Rating: R (for gore/violence/injury)
Pairings/Characters: Kurt/Blaine; New Directions
Spoilers: 3x11, "Michael"
Warnings: blood; severe injury; physical violence; medical squick
Word Count: 2000 this chapter (? overall)
Summary: Instead of a slushy, Sebastian brings a knife. Fill for this prompt on the glee_angst_meme — .
Author's Note: Basically, it gets hairy. And squicky, probably. There's a lot of blood?
Thanks to preciousmellow — for the beta, and for putting up with me :D She's the actual fax best.
The last notes of the song echo around the parking garage, New Directions lined up facing the Warblers. None of them see Sebastian reaching into the waistband of his pants. Kurt’s smirking across the divide, taunting Sebastian. The rest of New Directions is breathing heavily, fairly certain in their victory.
Blaine sees Sebastian’s hand swinging up, the glint of metal. It takes him less than a second to piece together what’s about to happen. Kurt’s standing directly in Sebastian’s line of sight, Sebastian advancing towards him.
Blaine moves before he realizes what he’s doing, planting his hand on Kurt’s chest and shoving his boyfriend away, out of the trajectory of the knife. Sebastian’s hand comes down, ends where Kurt was standing seconds earlier. Blaine catches it instead, high in his right thigh.
Everything happens at once.
Blaine falls, screaming, his hands going straight to his upper thigh.
Sebastian lets go of the knife, stunned.
Kurt drops to his knees, catches Blaine before his head can hit the ground.
Everyone else is yelling, moving, the whole group thrown into chaos.
Luckily, Puck’s quick on his feet, is already connected to 9-1-1, speaking rapidly over the receiver as Mike drops next to Kurt, trying to see what’s wrong. The Warblers leave, slinking away. Several of them look back in shock, terrified, while Santana screams obscenities at them in both Spanish and English, only held back from chasing them by Brittany’s hands around her upper arms.
“The cops will get him,” Finn offers, unable to tear his eyes from Blaine’s form, writhing on the ground. “We have his name, we know where he is.”
“How’s Blaine?” Puck asks, his hand over the mouthpiece of the phone. He’s moved closer to them, face tight with worry as he looks down. Blaine hasn’t stopped screaming, his voice hoarse but laced with pain as he keeps his eyes shut, tears leaking out. “They’ve sent an ambulance, but they need more information.”
Kurt’s hands are shaking, his face white as he rolls Blaine over onto his back with Mike’s help. Blaine’s hands are clenched around his right thigh, already slick with blood and holding onto the knife, still embedded there. Blood is spurting around the knife, pulsing over Blaine’s hands, the handle of the knife, onto the ground. Puck relays this information to the operator, listening intently.
“Don’t take it out!” he cries, effectively stopping Kurt from pulling the knife out. “She says to leave it in, but put pressure on the wound.”
“What do we use?” Kurt asks, his voice high and dripping with barely concealed panic. “I don’t have any cloth-”
“Ireland, your shirt,” Santana cries, already pulling it from Rory’s shoulders without taking off his jacket, her motions desperate and jerky. In the mess of leather, Rory’s wearing the only shirt that will really absorb any of the blood.
They manage to get the shirt off, and Santana tosses it to Mike, who jams it against Blaine’s thigh, pressing down. Blaine cries out, jerks away instinctively, but Mike holds on, keeping pressure and keeping the knife steady.
“He’s lost so much blood already,” Kurt whispers, pulling Blaine’s head into his lap and brushing the curls that have sprung loose off Blaine’s forehead. Blaine whimpers, his screams dying away, and turns his face against Kurt’s leg. Mike places a shaking hand against Blaine’s knee, trying to offer comfort as he keeps pressing on the wound.
“I’m going to kill that prep school douchebag,” Santana hisses, her hands clenched into fists at her side. Brittany’s standing next to her, reaches for her hand. Everyone’s visibly afraid, Rachel and Tina crying, the whole club clustered around Blaine. Puck steps back again, speaking rapidly into the phone. His voice rises and falls as he argues with the operator, before coming back.
“The ambulance is on its way, and she’s sending the cops, too. She says to just keep pressure, don’t let go. And leave the knife. How’s he doing?”
Puck drops to the floor next to Mike, who looks up, shakes his head. Puck curses quietly, squeezing Blaine’s ankle.
“Hang in there, Anderson. No one said you could leave us one short for Regionals, okay?”
Blaine chokes out a noise halfway between a laugh and a groan, and kicks his uninjured leg, reflexively trying to curl around the pain. Kurt quiets him, stroking gently along his cheekbone.
“Blaine, honey, stay still, okay? Help is coming, they’re coming to help. You just gotta-you gotta hang in there. Blaine, stay awake, baby, okay? Stay awake.”
Blaine’s blinking sluggishly the longer they stay on the floor, and it’s clearly hard for him to keep his eyes open. His complexion is ashen, his lips dry, and he reaches a hand up to Kurt’s face. His fingers are shaking, covered in blood.
“No,” Kurt chokes out, grasping the intention behind Blaine’s motion. “You’re not saying goodbye. Not now, Blaine. You’re going to be fine.”
“Blaine, please,” Kurt begs, tears welling in his eyes as he takes Blaine’s hand, entwines their fingers. “Please don’t do this.”
“It hurts so bad,” Blaine whispers, closing his eyes as Mike adjusts his grip, presses harder. “God, Kurt, it hurts.”
“I know, baby,” Kurt soothes, running his hand along Blaine’s shoulder, crying in earnest now. “I know. Help’s coming.”
He looks down towards Blaine’s legs, nearly gags when he finally sees everything.
