Foundation

Summary: Kurt gets a call in the middle of the night from Blaine, who's been in a car accident. The entire night scares about three years off of Kurt's life and he doesn't regret a thing.

Disclaimer: Ahahahahahaha. I don't own Glee and I definitely don't own Sting. Totally wish I did, though.

foun·da·tion

noun /founˈdāSHən/
foundations, plural

1. The lowest load-bearing part of a building, typically below ground level

2. A body or ground on which other parts rest or are overlaid

3. A cream or powder used as a base to even out facial skin tone before applying other cosmetics

4. An underlying basis or principle for something

5. Justification or reason

6. The action of establishing an institution or organization on a permanent basis, esp. with an endowment

'Last Friday night, yeah we danced on tabletops and we took too many shots, think we kissed but I forgot-'

"Nrrrgh don't do it, Cloud, Sephiroth's no good for you. Bitch's crazy. Stick with Tifa," Kurt grumbled resolutely into his phone, still halfway in that dream haze where you didn't quite know which world you were in this time. He didn't bother to check and see that the clock read 1:24 a.m.; early was early and by the complete lack of sun shining in through his window, it was definitely early.

"Uh, Kurt?"

The tiniest of tremors in Blaine's voice jolted Kurt out of his (admittedly) scandalous FFVII dream. He fumbled with his blanket and sat up, eyes adjusting to the darkness of his bedroom.

"B-Blaine?" he asked, "What's up? It's—" he paused to check the clock and flinched, "Almost half past one in the morning."

"Yeah, um… I'm really sorry for calling like this, I just- I j-just—"

"Whoa, whoa, slow down. My brain caught none of that," Kurt interrupted, "What's going on?"

"You're gonna be so pissed at me-"

The stammer got even worse and Kurt felt something sick stir in his stomach.

"I don't care," he snapped, hating the feeling of fear that had crept into his voice, "Tell me what's going on right now, Blaine Anderson. Right now."

"I went out with a few people tonight, Trevor and Josh and Danny." Oh god, he sounded like he was going to cry. "They left, though. With other people. So I drove home. Tried to. I'm on the interstate right now, someone ran me off the road and my car's not going anywhere and I couldn't get a hold of my parents and no one's picking up and I'm sorry-" Now he was definitely crying, Kurt could hear the telltale sound of suppressed sobs and if he hadn't already been slipping on his shoes and grabbing his keys off his side table, that would have been all it took.

"Are you hurt?" Kurt tried to keep his voice steady because Blaine was panicking and he didn't want to make it worse. Horrible images and thoughts were going through his head; he could be bleeding, he could have a head injury, he could be holding in his own intestines as he spoke—

"N-no. Some scrapes, but nothing really serious."

Kurt may as well be flying. He didn't bother to be quiet as he exited his house after scrawling a haphazard note to leave where his father would find it, and he didn't bother to be quiet with the front door, and he certainly didn't bother to be quiet when he slid into the driver's seat of his own car.

"Blaine, you need to tell me where you are on the interstate, I'm coming to get you. I'm in my car right now."

All he could hear were shuddering breaths.

"Honey, you need to talk to me," the endearment slipped out without notice, "Okay? Tell me where you are. It's going to be okay, but I need to know where you are."

"Please don't hang up on me."

"I'm not going to hang up on you, sweetie. I'll talk to you the whole way. But first, you need to tell me where you are so I know where to go."

Kurt could just barely make out the exit name and general area from Blaine's jumbled answer. His hands trembled on the steering wheel and he couldn't help but be slightly relieved that it was so ungodly early; he'd definitely be pulled over for speeding if any cops saw him.

Blaine couldn't talk; he'd dissolved into tears outright but it was enough for Kurt to hear him on the other line. It didn't matter that he said he wasn't hurt, he was terrified for him and listening to him cry and trying to calm him down was better than the alternative: ominous silence and the knowledge that he was driving to the hospital instead of to the scene of a car crash.

"In the quiet time of evening," Kurt sang quietly, shakily into the receiver of his phone, "When the stars assume their patterns and the day has made his journey and we wonder just what happened…" A rough, shuddering cry was his only reply and he continued, as much for his own sake as for Blaine's, "To the life we knew before the world changed when not a thing I had was true. But you were kind to me and you reminded me that the world is not my playground."

