Disclaimer: Glee belongs to Ryan Murphy and Fox, not me.

"Burt, you need to talk to your son."

Burt paused in the doorway. "At least let me get my shoes off, woman," he said, amused. "I've been out of town for a week, and that's the first thing you've got to say to me."

"Hi," Carole huffed, taking his suitcase and accepting his kiss. "Now go talk to your son."

"Why? What's Kurt done now?" Burt asked as he loosened his tie.

"Blaine's been here all weekend, laid up with a stomach bug, and Kurt's been bending backwards taking care of him," Carole explained.

"So what's the-" Burt started to say, but he stopped as Kurt rounded the corner. His seventeen-year-old son looked absolutely awful, green around the mouth and dressed in rumpled clothes. "Kurt?"

Kurt blinked, his eyes hazy. "Oh," he said. "Hey, Dad." He rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand. "When'd you get home?"

"About two seconds ago," Burt said. He inched a little closer. "How's your weekend been?"

"Blaine's been sick, poor thing," Kurt said. "I've been taking care of him."

"Some kind of flu bug, right?" Burt guessed. "Fever, puking, feeling achy?"

Kurt screwed up his face. "How'd you know?" he asked.

"Because I got you through plenty of bouts with the flu when you were little," Burt sighed. He beckoned his son closer. "C'mere. Let me feel your forehead."

"Dad, come on," Kurt complained, but he took a step towards him and let his dad brush his hair out of his eyes. "I'm fine. Can I go now? I told Blaine I'd get him something to drink."

"Nope, you're going to bed yourself," Burt said, running the back of his hand lightly along the side of Kurt's cheek to gauge the warmth of his skin. "You've got a fever." He turned Kurt around so he was facing the stairs. "Go on. I'll be up in a second."

Kurt huffed through his teeth. "You tell Blaine why he doesn't have his glass of Sprite," he warned. "He gets cranky when he's sick."

"Oh, like you don't?" Burt snorted. "Go on. I'll get Sprite for Blaine, and Gatorade for you. Yellow kind, right?"

"…the yellow kind, yeah."

Carole followed Burt into the kitchen and leaned her elbows on the island, grinning. "So Dad has the magic touch, huh?" she said.

Burt rolled his eyes. "Not so much a magic touch as I know how to manipulate him just as good as he knows how to manipulate me," he said as he pulled down two plastic cups from the cupboard. "Kurt never tells me when he doesn't feel good, even when he was little. I sent him off to school with the chicken pox once, did I ever tell you about that?"

"The chicken pox?" Carole repeated, raising an eyebrow. "How'd he get away with the red splotches all over him, hm?"

"Told me he spilled paint and couldn't get it off," Burt sighed, and Carole snickered. "Hey, cut that out. I was a single dad without the whole mom-instinct thing. I believed him." He poured a generous amount of Gatorade into the blue cup. "He's always been stubborn about this sort of thing. The only thing I've ever been able to drag out of him is that he doesn't want to be a burden. Of course, he told me that after he clonked his head falling out of a tree at a family reunion when he was thirteen, so I don't know if I can take that seriously, but you know."

"You know, every time you tell me stories about raising Kurt by yourself, I'm amazed at the fact he made it out of childhood alive," Carole said, shaking her head.

Burt rolled his eyes. "Thanks a lot, Care," he said, nudging her playfully as he passed by with the cups in hand. "I'm going to put you on nursing duty instead, how'd you like them apples?"

"Joke's on you, getting two teenagers through a bout of the stomach flu is a cakewalk compared to actually working as a nurse," she laughed.

He sighed heavily, half joking, as he headed up the stairs. His son's bedroom door was cracked open and he could hear a movie playing softly in the background- probably something Disney related.

"Hey, kids," he said, nudging the door open with his hip. "It's a good thing you're both sick, or I wouldn't let you be in the same bed like that."

Blaine looked toward him sleepily as he walked in. He was sitting up in bed, propped up on pillows, his hair rumpled and his hands clasped on his lap as he watched the movie. "Hi, Mr. Hummel," he said sleepily. "Did you have a good flight?"

"As good as those things can get," Burt said, setting the cups down on the nightstand. "I brought Sprite for you and Gatorade for Kurt. Where'd he go?"

"Bathroom," Blaine said, wincing a little. "He's coming down with the same thing I've got."

"That's what I thought," he said.

"I've been trying to get him to take it easy, but he won't listen to me," Blaine said plaintively.

Burt patted his curls. "Don't take it too hard, kiddo, he does the same thing for me," he said.

The toilet flushed noisily and Kurt shuffled out of the bathroom, looking even more worse for wear. "Did you bring Blaine's Sprite?" he worried.

"Kurt, I'm fine," Blaine said. "You need to lie down, honey."

"I'm okay, I'm just tired," Kurt mumbled, but Burt drew him closer and carefully tugged at his clothes.

"C'mon, bud," Burt said. "Arms up." Kurt huffed, but obeyed reluctantly, and Burt helped him undress like he had when Kurt was tiny. "Okay, you've got to work with me. You can't just stand there." He managed to wrestle him into a clean tee shirt and tucked the tag down in the back. "Go lie down."

Blaine scooted over to make room and held up the blankets for Kurt to lie down beside him on his side, his folded hands resting under his cheek as he shivered. "Better?" he asked, drawing the covers up around his shoulders and smoothing them in place. Kurt sort of nodded and Blaine bent to kiss his cheek. "Oh, you are warm. I told you."

Kurt mumbled something noncommittal into his pillow and Blaine kissed the crook of his neck. "You two just take it easy, okay?" Burt said. "Drink lots of fluids, get plenty of sleep. I'll be checking up on you, and you call if you need anything."

"Thanks, Mr. Hummel," Blaine said.

"Thanks, Dad," Kurt mumbled, and Burt bent to kiss his son's temple before heading back downstairs.

Author's Notes:


the end.