Chapter Text
It’s been eleven months since they separated and one month since he’s last seen her when he runs into her in the hall of the courthouse. Despite the fact that they’re nearly face to face, he has to do a double take to be sure it’s her—as thin as she’s been the entirety of the time he’s known her, she’s thinner yet now, and her face seems void of any natural color, though she’s done a reasonable job concealing such with makeup. Further, he hadn’t expected her to be in the country at that time let alone the courthouse. Last time they had spoken she had made the decision to retire and had been ready to purchase a home in the south of France.
“Diane, hi. How are you?” he leads them into their exchange. It’s a natural opening—one he’s used before within the past months—but he’s more interested in the answer now than perhaps ever before.
But a “fine, thank you,” is all he receives in response. “And you?”
“Fine,” he returns dismissively, eyeing her closely for a moment then shifting his weight from one foot to the other. These encounters are always hard—knowing what he’s lost and how he’s hurt her, the painful awkwardness with the woman with whom he always found comfort—but now especially, feeling in his gut that something is amiss and not knowing how to approach her about it (or even if he has a right to at all), he feels particularly ill at ease. “You’re here, in the States. And in court,” he finally says, keeping to a neutral observation (and decidedly one that is not focused on her appearance).
“Yes,” she says, her expressions carefully measured. “I… felt like I was running from the problems of the country. Instead, I decided that now more than ever I should be here, fighting them.”
He nods—that sounds like Diane, he admits. But while she speaks the words boldly and confidently, to a degree that most would not question… he is not most people. And he knows that, if not entirely untrue, there is more to it all that she is not telling him. He thinks a moment longer before questioning, “The Rindell fund—did you have anything wrapped up in there?” Perhaps she couldn’t retire and move away.
“No. I did, but pulled it just in time, thankfully—for the house, actually, though I ultimately decided against making the final purchase.”
“Good. That’s good.” He studies her further then, trying to read all he can from her features (but coming up with little as she’s deliberately not giving anything away) and again taking in her appearance. She’s apparently been fighting in court, and he often found that she tended to neglect sleep and proper meals when fully immersed in a case. But this seemed different. She’s lost more weight than a couple of meals worth and what he sees in her eyes and her coloring looks deeper than “tired.” He’s concerned… but he still wonders where his place is in all of this. How far can he push this in his current position, particularly when he still has hopes for reconciliation.
Before he’s able to decide whether or not to press her further, she lifts and turns her wrist, glancing briefly at her watch (though he doubts she actually checks the time). “I’ve actually got to go, Kurt—first day back in court. But, umm… I’ll see you.”
She’s ready and eager to part ways and does not wait for a response before stalking off down the corridor. Before she rounds the corner though, he calls out to her, and thankfully she stops, looking straight into his eyes over her shoulder. And if he cannot further question her then he must at least leave her with this.
“Take care.”
***
Stoic, he is anything but when he receives the call from Harbor Hospital three weeks later. Once he arrives the nurse is quick to put him at ease—“She collapsed, but she’s doing well now; fully conscious and alert. She should be cleared for release as soon as her IV is complete.” But any ease that comes from the young woman’s words is obliterated upon the first glimpse of his wife.
His heart drops instantly.
As she lay before him on the hospital bed, reclined back with eyes closed, not yet privy to his presence, he swallows, taking a moment to steady himself. He’s never seen her like this—never seen her so small, so… weak. She’s ghostly white, save for the dark circles below her eyes and two bruises on her left arm, and her form is a fraction of what it once was—the hospital issued gown drowns her body and leaves a gaping neckline through which he can see the distinct definition of every bone in her chest, and her arms, always so strong and toned, now appear gangly. She was already down at least five pounds the last time he saw her, likely ten—she must be down twice that now.
He was concerned before. Now he’s scared.
He decides then and there that no matter the consequences for him or for them, he will press her on this. He will find what is at the root of all this and will do everything in his power to get his wife healthy again, will do everything in his power to keep her from withering away.
With a final steeling breath he raps twice on the doorframe. When her eyes open they immediately go wide.
She’s quick to sit a little straighter, pulling her shoulders back and extending her neck, presenting herself with as much dignity and strength as possible given the circumstances. She then clears her throat before speaking, though her voice is still hoarse. “Kurt. What are you doing here?”
“They called me. I’m… I’m your next of kin.”
She shakes her head, letting out a breath. “I told them that wasn’t necessary.”
“Wasn’t-?” His brow furrows, flabbergasted. “Wasn’t necessary? Diane, you collapsed. You’re… look at you,” he gestures at her body before him, eyes moving again from head to toe and back up again. There are a number of words that come to mind to describe the horrific sickly state his wife is in, but he settles on something gentler for the time being. “You’re not well.”
Diane looks away as she crosses her arms over her chest. “I’m fine.”
