Family Is More Than DNA
Disclaimer: I don't own Glee.
Chapter 1: The Father, My Son, and The Holy Ghost
Two weeks after Kurt died, Will Schuester found Burt Hummel sitting alone in the darkened auditorium, shoulders shaking with silent sobs. As the members of New Directions quietly filtered in, Burt barely whispered, "Take care of our boy, Elizabeth," before standing up and brushing past Will.
"Burt," Will said gently, "how are you holding up?"
Burt gave a broken sigh. "Some friends called me this morning… It's been hard." He stared blankly at the stage where his son had once stood and sang like the world needed his voice.
He tried to compose himself, but emotion surged. Burt suddenly turned, eyes blazing, and shouted, "Kurt didn't deserve to die!"—charging at Jake before anyone could react.
Noah stepped in and held him back, his arms firm but compassionate. "Mr. H, hurting Jake won't bring Kurt back. And this isn't your fault."
Burt froze, then looked from Jake to Noah. He said nothing—just turned away and left.
Noah found him later in a bar outside of town, sitting at the counter, staring at an unopened beer can. He sat beside him in silence for a moment before speaking.
"Finn blames himself too. But I meant what I said. This isn't your fault. I used to tell my dad you were more of a father to me than he ever was."
He gave a bitter laugh. "And I'm glad you're not with my mom."
Burt finally opened the beer, took a slow sip, and said, "I found Kurt's journal. And an old photo album Santana had—full of pictures of you. I gave the album to her at the funeral. But that journal… It's the reason I didn't come at you the way I wanted to."
He paused, studying the can in his hand.
"Norah was my girlfriend. I cheated on her with Elizabeth. She got Nick drunk… got pregnant with you. Connie forced them to get married, and, well—you know the rest." His eyes darkened. "Puck… did Nick give you those black eyes? Those bruises?"
Noah looked down, the weight of memory in his posture. "Yeah."
He stood up and ordered a root beer. Then, sitting back down, his voice quiet but raw, he said, "When I was seven, he took me to a strip club. Made two strippers… do things to me. I don't remember everything. After that, I stayed with Finn for a while. It's why I picked on Kurt."
He exhaled sharply, jaw clenched. "My dad blamed *me* for it. Told me I asked for it. I started drinking when I was eleven. Just to make the memories go away. Then he started hurting my mom… even while she was pregnant with Sarah. After Sarah was born, he'd come home drunk every night—reeking of beer and cheap perfume."
Before Burt could respond, the door opened, and in walked Nick—loud and laughing, flanked by two women dressed like they didn't belong anywhere near polite company.
Burt tensed.
Noah noticed. "Mr. H," he whispered, "let's go. Finn and your wife still need you."
They left in silence.
At home, Finn sat on the couch with his leg propped up, recovering from a training accident—he'd shot himself in the foot preparing for Army enlistment. Blaine was in the kitchen on the phone, pacing anxiously.
"I loved Kurt," Blaine said, his voice cracking. "I'll go back to New York soon, I promise."
From the phone, Blaine's father, Patrick Anderson, roared, "If you don't come with us to France, you can forget your inheritance!"
Noah snatched the phone from Blaine's hand.
"Listen, you selfish bastard," he snapped, "Blaine doesn't need your money. He needs a father. One who actually *gives a damn.* Kurt's gone, and Blaine is grieving—while all you care about is your image. Well, screw that. Blaine's with his family *now.*" He hung up and handed the phone back without another word.
A month later, Will arranged a memorial for Kurt. Everyone was invited to share stories or perform songs that reminded them of him. To everyone's surprise, Noah was the first to step up.
He adjusted the guitar strap over his shoulder and said, "I was never Kurt's friend. Not really. But this last month has helped me understand him. Understand what I missed. I always thought I'd end up in jail… or worse. But Glee changed that. He changed me."
He didn't need a song to make his point. The words were heavy enough.
Afterward, he left quietly. Burt found him later at Kurt's grave.
"I'm sorry for all the crap I did to you," Noah said, not looking up. "I was jealous of your bond with your dad. Mine… he never even tried. He hated me. Blamed me. I miss Beth every day. I wish I could've kept her. You were lucky, Kurt. I always wished Burt was *my* dad."
He looked over at Burt.
"I chewed out Blaine's dad a few times since the funeral. And… I enlisted in the Air Force. I want to be better. For the kids in my life. Maybe someday I'll be a good dad. Or uncle."
