#its like giving them a catalogue of the mental illnesses you got from being raised catholic :-)

[genikrispies]

when i’m thirsty it feels like how i feel when i’m alone

[phoebehalliwell]

in your alternate next gen headcanons/fics, you've got Penn and the other P's (Piper's daughters), Dency (Phoebe's daughter), and Sheridan and Warren (Prue's son's). have you ever written anything about Paige's kids in any of the alternate universes?

okay so if i'm cataloguing every next gen warren witch that lives in my brain by charmed one, there's:

prue: warren & sheridan, patricia, penelope, & phillipa

piper: wyatt, chris & melinda, penn & (penn's siblings??), (jack the piper/kyle kid???)

phoebe: pj, parker & peyton, dency, (cj??)

paige: tamora, kat & henry jr, (bennie??)

in which um bennie has actually made a couple guest appearances on this blog and is the paige/richard kid and is like. a fat vibe def mentally ill but like. au where richard still binds or strips his powers whatever also he really seems like a tai chi guy and paige and richard are endgame i guess lmaoo so bennie their kid is raise not my you know bonkers batshit insane powers because i stand by my theory that richard was dose with blood of a greater being as a child and that's why magic makes his react the way he does so that does pass on just a little bit to his child. i also once very briefly constructed an au w a paige kyle kid but in a kyle still died world so paige still ends up w henry and has a daughter kyle at some point as a whitelighter finds out he has a daughter bc the elders were really keepin that Top Secret but kyle's quasi-adjacent in his kid's life but idk like. what those kids would be up to. isabel and beatrice maybe? i think they were bel and bea? lemme see if i can find the pöst. nope. well ur just gonna hafta trust me on that ig. yeah i can't say i've thot much about them. i think if i were really to spin a paige progeny solo story i mean well a) henry jr spin off bc like. i think that could be fun. but i think i would want to create a circumstance really separate from the next gen something that warrants a whole ass like Own Story (e.g. warren and sheridan being raises by jack, dency being the source's heir + having the twice blessed, which changes like magical society as a whole) because if it's still like you know there's wcm at the top of the lil next gen pyramid i feel like the worlds all stay too similar and it gets my brain fuzzy. i could do a paige-never-finds-the-power-of-three-au, where she still has her witch powers and figures shit out on her own, but i really don't know what the 411 with her kids would be. i could also have the other parent be some other type of magical being, cupid, warlock, darklighter, etc, bc that fusion would be interesting. i think out of all of paige's love interests, by far my favorite option for a father just from like an interesting character perspective is richard, because like. he has a whole magical bloodline and also a family that is implied practices black magic on occasion. that kid would pack a punch. there's kyle (mortal) and kyle (whitelighter), but like. i feel like if i were to do that again i'd have to spin up some au otherwise it's just the same gen 2 universe but instead of tam and kat it's paigekyle kids. you know what actually You Know What Actually Could Be Fun in a paige-never-finds-the-power-of-three-au-but-is-still-a-witch um fuckin hello?? paige glen. paige glen world travelers witch free spirit those kids would be. those kids would be so weird man just life experience globetrotters especially seeing as they have some magical legacy (the charmed destiny) that the belland family has just someone manage to outrun by like. quite literally like outrunning it. never being in the same place long enough for anything to really happen. i'm feeling two kids here. hmm but with two kids idk if they'd stick together a whole bunch i think they'd be a lot more free not like attached at the hip so either i run two separate plots or i only focus on one. but that could be. interesting to say the least.. esp if something happened where um. where like the charmed ones were wiped out. idk how. maybe prue did bite it in all hell breaks loose. maybe Phoebe dies. in ahbl. they're down to the power of two with piper and prue. piper taps out leo clips his wings and piper binds her powers and they leave the manor. piper then realizes she's pregnant witchlighter baby??? or she just has a normal witch baby. maybe a couple. actually just two i think i need to cap it at two bc no power of three access in this au. omg leo dies in s8 like how he was fated to die..................... prue holds down the homefront at the manor. finds love eventually has kids eventually i could go really out in left field and say fuck it prue x angel of death kids. but that requires