The streets flew by faster than he'd ever driven them.

For once, Kurt was grateful that Lima was so small and that he'd grown up here because he didn't have to think to find his way. He didn't know if he could have stood to stand wasting those extra, precious seconds.

There was quiet on the other end of the line.

"Blaine? You still with me?" he asked, half-slipping into panic again until he heard a low,

"Yeah, I'm here. Could you… could you keep singing? Please? I love that movie."

Kurt couldn't help but smile at that.

"I'm not as clever as I thought I was," he sang, voice gentle and soft and lilting, "I'm not the boy I used to be because you showed me something different, you showed me something pure. I always seemed so certain but I was really never sure. But you stayed and you called my name when others would have walked out on a lousy game…"

Kurt sang the whole way.

He sang Disney, Broadway, Top 40. He sang swing and classic rock and indie pop and dipped his feet into country. Blaine didn't sing along, staying silent until Kurt had to stop and ask if he was still there. He sang until his voice broke and slipped, but he didn't go quiet for any longer than it took to pick another song.

He sang about strip clubs and songbirds, of black cats and the letters of love and broken hallelujahs.

Two hours later, Kurt slowed the car and rolled down the window.

"I think I'm close… can't see a damned thing. Where—oh, I think I see you!" Kurt exclaimed, speeding up and pulling over. The phone connection was closed with a click and the second the car rolled to a stop, the chestnut-haired boy wrenched his keys out of the ignition and flung the door open only to hit the back of the seat again from the force of someone throwing himself at him.

It didn't take longer than half a second for Kurt to register that yeah, that was Blaine clinging onto him like an oversized limpet and not some ax-murdering street hobo, and to react accordingly. Mainly by hugging him back just as tightly, nuzzling his nose into dark, disheveled curls.

"Thank everything you're alright," he breathed, emphasizing his words with a squeeze. He ran a hand up Blaine's bare arm, only to freeze when his fingers came away wet. "Pull back a second," he demanded shakily and reached up to pop the overhead light. "Oh my god… some scrapes, Blaine?" The other boy's arms were a bloody mess, as were his palms, and Kurt could see a red underneath the rip in the collar of his shirt. "This is not some scrapes, you're bleeding everywhere—"

Blaine recoiled as if he'd been smacked, catching sight of his hands as if for the first time.

"Oh my god, I got blood all over you. I'm so sorry, your pajamas are ruined—"

"To hell with my pj's, I'm worried about you!" Kurt interrupted, reaching out and pulling him close again, this time mindful of the injuries, all too aware of the bloody hands that immediately tangled in his collar again, "Do I need to take you to the hospital? Some of these look pretty bad."

Face in the nape of his neck, Blaine shook his head.

Kurt wanted to protest, to ignore his wishes and drive straight to the hospital.

But the closest hospital was about the same distance as Kurt's house. Dalton was even further away. He wanted to ask what the hell Blaine had even been doing this far away at night, but eventually figured that there would be plenty of time to ask when they were both calmer and a little less high on relief.

"I don't know how I feel about leaving those uncleaned for the drive back, though. It's a long way, and infection can be fast. I've got some bottled water in the back that we can use to get some of the grit out. Hop off for a second."

Blaine was the one who protested this time, opening his mouth to say something only to shut it when he caught sight of the steely expression on Kurt's face. That look was one that said that he wouldn't give, the one he got in that last confrontation with Dave Karofsky, and one that Blaine could probably bet that he had every time someone tossed him in the dumpster.

Damn.

"Hold still."

Kurt's orders were law right then and Blaine endured the sting of water on raw, ripped skin with an open flinch, before accepting the jacket that Finn had left in the backseat. Kurt patted the passenger seat next to him and Blaine slipped inside the car, closing the door with a resolute thunk.

"What am I going to do? My car's a mess, and we can't just leave it there-"

His voice broke off when Kurt leaned over and hugged him again.

"The car's not going anywhere until tomorrow. We'll deal with it then. Right now, I'm going to drive you back to my place, clean you up, and get some sleep. And then we'll probably get the mother of all lectures from my father. We've got a long drive back, though, so get comfortable," Kurt told him firmly. His voice was steady but his hands still held just the slightest tremble, and he went white-knuckled on the wheel in order to quell them.