Burt raised an eyebrow. "Uncle?"
Noah smirked. "You know I don't own a rifle, right?"
Before Burt could reply, they spotted Judy Fabray slipping an envelope to Biff McIntosh. Noah stiffened, turned, and walked to his motorcycle without saying a word. He didn't look back.
Soon after, Finn and Rachel broke up. Burt threw himself into work and ran for Congress, trying to bury his grief. No one noticed when Finn began slipping—until Sam found him unconscious from an overdose. He fell into a coma.
Another month passed. Noah stumbled into the boys' locker room, clearly drunk. Coach Beiste looked up from her clipboard.
"You're drunk," she said flatly.
Noah grinned. "You're beautiful."
"If you puke in here, you're cleaning it up."
He shrugged, slurring. "What's the big deal?"
Shannon sighed. "I get needing something to get through the pain. But it's been a month, Puck. You don't have to be afraid to grieve."
Coach Beiste stared at Noah, arms crossed but expression softening. "I get it," she said, her voice quieter now. "But booze won't bring Kurt back. It won't fill the hole. And it sure as hell won't help you remember the good parts."
Noah sat down hard on the bench, running both hands over his face. "I don't want to remember anything. Not Beth's birthday, not my mom crying every night, not Sarah asking where Dad went… not Kurt's voice."
Shannon knelt beside him, met his eyes.
"You do, though. You just don't know how to carry it yet."
A week later, Burt found Noah standing by the bleachers, staring at the field. It was empty except for a single plastic cup blowing in the wind.
"You skipped school," Burt said plainly.
"Didn't feel like facing Mr. Schue's *Kurt Hummel Memorial Setlist* again."
Burt didn't laugh, but a ghost of a smile twitched at the corner of his mouth.
"Your mom called me," he added. "She said you've been sleeping in the garage."
Noah shrugged. "She won't kick Nick out. Says she can't afford to. He comes home drunk again, I swear to God—"
Burt cut in gently, "Noah. Come stay with me."
Noah blinked. "You serious?"
"You're family," Burt said. "And I could use the help around the house. My knees aren't what they used to be, and I sure as hell don't know how to fix the damn garbage disposal. And… Sarah deserves better than that man."
Noah turned his face away, but Burt saw the tears even if he didn't mention them. "I don't want to screw it up."
"You won't," Burt said. "And if you do, we'll deal with it. Together."
Noah moved in two days later.
The first night was quiet. Finn was still in the rehab facility. Carole made lasagna and left a plate in the oven for when Noah got in from his part-time shift at AutoZone.
Upstairs, the bedroom next to Kurt's was clean and empty. Burt had taken down the old pictures and trophies, leaving only a worn-out Beatles poster and a desk with a sticky drawer.
On the bed was a folded blanket, a framed photo of Kurt and Blaine at prom, and a note in Burt's handwriting:
"We all mess up. Doesn't mean we stop trying. —Burt"
Noah sat down, holding the photo in both hands. "You'd laugh at this," he whispered. "Me living here. Me working at AutoZone. Me crying over you."
His voice cracked.
"But I miss you, man."
Over the next few weeks, Noah started showing up to school again—usually late, always exhausted, but sober. Coach Beiste kept an extra granola bar in her office for him. Mr. Schuester stopped assigning solos and just let him play guitar for the group numbers.
It wasn't the same without Kurt. It never would be.
One afternoon, Rachel sat beside him in the choir room after practice, her hand resting lightly on his arm.
"I miss him too," she said softly.
"I don't know what to do without him," Noah admitted. "I feel like I'm supposed to do something big, something good—but I don't know what that is."
Rachel looked at him. "Maybe just loving people is enough."
Noah swallowed hard. "I don't know how."
Rachel leaned in, forehead against his. "You're learning."
One night, Noah found Burt out back, staring up at the stars. He sat beside him on the porch steps.
"Did Kurt ever talk about heaven?" Noah asked quietly.
Burt let out a slow breath. "He used to say if heaven existed, it'd be all white walls, fabulous furniture, and a piano in every room."
Noah smiled faintly. "Sounds about right."
Burt looked at him sideways. "You know… if Beth were still here, she and Sarah would be about the same age."
Noah's breath hitched. "Yeah."
"You'd have been a damn good dad."
Noah couldn't answer right away. The lump in his throat was too thick. When he finally spoke, his voice was just a whisper.
"I still want to be."