And with that, something within Kurt tightens at his wife’s refusal to acknowledge that something is wrong with her despite the fact that she does so from a hospital bed. He proceeds without raising his voice, but not without letting emotion come through within it. “You are not fine. You know you are not fine. And if your doctor here says you are then I will personally take you elsewhere, to every hospital in this city if I have to…”
“Kurt,” she attempts to cut him off.
“… for a second or third or however many goddamned opinions are needed to figure out what is wrong, because-”
“Kurt!” she tries again, this time more forcefully and successfully. He stops and looks to her expectantly while she lets out a sigh and runs a hand through her hair. “You’re right,” she says finally, “I’m not entirely fine. But I do have a diagnosis, and it is being handled.”
He’s not sure if her admission makes him feel better or worse—the confirmation that something is, in fact, wrong certainly has him concerned, but to at least know that it has been acknowledged and is being treated brings comfort… of course the latter is still up for debate as, “This doesn’t exactly look handled.”
“It’s early yet.” He eyes her suspiciously at that, to which she responds, “Really, I’m headed in the right direction.”
He lets out a long sigh, rubbing a hand over his face as he processes and considers his next move. He’s not entirely satisfied and isn’t quite sure he fully believes her. But it’s clear she doesn’t wish to further discuss things with him and so he has no choice but to take her at her word. “Is there anything I can do for you?” he offers, fighting his instinct to push and to argue. ‘Trust her,’ he tells himself.
“No,” she shakes her head decisively. “I’ll be alright.”
“At least let me drive you home?”
“Thank you—and I’m truly thankful to you for coming—but Maia is on her way. She should be here shortly, actually, and my doctor is going to want to speak with me before I’m discharged, so…”
She’s giving him his queue to leave, and while he nods, he makes no move to go—he’s not ready, not yet. Perhaps she’s on the road to health, but she still looks so ill and he feels so powerless.
“Kurt,” she says when a moment has passed. “Please.”
“Right,” he nods, taking a steps toward her to say goodbye. He will leave her now, as she wishes, but he’ll stay in touch, and he’ll be sure that she continues on ‘in the right direction’.
It is then though that the two are interrupted by a figure in a lab coat holding a clipboard just about up to his nose breezing into the room and chastising, “Ms. Lockhart, I told you to slow down as we start you with chemo, you’re body-” The doctor looks up then and holts upon seeing that his patient is not alone and observes the looks on both of their faces.
Diane lets out a breath as she closes her eyes and lets her head fall back to the pillow. Kurt’s mouth falls open, stunned, and his breathing becomes labored.
“Diane, I apologize; I didn’t realize you had company, I-” there’s apparent horror and regret in both his features and tone.
“It’s alright,” she interrupts, though only opening her eyes after her statement. “He’s my husband, I just hadn’t…” she trails off, waving a dismissive hand.
“I’ve, uh… I’ve got another patient I need to check in on—I’ll give you two a few minutes. I am very sorry.” He’s gone as quickly as he came, leaving husband and wife.
While Kurt may be a man of few words, it is rare that he is at a loss for them. He is here, though. “Diane, I… I mean, do you…?” He can hardly process the information and soon finds himself sitting in the bedside chair, folded over with elbows on his knees and feeling a bit like he too might collapse soon.
“It’s cancer,” she confirms when he cannot ask. “Lymphoma.”
He feels as though there is no air in his lungs, as if the room is spinning. This can’t be happening. But it is, and he knows he has to pull himself together enough to get through this conversation. As shocking as it was to hear and to hear it that way, he has been given a gift in this knowledge, and he is determined to make the most of the situation. Perhaps now that he is in the know she will further entrust him—with information for starters, but perhaps even with care. This is bound to be the most trying time of her life and he wants nothing more than to be there for her, to support her in any way she needs. He’ll give her his time and his love, his blood or even his life if it were necessary.
With a steeling nod he looks up and clasps his hands. “What’s your prognosis?”
“Fair, considering. Better if they find a bone marrow match for a stem cell transplant.”
“What does fair mean?”
“It means my odds are fair.” She hardly blinks an eye as she blatantly evades his question.
Kurt is undoubtedly frustrated, letting out a sigh. But he also knows he’s fortunate to even be in on this as all, so he lets it pass for now. “Okay. What can I do?”
She swallows hard before shaking her head. “Nothing.”
“Diane,” he persists, “let me help.”
She won’t look him in the eye but shakes her head again.
“Look,” he begins, understanding… or so he thinks. “I know you’re not yet ready to reconcile, maybe you never will be, and that’s… that’s okay.” Of course it’s not ‘okay,’ but it’s understandable and acceptable. “This isn’t about that. This is simply about me being there for you—taking you to appointments or being on call, spending a night in the guest room if need be, just… just helping you get through this, helping you fight this.” He’s desperate to help her, to do something.
“Kurt,” she whispers, voice strained and eyes glistening. “You can’t.”
“Why not?” His voice comes out more forcefully than he intends.