It was okay. It was okay.

So why couldn't he calm the hell down?

Blaine fell asleep about halfway back and Kurt didn't know how. He had to be in pain and his face was still pale and anxious, but he supposed that he needed all the sleep he could get at this point. Sleeping felt so far away and Kurt didn't sing this time because he didn't think his voice could handle it and he'd need to save for when he needed to defend himself to his father.

He didn't look at the clock again until he was pulling into his all too familiar driveway.

6:07.

Blaine was slumped over against the window, drowning in Finn's jacket, and Kurt had to force himself to reach out and gently shake him awake.

"Blaine, honey, you need to wake up. We're here," He said quietly. The other boy stirred slowly and reached up to rub his eyes, flinching at the sudden pain the movements brought. Kurt flinched with him. "Come on. I doubt anyone's awake yet."

"If moving's this hard, I don't want to think about how much cleaning these is going to hurt. Sure we can't leave the grit in?"

"Not a chance in hell," Kurt retorted without half a thought, unlocking the front door with a silent turn of the key. Now that he cared about being quiet everything seemed so much louder, as if every tiny noise was going to bring the house down. "Come on, bathroom's this way. Shirt off."

Normally, Blaine being shirtless in front of him would have made something jump and tighten somewhere around Kurt's stomach. It did now as well but for a completely different reason; the fluorescent lighting did nothing good for anyone but looked especially bad on Blaine and made his injuries look even worse, no longer bleeding but keeping a sluggish coating of congealed blood that no longer dripped.

His shirt went in the trash.

Sitting on the lid of the toilet, Blaine fidgeted ceaselessly, watching anxiously as Kurt gathered up antiseptic and bandages and Neosporin. He filled the bathtub partially with warm water and sat on the edge of it, knowing that he'd be throwing away these pajamas the first chance he could get.

"You want me to do it, or can you do it yourself?" Kurt asked.

Blaine fixed him with what might have been the weirdest expression he'd ever seen in his life.

"I…could. But could you, anyway? It's supposed to hurt and I'm no good with stuff like that. You know… the causing myself physical agony part of it."

Kurt scowled at him but shrugged anyway. Blaine extended his left arm to him and Kurt reached down to swish the cloth in the water.

"You punch me while I'm doing this, I deck you right back. Got that?"

And if that wasn't the worst and most transparent lie he'd ever told in his life, Kurt didn't know what was. Nevertheless, the statement startled a laugh out of Blaine and that was worth the lie.

Blaine hissed and tried to wrench his arm away the second it touched him but Kurt had a grip of steel and a glare to match.

"Stop your squirming, the less you fight with me, the faster it'll be."

"It hurts-!"

"Yeah, no duh. That's why I'm trying to get it done. I don't like hurting you, you know. Now hold still and quit making this harder, you're going to wake Dad up." Blaine stilled at that thought. Burt Hummel on a Saturday morning, being woken up before the sun was out by his gay son and his shirtless, also-gay-and-kind-of-beat-up not-boyfriend at all, yelling at each other in the bathroom.

Because that would totally go well.

He forced himself to sit still through every agonizing second of water and pressure rinsing out every speck of dirt until his skin was pink (and still shredded) but clean, and the bottom of the tub contained a very fine layer of particulate. Lovely.

Blaine noticed right away that the bottle Kurt was holding was not the standard Bactine. Kurt noticed his look and scowled, swishing the hydrogen peroxide around inside that brown plastic bottle in a manner that said quite plainly, This is happening. Make my life difficult and I will have my revenge. Blaine glared and flinched and tried to fight back the tears that welled up when the liquid touched the scrapes, stinging and fizzing.

Kurt saved the scrape across his neck and shoulder for last.

With a single warning look, he ducked in and pressed the soaking cloth firmly to the injury. Blaine couldn't control the pained yelp that came flying from his throat and dropped his face into the crook of Kurt's shoulder.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," Kurt murmured lowly, pulling his free arm around Blaine's shoulders, "I'm sorry."

And then he was done, Blaine's arms wrapped and bandaged carefully.

Unable to help himself, Kurt yawned widely and covered his mouth with a grimace. Hazel eyes stared him down apologetically from atop the toilet. Kurt shook his head before Blaine could say a thing.

"Not one word about how you're sorry. Not one."

