"I don't think my parents mentioned getting any phone calls, though." Mike was adjusting his sling with his free hand. "And trust me, if someone had been calling them to let them know that I was getting suspended, I would've heard about it. Loudly and repeatedly. There would've been tears and disowning."

Puck shifted, trying to look nonchalant but Mercedes saw his muscles tensing and his eyes darting around, as if looking for an escape route. "I didn't get any phone calls either – I would've been sent back to juvie for sure if they'd gotten wind of me fighting."

Mercedes reached out a hand, gripping his shoulder. "Don't worry, we'll cover for you."

"Actually, Landing Stripe, you and the rest of the mouth-breathers have me to thank for your current lack of suspension and/or expulsion."

It was amazing how much fear a single voice could instill. Mercedes was faintly amused to see all her fellow Glee clubbers jump and then huddle in together. Only she, Santana, Brittany and Quinn hadn't reacted. Oh, she did feel that familiar chill up her spine – as if someone had just walked over her grave – but for the most part, Sue Sylvester the Cheerios' Tyrant didn't completely paralyze her in terror; there was just some localized numbness in her feet that kept her from obeying her 'flight' instincts, but she was used to that.

The tall, imposing woman stood looming over them, resplendent in a bright purple tracksuit. Her eyes focused on each of them in turn, smugly glowering. "I expect much groveling in repayment for this. I put in a few phone calls, showed up in the middle of several family dinners of various school board members. I also happen to be on close terms with the governor – that is, I once put a golf ball through his windshield and offered to let him pay for it in return for not suing him for parking illegally and interrupting my perfect game."

Mercedes was waiting patiently – Coach Sylvester never did anything without an ulterior motive.

"Point being, you little misfits get the pleasure of two months of detention instead being sent home to what I hope would've been vicious beatings and food deprivation. You may now bow down and kiss my size eleven feet."

Quinn titled her head, blinking rapidly. "Wait, we're all getting detention? For two months?"

"Consider it a blessing, my Head Cheerio of Former Disgrace. A blessing from the usually wrathful god of your high school universe." Here she leaned in, causing most of them to flinch back. "You get to spend an hour and a half after school with me every day for eight weeks. This is a unique opportunity to observe and learn from the most powerful cheerleading coach to ever grace the planet. Again, grovel."

"But, wait, Coach, we have Glee practice and –" Mercedes began to protest. A part of her was marveling that she could still care about these things, but it was Glee; she needed Glee to keep her sane, now more than ever.

"Ah, yes, well, that will just have to be put on hold for a couple of months, won't it?" And there was that evil glint Mercedes had been waiting for. "After all, I'm sure missing out on some singing and dancing is preferable to being suspended and having a notation put down in your records for fighting, isn't it, my future slaves – I mean, students? Actually, no wait, I meant slaves. Cheerios' slaves. I have uniforms picked out for you. And so much laundry. And I want the entire gym and auditorium scrubbed clean for my Cheerio's to perform in, since you won't be using them."

"But what about Finn?" Puck asked, jerking his head toward the office where discussions were still going on.

"I couldn't save Sasquatch," she answered, glaring over their heads at the group assembled behind the glass walls. "Too many people saw him flatten the hockey goon, and that same goon had to be hospitalized. Somebody had to take the fall – and he's putting the blame all on himself. I know – I've been listening in. I've had bugs in place for months in that office."

She tapped her ear once and Mercedes wondered how this woman wasn't heading the country or the CIA . . . or maybe she was, and they just didn't know it? That would make perfect sense. And explain a whole lot.

"Now" – she clapped her hands together, making them all jump, including Mercedes – "your indentured servitude begins tomorrow. I'll have your uniforms placed in your lockers. You shall all form ranks in the gym at 15:30. Bring your toothbrushes."

She gave them all a truly chilling smile before marching off down the hall. They watched her go, and Mercedes exhaled loudly and tiredly. "Okay then, nobody panic. At least we're not getting suspended."

"And we can work our way around the detentions," Quinn added, crossing her arms. "We can meet on weekends or something. This isn't all that bad."

"The entire gym. The auditorium – laundry!" Artie moaned. "With her. I think I'll take the vicious beatings and starvation, thanks!"

"But she did save our collective asses," Sam said, putting an arm around Quinn. "I think she's just as pissed as we are that this happened."

"Kurt did help her win nationals last year." Quinn smiled faintly, and Mercedes flashed back to Kurt's excitement at getting that epic solo – and killing it, because that's what her boy did best. "I really think this is her way of doing us a favour."

"And screwing us and Mr. Schue over at the same time," Santana ground out. "Coach got the whole damn bakery and she's eating it too."

The bell rang and students immediately began heading towards the classes, the chatter picking up and it seemed like things were going back to normal. Mercedes watched the flow of bodies as they all funneled into their classrooms. The last thing she felt like doing was sitting in English and listening to a lecture on A Midsummer's Night Dream. Not without Kurt next to her, helping her with the Shakespeare and passing notes in Elizabethan English filled with insults and jokes and mini-sonnets.

She missed him, and she'd only just seen him the night before. Mercedes knew that even when he got better, he wouldn't be coming back here, and suddenly she was holding back tears again, this time at the idea that she wouldn't get to see him smiling at her from across the hall, or waiting by her locker to share gossip or to head to lunch together.

"Finn's not getting out of there any time soon," Tina said, staring into the office where Mrs. Hudson appeared to be going off on a rant about something, Mr. Schue nodding along to whatever she was saying. "Let's get to class – I seriously don't want to give them another excuse for more detention."

There was murmured agreement to that and everyone, after a moment's hesitation, split off to their classrooms. Mercedes waited until they were all gone before casting one last look towards the office. Mr. Schuester happened to look up right at that moment . . . and he gave her a small smile, touching a hand to his heart, before rejoining the conversation going on around him.

She smiled back even though he couldn't see, and managed to finally get herself moving. She cast a glance at the bathroom she had dragged Kurt into just a few days before, the bathroom where they had re-connected as friends, where he had hugged her and told her he was lucky to have Mercedes in his life (even though she hadn't helped him when he needed her most). Her lids shut tightly and she pressed her fingers into her eye sockets, physically pushing back tears. She consoled herself with the thought that right after school, she was heading straight to Kurt's house to be with him, even if it was to just sit there, doing homework while he slept off his pain meds.

OOOOOOOOOOOOO

It took forever for the school day to pass by. There was a brief announcement as soon as everyone was in their first period classes – Figgins told them that the situation from the week before was not to be repeated and that all students involved (that they could identify) were being punished severely. Other than that, he limited himself to advising them all to put it behind them and be on their best behaviour. Mercedes couldn't believe that was it. How could that be all the acknowledgment this crime was getting? She saw many eyes flit to her at the announcement of punishment, but she just ignored them and opened her book as if nothing was happening, suppressing yet another bout of intense emotions – profound irritation and indignation.

The only things that kept her going were the mass texts that Finn was sending everybody periodically throughout the afternoon. First it was letting everyone know that he was suspended for two weeks, then it was a steady stream of updates on Kurt which kept Mercedes from going insane from the waiting. There was also a random text from Rachel, letting everyone know she'd be back at school tomorrow, and apologizing for not being at the hospital. Mercedes quickly texted the girl back in-between classes, letting her know that it was all cool. Rachel was many things, but she would never abandon them all like that unless she had a good excuse – at least, Mercedes hoped it was a good excuse.