attention on its own part. but i could. i might. hmmm. because piper post leo death hell maybe leo just gets killed by a darklighter in spite of being mortal just because a darklighter recognizes him. piper like. changes her identity and raises her kid separate from the manor and magic. kids. maybe. prue is like. ballz to the wall fuckin intense. i could just make up a guy i could do whitelighter andy i could do. justin?? was his name? there's bane and jack but bane's in jail and jack would die in about five minutes so. i think i'd make up a guy. but i think prue has kids again maybe just two. i mean i could all give them one. but. . do i really want only children here lbr also prue and piper were both raised w siblings i could reasonably seeing prue having only one kid if it was like.. too dangerous to have another kid or something but i think she really wanted to be Mom. so anyways prue's witch kids are trained rigorously from warren lore, piper's kids are raised mortal, and paige's kids are raised with training from paige, who's self taught. anyway.s prue gets murdered and the manor is taken over by dark magic. when prue's kids are. mmm early twenties great age to take on an adventure that you're not like. remotely equipped to handle yet. they know they need to take back the seat of power lest something terrible happens. like it has to be a halliwell right the halliwells have to take back their house. so the halliwells get the bennets (piper's kids) (surprise! you're a witch!) and then somehow Also discover the bellands (surprise! you have a long extensive family tree that fights evil magic!) and then idk we really get the ball rolling we get some plot goin. wallah.

[lady-divine-writes]

Klaine one-shot - “The Dangers of Self-Medicating” (Rated PG13)

Summary: Kurt gets sick on a business trip, and everything he does just to get home makes it worse. (2024 words)

Notes: So, I have been feeling a little blue and entirely unmotivated, so I started editing some old work and came across this one. It's the first thing I've laughed at in a couple of days, so I re-wrote it for Klaine (just in case it looks familiar, now you know).

Read on AO3.

“Sir?”

“Mmmrrr … hmmm?”

“Sir? We’re here.”

“Here?” Kurt’s eyelids flutter slightly, opening a sliver. But when the mid-morning sun hits their dry, red surface, he immediately shuts them again. “Where’s here?”

“15-22 Mulberry Place? It’s the address you gave me.”

“The address I … wha---?” Kurt pries open his eyes. The address sounds familiar, but the voice speaking to him doesn’t. There’s a lot of mud and fog cluttering his brain. The last thing he remembers is being in his hotel room, packing his bag. No, it was losing his breakfast, and lunch and dinner from the day before, in an airport toilet. No, no, it was waiting by the curb, clutching on to the handle of his carry-on for support while he waited for his Uber to arrive.

Uber! He’s in an Uber! Which means he must be …

“Home?” he says in a raw, grumbly voice.

“I guess.” The man puts his car into park. “Do you need any help with your bag?”

“Nah.” Kurt grabs the handle of the bag he’s been cuddling awkwardly since he fell asleep in this poor man’s back seat. At least he didn’t vomit in his car. As far as Kurt can remember, he’s baptized nearly every toilet and trash can from the airport, to Manhattan, to home. “I’ve got it.” I’ll just pour myself onto the pavement and slither up to my front door, he thinks. “Here …” Kurt fumbles a hand into his pocket and pulls out his wallet. Squinting, he fishes out three tens and clumsily hands them to the driver. “Thanks for everything.”

“Good luck,” the driver says, mentally snickering at the intoxicated man doing his best to exit his Prius. Ten sheets to the wind at barely eleven in the morning?

Well, it’s five o’clock somewhere.

Kurt backs out of the car butt-first, searching for the ground with his feet to make absolutely certain that it’s there. Once they make contact, he extricates the rest of his body, his Samsonite bag landing on the curb with a thunk when his arms fail to support its weight. It takes him longer to stand up straight, the compact blue Toyota gone before Kurt gets his head balanced on his shoulders.

He blinks his eyes and looks around, wondering why his husband isn’t there to meet him at the curb. Blaine and Tracy drove him to the airport, but he took an Uber home. And thank God he did. There’s no parking anywhere on the street this morning. Of course, he lives here and, hence, has a driveway to pull in to, but still. Strange, but Kurt doesn’t have the brain capacity to speculate about that just now.

Kurt has been traveling for most of the morning, voluntarily switching flights twice when a technical malfunction bumped travelers off their plane. He went from first class to coach, then back to first class again. He misses his family, but he came out of the deal with two travel vouchers, a slew of frequent flier miles, and a thousand dollar refund back to his credit card.

Not too shabby for a Sunday afternoon.