Blaine might have retorted that that was quite a high order coming from someone who'd done his fair share in the last few hours but thought better of it in the end. Kurt had the beginnings of dark circles under his eyes and it wasn't a battle worth fighting. Really.

"Come on, then. Might as well eat something," Kurt said finally and Blaine didn't so much hear his words as he did his voice, still a little raw from singing to him.

He followed him anyway.

Blaine had just fallen asleep on the kitchen table halfway through his scrambled eggs when Kurt heard the telltale sound of a bedroom door opening and he realized far too late that he hadn't removed the note he'd written hours previously. A stupid thing to forget, as Burt Hummel's panic was palpable even from this distance.

His face proved it when he ducked his head into the kitchen, worried and half-vibrating with tension.

"Morning, Dad."

"Kurt, what the hell's going on? I thought I heard something weird happening this morning, but—" wordless, he waved the hastily written note in front of him. Kurt tried to smile apologetically but it didn't work and he knew it just from the look on Burt's face. "Oh, no. You don't get to do that thing where you freak out and smile the whole time. Especially not when you leave me a note that says 'Blaine, car accident, going to get him.' Not a chance."

The man's eyes traveled from Kurt standing in front of the stove preparing the makings of pancakes to Blaine, passed out with his head on the table.

"C'mere, kid. Talk to me in the hall."

Kurt allowed himself to be pulled from the kitchen and was almost immediately tugged into a firm hug. He breathed deeply into Burt's shoulder, soaking up the familiar feeling and the familiar scent and despite that all the excitement was essentially over and done with, he couldn't help but feel better now that he wasn't alone with it.

"It's been a long night," Kurt muttered shakily, "A really, really long night." To his horror, the beginnings of tears were starting to gather in the corners of his eyes and he tried to blink them away. "Just…we're okay. Somehow. I don't know quite how, but we are."

Burt's face softened and squeezed his son just a little bit tighter.

"Okay," he said finally. "Tell me over breakfast."

Kurt's entire bearing seemed just a little more relaxed when he re-entered the kitchen, leaning down and shaking Blaine's shoulder.

"Hey, wake up. Unless you want me eating your share of pancakes."

Blaine grumbled into his folded arms.

"You didn't call me honey this time…" he grouched sleepily and Kurt had to cover his mouth to keep from laughing at the look on Burt's face.

"That's what you take from that, out of all things?" he asked, unabashedly amused, only to go scarlet when Blaine replied with,

"Says the guy who answers his phone to tell Cloud not to hook up with Sephiroth."

"Irrelevant."

"So not."

"I'm surprised you remember what I called you. I didn't."

Lies, lies. Kurt most definitely remembered calling Blaine honey, along with a few other sticky-sweet endearments that he'd been hoping hadn't registered. His luck would never be that good.

Kurt cleared his throat.

"Dad, you said wanted pancakes, right?"

And Blaine shot up in his seat like someone had stuck him with a hot poker, eyes wide and face draining of color when he caught sight of Kurt snickering helplessly over a mixing bowl and Burt looking resigned and vaguely long-suffering.

"Oh god, uh, hi!" Blaine stammered out, slipping back into full-on panic mode. "I mean, good morning. And I'm sorry! And…uh…shit."

Burt rubbed his temples.

"Calm down, I'm not going to eat you," he said gruffly, silencing the boy he was now sitting across the table from, "Pancakes are more my style. You two had better have a hell of a story for me."

Blaine gulped and glanced to Kurt just in time to see the look on his face, soft and sweet and weirdly thankful. Unfortunately, he only got about half a second of that look before Kurt noticed him watching and immediately looked away. He wasn't the only one who'd noticed because Burt had gone from watching Blaine suspiciously to watching Kurt suspiciously, one eyebrow raised.

Blaine stared down at the remainder of his eggs, now cold and completely unappealing. Suddenly, a hand landed on his shoulder from behind and squeezed firmly, and Kurt leaned down, supportive and warm. Blaine's mind jumped immediately to a panicked voice, forcibly calm lyrics sung with the tiniest rasp, and apologies whispered into his neck.

He drew in a breath and looked Burt in the eyes.

Finished! Please leave a review if you liked this, or even if you want to throw me into the sewers to fight the alligators on my way out. Trust me, I'm a Florida girl, I know alligators.