Mercedes had been walking down the hall, right after she was let out for lunch, typing a quick text to Ida, who was still at home and not coming to school for another couple of days, letting her know how things were going, updating her on the suspensions, and detentions . . . and then she paused mid-step, mid-text.

She was standing in front of the locker room.

She stared for a moment, trying to see what was it that had caught her eye – she spotted it caught on the edge of the door, near one of the hinges: a strip of bright yellow plastic. Mercedes took a few halting steps, not knowing why, and grabbed that small silver that had nabbed her attention for whatever reason. She tugged and out came a strip of tape, nearly fluorescent, and a couple of black, bold letters standing out. Crime scene tape. This locker room had been a crime scene.

Her best friend had been inside it. While she had been sitting in class, taking notes and contemplating catching a movie with the girls and Kurt that weekend, Azimio had been punching and kicking, and Kurt must've been so scared and they were all just down a hallway, in the same building, but it might as well have been a million miles away. Oh God, if Kurt had . . . What if he had died there? All alone, with his friends a few rooms down . . . him laying on the floor . . .

Bloody and not breathing.

Mercedes started pushing hard at the door, but it was locked. She gave it a few heaves. She wanted in. She wanted to see exactly where Kurt had been lying when that son of bitch had been beating him. She needed to see if there was still blood on the floor, or . . . something. She deserved to see the horror that Kurt had gone through, because she hadn't been with him to stop it from happening.

She hadn't tried, not once, to stop it. Not when they'd been throwing him around, harder than anyone else in the school. Not when they hissed disgusting things at him as he passed them. She couldn't even work up the nerve to give Karofsky an ass kicking for kissing Kurt, because she promised her boy she wouldn't but how stupid did that seem now? Maybe if she'd put the fear of God in Karofsky, he would've . . . discouraged Azimio from . . . or maybe . . .

"Mercedes?"

She pressed her forehead against the door before facing whoever had just called her, and it was a struggle to make them out – when had her vision gotten so blurry?

"Oh . . . I'm sorry, so sorry." That voice was thick and who was . . . oh, blonde and soft-spoken . . .

"Quinn, I just . . ."

"I, I know." Mercedes saw that her eyes were sparkling too, and her mascara was running in grey streaks down her face. She opened her arms and Mercedes walked willingly into them. They both stood there, crying into each other's shoulders, ignoring the low hum of conversation as other students passed them by, giving them a wide berth.

Eventually, Mercedes forced herself to pull away, and she wiped at her face with both hands, closing her eyes for a few minutes, breathing in deeply. Once she felt like she had some measure of control, she opened her eyes to see Quinn pulling some tissues out of her bag, passing a couple to Mercedes first and then dabbing under her eyes with one.

They cleaned themselves up and then stood, side by side, staring at that locker room door.

"I know Kurt doesn't believe in God, or a higher power, or whatever," Quinn said quietly. "But I really think that that girl, Ida? Someone up there sent her into this room, to save him."

Mercedes sniffed. "Maybe. Or maybe Kurt's right and there is no God, because why the hell would – would God let Kurt, Kurt, get hurt like that? His mom's dead, his father just had a heart attack – isn't that enough for one person? One boy?"

"You don't really believe that," Quinn whispered, and she was stroking her cross necklace as she spoke. "We all have our doubts, but I believe that someone was taking care of Kurt right then. Someone's taking care of him now, too. And all of us. We'll get through this. Azimio beat Kurt up – but there's no way anyone is ever going to keep Kurt down for long."

"We won't let them," Mercedes agreed fiercely. "Even if he's not here anymore, I'm not letting it slide, not with anyone. It's over. If I see a single slushie or –"

"I'm with you, Mercedes." Quinn clutched a hand in her own, squeezing tightly. "We'll rule this school, and I can get the Cheerios on board too – with them we totally have the power to make it happen."

Mercedes nodded firmly at this, not letting go of Quinn's hand, and turning away from that locker room. It took her a few steps to realize she still had the bit of crime scene tape grasped in her other hand. As soon as she passed a trashcan, she tossed it, and wiped her sweaty palm on her jeans.

OOOOOOOOOOOOO

Finn must have gotten a lot of questions about when they could all go see Kurt, as a group, having already given Kurt his space over the weekend because just as last period started, he sent them all a message: Sorry, guys – Mom and Burt say not today. Kurt's been having a rough time and he's not ready for everyone yet. Maybe tomorrow? And he says thanks for all the support and stuff. But Burt wants to know if you're coming by later, Mercedes?

Mercedes texted a quick Hell yeah! back before attempting to pay attention to what was happening in her class, which just wasn't happening for her. Her attention was already at the Hummel household and there wasn't any way to force her brain to focus on the here and now.

So it went that, as soon as the final bell rang, Mercedes all but bolted out of the door, before most kids had even stood up, and she didn't even bother stopping by her locker. She'd already gathered everything she needed in the five minutes before last period, and her mom had promised to be outside in the parking lot, waiting to take her to Kurt's.

Mercedes had just passed through the double doors leading to the parking lot when a hand reached over and yanked her out of the crowd.

She stood before Sue Sylvester once more, staring up at her, her mouth open to ask why the hell she was being interrupted in her mission. Coach Sylvester put a stop to this ruminating with a single finger lifted up and held within an inch of Mercedes' face.

"Can it, Aretha – I just have one question for you."

Mercedes pressed her lips together.

"How's Hummel doing?" she asked lowly.

Mercedes parted her lips, not sure how to respond. "Um – he's pretty banged up –"

"That much I figured out on my own, thanks for nothing, my former minion. What I want to know is how he's coping."

She didn't know quite what Coach Sylvester was looking for, but the woman had done them all a 'favour' with the detentions, and she had given Kurt and her the opportunity to shine (imposed dieting and inhumane rehearsal schedules notwithstanding).

"He's . . . he's quieter and I think he's still scared. I mean, he's still Kurt – but, like, less so. I don't know, Coach, it's only been a few days, he's not supposed to be back to normal yet."

The older woman snorted. "I know what PTSD is, Jones – saw it firsthand with guerrilla soldiers in the jungles of Panama after three months of intense survival training, headed by yours truly. Naturally, I myself am immune to such petty trifles as psychological trauma. But Hummel might need more than just hugs and words of comfort – which never did anyone much good. The ginger bushbaby that is our school's guidance counselor has access to lists of therapists and counselors for that touchy feely crap. In the meantime, give him this."

She handed Mercedes a plain black business card, and Mercedes took a second to read the white lettering on it: Akiyama Shirobei's School of Jujutsu, followed by an address and phone number.

"As soon as he can stand and bend without passing out, he can enroll there. Shirobei only takes students he handpicks himself, or on the personal recommendation of others who've graduated from his school and mastered the art. Such as myself. I've already called ahead – Hummel can go in whenever he wants."

Mercedes stared up at the Coach, then she smiled. "I'll let him know, ma'am. Thank you."

"And he better put it to good use. This never happens again, or I'll make that six hour session, sans water, I put you two through look like a trip to the day spa, or whatever it is you two pansies do when you feel like getting your manicure on."

With that she straightened and took off – she never seemed to just 'walk' away, it was always this march, as if she was leading a drumline or something. Mercedes was putting the card in her pocket when her mother pulled up next to her. "Ready to go, Mercy?"

She nodded, climbing into the car and casting a sweeping look over at her school as they pulled out. The building looked the same as it always had.

But Mercedes was seeing everything differently now.