He’s a stone’s throw from home, but the way he’s feeling, it might take him the rest of the afternoon to get there.

Kurt turns, taking baby steps, one tiny shuffle at a time with breaths in between to keep the sidewalk underneath his feet. He does the same for the journey up his driveway – shuffle-shuffle pause, shuffle-shuffle pause, bending at the knees on occasion to ground himself and keep from collapsing.

The walk up his driveway to his front door on this beautiful Sunday afternoon is the most excruciating thing Kurt has done in ages.

Correction – pulling out his keys, listening to the God awful things jangle loudly, the noise ricocheting like bocce balls inside his skull, is the most excruciating. Walking up the driveway, and then up the front steps, each movement sending a dull ache searing from the soles of his feet to his forehead, was simply a precursor to this pain.

Kurt doesn’t understand how he could have gotten sick. He’d been on top of his Echinacea and his Vitamin C game for a week before he left. He kept his mouth and nose covered with a scarf on the plane, and no one he spent any significant time with looked particularly ill. Then again, he’s learned from having a child that sick people are often contagious way before they show any symptoms.

Plague-ridden bastards and their ninja germs bombarding him with their unseen illnesses! He did everything in his power to keep from catching anything, and now he’s standing at death’s door.

In reality, it’s probably from traveling back and forth between coasts after all these years of calm, suburban living. Living in the boonies, away from the dirt and the grime and the smog of the city has lowered his immune system, made him weak on a microbial level.

Clean air and sunshine – it will do you in every time.

His key ring raised to an inch from his eyes, he isolates his door key and pinches it between his thumb and index finger. He tries to stab it into the lock, but he keeps missing, his triple vision causing the end to veer away from the hole at the last minute and hit the door instead.

“Get … in … there,” Kurt snaps. “Get … in … that … hole … you stupid … little …” Kurt hears the door unlock and lets go of his key, assuming it made its way into the lock somehow. But the ring falls to the ground with a phenomenal bang. “Shoot!” he mutters, realizing he’ll need to bend over to pick it up.

If he does, he may never stand straight again.

The door swings open, the momentum of it almost dragging Kurt forward with it.

“Well, well. Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes?” Blaine coos, his body blocking Kurt’s way, saving him from falling on his face.

“He-ey!” Kurt says, bright but slow, sounding as drunk as he looks.

“Hey, honey.” Blaine gives his husband an enthusiastic, lovesick once-over, but raises a brow at his wrinkled clothes, his unbuttoned collar, his flushed face, and his severely disheveled hair. “How was your trip?”

“Regrettable, to be honest. Ooo, I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” Kurt throws a hand over his mouth, diverting Blaine’s kiss from his lips to his cheek. “I think I contracted bird flu somewhere between Broadway and 75th Street. Or maybe syphilis.”

“Is syphilis an airborne disease? Because, if it isn’t, I have some questions.” Blaine opens the door wider. Grabbing Kurt’s bag in one hand and his elbow with the other, he leads him inside.

“Hmm, so do I.”

Blaine walks his husband to the sofa and helps him onto a cushion. “So did you miss your plane and walk home?” he asks, retrieving Kurt’s keys and closing the front door.

“Very funny.”

“I don’t want to say you look awful but …” Blaine takes a few steps back to get a good long look at Kurt sinking into the sofa, his head finding the arm and leaning against it. He doesn’t look like himself at all – from the hair to the clothes, and beyond his flushed cheeks, his skin actually looks green “… you look awful.”

“It’s not my fault. I took an Ambien last night to help me sleep off this …” Kurt waves a hand in front of his nose “… whatever I caught, but it didn’t help. I was coughing and sneezing and tossing all night. By six a.m., I was afraid I’d crash before I made it to the airport, so I took some DayQuil to keep me alert. But I guess DayQuil and Ambien don’t play nice together.”

“I guess not.”

“To top it off, since my plane was delayed, I dropped into what I thought was a Dunkin’ Donuts. I mean, the banner over the door looked the same and everything. Turns out, it was some new boutique place called Drunkin’ Donuts. I ate two blackberry wine donuts before I realized I was feeling tipsy.”

“Uh, but wouldn’t the alcohol in the donuts cook away?” Blaine asks, digging his phone out of his pocket and logging on to WebMD to see how much trouble his husband might be in.

“Yeah, in the donut, but not the jam filling. I’m amazed I made it home. After that, everything was kind of a blur.”

