Authors' notes: This is a collaboration fic of JWM and deliriumbubbles. (please visit tumblr for our respective blogs)

We started this fic after discussions about the spoilers for 'Bash' and our suspicions that Glee would handle the plot badly and leave no on-screen time for Kurt to come to terms with the attack. This fic is not for Blaine/Klaine fans.

Notes to chapter 1: We began writing prior to "New Directions," and thus before canon!Blaine was accepted into NYADA; we found it a lot more likely if he was rejected. So consider this functionally AU. Ch 1 deals explicitly with the bashing; please heed the warnings.

Warnings: assault, homophobic slurs, violence, dub-con, depression.

CHAPTER ONE

KURT

"I'm just saying that maybe you shouldn't sing at the Spotlight diner all night, every night!" Kurt sounded exasperated. It had been a long night, and it had felt even longer during Blaine's 15 minute Roxy Music medley. The people in Kurt's section had been especially annoyed, and expressed their displeasure by emptying a ketchup bottle on their table and writing rude messages in it. (They also left without leaving a tip).

"That's easy for you to say, Kurt," Blaine replied. "You get to sing at school every day! You have no idea what it's like living in the city of Broadway without any creative outlet!"

Kurt didn't bother correcting him. He didn't sing at NYADA every day. He had a lot of other classes; dance, theatre, musical theory…but mentioning that to Blaine would fall on deaf ears. So would reminding him that he, too, had lived in New York without a place at NYADA (or a job as a singing waiter). At this point, Blaine just wanted to be pitied, not contradicted. But after their long shift at the diner, Kurt wasn't in the mood to humour him.

"Well, you don't want us to get fired, do you?" he argued. "Gunther is enough on our case as it is. He says people tip better when the girls sing."

Blaine rolled his eyes. "That's because he makes them get up on the bar in those short skirts! It's so cheap!"

Kurt sighed as he followed Blaine towards the subway. "It's what the people want. Sometimes you just have to accept that."

"Is that what they teach you at NYADA?" Blaine volleyed back. "Give the people what they want even if it means selling yourself? Then maybe it's a good thing I didn't get in."

Kurt halted. Something had snapped inside of him. "Look, Blaine - I get that you're upset about getting rejected. Trust me, I know what it feels like. But you have to stop bringing it up every time we disagree on something like it's my fault!" he said angrily, ignoring the looks of the people passing by.

Blaine made a face. "Oh, I'm sorry, I thought we agreed to talk about the things that bother us, but clearly that only goes one way," he replied sarcastically. "I guess it's okay for you to bring up the cheating every chance you get, or complain to me how its such hard work answering Isabelle's phone, but you want me to shut up about something thatreally impacted my life."

Kurt started to object, but Blaine continued. "Why don't I just quit my job at the Spotlight diner and sit at home in the apartment when you're off to work? Shall I cook and clean, too?"

Kurt's jaw dropped. Now Blaine was going too far. "You haven't cleaned anything since you moved in!" he protested. "I'm always picking up after you; you leave your shoes everywhere, you use up all the towels in the bathroom, and I have to wash our sheets every second day because you refuse to wash your hair before coming to bed!"

Blaine looked outraged. "You know what?" he said, throwing his hands in the air dramatically as a sign of resignation, "Whatever. You know how insecure I am about my hair, and for you to bring it up during a fight, I just- I can't. Let's just go home." He turned away and started walking. Kurt had no choice but to follow if he didn't want to stand there by himself.

Kurt didn't have much motivation to catch up with him, though. They could probably both use a few moments to cool. Talking to Blaine when he was like this never seemed to resolve anything.

Kurt rolled his shoulders back, trying to relieve the tension there. It felt like he was being gnawed on between the shoulder blades by a little gremlin born of dance class, tedious customers, and trying to avoid fights with his fiancé. As he reached back to massage his right shoulder, his ears perked at sounds too familiar.

Deep threatening voices. A distraught, "Stop!"

Kurt's body went rigid. On impulse, he turned and sprinted toward the sound of the voices, which were rapidly getting louder and more frantic.

"Shuddup, faggot!"

"Get off me, fucker!"

A guttural wail launched into the air.

Kurt followed the sound into an alleyway. The figures came into view. Three large men towered over a small mocha-skinned drag queen with smeared black eye makeup and her wig askew on her head. One of the men was clutching his crotch. In an instant, Kurt surmised that she'd dug her heel into him. The injured man swooped down and grabbed her around the neck, and Kurt just knew he would never let her go.

Vaguely, he heard Blaine calling to him. Kurt spared a glance backward, where Blaine was hissing, "Stop! Get back here!"

Kurt ignored it and sprung forward at full speed.

"Don't, Kurt! You can't do anything!"

There was no time. No one else would get here before it was too late.

