Rating: PG - 13
Summary: Kurt took him in because it was cold outside, and he looked injured, and Kurt had an insatiable curiosity and wanted to find out how the hell the boy had ended up in his backyard in the first place (his being really attractive didn't hurt, either). It was like While You Were Sleeping, and Kurt was Sandra Bullock. Except with weird, unexplained phenomena. …And without Bill Pullman.
Spoilers: a little NBK and SLS, but AU in general
Disclaimer: I do not own anything.
Warnings: mentions of scary movies, eventual (but not for a while) light exploration of issues of consent
A/N: And so we actually begin. Just as a warning to those of you getting started, this starts out pretty tame, but I tend to plot like a crazy madwoman on steroids—so prepare for a dangerous, intense, and hopefully funny ride! I'll try to update this story fairly quickly, if will cooperate with me!

Kurt didn't spend the next eight hours staring at the boy underneath the oak tree.

Really.

Ten minutes into studying his profile, he realized it would probably be beneficial to actually do something about the stranger that had invaded his backyard, and he spent another ten minutes trying to wake the boy up. When he discovered the utter fruitlessness of that plan, Kurt spent a further five minutes trying to decide whether bringing him into the house screamed "appropriate princess-in-the-forest introduction to your future husband" or "creepy kidnapper". The more he stared at the boy, the more images of glorious romantic epics sprawled across his brain, until he found himself grabbing his poorly-tailored-trouser-covered legs and turning him onto his back, dragging him toward the glass doors of the house. Now that he could see the boy's face fully, Kurt couldn't take his eyes off of him (and since the object of his observation was unconscious, he didn't see a need to). Flashlight in his mouth and precariously illuminating the stranger in front of him, Kurt studied the pale skin and long, dark eyelashes. Black hair was slicked back with some kind of gel, but Kurt could see it was inclined to curl around his ears and forehead. Potential waking-up scenarios bloomed in vivid color in his mind, each containing more overt romantic overtones than the last.

In some remote corner of his mind that he was very steadfastly not listening to, he realized that bringing a stranger into the house was a stupendously bad idea. He had no idea who this boy was. He could be a serial killer for all he knew. A really well-dressed serial killer (seriously, he was rocking that blazer). Like Hannibal Lector (and Kurt knew who that was, even if he refused to watch the movie every time Finn asked). But the boy wouldn't wake up, and he couldn't very well just leave him outside in the cold all night… right?

Right.

Which is why when Kurt slid open the glass door, he didn't hesitate to grab his Peter Callaghan around the arms and drag him inside. Kurt had the upper hand inside, anyway. There were three other people in the house and a whole cabinet of knives he had access to if he needed to defend himself. Plus phones. There were at least six phones in the house, two of which were landlines, which were easier for emergency services track if he had to call 911 and leave the phone off the hook. So, bringing the stranger into the house was actually a really good idea.

Kurt's eyes lingered on cupid lips.

Yeah. A really good idea.

Settling Peter Callaghan onto the couch, Kurt ran upstairs to change into something more Sandra Bullock (or Florence Nightingale… Florence Nightingale would be better, actually, because Sandra Bullock ended up falling in love with Bill Pullman, and everything became ridiculously complicated, and really, Kurt hadn't even met this boy yet, and he'd like to keep his metaphors internally consistent—so 1800s English nurse it was). It took sixty-seven minutes to find the perfect pair of pants to go with his Marc Jacobs grosgrain trim crewneck t-shirt, during which time John Whatever-His-Last-Name-Was,-Kurt-Wasn't-Up-To-Date-On-British-History had remained beautifully unconscious in the living room. That was thirty minutes Kurt hadn't spent staring at the intruder.

When he ran back down the stairs (because John could wake up any minute), he brought down his comforter and tucked it around the stranger, then curled into the armchair directly across from the couch and watched.

Waiting.

With a pair of scissors securely clutched in his right hand.

…Until he fell asleep accidentally, for about six hours. So, that was another calculable amount of time Kurt hadn't spent staring at John.

He was jolted rudely awake by Finn's loud voice echoing painfully in his ear.

"What the hell, man!"

Sunlight shafted into his eyes. Kurt blinked blearily up at his tall step-brother, trying to figure out why on earth Finn had invaded his room. Before he realized he wasn't in his room.

What? Trickling slowly through the thin crevices of his mind, he remembered long eyelashes and When You Were Sleeping.

Living room. Armchair—

Couch!

"Oh!" he sprang upwards in the chair, wincing slightly at the pain in his neck (he really was getting too tall for this). "Wait, Finn, don't sit down!"

Finn, who was standing half-crouched above the couch, looked at Kurt incredulously. "Dude, I just sat on someone's legs! Why are there legs on the couch?" He tore the blanket off—and froze when he saw John's even-dreamier-in-the-daylight face underneath (John must have moved during the night, because Kurt certainly hadn't place that blanket over his face when he had tucked it around him earlier.)