“Like what?”

Kurt swallows. This was the part he was hoping he wouldn’t have to get into until he was better … or sober. “Okay, don’t get mad, but I may have tweeted David Beckham and told him he had, and I quote, a very bite-able bod?” Kurt admits, eyes begging his husband to please tell him that that was just a dream.

And even though Blaine is quietly panicking over the fact that his husband might need his stomach pumped, he can’t help laughing at his man’s expense.

“Alas, you did,” Blaine confirms. “But in case you didn’t see his reply tweet, he claims that you do, too. And his wife concurs, so there’s that. Of course, Isabelle jumped on the whole thread and posted it to every social media account Vogue owns. I think you may have raised your stock value with that snafu.”

“Thank God!” Kurt moans. He knew that tweet wouldn’t cost him his job or anything, and he was only mildly worried about what it might do for his home life. But more than that, he was afraid what might happen next time he and Victoria Beckham crossed paths.

She might be petite, but he’s heard she’s a hair puller.

“What else?” Blaine asks, keeping Kurt awake while he stalls for time.

“I may have ordered everything from pages 23, 24, and 25 of the SkyMall catalogue.”

“You do that even when you’re not under the influence. I mean, so do I, but ...”

“And I …” And this is the one that may have Kurt crawling beneath the sofa out of sheer embarrassment “… I may have emailed all of our friends and family … using your email account … and invited them here today for, and again I quote, a surprise party in honor of the wonder that is me?”

“Right again.” Blaine chuckles, laced with concern. “And by the time I checked my email, they had all RSVP’d. They’re in the kitchen waiting to yell surprise the second I open the door.”

Kurt’s eyes pop, his gaze shifting to the door beside him, terrified by this new knowledge that seventy or more people might be on the other side, ready to scream at him.

That alone makes his stomach flip.

That explains the lack of parking on the street.

“And you couldn’t just cancel?” Kurt groans, putting his hands over his ears in preparation for the cheer that’s about to run him over like a freight train.

“Of course not. I invited them. And I’m nothing if not a considerate host.” But Blaine doesn’t open the door. He hits send on a mass text and shoves his phone back in his pocket. From beyond the white-washed piece of wood, Kurt hears the muffled trickle of text alerts going off, accompanied by a rumble of voices muttering in confusion. Someone who could be Mercedes says, “Hey, Bun-Bun! How would you like to go play mini golf with me and your Uncle Sam?”

“Would I?” Tracy squeals, followed by the patter of her footsteps racing to her bedroom upstairs, presumably to get her coat and shoes.

“Wha---what are we doing?” Kurt mumbles as Blaine helps him off the couch, wondering if they’re going to go play mini golf with their daughter and her mom. He’d love to, but he’s not sure he’d be able to make it farther than the fourth hole. “Where are we going?”

“I thought it might be a good idea if we turned this welcome home celebration into a party of two. And we’re holding it at the emergency room.”

[lady-divine-writes]

Kurtbastian one-shot - “The Dangers of Self-Medicating” (Rated PG13)

Kurt gets sick on a business trip, and everything he does just to get home makes it worse. (1956 words)

Notes: This actually comes before Crafting Chaos. I had a minor brain fart and finished that one first xD

Part 46 of Daddies.

Read on AO3.

“Sir?”

“Mmmrrr … hmmm?”

“Sir? We’re here.”

“Here?” Kurt’s eyelids flutter slightly, opening a sliver. But when the mid-morning sun hits their dry, red surface, he immediately shuts them again. “Where’s here?”

“Uh … 15-22 Mulberry Place? It’s the address you gave me.”

“The address I … wha---?” Kurt pries open his eyes. The address sounds familiar, but the voice speaking to him doesn’t. There’s a lot of mud and fog cluttering his brain. The last thing he remembers was being in his hotel room, packing his bag. No, it was losing his breakfast, and lunch and dinner from the day before, in an airport toilet. No, no, it was waiting by the curb, clutching on to the handle of his carry-on for support while he waited for his Uber to arrive.

Uber! He’s in an Uber! Which means he must be …

“Home,” he says in a raw, grumbly voice.

“I guess?” The man puts his car into park. “Do you need any help with your bag?”