OOOOOOOOOOOOO

There was a strange car parked in front of Kurt's house when they got there. Mercedes didn't really pay much attention to it though – she wanted out of her car, and into the house. Her mom waited patiently as Mercedes unbuckled her seat-belt and gathered up her bag.

"I'll call you when I'm ready to go home," Mercedes said as she opened the door.

"Okay – and I know we've already talked about this . . . but you promised me that you would call if things got to be too much, right? I know Kurt needs you right now, but if you don't think you can handle –"

"Mom, I told you, I'm . . . not fine, but being with Kurt, it helps. It means I'm doing something. I couldn't handle being at home, knowing he's hurting and I could be with him." She'd had this discussion with her mother twice now, but she wasn't angry or frustrated about it, even though they kept saying exactly the same things. She knew her mom was just worried, and no small wonder – Mercedes had gotten home from the hospital Friday night and cried for hours and hours. Nothing her parents did or said could console her. She knew it had scared her mom especially. Mercedes had scared herself. She hadn't known she could hurt that badly, and not have a physical wound to show for it.

"I love you, mom, I'll see you soon."

Her mom gave her a teary smile. "Love you, Mercy, and you make sure that Kurt knows that I love him too. And that as soon as he can, he's coming over and we're going to go through my closet like he's been dying to do, and getting rid of all my eighties blazers. The ones with the shoulder pads – we can even burn them in the backyard if he wants."

Mercedes giggled. "Don't be surprised if he ends up driving over tonight then. You know he's been jonesing for that since you left the house in that ugly-ass royal blue –"

"Okay, okay – get goin', honey. See you tonight."

"Bye, mom!" She grinned, slamming the car door shut and marching up the driveway. There were two cars parked there, actually. One she recognized as Finn's car – well, his mom's car. She already knew that the Hudsons would be here.

She knocked on the front door, and it whipped open almost immediately after she'd dropped her hand. Finn stood there, his black eye stark against his pale face, looking ill.

"Oh God!" Mercedes blurted out. "What happened? Is he okay? Is –"

"No, no, he's fine, it's just . . ." He glanced over his shoulder. "The cops are here," he explained lowly. "I've been trying to stay away from the living room. Kurt didn't want anyone with him but his dad – actually, he tried to get his dad to leave him alone, but you probably know how that ended up."

Mercedes could hear voices in the background now – they were speaking too quietly for her to make out what they were saying, but she would recognize Kurt's high timbre anywhere.

Mrs. Hudson appeared just behind Finn, looking as pale as her son, but she worked up a smile for Mercedes, and Mercedes noticed she was holding three steaming cups. "They're almost wrapped up in there. I made us some hot chocolate so we can wait it out."

Mercedes accepted her cup gladly – fall was in its middle days, but the air already had that familiar, fresh winter bite to it. They stood, clustered together on the porch, sipping their hot drinks.

"I, um, I thought the cops we're going to talk to Kurt on Saturday at the hospital, right before Blaine and I came? I saw them leaving Kurt's room –"

"They came but . . . well, you saw Kurt that day." Mrs. Hudson sighed. "He was still out of it from his meds, sleeping for longer than he was awake, and sometimes he got jumpy – Burt told the cops to come by once Kurt was home."

"Maybe it would've have been better," Finn said softly. "Things were probably fresher in his mind, and it would've been done with –"

"I know, I know." She put a hand on Finn's arm. "But I think Burt was right – Kurt really couldn't have handled it right then. And those pain meds were making him too fuzzy anyway. This is . . . better. And I think he remembers it all just . . . fine."

Finn shuddered. "Yeah. It seems like it."

Mercedes could guess, from their words and disturbed expressions, that they'd overheard some of the things Kurt was saying. She debated asking what they knew . . . but then again, did she really want to know? Maybe it was better if Kurt was the one to tell her – if he really wanted to share, if he needed that much from her, then she would be there for him. Judging by the looks on Finn and his mom's faces . . . She swallowed down her hot chocolate, trying not to imagine how bad it might be.

By the time they had finished off their drinks and opened the door to head inside, they saw Mr. Hummel shaking hands with the two policemen (one she recognized from the hospital – the tall, broad guy with the nice smile) and leading them out the door. They stood aside, letting the two men pass, and then they crowded back into the house, rubbing their hands and shutting the door against the chill. Mrs. Hudson took the mugs from Mercedes and Finn as Mr. Hummel reached out a hand to Mercedes. She slid under his arm, and he pulled her in to his side. "Thanks for coming by again, Mercedes."

She gave him a look. "Well, yeah Mr. Hummel –"

"I think it's about time I reminded you to call me, 'Burt'," he said lightly, belying his weary stance and red-rimmed eyes that kept darting to the couch just behind her.

He reminded her about this every two or three weeks, but Mercedes just couldn't bring herself to refer to adults by anything other than their last names (with a Mr. or Mrs. in front), 'sir' or 'ma'am'. Her parents had told her it was perfectly acceptable if you knew the person well and they had given you permission, but it felt way too awkward for her.

"Reminder noted, Mr. Hummel," she said sweetly.

Finn laughed a bit, and she managed to keep up the smile until she saw Kurt, sitting on the couch, buried under blankets and trembling.

"Hey pretty boy." She drifted away from Mr. Hummel and sat down gingerly on the couch, but not too closely, waiting to take her cues from him.

Kurt looked over at her, smiling briefly. "Heya Mercedes." And that was all he said, shivering again. She wondered, not for the first time, if Kurt actually felt cold or if it was just his mind playing tricks on him. She remembered how freezing he had been to the touch when the paramedics had been wheeling him out. Wet and chilled.

"There's some hot chocolate, Kurt, if you want some?" Mrs. Hudson asked, already heading into the kitchen with the empty cups.

Kurt said nothing for a long moment, then, "I want to head down to the basement – help me out, Mercedes?"

Mr. Hummel immediately put an arm around Kurt's shoulders, and Mercedes was on Kurt's other side, wrapping her own arm around his waist. If he was in any pain, he didn't say so, but Mercedes kept her grip light and tentative as they edged their way down the now perilous steps to Kurt's basement bedroom.

Kurt's dad took a few seconds to arrange Kurt comfortably on his sofa. She watched as he tenderly put a hand on Kurt's head, fingers tangling in his hair. Kurt tried to smile back, but Mr. Hummel couldn't even try; Mercedes saw the man's eyes start to gleam, and he quickly stood up, announcing that he was going to get some of that hot chocolate for Kurt. His voice was deeper, hoarse, and Mercedes watched as he climbed the stairs quickly, a hand coming to wipe at his cheeks as he went. She hoped Mrs. Hudson was up there waiting for him – and that he took his time with the hot chocolate, as much time as he needed.

Kurt cuddled in close to Mercedes as soon as she sat down next to him. She felt herself relaxing for the first time that day, and sighed as he put his head on her shoulder. She grabbed the blanket Mr. Hummel had draped over Kurt, and spread it over them both. She waited again.

"How was school today?" Kurt asked quietly after a minute.

Mercedes shrugged slightly. "It was . . . weird, I guess. Everyone knows what happened, obviously."

Kurt exhaled. "Yeah. Did you get to see Mr. Schue or anything?"

"Just for a second – didn't get to talk to him." Mercedes felt a pang for not thinking of seeking out the man. "He looks okay. And Finn told you all about all the punishments going around, right?"

"Yeah." Kurt sat up to give her a sympathetic smile. "He's kind of relieved he gets to miss out on some of that detention with Coach Sylvester. But when he gets back from suspension, he'll be right there with you guys."