Burt didn't press. He just placed a steady hand on Noah's shoulder, and for the first time in a long time, Noah didn't pull away.
"And your son'd be allowed to sing *Defying Gravity* anytime he wanted, no matter who was around," Burt said, smiling faintly, his eyes glistening.
Noah laughed under his breath. "Sounds about right."
They sat in silence, both of them staring at the stars like they could will Kurt to appear among them. Finally, Noah reached into his hoodie and pulled out a folded pamphlet.
"I got this from the recruiter," he said. "Air Force. I leave next month."
Burt turned to him, surprise flashing in his eyes, followed by pride. "You sure?"
Noah nodded. "Yeah. I want to serve. I want to fight for something good, you know? And I don't want to be the guy my dad was. I want Sarah to be proud. Maybe someday… someone else, too."
Burt nodded slowly. "You already made me proud, kid."
Noah didn't reply, but he leaned slightly closer. For once, he didn't flinch when Burt reached over and placed a firm hand on his shoulder.
Six Months Later – Washington, D.C.
The Capitol building glowed in the evening haze, and Burt Hummel adjusted the knot on his tie for the third time as he stood outside the House chamber. The vote had gone through. He was officially a congressman now. It felt surreal.
He thought of Kurt, how proud he would've been. How loud he would've cheered.
His phone buzzed. A message from Puck.
Just landed in Texas. The base is big. Commander's intense. But I'm good. Tell Sarah I miss her. And yeah—yes to your question from last time. I do want you there at graduation. You earned that.
Burt blinked a few times and replied:
Wouldn't miss it. Proud of you, son.
Then he scrolled to the name Blaine Anderson and hit call.
Blaine picked up after a few rings, his voice low and sleepy. "Hey, Burt."
"I didn't wake you, did I?"
"Nah," Blaine lied. "I was just… finishing a song."
Burt chuckled. "Still writing music at 2 a.m.?"
Blaine didn't answer that. He just said, "How's D.C.?"
"Loud. Gray. Feels like a hundred high school principals trying to control a classroom full of Noahs." They both laughed. "But it's good work. And I got your letter. About Wes."
A pause. "Yeah. He's back in New York. We're… trying something. Again. I don't know."
Burt's voice softened. "You don't have to have it figured out. You're allowed to take your time."
"I just feel like I should've healed by now, you know?" Blaine admitted. "But I still see Kurt everywhere. Every song, every note—it's him."
"So do I," Burt whispered. "And sometimes I think I always will."
There was a long pause. Then Burt said, "Noah's in Texas now. Basic training. You should write him."
"I will," Blaine promised. "He doesn't say it, but I think he still needs us."
"We all still need each other," Burt said. "Even if we're broken."
Three Months Later – Lackland Air Force Base, Texas
The air was hot and dry. Burt stood at the edge of the field, watching as a group of airmen stood in formation. One of them—shorter than the rest, cocky smile beneath the serious uniform—caught his eye.
Noah Puckerman marched with pride, saluted with precision, and when the final ceremony ended, he broke rank and ran straight for Burt, grabbing him in a tight hug.
"You came."
"Damn right I did."
Nearby, Carole was sobbing into Sarah's hair. Sarah wore a tiny "My Brother's A Hero" shirt and clutched a sparkly sign that said *Fly High, Nono!*
Later, when they were back at the base housing, eating from paper plates and laughing over old stories, Burt clinked a glass to get their attention.
"I just want to say," he began, "that I don't think of Noah as my stepson. Or my adopted kid. Or a family friend. He's my son. He's Kurt's brother. And he's the kind of man who makes this country better just by showing up."
Noah lowered his head, eyes glassy.
"You always were a pain in my ass, kid," Burt added, grinning. "But I'd fight every damn congressman in D.C. for you."
A Year Later – Blaine's Apartment, NYC
Wes was out getting groceries. Blaine sat by the window, re-reading the letter he'd just received.
Blaine,
I saw a kid today who reminded me of you. Hair all gelled, talking about Broadway, refusing to back down from some homophobic jerk in the mess hall. I told him about Glee. About you.
You changed my life. You and Kurt. And even if you don't know what your future looks like, you gave me mine.
Come to D.C. for Christmas. Burt's got a guest room. Sarah's got a list for Santa, and I think it includes you.
Miss you, man.
—Puck
Blaine smiled.
"Family's weird," he whispered to the window. "But it's real."
And he started packing.
October 14
Washington, D.C.