“Nah.” Kurt grabs the handle of the bag he’s been cuddling awkwardly since he fell asleep in this poor man’s back seat. At least he didn’t vomit in his car. As far as Kurt can remember, he’s baptized nearly every toilet and trash can from Manhattan to home. “I’ve got it.” I’ll just pour myself onto the pavement and slither up to my front door, he thinks. “Here …” Kurt fumbles a hand into his pocket and pulls out his wallet. Squinting, he fishes out three tens and clumsily hands them to the driver. “Thanks for everything.”

“Good luck,” the driver says, mentally snickering at the intoxicated man doing his best to exit his Prius. Ten sheets to the wind at barely eleven in the morning?

Well, it’s five o’clock somewhere.

Kurt backs out of the car butt-first, searching for the ground with his feet to make absolutely certain that it’s there. Once they make contact, he extricates the rest of his body, his Samsonite bag landing on the curb with a thunk when his arms fail to support its weight. It takes him longer to stand up straight, the compact blue Toyota gone before Kurt gets his head balanced on his shoulders.

He blinks his eyes and looks around, wondering why his husband isn’t there to meet him at the curb. Sebastian and Thomas drove him to the airport, but he took an Uber home. And thank God he did. There’s no parking anywhere on the street this morning. Of course, he lives here and, hence, has a driveway to pull in to, but still. Strange, but Kurt doesn’t have the brain capacity to speculate about that just now.

Kurt has been traveling for most of the morning, voluntarily switching flights twice when a technical malfunction bumped travelers onto other flights. He went from first class to coach, then back to first class again. He misses his family, but he came out of the deal with two travel vouchers, a slew of frequent flier miles, and a thousand dollar refund back to his credit card.

Not too shabby for a Sunday afternoon.

He’s a stone’s throw from home, but the way he’s feeling, it might take him the rest of the afternoon the get there.

Kurt turns taking baby steps, one tiny shuffle at a time with breaths in between to keep the sidewalk underneath his feet. He does the same for the journey up his driveway – shuffle-shuffle pause, shuffle-shuffle pause, bending at the knees on occasion to ground himself and keep from collapsing.

The walk up his driveway to his front door on this beautiful Sunday afternoon is the most excruciating thing Kurt has done in ages.

Correction – pulling out his keys, listening to the God awful things jangle loudly, the noise ricocheting like bocce balls inside his skull, is the most excruciating. Walking up the driveway, and then up the porch steps, each movement sending a dull ache searing from the soles of his feet to his forehead, was simply a precursor to this pain.

Kurt doesn’t understand how he could have gotten sick. He’d been on top of his Echinacea and his Vitamin C game for a week before he left. He kept his mouth and nose covered with a scarf on the plane, and no one he spent any significant time with looked particularly ill. Then again, he’s learned from having a child that sick people are often contagious way before they show any symptoms.

Plague-ridden bastards and their ninja germs bombarding him with their unseen illnesses! He did everything in his power to keep from catching anything, and now he’s standing at death’s door.

In reality, it’s probably from commuting back and forth to the city after all these years of suburban living. Living in the boonies, away from the dirt and the grime and the smog, has lowered his immune system, made him weak on a microbial level.

Clean air and sunshine – it will do you in every time.

His key ring raised to an inch from his eyes, he isolates his door key and pinches it between his thumb and index finger. He tries to stab it into the lock, but he keeps missing, his triple vision causing the end to veer away from the hole at the last minute and hit the door instead.

“Get … in … there,” Kurt snaps. “Get … in … that … hole … you stupid … little … prick!” Kurt hears the door unlock and lets go of his key, assuming it made its way into the lock somehow. But the ring falls to the ground with a bang. “Shoot!” He mutters, realizing he’ll need to bend over and pick it up.

If he does, he may never get up again.

The door swings open, the momentum of it almost dragging Kurt forward with it.

“Aw,” Sebastian coos, his body blocking Kurt’s way, saving him from falling on his face. “You were thinking about our wedding night, too?”

“He-ey!” Kurt says, bright but slow, sounding as drunk as he looks.

“Hey, lover.” Sebastian gives his husband an enthusiastic, lovesick once-over, but raises a brow at his wrinkled clothes, his unbuttoned collar, his flushed face, and his severely disheveled hair. “How’s it hanging?”

“In my stomach, to be honest. Ooo, I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” Kurt throws a hand over his mouth, diverting Sebastian’s kiss from his lips to his cheek. “I think I contracted bird flu somewhere between Broadway and 75th Street. Or maybe syphilis.”