"Oh, that reminds me." She pulled out the card the woman had handed her. "Coach told me to give you this."

Kurt took it and looked it over, eyebrows raising. "Really? Isn't this a little . . . pointless now? And wait, why would she care?"

"C'mon, Kurt, you're still the star that won her nationals. I think it's a good idea – I'll go with you, whenever you're ready. It'll be totally cool, just think about it. I mean, I can already put the smackdown on just about anyone, and you are pretty sneaky and stealthy when you want to be . . ."

Kurt was silent again, placing the card on the table. "I don't think I'll be needing this at Dalton . . . and honestly, I'm . . . it's not going to be a problem anymore."

Mercedes leaned back to look him directly in the face. "What do you mean?"

Kurt was staring at his lap, and he was acting even more subdued than he had been yesterday. It was making her stomach turn, because she couldn't read him anymore, and it had her nervous, because not knowing what was going on in his head meant that she couldn't help him like she wanted to.

"It's nothing – I . . . talking to the cops made me tired, and I really don't want to talk about this anymore today."

Mercedes could leave it alone, or try to push a little. The two choices both had potentially bad consequences, but the blank, tired look on Kurt's face was freaking her out, and she couldn't take the dead tone of voice, and the not-knowing – she couldn't let him think whatever he was thinking that made him sound and look that way.

"Talk to me, baby," she said softly. "Just . . . talk. I don't need to know what you told the cops – just tell me what's going on in your head, and maybe I can help you figure some things out."

Kurt glanced at her briefly before resuming his intense study of his lap. "Mercedes, I – I appreciate you doing this, but can't I try and forget about this, please? It's bad enough I just had to relive the whole ordeal for a couple of strangers, and in front of my dad. I really don't want to have to do this with you too."

"And I'm saying you don't have to. I can tell there's something else going on in that head of yours, and I know it's probably not good. So, I won't make you tell me if you really don't want to, but you gotta know that there's nothing you can say that I won't try to understand or help you with – or even just listen, if that's what you need?" She ended that as a question, because she wasn't sure of what she was saying, if they were the right things to say, if she was being too pushy, if she was hurting him somehow.

Kurt licked his lips. He looked off to the side, breathing in and out for moment, before asking, "How much of this do you think was my fault?"

Her response was immediate. "None of this. Nothing, Kurt." A horrible idea struck her. "Did one of those cops –"

"No, no – do you really think they would have gotten out of here alive if they had?" Kurt's eyes were wide, and he looked almost like himself again. "My father would have murdered them right there with the closest object – the lamp, I think."

Mercedes had to smile at that, but that didn't ease her worry. "So why are you asking me this, then? You have to know that Azimio is a sick bastard. That's totally not your fault!"

Kurt went quiet, and he was back to being withdrawn and contemplative. Mercedes waited on pins and needles for him to speak again.

"Okay, but how much of this could have been avoided if maybe I'd . . . been a little less . . . out there? What if I'd . . . toned it down at school or –"

"Wait, are you saying that somehow, you being you is why this happened?" She tried to stay calm, but this wasn't her Kurt; this wasn't anything she'd ever heard him say, or expected him to say, and it was beyond disturbing to know he was actually thinking this way.

"Not completely, but a part of me wonders if maybe I should've been smarter – less naive. I'm not saying I deserved this, but maybe I should've expected it and acted accordingly."

"No," she said firmly. "No way. No one should ever have to expect or prevent an attack like this – that's just . . . no, Kurt. You've always been proud of who you are – don't, please, don't let this change that." She snatched a cold hand in-between both hers, placing it over her heart, because she couldn't find the words to express how much she loved him, how worried she was, how scared.

"When I was talking with the police, my dad . . . he shouldn't have had to hear that – he shouldn't have had to go through all this –"

"And neither should you!" She had to force herself to lower her voice. "Kurt –"

"Hey, Kurt!" His father called before coming down the stairs. "I bring you hot chocolate – and uh, you think you can handle one more visitor?"

Kurt frowned. "I suppose."

When his dad came down with hot chocolate, Mercedes studied the man again. It was apparent he was dealing with whatever he'd heard from Kurt earlier in the afternoon – but he also looked a little better, a little less on edge. He signaled back up the stairs, and was soon followed by Blaine. Kurt smiled, a weak smile but a real one, and it was great to see. Blaine was smiling back; Mercedes was one hundred percent sure that the boy was crushing, and crushing bad. It was sweet, but she had some doubts.

She'd had some time to bond with Blaine on the Saturday they went to see Kurt together; she liked him almost immediately, but once Blaine had blurted out the whole story of what happened with Kurt and Karofsky, Mercedes had had to restrain herself from bitchslapping him. What the hell kind of advice had that been, sending her boy to confront a giant, bullying jock by himself? She didn't blame Blaine for this – she only blamed Azimio and wished him a happy journey to hell – but she did see Blaine as somewhat of an interfering outsider. He had only just met Kurt a week ago, and he was acting like he was the best friend, and he just didn't understand what it meant to be a McKinley High gleek and friends with Kurt Hummel.

Plus, now that he was here? Kurt was not going to speak his mind, not really – not in front of Blaine, who he seemed to idolize. Blaine wasn't the only one labouring under a crush.

Suddenly, Blaine wasn't this nice guy she'd gotten to like, bad advice aside. Now he was an obstacle standing between her and Kurt's well being.

She tried to shake this off as Kurt greeted Blaine and the other boy took a seat on Kurt's other side. She smiled warmly at him, because he was nice and he could put a few more smiles on Kurt's face than she could, but any chance for serious discussion was gone.

Mercedes took in a deep breath and let go of her annoyance – she could resume their conversation later that night, or tomorrow. For now, she settled for enjoying Kurt's company, happy to see Kurt acting somewhat like himself.

OOOOOOOOOOOOO

Over the next few days, Mercedes patience was put to the test.

Not only were the detentions with Coach Sylvester back-breaking and sometimes disgusting (Cheerios worked up a lot of sweat during routines, and so, laundering their towels and stuff? Gross), but they prevented her from getting to Kurt's before Blaine did (and he lived two hours away, how the hell did he do that?). This meant, naturally, that she hadn't been able to get Kurt alone for some in-depth talks.

Kurt was allowing other Glee clubbers to visit too, which meant that even when Blaine left early, there was usually still at least a handful of people there, including Rachel (who had yet to explain her mysterious absence, but it seemed like she also wanted to get Kurt alone for that, and Mercedes could relate to her frustration at not being able to).

Brittany and Santana, Finn (who, to be fair, was practically living with Kurt again, due to his suspension and his mother's constant support of the Hummels) or, hell, even Puck often tagged along with Mercedes to see Kurt. They were all hanging around and being good friends, and staying until Mercedes had to leave, but no one was willing to talk about what had happened (or if they did, they hadn't said anything). Furthermore, Kurt was all pale, with dark circles under his eyes (nightmares, Mr. Hummel had confirmed for her), and it just about drove her crazy. Someone had to get him to open up more, because if he was thinking more poisonous thoughts like those had confessed to her then that needed to be dealt with.