Burt had just finished a long day on Capitol Hill. Another vote on a transportation bill. Another meeting with veterans' advocates. But his mind wandered elsewhere—back to Lima. To Noah, who had just finished basic training and was headed to tech school in Texas. He'd read the last letter twice already, then a third time, just for the way it ended: *I still think about the porch talks. I'll never stop calling you Dad, if that's still okay.*
October 19
San Antonio, Texas
To Blaine Anderson
New York, NY
Yo, Warbler Boy.
Okay, okay—I know you hate that nickname. But I figured I'd go retro since I'm stuck in dorms that feel like a mix between prison and a boot camp-sponsored IKEA.
I miss you.
I didn't think I'd say that out loud. Well, not out loud, but you know what I mean. You always told me I had more feelings than I let on, and… yeah. You were right.
I'm doing okay. The food sucks. There's a guy in my bunkroom who sleepwalks and calls his ex-wife's name every night. That's new. But I'm focused. I want to make Kurt proud. I want to make *me* proud.
How's New York? Still dating guys with great hair and tragic backstories? You know I'm here if you need to vent. Even if you send me those long-ass emails you used to write Kurt.
Speaking of—do you still write him?
- Puck
PS You're still invited to my graduation. I made Burt promise to wear a suit and not an Ohio State tie. You should come.
October 21
Blaine's Apartment, NYC
Journal Entry #8: Letter to Kurt
Kurt,
I saw a guy today on the subway wearing one of those ridiculous peacoats you used to love. I almost followed him off the train just to ask if he knew your tailor.
It's fall now. You always loved fall—the clothes, the coffee, the way the leaves looked when we'd walk in Central Park. I still can't go there without feeling you in the wind.
Puck wrote me again. I keep rereading his letters. He's changed, Kurt. He's *really* changed. You'd be proud of him. I think... I think he wants to believe he deserves love now. I think maybe he's learning how.
I miss your voice. I still replay voicemails, even the one where you yelled at me for bleaching my hair. God, you hated that.
I'm trying, Kurt. I really am. Some days are better than others. Some days, I put on your scarf and pretend it still smells like you.
I love you.
Always,
Bliane
*October 28*
*Air Force Training Facility, TX*
*To Blaine Anderson*
Blaine,
I'm writing this one on the floor of a bunkhouse because someone stole my chair, and I'm not trying to fight someone with 40 pounds on me.
I started talking to a kid here named Josh. He's only 19 and has already gone through more hell than most people twice his age. But he's strong. He reminds me of Tracy. Do you ever think about her? Sometimes, I feel like we all failed her by losing Kurt.
I've been going to chapel services on Sundays. Not for God, exactly—but for peace. There's something about people singing together, even bad singers, that makes the world hurt less.
I got your last letter. And yeah, I still write Kurt, too. I just don't call it that out loud.
When I graduate, I want a real meal. You, me, Rachel, Burt, Carole, even Coach Beiste if she can fly out. I want to sit around a table and feel like I belong.
You still belong, too. Don't forget that.
- Puck
November 3
Blaine's Apartment, NYC
Journal Entry #12: Letter to Kurt
Kurt,
It's cold tonight. I pulled out your old sweater. The blue one with the elbow patches. I swear I felt your arms around me for a second. Maybe I imagined it. Or maybe… maybe you're still here.
Puck says he found a chapel group that sings. Can you believe that? He sings hymns now. Not for a solo. Not for applause. Just because it gives him peace. I cried when I read it.
Sometimes I wish I had gone with you. But then I get a letter like that and remember—you'd want us all to live. To fight for good. To sing and cry and *be*.
I haven't dated anyone in a while. No one feels right. But I did meet a guy who knew who you were. Said he watched our old Warbler videos in high school. That made me smile.
Your legacy is still alive, babe.
I love you,
Blaine
November 8
Washington, D.C.
Burt sat at his desk, thumbing through a folder labeled Veteran Mental Health Support Initiative. Next to it was Noah's latest letter. He hadn't told anyone, but every time he read one, he cried. Quietly. The way he used to cry when Kurt was sick as a baby, his fever burning and his tiny fingers grasping at nothing in the air.
Noah was the son he never expected—but now couldn't imagine life without him.
And Blaine? Blaine was still family, too. No matter how far New York felt.
He reached for his phone and texted them both the same message:
"Thinking of you boys tonight. I'm proud. Always."
Chapter 2 will be up soon.