“I told you – if you’re going to cheat, use an escort service.” Sebastian opens the door wider. Grabbing Kurt’s bag in one hand and his elbow with the other, he leads him inside. “That’s what the AmEx card is for.”

“Hmm, I should have listened.”

“Yes, you should have.” Sebastian walks his husband to the sofa and helps him onto a cushion. “So did you miss your plane and walk home,” he asks, retrieving Kurt’s keys and closing the front door, “or …?”

“Very funny.”

“I don’t want to say you look awful but …” Sebastian takes a few steps back to get a good long look at Kurt sinking into the sofa, his head finding the arm and leaning against it. He doesn’t look like himself at all – from the hair to the clothes, and beyond his flushed cheeks, his skin actually looks green “… babe, you look awful.”

“It’s not my fault. I took an Ambien last night to help me sleep off this …” Kurt waves a hand in front of his nose “… whatever I caught, but it didn’t help. I was coughing and sneezing and tossing all night. By six a.m., I was afraid I’d crash before I made it to the airport, so I took some DayQuil to keep me alert. But I guess DayQuil and Ambien don’t play nice together.”

“I guess not.”

“To top it off, since my plane was delayed, I dropped into what I thought was a Dunkin’ Donuts. I mean, the banner over the door looked the same and everything. Turns out, it was some new boutique place called Drunkin’ Donuts. I ate two blackberry wine donuts before I realized I was feeling a little tipsy.”

“Uh, but wouldn’t the alcohol in the donuts cook away?” Sebastian asks, digging his phone out of his pocket and logging on to WebMD to see how much trouble his husband might be in.

“Yeah, in the donut, but not the jam filling. I’m amazed I made it home. After that, everything was kind of a blur.”

“Like what?”

Kurt swallows. This was the part he was hoping he wouldn’t have to get into until he was better … or sober. “Okay, don’t get mad, but I may have tweeted David Beckham and told him he had, and I quote, a very bite-able bod?” Kurt admits, eyes begging his husband to please tell him that that was just a dream.

And even though Sebastian is quietly panicking over the fact that his husband might need his stomach pumped, he can’t help smirking at his man.

“Alas, you did,” Sebastian confirms. “But in case you didn’t see his reply tweet, he claims that you do, too. And his wife concurs, so there’s that. I think you may have raised your stock value with that snafu.”

“Thank God!” Kurt moans. He knew that tweet wouldn’t cost him his job or anything, and he was only mildly worried about what it might do for his home life. But more than that, he was afraid what might happen next time he and Victoria Beckham crossed paths.

She might be petite, but he’s heard she’s a hair puller.

“What else?” Sebastian asks, keeping Kurt awake while he stalls for time.

“I may have ordered everything from pages 23, 24, and 25 of the SkyMall catalogue.”

“You do that even when you’re not tripping balls ...”

“I …” And this is the one that may have Kurt crawling beneath the sofa out of sheer embarrassment “… I may have emailed all of our friends and family … using your email account … and invited them here today for, and again I quote, a surprise party in honor of the wonder that is me?”

“Right again.” Sebastian chuckles, but laced with concern. “And by the time I checked my email, they had all RSVP’d. They’re in the kitchen waiting to yell surprise the second I open the door.”

Kurt’s eyes pop, his gaze shifting to the door beside him, terrified by this new knowledge that seventy or more people might be on the other side, ready to scream at him.

That alone makes his stomach flip.

That explains the lack of parking on the street.

“And you couldn’t just cancel?” Kurt groans, putting his hands over his ears in preparation for the cheer that’s about to run him over like a freight train.

“Of course not. I invited them.” But Sebastian doesn’t open the door. He hits send on a mass text and shoves his phone back in his pocket. From beyond the white washed piece of wood, Kurt hears the muffled trickle of text alerts going off, accompanied by a rumble of voices muttering in confusion. Someone who could be Wes says, “Hey, Tom-Tom! How would you and Hepburn like to go play mini golf?”

Sebastian reaches for Kurt’s arm, preparing to help him up, but decides against it and lifts his husband off the couch.

“Wha---what are we doing? Where are we going?”

“I thought it might be a good idea if we turned this welcome home celebration into a party of two. And we’re holding it at the emergency room.”