Disclaimer: Mass for the whole story: I do not own anything.
Author's Note: The title is completely random and in no way am I going to work "Hey, Jude" into my story; I can't write songfics and I hate titling my stories, so this is what you get.
I take credit for all my mistakes, but I also need to give credit to the amazing rainbowdocms over at livejournal for all her help.
I did extensive research for this but the internet can only provide so much; if I get anything incorrect in the treatment procedures, I apologize now, but for the purposes of my story, I'm right.
I'm hoping to post one chapter of this a week during the summer and a little bit into September. I've had the prologue written since the first hiatus and the first couple chapters were all written before "Journey," but I've delayed posting to allow myself the time to adjust according to canon and to enable myself to write a little more so I can actually stick to this one-chapter-a-week schedule.
The prologue is just over 500 words, and each chapter will likely be between 1500 and 2000 words. Hopefully I'll lean more towards the higher word count, but I'm not promising anything.
Kurt felt like his insides had melted away.
Dr. Mitchum frowned, his forehead creasing in three imperfect lines. His voice washed over Kurt like a mega-sized slushie shower, "I'd like to schedule a bone marrow biopsy, Kurt."
His mouth went dry. He twisted his thumbs into the hem of his sweater, a pale cerulean gem from Donna Karan. Mitchum was still talking, "I'd like to book it as soon as possible."
Kurt let out a shaky breath, trying to ignore the way Dr. Mitchum's face softened, "I thought it was rare in children."
The man dropped his pen and pushed himself closer on the generic swivel chair, "It is rare… Kurt, I know this is scary, but we caught it early. This is good news." He put a hand on Kurt's shoulder and squeezed once, letting his hand linger for a moment, before he turned to scribble something on a slip of paper, "Take this down the hall to Gloria, and she'll get you set up."
Kurt took the paper and closed his eyes. He untangled his hands–he hated that they were shaking–and slid off the examining table. Everything felt too real: the steel of the doorknob beneath his fingers was too cold; the firm counter between him and Gloria's sympathetic smile was too hard; the sound of his feet in the empty hallway was too loud.
As she scheduled his biopsy, Gloria rattled off about a vacation to Morocco she'd just been on, which didn't explain the hideous spray tan, but Kurt nodded vacantly anyways. He shivered as he stepped outside; the cold November air stung his cheeks like tiny pinpricks.
He wiped angrily at his tears, already flowing in a constant stream.
He fumbled with the keys, trying to start his baby, which his dad had given him back after he'd overheard Finn telling Kurt to text him if Karofsky or Azimio came after him again. When the Navigator rumbled to life, he turned off the music immediately. He wasn't sure he could handle the bubbly tone of Legally Blonde right now.
He nearly got into an accident when his tears started blurring his vision, but he didn't slow down.
He debated for barely a second before deciding that he needed real, physical comfort. Not the placating hand of Dr. Mitchell or that self-indulgent smile of Gloria's or the imaginary–albeit comforting–presence of his mother, but the firm shoulder of his dad or the warm arms of Mercedes.
When he stumbled out of the car at the garage, he'd barely straightened when his dad came out of the office to greet him. It took barely a second for his dad's smile to fall from his face, for the spark in his eyes to sputter and die.
Kurt wished his mom was really here. She would tell him it would be okay, that he would be okay, that his dad would be okay even if he wasn't. But then his dad was taking a few quick steps around a tool bench and pulling him tight against him, rubbing slow circles on his shaking back.
"It'll be okay, Kurt, you'll be okay."
Kurt fisted the back of his dad's shirt and tried to believe him.