“Because…” She trails off, looking pained, opening and closing her mouth without speaking further. She closes her eyes briefly too, but upon opening them she finally proceeds. “Because the two of us being together can never not be complicated... and because it hurts,” her voice cracks, and she swipes at her eyes. “And this is already so hard, Kurt, in so many ways, and I just can’t deal with...” She waves a hand between the two of them. “…with us right now, and with everything that goes along with it. I need to be putting every ounce of energy I have into fighting this damn thing, not into figuring out what’s happening with us. What I need from you is to just let me fight this.”
His heart is shattered. When he decided he would do anything to help her through this, this was the last thing he had in mind. But he cannot deny her, not after that, not as she sits before him, tears streaming down her pale cheeks. Not when it’s all his own doing.
Tears prick at his own eyes too, but he’s quick to blink them away, determined to be strong for her through this… it’s the least he can do.
“Okay,” he says, placing a hand on her knee over the thin cotton blanket that covers her. “But I need you to promise me two things.”
She eyes him tentatively in response.
“First, that you fight this thing like hell. You are the strongest woman I know and I expect you to come out swinging with everything you’ve got, fighting it like it’s the case of your life.”
A quiet, feeble laugh comes from Diane before she nods in confirmation. “I promise.” Then, with a trace of hesitation returning, “And the second?”
“The second being that…” He pauses briefly, the corer of his mouth twitching and his demeanor suddenly a little grimmer. “That if your prognosis ever, God forbid, becomes less than ‘fair,’ that you'll tell me, Diane. Please, tell me before…” He cannot finish his sentence but he does not need to. "Please."
Diane places her hand over his. “I will.”
“Alright.” He looks into her eyes, imploring her to understand what was behind his pleas to allow him to help and is now behind his willingness to walk away at her request despite every fibre in his being screaming to stay. And then, just incase she cannot see it, he says it too. “I love you.”
“I know,” she says, and is then seemingly unable to decide upon her following words—a confession or an explanation.
He can tell she’s torn. He knows that deep down she does love him still, he could see it just as plainly in her eyes as he is sure that she could in his. But it’s not so simple for her, and again, he knows it’s all his own doing. So he makes it a little easier for her and gently hushes her, “Shhh… it’s okay.” He rises to place a lingering kiss on her forehead then finally heads for the door. But before exiting he turns back, and tells her adamantly, “If you ever change you mind, if there’s ever an emergency-”
“I’ll call.”
He nods and with all of the words he hasn’t already said sounding trite, he settles on giving her a gentle smile before making his exit while standing tall, and continues to carry himself that way through the hospital. It’s not until he’s locked away in the cab of his truck that the sobs finally come.
***
Later that night he sends her a brief text,
Kurt: Know that I respect your wishes…
but also know that I’ll be here if you ever
change your mind. Always.
Diane: I know. And I appreciate it.
When his first text goes over well he continues to send her messages. It's not much, but at least he feels as though he's doing something... and it helps to maintain at least some kind of connection, as minimal as it may be.
Kurt: Thinking of you—hope you’re doing
as well as can be expected.
____
Kurt: Heard you were still working on
immigration cases fighting the travel
ban. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it
again—you’re my hero.
Diane: Just doing what I can while I still can.
Kurt: Lockhart, 2020.
Diane: Thanks, but I think I’m just going to
focus on getting through 2017 right now.
____
Kurt: Wishing a good morning to the strongest
woman I know.
____
Kurt: Just a reminder of the full moon tonight—I
know how you love those.
____
Diane: Just received the gardenia’s you sent.
They’re beautiful—thank you.
Kurt: Saw them and couldn't help but think
of you.
How have you been feeling?
Diane: Cliché, I know, but… good days and bad.
Kurt: And today?
Diane: Not so bad.
Kurt: I’m glad. Hang in there, Lockhart.
____
Kurt: Hoping you’re having a good day.
____
Kurt: Thinking of you. And remember, I’m
always here if you need anything.
____
Kurt: Came across this video this morning.
Didn’t do much for me, but thought you
might like it—in case you need a pick-me
-up. Just some democratic unadulterated
drivel.
____
Kurt: Keep on fighting, Diane.
Diane: Every damn day.
***
Having set his phone so that calls from her numbers are the only ones permitted to come through while on the stand, when he feels the vibrations in his pocket he hardly waits for the judge to excuse him before he’s bounding out to the hall and answering on the last ring.
“Diane, hi!” he greets her, a little breathless. “I-How are you? Is everything alright?”
“Considering, yes. I was actually recently notified about a bone morrow match and I-” She pauses and lets out a long breath.
When a minute passes with only her steady breathing coming across the line, he gently presses, “Diane?”
“Yes, um…” She clears her throat before, finally, it comes out. “What’s your schedule looking like over the next few weeks?”
Kurt doesn’t skip a beat. “Whatever you need it to look like.”
“Kurt,” she begins, and he knows she will try to give him an out, to give him opportunities for excuses—but he has no interest in taking her up on any she has to offer. He has no idea specifically what she needs, but it does not matter.
“Diane,” he promptly cuts her off. “I’m here.”