They both stared.

"There's a dude on the couch!" Finn suddenly cried. He threw the blanket away from himself like it was infected. "Kurt, why is there a dude on the couch?"

"Okay, just calm down," Kurt said, holding his hands up placatingly. Finn's eyes widened and Kurt realized belatedly that he was still holding the scissors. He dropped them, and then held his hands up placatingly again. "He was in our backyard last night, and when I tried to wake him up he wouldn't wake up, so I brought him inside. I have everything under control. When he wakes up, we can ask him where he's from and why he was in our backyard. It's nothing serious. Okay?"

"It's a dude. It's a dude on the couch," Finn repeated, seemingly unable to get past that fact.

Kurt sighed. "Yes, Finn," he said. "There's a boy on the couch."

Finn stared at John for a while more before turning back to Kurt.

"We should call Burt."

"No," Kurt shook his head violently, "No, that's not necessary." Finn frowned. "We can handle this ourselves, Finn. Dad would only want to come back and help"—or make me leave John outside—"and he should go into work today and make up the money we lost buying the new house. We'll tell him when he gets home. Same goes with Carole."

"But—"

"Really, Finn," Kurt insisted firmly. "Everything is under control."

Finn looked skeptical, but after several pleading moments and a few blackmail attempts, he gave in.

"But can we move him? I kind of wanted to watch last night's game this morning," he said. Kurt leveled him a stare.

"And where do you suggest we move the stranger who randomly appeared in our backyard to, Finn?" he asked, voice acid. "Your room?"

Finn shrunk back slightly, looking longingly at the television.

Kurt let out a long breath. He slouched low into the seat, before grabbing the arms of the chair and hauling himself up.

"Okay, help me move this," he said, gesturing to the armchair. "You can watch on this chair." Finn shot him a little half-smile and moved to help.

They had to move the coffee table, but soon enough Finn was turning on the TV and watching men in tight white pants throw around a ball and tackle each other. Kurt shifted John's leg slightly and perched himself gracefully on the edge of the couch, peering at his patient. There were dark bruises under his eyes, a slight furrow to his thick eyebrows.

"I think he might be hurt," Kurt said softly.

"Huh?" Finn asked intelligently. Then he cried "Oh, no, come on!" as one of the men did something on the TV that Kurt wasn't paying attention to.

Kurt moved to sweep a curl away from John's face. "Maybe that's why he was in the backyard. Maybe he was hurt and he just collapsed underneath the oak tree." The situation was fitting his metaphors far better than he had expected. Kurt moved closer to study the sickly pallor of the boy's skin. "I wonder when he'll wake up."

"Yeah," Finn said. Kurt rolled his eyes and got up.

"I'm going to make some breakfast, do you want any?"

Finn's ears decided to work again at the mention of food. "Yeah, man, that'd be awesome," he enthused, eyes not leaving the screen.

"Let me know if he wakes up," Kurt called as he walked to the kitchen. He passed the glass doors and paused, looking into the yard. Searching for… something. He didn't know. Maybe another cute boy that had decided to collapse underneath the fir that bordered the house.

There weren't any other cute boys. There wasn't really anything to catch his eye.

Strangely disappointed, he continued on his way to the kitchen.

—–

Despite evidence that he had moved during the six hours Kurt had fallen asleep, John had stayed almost scarily still all day. Kurt had come in and out of the living room periodically to check on him and had been so disturbed at his lack of movement that he found himself continually checking the boy's pulse just to make sure he wasn't dead ("or a zombie," Finn insisted). He was just about to give in and set up a video camera so any movement belying the humanness of his stranger would be recorded and preserved for further study when he heard a shout and then a sudden silence.

"…Finn?" he called down warily. Finn was playing some game that had to do with army uniforms and killing people, so maybe…

Nothing. He strained his ears.

"Finn?" he called, voice rising.

Still nothing.

Kurt dropped the box of tapes he had been rooting through and bolted down the stairs. "Finn, so help me, if you don't say something right now—!"

His voice cut off and snapped back inside of him like a rubber band as he caught sight of the living room.

What. The.

The coffee table was tipped upside-down, resting overtop the armchair—which had also decided to play the part of the leaning tower and was toppled sideways onto the carpet. Kurt didn't even want to start taking inventory on the many stylish glass frames that had once populated that area.

It looked like a tornado had swept through the house. Or a particularly violent and specific gust of wind had attacked—

John.

Kurt's eyes were magnetized to the couch. Was he–?

No. John was still asleep. In fact, he didn't look like he had moved at all. (Just like the previous fifteen times Kurt had come in to check on him.)

"Dude," Finn's breathless voice came from behind the armchair. "Dude. He just totally went all demonic and blew up the room!"

Kurt stared.

…Of course he'd bring a hellish spirit into the house. That would be just his luck, wouldn't it?