"Hey! Assholes! Pick on someone your own size!" Okay, granted, Kurt was nowhere near their size, but he bellowed for all he was worth.

It only took moments for the two other men to round on him. One was tall and muscular, the other short and heavy-set, but both looked equally threatening. Kurt set his jaw and widened his stance. He'd never successfully fended off an attack before. In high school, he mostly hadn't tried, since he would have been punished along with his attacker, and meeting their aggressions tended to only make things worse.

The stakes were higher now.

"Get. Off. Her," Kurt ordered.

His posturing was met with laughter. As the men approached, Kurt lifted onto his toes, arching his back, and in a swift, graceful arc, kicked his leg up. His boot connected with the big brute's unshaven chin. The man was just as surprised as Kurt that his blow actually landed, and the jolt of meeting resisting flesh under his heel nearly toppled Kurt over. Years of muscle memory from high kicks in dance class helped him keep his balance, and when the man stumbled back into his friend, Kurt scurried over to the little drag queen. The third man had released her neck and dropped her to the ground. He looked up at Kurt, a sneer on his lips.

"Are you fucking kidding me, faggot? Are you fucking kidding me?! Do you think you're a fucking ninja or something?" His victim moved to get up and received a hard kick to keep her down.

Kurt's eyes went to her. She didn't move. Kurt's heart beat out a swift rhythm in his chest.

The man barrelled toward him. With the other two closing off the exit to the alley, Kurt had nowhere to go. The man's hand enclosed around Kurt's throat, and he threw Kurt against the brick wall of the building. The others advanced as Kurt struggled against the iron grip on his neck. Thoughts flitted half-formed out of his panicked brain.

I'm gonna to die.

…could I see Finn again?

Dad…

And then: No.

His foot came up, once again, and he slammed it into the man's already tender crotch.

Kurt didn't hesitate. The moment his attacker's hold loosened, Kurt dropped down and swung his leg around. The man toppled backward, and Kurt launched himself away from him.

But then, there were the other two, and he was just one slim-figured theatre student. They grabbed his shoulders from behind, keeping out of reach from his kicking legs. They threw him forward against the wall, caught him as he tried to escape, threw him once more. Kurt fell to the ground. Blows rained down on him as he tried to shield himself with his arms. He heard a breathy, strangled noise to the side of him. If Blaine hadn't called the police immediately, this fierce little fighter who had probably sterilized Mr. Choke-hold was not going to make it.

Kurt might not make it.

He felt dizzy. His arms went limp. The men stopped. They were laughing, but they were done. They scattered under the streetlights like cockroaches as a stray, distant whoop of a police car sounded. Kurt carefully opened his eyes in disbelief, but remained still as a corpse. His eyes followed the sight of their weathered shoes hurrying away.

Kurt didn't understand. What had been the point? What was the point of any of it? His fingertips moved over the tender skin of his neck, and he stared up at the clear summer sky. Where was Blaine? Had he gone off to look for help? It wasn't that late. The streets had been crowded. Other people had to have heard what had been happening. Other people passing by had to have seen.

But there was no one to see now. If anyone cared to.

Kurt shakily began to move. He didn't have the wherewithal to catalogue his aches. He just crawled along the concrete, slowly, toward the crumpled figure near the dumpster. The crawl seemed to take forever, and Kurt's throat burned with every heaving breath. Eventually, he settled by her side.

Her face was so bruised and swollen that Kurt doubted he could identify her even if hehad seen her before tonight. With a gentle touch, he pulled her torn dress closed and pinned her midnight blue wig back in place. Then, he took her hand, her once perfectly groomed nails torn and bloodied (he must have missed the slashing she'd given one of the men), and gave the cold fingers a squeeze. Years of feeling so isolated and helpless himself, and Kurt simply couldn't bear the thought of her thinking no one was there to hold her hand.

After a few beats, she squeezed back, faintly.

"We're gonna be alright," Kurt said. Or rather, croaked. "Of all the times for my voice to finally break."

She made a funny wheezing sound. Laughing. Kurt lay down, feeling spent. Feeling more bone-weary than he ever had in his life. He knew he would have to get up. He needed todo something, but his instinct kept him there by her side.

Kurt felt it as her hand finally went slack. Her laboured breaths ceased. But he still couldn't move.

BLAINE

Blaine listened closely and made a face when he no longer heard Kurt's footsteps behind him. He took a deep breath and sighed audibly, putting his hands in his sides as he waited for Kurt to see reason. He didn't understand why Kurt had to let out his frustration about his bad day on him. All he had done was try to cheer people up at the diner!

What was taking so long? Blaine turned around at his fiancé and was just about to tell him to get over himself, when Kurt walked into a side street. Blaine frowned and followed at a distance. He froze when he saw what Kurt was walking into. He was going to break up a fight? Kurt?