Ida had come by once, and Mercedes thought she would have an ally in her, but she was still painfully shy. Even though she managed to say more than a handful of sentences, and share jokes with them, she just couldn't seem to work up the nerve to do much more. To be fair, Ida also seemed to be more than a little damaged by what had happened – Mercedes made a mental note to stop by the girl's house that weekend. She deserved friendship after all that she been through, and more importantly, for what she had done for Kurt. Kurt didn't relax around her the way he did Blaine, but she could tell that they had some stuff in common, mutual trauma aside, (and he almost reverted back to his old self when Ida mentioned that fact that she wanted to re-vamp her wardrobe – that manic glint returned to his eyes for a few minutes at the thought of a makeover). But she had to worry about Kurt first for now – she e-mailed Ida every evening, just to let the girl know she wasn't alone, and promised herself to make the effort to really get to know her.

Three days after her first after-school visit, Mercedes was fed up. She was fed up with people constantly surrounding her boy, she was fed up with the washed-out grey shade in Kurt's eyes, coupled with his long silences, and she was most definitely fed up with the annoyingly charming and accommodating Blaine.

That Thursday, it was practically a full house.

"But dude," Sam whined. "The original Tron – you've gotta see that before you see this new one. I mean, you've gotta appreciate how amazing an achievement it was in special effects and –"

"I didn't even know there was a prequel to this movie," Mike apologized as Sam had some kind of fit; his eyes widened, and his head jerked back and forth as if his brain could not compute Mike's ignorance.

"I think you have just committed a crime against humanity, Mike," Kurt pointed out in a dry tone.

"I saw the first Tron when I was little," Finn reminisced. "I think it was airing on TV or something – it was pretty awesome."

"I'm totally bringing it this weekend," Sam announced. "Kurt, you cool with that?"

Kurt waved a hand, lifting it up from beneath his pile of blankets. "Sounds fine to me." He quickly re-tucked his hand beneath his grey covers. Quinn readjusted them from her place at his side, and then ran her fingers through his hair, straightening out his bangs and pushing them off his forehead. Mercedes flinched at this, but Kurt hardly batted an eyelash, which was all wrong.

"You don't have to indulge his geek urges, Kurt – really. He means well, but I think he forgets that the rest of us live on planet Earth, and that Pandora is not a real place."

Sam pouted at his girlfriend. "Oh come on, I saw your collection of Buffy and Angel DVDs. I am so not the only geek in this relationship."

Were Mercedes not deeply annoyed at this invasion of her personal time with Kurt, the sharp and deadly glare Quinn leveled at Sam, and the way he instantly cowered, would have had her laughing and ribbing the boy for hours.

"The difference being is that I don't actually walk around with a bunch of wooden stakes in my back-pack, unlike you who carries that laser pistol thing like some kind of . . . charm."

"It's a blaster pistol from Star Wars," Sam corrected and then cringed when everyone turned to stare at him.

"Is it Han Solo's?" Puck asked curiously. He didn't flinch when incredulous looks were shot his way. "What? Han Solo was a total kick-ass hero. So much better than Luke. Wuss."

Quinn looked towards Kurt despairingly. "See? It's catching. Put a stop to this. Hey, we can have a spa weekend instead. Remember when you gave me that pedicure? That was amazing."

"You were pregnant at the time, my sympathies were affected." Kurt sniffed with mock indifference. "But maybe if you agree to let me do that experiment with the curling iron –"

"He's really good with that, Quinn," Rachel jumped in. "He taught me how to use it."

"And that says a lot about my abilities. If I could teach Little Miss Appalling-Fashion Sense a thing or two about hair style, I must be good. Therefore, you must trust me."

"Even Santana lets him do her hair and make-up sometimes before we go perform," Puck agreed with a half shrug.

Quinn sighed. "Fine, fine – but if you ruin my hair, I'm shaving off yours."

Kurt smiled. "Challenge accepted. Thanks, Quinn."

There, right there: no cutting remark, no threat, and his insult to Rachel had nowhere near his usual level of bite. Mercedes watched Kurt withdraw for the rest of the conversation as it shifted to what movies were considered 'geek' movies and which ones were cool, to sports, which left out Mercedes, Quinn, Rachel and Kurt as Mike, Puck, Finn, Blaine, Sam and Tina launched into a football debate.

"The team sucks so bad, it's good, 'cause they'll get first picks," Finn said. "Dude, there's absolutely nothing wrong with losing like that – it takes a man to accept defeat."

Kurt flinched.

Mercedes could see that Quinn felt it, but she just adjusted his blankets again, and put her head on his shoulder, eyes fluttering as the football debate went droning on.

"Please, I saw that douchebag pitching a hissy fit after – not what I would call 'taking it like a man'," Puck said with disgust.

Kurt's eyes glazed over, a shudder ran through him, and Mercedes saw Rachel casting him a concerned look, but she just bit her lip and grasped her boyfriend's hand.

Blaine was staring at Kurt. He opened his mouth – finally, Mercedes thought – and said, "Hey, Kurt – you want me to get you some more blankets?"

All right, that was it.

While everyone else kept up the 'let's pretend nothing's wrong' façade with Kurt, she asked Blaine if he wouldn't mind helping her prepare some snacks upstairs. He agreed readily, gentleman that he was. She shut the door to the basement behind them, and, seeing that Mr. Hummel was not in the living room, and that Mrs. Hudson was out, she immediately turned on Blaine. "What the hell do you think you're playing at?"

Blaine's blinked rapidly. "I'm sorry, I don't –"

"Boy, shut up, or I will cut you. Let me finish." She glared and he snapped his mouth shut. Good. "I don't know if you've noticed, but that boy in there? He is seriously messed up. That is not the Kurt Hummel that I know – and maybe you haven't known him long enough to tell, but it's not good, the way he's acting right now. Kurt likes to talk. He's bitchy in the good way, and he's always smart, and always fun, and he sings whenever he catches just one note of a song he likes, and, and . . . He doesn't give a damn about football or whatever other sports you guys talk about. Rachel is in there with a fuzzy pink kitty sweater that hurts me to look at, and he hasn't said one word about it. Finn almost spilled coke on his white carpet and he didn't even notice. And no one is helping! You, especially!"

Blaine mouthed silently for a full minute before managing to string together a few words. "Mercedes, I, I just don't want to push him. It's going to take time for him to bounce back and I really don't want to make things worse. I . . . I really am overwhelmed by this whole thing." He looked both embarrassed and depressed to have to admit that.

Mercedes leaned back, crossing her arms. "No shit."

"No, I mean . . ." He went for his hair again, stopping at the last second before he could get a handful of gel. "What he's had to put up with . . . All I got at my old school was a lot of verbal abuse thrown at me every day, and maybe some crap written on my locker every once in a while. Some douchebag once stole my bag and found this picture I had of . . . some celebrity." He blushed a bit here, and Mercedes softened. Slightly. "It was pretty bad, after that. But no one ever pushed me hard enough to give me bruises. No one has ever threatened my life, or thrown food at me, given me swirlees, wedgies – none of that. I was stupid, thinking that Kurt's experience was the same as mine. Now, he's hurt, and still hurting, and I want to help – I can tell he looks up to me, but I don't want to talk about this with him because, honestly, Mercedes?"

He glanced towards the basement door, which was still shut, and then turned back to her, looking far more like a real teenager, less like a painfully cheerful and charmingly perfect private school boy – more like that frantic, desperate guy who'd run into the hospital a few days ago.

"I have no idea what the fuck I'm doing."

Mercedes exhaled loudly, dropping her arms. "Join the club."

