Blaine had figured a shower would help. He had survived the streets and subway of NYC – had kept his cool even when the woman trapped beside him on the train kept giving him once-overs and slapped his butt when he got off –, he had managed to climb the stairs at home and actually take off his clothes and shower. When he got off, though (only feeling better because he wasn't dirty anymore), Mercedes knocked on his bedroom's door.

"Can I come in?" she asked in a small voice.

If he had slept and not been worried sick for the last ten hours, Blaine probably would have cared to throw in sweatpants and a shirt. However, he only had strength to make sure his towel was secure around his waist before opening the door for her.

"Hey."

"Hey, how are you feeling?" Mercedes asked in a soft voice, and Blaine once again wondered how he looked like. He should probably check himself in a mirror soon.

"I'm better, thank you," he figured it wasn't a lie. He moved backwards so she could enter the room while he dug through his drawers, thinking of what to wear.

"And…" Mercedes sat on the bed and cleared her throat. "Did he… did he wake up?"

"Yeah. He's still in a bit of pain, obviously," Blaine threw a pair of jeans on the bed. "But he's awake and fine." He closed the pants drawer, but held onto the handlers a bit longer. "He's awake and fine," he whispered to himself.

"That's great," Mercedes said in a relieved voice, and Blaine figured she, like all of the others, had probably worried all night long as well. "Thank God." Blaine wasn't sure who he wanted to thank, but anything divine was fine with him, because it still felt like a miracle.

"I… damn it," he cursed as he opened the shirts' drawer. "I forgot to speak to a nurse or a doctor in the morning, so I don't know when he's gonna be discharged. But I'm gonna stop by NYADA to talk to Madam Tibideaux and reschedule mine and Kurt's presentations for the critique, because his is supposed to be tomorrow, which obviously won't work, and then I gotta pick Burt up at the airport and go to the hospital again. Then I'll ask what they know a-and –"

"Breathe, boy," Mercedes had gotten up and was now holding his hands to stop him from wrinkling the shirt he had in hand any more than he'd already done. "You know you don't have to do everything. I'm sure you could call NYADA, and Sam can pick up Burt. If I know you, you haven't slept."

"I can't," he let out a shaky breath and released the shirt. "I'm tired, but I'm not sleepy. I'm fine," he shot her as much of a smile as he could. "I just need to occupy myself."

"Which is different from overextending yourself."

"I'm not, I swear."

Mercedes narrowed her eyes at him, as if she didn't believe a word he said, which was fair, but really wasn't, because Blaine hadn't told a single lie. Well, except from being fine, but staying home and trying to nap wouldn't help with anything, he was sure.

"I'll let you go, on one condition, mister," she added after his sigh of relief the beginning of the sentence had given him, poking his chest. "You're coming home and having lunch with me."

"But I have classes."

"Which you're going to skip because I'm telling you to, okay? You can go back to being mister Broadway baby tomorrow."

Her tone didn't leave room for arguing or negotiation, so Blaine didn't even try, merely nodded and smiled gratefully at her concern. Mercedes patted his arm and started to leave, stopping and turning around when she reached the doorframe.

"Are you sure you don't want Sam to go to the airport? It's pretty far, and he's already out, anyway."

"No," Blaine said decisively. "It's 8:40, I have plenty of time. Burt's plane gets here at 10:28, United Airlines, and he should be leaving any time now and sending me a text." Burt had texted him while he was on the subway with the information.

"That's hardly enough time to go to NYADA and La Guardia, Blaine."

He finally picked a shirt and threw it on the bed as well.

"It's enough time."

"Blaine…"

"I'm fine."

"You need to rest a bit."

"No, Mercedes," he said with finality. "I'll pick him up. Sam already delivered him the news, which I should have done, by the way, but I was too shaken to do it. I can pick up my own father-in-law at the airport, thank you."

Mercedes sighed. "You're too much of a gentleman for your own good, did you know that? You know Burt doesn't care who picks him up. He just wants to see Kurt, and he cares about your health."

But Mercedes didn't get it. Blaine owed it to Burt. It had been bad enough that he hadn't been able to get a grip on himself and actually been the one to call and deliver the news, like he should have, what kind of future son-in-law was he? Kurt had kicked him out of the hospital – granted, to rest, but that was beside the point –, so there was no reason why he couldn't get off his butt and be a responsible adult. Burt didn't put all that trust in him just so Blaine could make Sam handle him in a moment of need. It was a matter of honor, pride, and, like, protocol. Much like a contract of responsibilities he'd socially signed when he'd asked for Kurt's hand in marriage, and Mercedes didn't get it.

"I'll be fine, promise," Blaine tried to reassure her.

Mercedes sighed before leaving and closing the door. Blaine didn't let his subconscious talk to him and tell him that she was right. He simply dressed himself as quickly as he could and tamed his hair in record time. He stopped for a second to look in the mirror and noticed he needed to unfrown his brow. Taking a deep breath, he relaxed his forehead muscles and was satisfied enough to leave, receiving Burt's text as he stepped out the door.

No weird middle-aged women almost harassed him this time on the subway, thankfully, and he didn't bother looking for a seat. One of the perks of living with Mercedes is that the house was in Manhattan, which made commute that much better and faster. He was in NYADA in no time, quickly walking the hallways.

The dean's secretary had apparently been informed to let people just go into her office, although Blaine did bother to knock first on the open door, since Madam Tibideaux had seemed busy by her desk.

"Come in, Mr. Anderson," she said before he could open his mouth and without looking up from the paper she was reading. "I do hope you came to reschedule your Midwinter Critique."

"Uh, yes, Miss Tibideaux," Blaine took a seat in front of her.

"I have openings on Thursday afternoon, four o'clock. I believe that suits you?" She finally looked up at him.