There’s blood pooled underneath Blaine, soaking Rory’s shirt, painted up Mike’s arms. Enough of it has spurted from the wound that Mike’s shirt is spattered, and Kurt’s terrified.
How much blood can Blaine afford to loose?
“It’s not stopping,” Mike whispers, his hands slippery with Blaine’s blood. He doesn’t let go, just keeps holding on. “He needs help now, where are they?”
“‘don feel good,” Blaine mumbles against Kurt’s pants, turning his head. “Kurt-”
Kurt slides away just in time, bracing Blaine on his side as best he can. Mike follows, keeping his grip on Blaine’s leg, and Blaine vomits repeatedly, crying and shivering in Kurt’s arms. When his retching subsides, they roll him back gently, Kurt stroking along his cheek.
“Blaine? Blaine, honey, come on! Blaine!”
“Why aren’t they here yet?”
Everyone’s shouting, but Kurt’s world zeroes onto Blaine’s slack face. Blaine’s eyes are closed, his lashes stark against his too-pale skin.
Kurt’s ears are roaring, everyone around him shouting at him, over him, around him.
Nothing matters except Blaine.
A hand lands on Kurt’s shoulder, and he jerks, Blaine’s head slipping from his lap. He’s ready to fight the person, ready to push them away, when he focuses, realizes it’s a young woman in a uniform, kneeling next to him.
Mike’s been pushed away too, two other medics taking his place. The one next to Kurt pulls Blaine’s head gently away, taking Kurt’s arm.
“Let’s give them some room, okay, honey? Are you hurt?”
“It’s all his,” Kurt whispers, looking down at his hands, his blood-stained fingers. Mike is sitting in the back of an ambulance, being looked over by another medic, trying to explain that all of the blood is Blaine’s.
There’s so much of it.
Kurt turns away from the medic supporting him, walks three steps, and throws up. His knees buckle, and he’s about to fall, hit the ground, when she’s back next to him, holding him up, guiding him gently to the ground.
“Easy, honey. Let’s sit you down. Are you dizzy?”
“We’re taking care of him, okay? What about you? What’s your name, sweetheart?”
“Kurt. I’m not hurt. Please, you have to-you have to save him-”
“He your brother?”
“He’s my boyfriend.”
She nods, her fingers resting against Kurt’s wrist to take his pulse. She carefully looks him over, reassures herself that he’s not injured in any way.
Kurt can’t keep his eyes off of Blaine.
They’ve stabilized the knife, packed around it with gauze and tape. One medic’s starting an IV in Blaine’s arm, the other checking his pupils, slipping an oxygen mask over his nose and mouth.
“He’s still loosing blood, we’ve gotta pack up and go.”
“The IV’s in. His pressure’s low, 90/60, and his pulse is tachy.”
“He’s going into shock, he’s lost at least a liter on the ground. We good to transport?”
“Let’s get him on a board and go. Call dispatch and let them know we’re bringing in a sixteen year old male, femoral laceration, severe blood loss. He’s gonna need to be red-lined to the OR.”
“Wait! Wait, can I-I need to go with him, please-”
“Honey, let them do their job. We’ll get you there, okay? There’s not enough room in the back of the ambulance.”
“Kurt, he’s going to be okay.” Mike walks over, still covered in Blaine’s blood, and takes Kurt’s hand. “Look at me, okay? Let the paramedics do their job. Let them get him help. We’ll go wait for him there, okay?”
“The police are going to want to question all of you,” the medic who’s been taking care of Mike advises, looking both boys up and down. “You should probably hang around-”
“They can be questioned at the hospital, too. Kurt here should probably be checked over for shock.”
“This is a crime scene, if-”
“Look at them,” the female medic hisses, stepping away from Kurt and Mike and taking her coworker by the arm. “They’re kids, Rick, and their friend’s probably dying right now. Give them a break.”
The heated conversation is interrupted by the arrival of several police cars, the scene suddenly awash in red and blue light. The area is roped off, yellow police tape creating a perimeter around where Blaine fell.
This is a crime scene. They’re all witnesses to a crime.
Kurt and Mike are bundled into a police cruiser after answering a few basic questions, the female paramedic riding with them to the hospital. The rest of New Directions answers the questions as best they can, trying not to watch as the police take pictures of the pool of blood (and there’s still so much of it, even with Blaine gone), the area surrounding it.
They give Sebastian’s name, the location of Dalton, explain what happened leading up to the stabbing. Nearly everyone is crying or fighting back tears, Finn irrationally angry the longer he’s kept from going to the hospital.
An hour after the police arrive, New Directions is let go, and they pile into two cars, headed for the hospital. Running into the ER, they quickly find Mike and Kurt huddled in a corner, freshly showered and dressed in borrowed hospital scrubs, answering more questions from an officer.
Finn leads the way over, waits for the line of questioning to be finished.
“Kurt? Bro, how-how is he?”
Kurt looks up, meets Finn’s eyes. His own are empty, haunted, and he shakes his head slightly.
“Not good. They won’t-I can’t find anything out, I just know-they took him up to surgery. They’re trying to get his next of kin.
“They have to take the knife out, repair the damage. He’s just-he’s lost so much blood, and I don’t know-I overheard them say that his heart stopped when they got him here.”
Rachel sits down hard in one of the chairs, her hands flying to her mouth. Everyone else stands, stunned and gaping.
“So what do we do now?” Puck asks, taking the chair next to Kurt. His voice is uncharacteristically quiet, soft and afraid.
“Wait, I guess. My dad’s-the police called my dad. We can’t get Blaine’s parents on the phone, or his brother. I don’t know-I don’t know what to do. What if he isn’t okay?”
No one has an answer for Kurt.
They sit in silence until a nurse appears at the doorway.