"Really?" Blaine sagged, losing his perfect posture, looking at her sadly. "I thought as his best friend, you would –"

"I'm not a counselor – and Mr. Hummel is trying to convince Kurt to see one, but he's not having it. I think his dad is gonna to make him, really soon. But for now Mr. Hummel just . . . he wants what we all want, I guess. To try and give Kurt something simple, to let him be happy for a bit. But it's not happening. I want him to talk to me, because I know him. Maybe I'm pushing too hard, and it's too soon, but I'm just so scared that if we don't do something, if we don't say something, we'll lose him again, and I can't." She stopped as her voice thickened and her eyes burned.

A hand reached for hers, tentatively, then gripped her tightly when she didn't pull away. Blaine breathed out heavily. "I get it. We've failed him once already, haven't we?"

"Yeah, big time – and we could have lost him forever, and I don't want to still lose him. I don't want him to let this change him. I get that it'll always be there. But . . ." She shrugged helplessly.

Blaine stared down at their interlocked fingers, smiling a little. "I think you have it right. I think you do need to talk to him, and I'll stay out of your way for the next couple of days until you do. If he needs me, he knows he can call me – or, maybe you can call me for him, since he doesn't seem to be reaching out to any one right now." Mercedes nodded. "And if you do get him to open up to you, maybe you could try and convince him to see a counselor, or therapist, or someone with professional training. This isn't something he can go alone, even with our support."

Mercedes nodded again. "Gotcha. Don't worry, that's pretty much what I was thinking."

"Well, you do know him better than I do – and apparently are much better at . . . all of this." He waved a hand in the general direction of the basement.

She squeezed his other hand and then pulled him in for a hug. "No, I'm not. I'm just as freaked out as you, I promise." She stepped back, grinning. "And just for the record, I expect you to take up my duties when he's in that fancy school of yours. I'll give you the lowdown in a few days – like, if he starts going for the chocolate pudding at lunch? That usually means something's up, and it ain't good. And he is . . . he was . . . dead serious about his hair. Like, you will lose fingers if you mess it up – the only person who can really get away with that is his dad. And I got away with it, once. But he was drugged up on NyQuil so I don't think it counts."

Blaine laughed. "Noted. Maybe you should write all this down, that way I'll have a checklist to refer to."

"No problem. 'The Care and Handling of Kurt Hummel' by Mercedes Jones." She shot him a sidelong glance. "Blaine, just for the record – there will be no 'handling' until Kurt's back on his feet, got me?"

Blaine's eyes went huge at that random segue, and he stuttered rather endearingly for a minute. "What – what – he's just a friend, Mercedes. My being gay doesn't mean that I –"

"Blah, blah, woof, woof," Mercedes dismissed. His crush was pretty obvious to her, and while she did want Kurt happy, she wanted him to get better from this first; he needed to get his head back on straight before anything happened with this boy.

Blaine gathered himself and straightened to his full height – which really wasn't that much taller than Mercedes, and for some reason it delighted her that Kurt was taller than Blaine. "Mercedes, I'm serious. He needs friends right now, and even before this happened, I wanted to be that for him. Maybe I'm not the best mentor, but I want to try . . . Kurt deserves to have a good friend that can relate to him on that front. That can maybe guide him through all this."

"Right, okay, 'guide' away." She raised her eyebrows and pursed her lips. "I wasn't kidding about the cutting."

Blaine lifted both hands up. "Don't worry. I saw all of you in the hospital, remember? I know exactly what will happen to me if Kurt gets hurt. Which he won't, because I'm planning on being a much better friend than I have been so far."

Mercedes smiled understandingly. "Me too. Now, let's actually get some snacks."

They prepared a large plate of fruit, crackers and cheese (Mercedes knew Kurt's stomach couldn't handle too much sugary crap right now, and quite frankly, with how little he'd been eating, whatever he did eat should be healthy).

As they grabbed a few sodas and juice boxes, Mercedes felt the urge to ask one last, random thing. "Hey, Blaine – who was the celebrity in that picture you mentioned?"

He almost dropped the plate, looking distinctly pained. "Oh, no one in particular. The fact that it was a guy was enough ammunition, you know?"

Blaine's attempt at evasion was so pathetic she hardly batted an eyelash. "Was it Neil Patrick Harris? No, no, someone embarrassing I bet . . . a boy band member? Or maybe a Disney star like –"

"It was Zac Efron and please, God, don't tell Kurt," he blurted out, and then looked absolutely horrified for having admitted it.

Mercedes burst out laughing. "Oh, God . . . that was . . . that's . . . Is it his hair? His charismatic smile? Do you have the soundtracks on your iPod? C'mon, you can tell me."

"Um, no, I will not tell you – I'm getting the distinct impression that you are far more evil than you let on, and Kurt did not warn me enough about you." He didn't blush like Kurt did – his was more subtle, a slight pinkness in the cheeks that could be dismissed as something else, but for his ears; they were bright red. Mercedes couldn't help but to keep right on laughing as they walked back to the basement. Blaine sighed. "I'm assuming now that this is going to be the first topic of discussion once we get down there?"

"Oh, no, I'm saving this for a rainy day." She bumped his shoulder lightly. "By the way, the crap you went through at your old school? Words are enough, Blaine, trust me. It definitely counts as bullying and it can be really, really bad. Don't think that it wasn't. You didn't deserve it, and you still don't. I'm real happy you're not there anymore."

Blaine's smile was wide, reaching his eyes and making him look less put together, even a little dorky – and she could see herself getting to be good friends with him, even if he and Kurt never became boyfriends.

"That means a lot coming from you, Mercedes."

She grinned back and held the door open for him.

OOOOOOOOOOOOO

There was shouting.

Kurt was on his feet, and Finn was looking shocked, hands up in a placating gesture. Everyone was in the process of standing up, looking confused and scared by what was happening.

"Back off, Finn," Kurt was yelling; it was raspy sounding, like it was being torn out of him, and Mercedes rushed in, dropping the drinks somewhere, she wasn't sure where. She heard the plate slam down too as Blaine caught up with her.

"What the hell is going on?" she demanded.

"I . . . I was just . . ." Finn swallowed, eyes never leaving Kurt. "I was trying to apologize for not being there, for not . . . and he told me it was all right, to forget about it. But it's not, and I tried – he just . . . he lost it."

"Kurt, dude, Finn didn't mean anything by it." That was Puck, sounding all calm and sincere, and holy crap, Mercedes had to take a minute to absorb that. "We're all sorry, we're all pissed at ourselves for letting it get so far that –"

"No!" Kurt jerked back, walking backwards and away from them all. Mercedes saw his eyes flashing with anger, and it was quite possibly one of the freakiest things she'd seen, because she had no clue why this was happening. This wasn't Kurt. She'd never even heard of him acting this way, not ever.

"You, don't get to say that – none of you get to apologize." Kurt ended up against the wall, and he was shaking his head. "I don't want to hear it. It's my fault, and –"

Mercedes couldn't let that slide. "No, Kurt, I already told you that –"

"Mercedes, please," he begged. "You think I haven't gone through this a million times in my own head? You think it's easy for me to admit that? Honestly, the fact that none of you was there to help is irrelevant. If I hadn't been this . . . this loud, obnoxious personality, maybe they wouldn't have felt the need to –"

"Kurt, that just isn't true!" Blaine cut in, inching closer but stopping a few feet away, like all of them were, as if there was some kind of invisible barrier. "I was quiet, I blended in with the crowd – I did everything I could to make myself less of a target, but it didn't matter! They tormented me every day. Kurt, you're such a brave, amazing –"

"No, you don't know what . . . I'm not brave I . . ." He stumbled over his words, dropping his gaze to his feet. "I wanted to be saved, so badly, and I said things that . . ."