Blaine gaped for a moment, not knowing where to begin. He shook his head and swallowed. "There's also need to reschedule Kurt's presentation, and since his is tomorrow, I figured I could take that spot."

Madam Tibideaux put down her pen. "Why would there be need to change Mr. Hummel's time? Is he too being kept busy by a Broadway musical?"

Blaine didn't know what to gather from that, except from the fact that Rachel had probably come before him with scheduling conflicts, because she always had them. He hadn't talked to her since their failed performance, so he wouldn't know.

"Ah, no, Miss Tibideaux. God, I wish that was it. It's…" Blaine's voice faltered. Explaining to someone else what had happened seemed to make the situation even realer. But she was staring at him with a look that suggested that she didn't have the time, and, frankly, he didn't have the time either, so he took a deep breath and held his shaking hands to his lap, focusing on the desk. "Kurt was walking home alone to the subway last night and heard a gay bashing in an alley, so he went in there to help. The guy who was being attacked ran away when he could, so Kurt got…" Another deep breath. "He got pretty beaten up. He's fine now!" He added, meeting her eyes. "It was only a few bruising, and he'll be on his feet in no time. But he's in the hospital recovering and probably won't be able to make it to his performance tomorrow."

There was silence as Madam Tibideaux rested back against her chair. Her face hadn't changed, didn't show any emotion that Blaine could pinpoint in his own emotional state. She interlaced her fingers on top of her stomach and said, "Very well. I'll schedule his presentation to the last spot we have, on Friday, 6 o'clock. And he's, of course, excused from class for the rest of the week."

"Thank you," Blaine nodded. "And then I can take his spot tomorrow?"

Madam Tibideaux leaned her hand on the desk and eyed him carefully. "Obviously you can, Mr. Anderson, but it's not strictly necessary. Given the circumstances, I can push you to Thursday."

"That's very generous of you, but I think I'll take tomorrow. I already have the song picked and everything."

Blaine wrung his hands together on his lap until he got an accepting nod from the dean, and then he stood to leave. His hands were still shaking the whole – long – subway ride to the La Guardia Airport, and he gripped the metal bars as if his life depended on it. He didn't know why he was still like this, feeling an almost shortness of breath, when he knew that Kurt was perfectly fine.

It's because he could have not been. It's because it can happen again.

Blaine shook his head and tried to focus on his performance for the next day. He was singing Not While I'm Around, definitely. If Madam Tibideaux was looking for emotional connection, this would most certainly deliver. No instruments. Yes, he would sing it in a simple, a capella sound. That would be perfect.

He glanced at his watch. 10:15, crap, he would have to run to reach the right terminal.

It all turned out alright, since Blaine had a couple of seconds to breathe and pull himself together before Burt appeared at the arrivals lounge and greeted him. Blaine immediately took the man's bag from him, ignoring the heavy complaints he got there, and directed them both to grab a taxi, because there was no way he was making Burt take the subway all the way back.

"I got a hotel room, ya know," Burt said once they seated on the back of the taxi and he'd told the driver the address to said hotel. "I know you kids were so packed that you had to split into two apartments."

Blaine gaped. "But that's exactly why we have room for you now. You can stay in my room in Mercedes's apartment, because it's in the city and it's more convenient, and I'll stay with Rachel, no problem. Or if you wanted to stay in Bushwick there's also no problem, really."

"Not gonna convince me, kid."

He would have chuckled at the familiarity of the type of conversation if he could muster enough willpower to do so. It didn't matter, because Burt didn't seem to be in the mood either. He was staring out the window, seemingly deep in thought, and Blaine let him be, concentrating on him not noticing his still shaking hands.

"Sam didn't tell me everything," Burt broke the silence, and Blaine looked up to find him still gazing out the window. "He didn't say that, of course, but I could feel it. He just said that Kurt had gotten beaten up in an alley and taken to the hospital, which is completely plausible." Burt paused and turned to Blaine. "But what's he not telling me?"

"That Kurt went into the alley to help another guy who was being gay bashed and that the guy fled, leaving him alone to deal with the bastards," Blaine answered immediately. And he was usually really good at not using any word that might be offensive or impolite near Burt, but he couldn't find a better one. Actually he could, but it would be a bit too rude.

He waited until the new information sank in, watching as Burt ran a hand along his face, and for a moment Blaine worried about the stress and his heart. He waited for a curse, a comment, a sigh or something, but nothing came, and they remained in silence for most of the ride and traffic.

When they got to the hotel, Burt expressly forbade Blaine from paying for the cab and from carrying his luggage again and sat him in one of the lobby's armchairs while he checked in. It was a lovely armchair, one of those with the tall backs that extended a bit to the sides, and next Blaine remembered he was being shaken awake and raising his head.

"You didn't get rest, did you?" Burt scolded him as he got up.

"I had to stop at NYADA to excuse Kurt from class and reschedule his Midwinter Critique."

"Things easily done if you have a phone."

Blaine didn't answer and got them another taxi to the hospital. He wanted to see Kurt so badly, but knew he should leave him to his dad, so he only stayed long enough to talk to the doctor and find out that they were keeping him overnight due to his possible concussion. Then he asked Burt to tell hi to Kurt for him and that he'd be back late in the afternoon.

He went home, as Mercedes had demanded, and had lunch with her. She said Sam was still out and didn't elaborate, and Blaine didn't bother to ask. After force feeding what she deemed to be enough – "I've seen you devour three cronuts. Don't get easy on my pasta, mister" –, Mercedes shooed him to his bedroom, telling him to rest. His body was responding to the exhaustion of having done what he'd needed to do and to having a delicious home-cooked meal, so Blaine stripped down to his briefs, grabbed Margaret Thatcher Dog, and collapsed on his bed.