Immediately, Blaine called out for him to come back. It was too dangerous- and most of all, it wasn't their problem. Kurt ignored him. Blaine called him again, reminding him that it was pointless. What could he possibly do? Kurt might be taller than Blaine, but he was a lightweight, really. Blaine was the fighter of the two of them, the one who founded the Dalton Fight Club, who could hold his own among the guys. What chance did Kurt have against those men?

But Kurt threw himself into the fray, bringing attention to himself by calling out, and as two of the men rounded on him, Blaine panicked and jumped out of sight. With his back pressed against the wall, he listened. What was happening? He didn't dare to look. He heard the men shout, followed by the dull noise of blows and kicks against something solid. They're killing him, Blaine thought, feeling himself panic. Tears began to well up in his eyes. He tried to make himself move, but it was like he was frozen to the cold stone behind him.

I have to do something!

He searched the street for someone to help, but everyone seemed intent on ignoring him. Cars were driving by, but they were too fast for him to stop. Finally, he remembered to pull out his phone and call 911. After describing the situation, the woman on the line told him to stay put and wait for the police, which comforted Blaine a little. They didn't expect him to fight. He slowly sank to the ground and sat there, trying to block off the sounds coming from the alley.

Blaine wasn't sure how long it took. After a while, he heard sirens, and he wasn't the only one. Three men came running from the alley and spread in three different directions. Blaine saw one flash past him, walking at an uneven, strange trot like he was in pain. Blaine pressed himself closer against the wall, terrified that the man might see him. He was a witness - what if the guy was carrying a weapon? The sirens began to grow louder. Then cars were slowing down and driving to the side to make room, and people were (finally) stopping to look. Why were the police taking so long? Were they looking for a fucking parking spot? With his eyes closed tightly, Blaine tried to hear any sounds from the alley, but heard nothing.

After what seemed like forever, uniformed men came towards him on the street. Blaine rose to his feet and held up a shaking hand, still clutching his phone, to signal that he was the one who called. He pointed wordlessly at the alley. They hurried past him, and finally, Blaine remembered how to use his legs. He followed them slowly, reluctant to see the damage the blows he had listened to had done.

What he saw almost made him sick. Two people lay on the ground; one of them was Kurt. He wasn't moving. There was blood on his face, and his eyes were closed.

"Kurt!" Blaine called out. He propelled himself towards his fiancé, but an officer blocked his way before he could reach him. "Kurt!" Blaine repeated his name again and again, struggling against the tall man restraining him. Another officer was requesting an ambulance. He could hear them say that Kurt was alive, and stopped fighting. Kurt was alive. He would be okay.

KURT

Kurt woke up to the sound of a familiar (and quite angry) voice. "What do you mean, I'm not family? I am his fiancé!"

Kurt frowned. His head hurt, and every breath he took burned like someone had poured boiling water down his throat. His limbs felt heavier than they should, and there was a warm pressure on his ankle. Kurt wrenched his eyes open and saw his dad, his big hand clasped around his leg.

Burt smiled at him through red-rimmed eyes. "Hey buddy," he said, his voice a little rough. Before he could say anything else, Blaine entered, holding a bouquet of yellow and red roses and looking livid.

"They wouldn't let me through, can you believe that?" he said to Burt. "I mean, I was the one who called the police! I was worried sick and they- oh. Kurt! You're awake!"

Kurt nodded carefully and swallowed. He tried to speak, but no words came out. As he wanted to give it another try, Burt shook his head.

"The doc said it's better if you don't talk for a bit, son," Burt said. "You have some bruising on the muscles in your, uh…voice box-"

"Larynx?" Blaine supplied.

"Yeah, that," Burt agreed, not reacting to the boy's patronising tone. "But it's okay, it's all gonna go away in a couple of days. You'll be fine, you hear me?"

Kurt, who had been feeling like a hand had gripped his throat again at the mention of his vocal chords, choking him up with the fear of losing the one thing that made him unique, let out a sob of relief. If his dad said he was going to be okay, he would be. He looked up at Blaine. His fiancé looked ready to cry.

"Why did you have to go and play the hero, Kurt?" he asked softly. "I almost lost you."

Kurt swallowed again and forced a small smile onto his lips. "Didn't you- tell me to have … courage?" he whispered, his eyes watering from the pain in his throat. He didn't blame Blaine for being too scared to act – not with his past – but to Kurt, ignoring the cries for help had never been an option.

"Did- did she make it?" he whispered, against all hope. He had lost all track of time after the attack. When had the ambulance come? Maybe, with CPR… He looked from Blaine to his dad, but knew the answer before either of them spoke. Burt's lips pressed together in a thin line and he shook his head.

Tears started rolling down Kurt's face. He tried to remember her laugh. He didn't even know her name, and now she was gone.

"I think I want to sleep now," he said.