Mercedes knew she was crying again, but she barely noticed. "Kurt – we're the failures here, we should have –"

"But then why didn't you?" he suddenly cried out, staring angrily at them again. There was only one tear making its way down his flushed cheek, but it was enough to get Quinn, who had appeared at Mercedes' other side, to start crying as well. Rachel was pressing in close to Tina, who in turn was clutching Mike's hand tightly, and Puck was looking so concerned it really made Mercedes' head spin. Finn was reaching out towards Kurt with one hand, but it was just hanging in mid-air, as if he was frozen.

"Where were you? Why couldn't you see how bad it was hurting? Do you know what Mr. Schue did before all this zero tolerance came about? Nothing. He asked me if there was anything he could do. 'You normally don't let them get to you' – like this is normal. It's normal for the, the, fag to get pushed around, but bless his heart, he takes it like a champ! Like a man!" He laughed bitterly here, as if that was an inside joke of some sort.

No one said a word. Kurt's breath heaved once and he kept right on going. "You're all suddenly here every day, talking with me like you've known me all your life, like you really care, but why couldn't you have cared earlier! Why couldn't you have stopped this before Azimio did this to me! Karofsky was practically bouncing me off walls on a daily basis – he, he . . ." Kurt stopped himself there, and Mercedes knew he had almost revealed the kiss to them all. She was glad he didn't – he would have hated himself later, and Finn would've probably gone off to finish the job he'd started last week on Karofsky, joined by the rest of the Glee boys present here. And Quinn. And Tina – maybe even Rachel would go along and happily commit murder. Mercedes knew that she definitely wanted to inflict some pain on someone for all this. Focus. Focus on Kurt. Mercedes inhaled deeply, trying to clear her thoughts and find something to say that would calm him down.

"Kurt," she spoke slowly, quietly. "Kurt, I am your best friend. I've screwed up badly, we all did. We all just, I don't know, we got used to it. We got used to the slushies, to the insults, to all of it, and when things got worse for you, we didn't really . . . because you're right Kurt – it's gotten to be normal, which is wrong. So wrong. So messed up. And we're sorry. We will be sorry forever, please, please accept our apology. Or don't, whatever, but please, let us try and help you now."

"Kurt?"

Everyone jumped, except Kurt, whipping around to see Mr. Hummel coming down the stairs. He looked deeply worried, tensing up as he zeroed in on his son. It was pretty much how he always looked lately, especially after the police came by.

He took the steps one at a time, staring at Kurt. "Kurt, what – what's wrong?"

Kurt said nothing. He closed his mouth and stared down at the floor. Mercedes wanted . . . She didn't know what she wanted anymore, it was all a jumble in her head: wanting this to be over, wanting for it to never have happened, wanting Kurt to just stop hurting and go back to being himself.

Mr. Hummel finally looked at them as he reached the bottom of the stairs. "Time for you all to leave. Finn, you head on upstairs – your mom needs some help unloading groceries."

It took a few seconds, but eventually everyone started moving – Finn held onto Rachel's hand as they went up the stairs together, leading the group out. Rachel was frantically whispering something to him. The only people left in the basement were Blaine, Mercedes, Kurt and his father. Mr. Hummel looked hard at both her and Blaine. "I know you two mean well, but you need to go home. Let me take care of this. Especially you Blaine, it's gonna be a long drive for you as it is."

Blaine looked conflicted. He glanced towards Mercedes, and she nodded.

"All right." He started for the stairs, but then paused, turning back to face Kurt, who was still staring down at his feet. "Kurt? If you need me, for any reason, you just call, okay? Or tell Mercedes or your dad . . . talk to them if you can't talk to me . . . it's okay, I promise."

Kurt didn't respond, but Blaine didn't appear to let it bother him – he smiled tentatively at them all and walked up the stairs.

Mr. Hummel turned to her, sighing. "Mercedes –"

"I'll go," she said in a trembling tone. "If he wants me to leave."

He nodded and then began to approach Kurt, cautious. "Hey, kiddo, listen, you and me, we're going to have a talk, okay? Mercedes wants to help you out too, but she's fine with –"

"I know, dad, I heard," Kurt breathed out, lifting a hand to push back a few locks of brown hair from his forehead. He finally looked up. "Mercedes, I'm sorry, I don't know what came over me –"

"No apologizing, Kurt." She gave him a watery smile. "Please don't. Do you want me to stay? I won't say a word if that's what you want."

Kurt chewed on his lower lip before answering, "Okay. Yes. Please."

Mr. Hummel went to Kurt's side then, reaching up very slowly, putting an arm around him in a half-hug. "Do you want to tell me what's on your mind, son?"

Kurt huffed, his expression sardonic. "Not particularly. It was . . . I don't even know, dad. I just snapped. It was all very melodramatic and completely illogical. It's over now."

Mr. Hummel tugged him closer. "I don't think so. Ever since the cops," there was a noticeable waver there, but he kept on going, " . . . came by to take your statement, you've been real quiet and I can tell, Kurt, that things are worse than you're sayin'. You woke up screaming last night, and you won't take me up on the counseling. Now, I don't want to push you." Mercedes had to flinch at that coming up again. No one wanted to push him, no one wanted to hurt him more than he already had been. "But Kurt – you're going to have to talk to someone, real soon. And I'm thinking that therapy is the way to go."

"No, dad." Kurt seemed to panic at that. "No, I don't want to go to some stranger, once a week, and talk about this – spend months and months talking about something I just want to forget. I can't see that helping me, dad, I can't –"

"Okay, okay – we'll talk more about that later. But I do want you to talk to me, right now. Something made you snap today, what was it?"

Kurt shrugged as best he could with the weight of his father's arm on his shoulders. "I . . . Finn was apologizing for not being able to stop this. He said that if he could've traded places with me, he would. That I didn't deserve to be hurt that way, and that everyone felt responsible for allowing it to happen. And when he said that he was sorry, I told him to stop apologizing, but he wouldn't and I had to make him stop. It irked me. It was . . . I can't explain it, dad. I don't want to talk about this. About anything to do with this." His voice was taunt, and he looked like he was on the verge of snapping again. Mercedes' shoulders hunched in as she watched his every move, specifically every shift in his expressive eyes.

"Try – it doesn't have to be about what happened just now. What about . . . when you were talking to the cops on Monday, you . . . you talked all about what Azimio did to you. You didn't talk about you, and I get it. Those cops didn't need to know all that you were thinking, you didn't want to worry me – and I don't need you to tell me that you were scared, and in pain . . ." Mr. Hummel faltered, shutting his eyes. "God, Kurt, . . ."

Kurt turned, wrapping his arms around his father, and suddenly, he was the one comforting and reaching out. Mercedes maintained her silence. Whenever Kurt needed her, she'd be here. But this was all about son and father – and she felt vaguely wrong witnessing this moment; it was private, personal, but Kurt hadn't wanted her to leave.

"There's . . . there was this . . . that happened, and it's . . . in my nightmares." Kurt's arms tightened noticeably, words muffled by his father's shirt. Mercedes breathed in and out, her heart clenching as Mr. Hummel pulled back, fingers under Kurt's chin, lifting to get a good look at Kurt's face.

"What – is it something we need the cops for?"

