When Burt awakens, Kurt isn't in his arms, and the loss stings.

Burt stands with a protesting crack from his back and calls out for his son.

There's no answer, but the house is pretty big.

Burt tries again from the top of the stairs. Concern laces his voice, but learning that your kid was beaten and raped for months in your own home, the very home he's in now, will do that to you.

"Kitchen!" Burt doesn't realize how worried he'd been until the relief sets in.

Kurt's making cinnamon pancakes: the Hummel Cure-All. Only, instead of stirring the mix, he's beating it into submission. He slams the mixing bowl onto the counter, gracelessly shoves his bangs from his face, and twists the stove knob with enough force to pull the plastic disc right off the appliance.

He just stares at the broken knob in his hand, his lip quivering.

Burt figures "What's wrong?" would be a dumb question, so he settles for taking the plastic piece from his son's fingers and fitting it to the face of the oven.

"I'm sorry."

Burt offers a half-smile, "I think the oven forgives you. Want me to finish these up?" Burt indicates the batter and heated pan.

"Would you?" Kurt sounds so relieved. "I just..."

"Sure thing," Burt picks up the mixing bowl and pours a Mickey Mouse shape into the pan.

When Burt has two stacks plated, buttered, and swimming in maple syrup, he finds Kurt sitting on the living room sofa, staring intently at nothing.

He quietly sets a plate and fork on the coffee table in front of his son and lets him come back to reality in his own time.

Burt sits on the couch next to Kurt and, suddenly finding himself to be starving, goes to town on his short stack. He's halfway through when he hears his son's voice, "We're eating in the living room?"

"Just this once."

"Okay, just don't get syrup on the couch."

Burt would laugh at the parent-child role reversal had that not always been how their relationship worked, and if he actually had the ability to find humor amidst the bleak situation. As it is, Burt just smiles at Kurt being... Kurt.

It turns out Kurt's comment sets up a theme for the day. When Burt returns from putting the dishes in the dishwasher (dishwashers mean you don't have to rinse the dishes first, right?), he expects to find Kurt studying the general area before his face again. Instead, Kurt has a rag in one hand and an orange spray bottle in the other, wiping down the coffee table.

Okay, Burt can keep up. "You need help, Buddy?"

Kurt looks at him incredulously, "You never clean."

Burt fakes indignation, "I do when you ask me to."

Kurt offers a grateful smile at the help, "Do you think you could handle the windows?"

Burt nods and heads for the laundry room for cleaning supplies. As he grabs a rag and blue spray bottle, he notices a white sheet spinning in the washer.

He falters, realizing what sheet that is.

His little boy...

Burt fights to stay strong. He will not fall apart. Kurt needs him. He can wash the damn windows.

The house doesn't need the scrub-down (after all, a particular Kurt Hummel resides there), but the duo has the entire entry level and upstairs shining and tidy and perfect.

Kurt makes no move to enter the basement and Burt decides to follow suit. All in due time.

They bake the late Mrs. Hummel's "Famous" Thai Chicken Caserole for dinner and eat in the dining room generally reserved for Thanksgiving.

Then, Kurt's at it again: scrubbing down the kitchen and polishing the dining room.

Burt decides the cleaning must be therapeutic for his son, so even though he knows the kid must be as exhausted as he is, he lets him do it.

He figures, though, that a distraction is probably in order if he's going to finally get Kurt to relax.

Looking through the DVD collection, he goes straight for the musicals. He loves his son.

Then he hears it: muffled sobbing from the laundry room.

Burt's at the doorway in an instant.

Kurt is on the floor in front of the washing machine, holding his wet sheet. He notices his father, "The stain won't come out."

Burt sees it: the faded redish-brown, his son's blood.

He picks up the sheet and tosses it back in the machine. Kneeling before Kurt, he puts both hands on the kid's shoulders, "We'll get you a new sheet."

Kurt looks unconvinced. He puts his arms over his chest protectively.

Burt realizes that there is a connection between the stain on that sheet and the bruises on his son. Burt hates metaphors. "Hey, Kurt, that sheet is not you. You're healing. In a few weeks, those bruises will be gone."

Kurt just sobs harder.