"I'll stay," Blaine said immediately, but Burt, who had been looking at Kurt's face the entire time, got up and put a hand on his shoulder.

"Let's go, kid. Your boyfriend needs his rest."

Blaine gave Kurt a sad look and put the flowers down on the cart next to his bed. Kurt closed his eyes, trying to banish all thoughts.

In the following hours, Kurt slept as much as he could. Sleep was easy; easier than having to see the expressions on his dad's face every time he looked at him, and mucheasier than thinking about what had happened. Three grown men had taken a person's life - and laughed about it. They would have taken his too, had the police sirens not frightened them off. Kurt could not escape that fact. Every painful breath he took reminded him of the hands on his throat and the knowledge that he was only alive because they had stopped. His life had literally been in their hands.

Every waking moment, Kurt's mind was going in circles, asking the same questions. How could anyone do something like that? What was so terribly wrong about their victim that made them feel like she deserved it? The worst thing was that Kurt knew the answers. People like them, who were different, who refused to live life the way others wanted them to, were always going to be targets. Life wasn't safe for them; it wasn't safe for Kurt in school, and just as he thought he had found a place out in the 'real world' that accepted him, it turned out his high school bullies were out there too- just older and stronger. More dangerous.

It was this feeling of helplessness, of utter lack of control, that Kurt wanted to run away from. He slept, aided by the painkillers, and when he couldn't sleep any more, he pretended to, keeping his eyes closed. He knew he couldn't keep it up forever, but he tried to hold on to it as long as he could. When his dad tried to wake him, telling him his friends had come to see him, Kurt turned away. He didn't want them to see him like this, battered, unable to speak, with unwashed hair and hospital clothes. Soon, he told himself, soon I will go home and reassure everyone that I'm okay. I will be Kurt Hummel again, strong, unbreakable. I just need more time.

The only one he did not want to hide from was Blaine. It helped knowing that he had gone through the same thing. Kurt felt he didn't have to hide his feelings in front of him, so as soon as his voice allowed it, he told him everything. Blaine listened quietly. Kurt could tell it was making him uneasy, but to his credit, he never told Kurt to stop. It helped to have someone to talk to, but it wasn't easy to find moments that Burt wasn't there. Kurt's father stayed with him almost permanently, leaving his bedside only to get some food during the day and to sleep and change at his hotel. Kurt was glad when the doctor told him he no longer needed supervision for internal bleeding and was free to go home. Burt apparently felt the same way.

"I can't wait to get out of here," he said happily, holding out Kurt's shirt so he could slip into the sleeves. "After three days of this hospital's cafeteria food, I really need a burger or something."

Kurt rolled his eyes. "What you need is Carole's cooking," he countered. He shrugged on the shirt, sighing at how normal it made him feel after wearing a hideous hospital gown for days. He tried to button it up with one hand. The fingers of his other hand were splinted and useless. After a moment of fumbling, he gave up and let Burt help him. So much for normal. He couldn't even dress himself! But Blaine lived at the loft now, so Kurt wouldn't be alone.

"It's time you go back to Lima," he reminded Burt. "You already missed one session of your counseling." Thursdays were the days Burt and Carole went to a couples' grief therapy.

Burt made a face. Kurt knew he didn't think very highly of therapy and was only going along to the sessions with Carole to support her, but it was important. It didn't bring Finn back, but it gave the both of them the opportunity to talk about him and the pain of missing him.

"It's important to her," Kurt added. "And I think it's good for you, too. A lot of couples break up after the loss of a child."

"You're my son. I need to be here," Burt replied gruffly, avoiding Kurt's eyes.

"She's your wife, and she needs you too. I have Blaine, remember?" Kurt said.

Burt sighed and looked at his son. "I guess you're right, but I just- …I'm sorry, but…you were with Blaine when this happened." He gestured at the bruises on Kurt's face.

Kurt schooled his features into a neutral expression. "I don't blame him for what happened, dad. I blame the guys who actually beat me up."

"Yeah, but-" Burt stopped as Blaine entered the hospital room, pushing a wheelchair.

"I can walk," Kurt said immediately. He might have a useless hand, but he wasn't a complete invalid.

"It's standard procedure apparently," Blaine said. "Come on, it's just to the parking lot. I'll push you."

Kurt took a deep breath and walked to the chair. His head spun a little, but he held his chin up. "I did a dance routine in a wheelchair, Blaine. If I can rock the boat, I can get myself to the parking lot." He sat down and smiled at his dad. "I'll be fine. Promise me you'll fly back to Ohio today."

"I will call you every day," his dad countered. "Twice."

Kurt nodded. He could keep himself together for a couple of calls. And with his dad taken care of, once Kurt was back in his own place, wearing his own clothes, with his friends around him, everything would be easier. He would be able to start putting himself back together. He could be himself again, and work on grieving the person he'd lost in the alley.