"No, it isn't . . ." Kurt rubbed his eyes, blowing out a breath between slightly parted lips. "Never mind, dad. I'm sorry for scaring you. I'm sorry for freaking out for no apparent reason. I need more sleep. Maybe those sleeping pills that Carole suggested."

"Kurt."

Kurt gave him a look, untangling his limbs from his father's. "Dad, I'm fine. Really. It's simply a case of lack of sleep and poor eating choices. The . . . what happened is over now, and I'm getting better. Slowly. And really, it wasn't as bad as it could have been."

Kurt's fluctuating emotions were giving her whiplash; they were very out of character, but she recognized that tone, this tactic. This was Kurt, King of Evasion, ready to duck and cover against all inquiries. Mercedes could see Kurt compartmentalizing, putting it all away – and she knew it was only days since the attack but she couldn't let this happen. She couldn't let Kurt become cold about it, accept it as nothing and try to pretend he could just let it go. Luckily, Mr. Hummel was on the same page as her.

"No, no," he said, grabbing his son gently, not letting him escape. "Tell me, tell me please."

Kurt went from aloof to tortured within the space of a second, shaking in his father's arms. "He . . . he tried to . . . it hurt so much, dad." And there were the tears that both relieved her and broke her heart. "I was so scared, for you and me. Because you didn't deserve to have to come and see me, cold and dead like that – all because . . . I couldn't believe someone could do that!" His anger was there, but the sadness, the inability to understand how someone could hate him so much.

Mercedes got it, that incomprehension, and she could see how his dad was struggling with it too, because he had a marvelous, fabulous son, and why couldn't the whole world see what an amazing kid he was? Mercedes did, easily, and the rest of the world could go to hell if it didn't.

Kurt wasn't fighting him anymore, burying himself in his father's chest, crying, sobbing while Mr. Hummel held him tightly. Mercedes worried about the sore ribs and bruises, but Kurt didn't even flinch, he only clutched at his dad just as hard. "I thought he was going to kill me, daddy. I thought I was going to die."

Mercedes watched her best friend in the entire world, someone she loved as dearly as she loved her own family, completely fall to pieces. A part of her broke right along with her Kurt – to hear him sound so wretched and without hope, it made everything in her rail and scream about the unfairness of it all. Her boy was something special, and good, and sweet, and he didn't deserve this . . . this bullshit.

Burt was looked as though his son's words had thoroughly destroyed him, and Mercedes had to cover her mouth to muffle her own cries, because the man was hanging by a thread already, and she didn't want him to comfort her as well – which he would if she broke down in sobs like she wanted to.

Kurt pulled away after a moment, red in the face, a hot mess – Mercedes knew that uncomfortably warm feeling one got after a long crying jag – and he was wiping at his eyes with the heel of his hands. It was such a little boy gesture, she couldn't resist anymore – she broke into the family tableau, grabbing Kurt's long fingers, entwining them with her own.

He said nothing, didn't smile, but there was a slight returning pressure, and she took that as a sign to keep holding on.

"I . . . I asked him to stop," Kurt said in a monotone. "Begging him, really. Cried and begged like . . ." Kurt looked at his feet, and he sounded disgusted with himself. "I told myself I was doing it for you, dad. And I'd do a lot worse to spare you pain, but I think I just wanted it to end, and I would've done anything for that to happen. What does that make me, dad?"

Mercedes couldn't keep up with this anymore – Kurt's guilt, Kurt placing the blame on himself, Kurt lashing out at his friends and teachers, and now this. How could someone feel so much pain and confusion and still function?

Mr. Hummel hushed Kurt by wiping at his son's tears. "Okay, okay. You did what you had to, to survive, Kurt. It's okay, it's okay. You're here with me, you made it. There's no shame in crying when it hurts, in wanting the hurt to stop, son. None. Nothing is your fault. Not the bullying, not asking for him to stop, and especially not you being yourself. You, Kurt, are the only thing that matters to me – and if it had been me in that room, you bet your ass I would've said or done anything to get back to you, to not leave you alone. Stop thinkin' these things, stop blaming yourself for something that was completely out of your control. There was nothin' you could've done. Nothin' other than what you did – which was survive."

Kurt was crying again. Mr. Hummel, with all the tenderness in the world, helped guide him towards his bed. Mercedes let go of Kurt's hand, rushing ahead to pull the sheets back, and assisting his dad with easing Kurt up onto the mattress. She tugged off his slippers and socks while Mr. Hummel sat with him, whispering comforting words into his ears.

Without thinking, Mercedes crawled onto the bed on Kurt's other side, wrapping her arms around him as best she could while he was still in his father's embrace. Kurt grabbed at the arm that came around his waist. "Stay, please." That was that – she wouldn't move until he said so.

At some point, Mr. Hummel started to shift off the bed, unwrapping Kurt's arms from around him, adjusting his pillows and laying him back. Kurt was asleep, snoring through a stuffy nose. Mercedes snuggled closer to him, and watched as Mr. Hummel tucked his son in, eyes on Kurt's flushed features.

He kept on studying Kurt's face as he asked her, "Do you want to stay?"

"That's what he asked me to do," Mercedes said quietly.

He nodded as if that was what he expected to hear. "I'll call your parents. I'll drive you to school tomorrow, if you want."

Mercedes didn't particularly care about tomorrow – she couldn't think beyond this bedroom, this night. She wanted Kurt to know that nothing he said or did would drive his friends or family away. Her head rested on his shoulder. His arm came up to wrap around her.

Mr. Hummel nodded again even though she hadn't said anything. He was turning to go back upstairs when Mercedes stopped him with a whispered, "Burt."

He looked back at her, a faint smile on his face. "Yeah, Mercedes?"

"Is this . . . what happened today, and him talking to us . . . that's good, right? Him opening up? It'll be better for him now?"

Mr. Hummel took off his baseball cap, running a hand over his head before jamming it back on. "I don't know, Mercedes. God, I hope so. But it'll take a while to get back to . . . before. And it won't ever be the same, even then."

She inhaled wetly. It wasn't what she wanted to hear. But it was the truth.

Mr. Hummel left without another word. He turned off the lights as he went, and Mercedes settled in the darkness, Kurt's warm presence pressing against her. He shifted down, tightened the arm around her, and she rested a hand on his chest, directly above his heart. She hadn't ever tried counting sheep or anything to fall asleep, but this . . . this was soothing. She counted out Kurt's heartbeats until everything faded away.

OOOOOOOOOOOOO

Author's Note: First off, I need to give kudos and a shout-out to Ella Greggs for helping me out with this chapter (and the previous one – there was a change to the Burt/Ida flashback that is thanks to her and makes it a smoother read). Her amazing fic Survival of the Fittest, provided inspiration for the Mercedes/Sue Sylvester exchange, and if you haven't already read it, please do so – her Sue Sylvester is wicked awesome, as only canon Sue can be!

And, once again, apologies for the lengthy wait – the holidays, friends and family completely and utterly dominated my last two weeks of December, and made it very difficult to write, let alone post anything. Inspiration has been a fickle friend lately, too :(

There will be one more chapter, from a new perspective I haven't done yet in this story, and then the Ida Epilogue, and that will be it. Maybe.

If you are still reading this, THANK YOU. And to all of you who've reviewed, favourited, alerted – again, many, many, infinite thanks. I really hate not being able to express my love and appreciation for you all in a different manner :( But THANK YOU is all I can think of to say.

And as a random end to this ramble: I want an army of alpacas.

If you wish to know why, please refer to Chris Colfer's twitter.