Pairing(s): Dave/Kurt is endgame… if I can ever get this fucker of a fic to behave.

Rating: PG, might change later

Word Count:

Warnings: Lol, my research for this thing sucks. We're flying by the seat of our red knickers people!

Spoilers: Let's go with up to Sexy.

CROSSOVER: STARGATE, BABY. Spoilers up to the conclusion of Atlantis, totally ignoring the crap out of Universe, because I couldn't get into it and have not since bothered.

FYI: I'm an idiot. As if I don't have enough fics on the go already and an orignal novel to work on, I go and spawn this thing. What is wrong with me?

There was a feeling the spirit was leaving
Red like a marker
So my tribe, with my knife
Cut the heart from a lonely life
MGMT – Future Reflections

The one person he doesn't expect to be waiting for him in the reception lobby is Dave Karofsky.

His dad, maybe, or Carole, or even Mercedes or Finn. Any of his former Glee-mates.

But not Dave Karofsky.

And yet that's exactly who is there.

He's sitting on the left of the two leather sofas in the lobby with those broad shoulders hunched forward, curled and defensive. His hair and face and the shoulders of his jacket – which for once isn't his red letterman – are damp with rain. His eyes are red-rimmed from lack of sleep (or crying…?) and a there's a look on his face that Kurt doesn't recognize.

He looks resigned.

Kurt doesn't like this. Something is wrong here.

He stops at the doorway and says, before he can stop himself, "oh," the single, tiny word falling flat and disappointed.

Karofsky looks up at him then, and this is a look Kurt does know – hurt. He remembers it from that time in the locker room, and the memory curls his gut, twisting his insides. Then the look is gone, and the jock just goes back to resigned. Like it's his current default setting or something.

There's an uncomfortable pause. Kurt thinks, mentally rolling his eyes, that of course he's going to have to be the one to break the ice, its not enough that the damned idiot's showed up at his school – his safe place – but he's going to be awkward about it as well –

"Um, hey," Karofsky mutters, and Kurt stares at him.

"What're you doing here?" he says, fighting the immediate urge to snap, because even though this is Dalton, and Josie the receptionist is just next door in the office, who knows what could happen if he sets Karofsky off? "I thought it was clear by now, I don't want you –"

"I get it," the other boy cuts across him, meeting his eyes. "I'm here to apologize."

Kurt goes still as stone. Honestly, it feels like his feet are rooted to the immaculate and shiny floorboards. He thinks his mouth might be hanging open.

Karofsky stands slowly, one hand staying on the sofa, and it looks a little like he's using it for support – like his legs might not bear his weight, and where the hell is Kurt's mind right now?

Clearly not connected to his mouth, because the icy tirade he had practiced for this exact situation refuses to make its way past his larynx. Instead, Karofsky starts speaking, and Kurt continues to be floored.

"I – I'm sorry. I'm sorry for everything. Not just what I did to you, even though that's the stuff I feel worst about… I'm sorry I ever slushied anyone, or shoved them around or called them… or called them a fag or a fairy or just… anything horrible."

He finds Kurt's eyes again, and really, that particular look, made up of the terrible vulnerability after the kiss and something new and unfamiliar – empathy, Kurt's mind whispers, though he tries not to listen – is heartbreaking.

Kurt does not want to be moved by this.

But apparently the rest of his brain isn't taking requests anymore.

"I'm sorry I did all of that to you," Karofsky is saying with that look on his face. "I'm sorry I did worse to you." Kurt is faintly appalled to realize he can hear the other boy's voice thickening with tears. "I'm – I'm sorry I kissed you and threatened you and stole from you. I'm sorry I made you scared." He looks down and away, letting out a small bitter laugh. "I'm not sorry about one thing though."

Kurt swallows hard, and manages to find his voice. "What's that?"

Karofsky darts a quick glance up and him. Kurt gets a brief glimpse of the sheen on his eyes before he looks down again.

"I'm not sorry that… I'm glad it won't ever happen again."

Something about the wording and look on Karofsky's face sets of a warning bell at the back of Kurt's brain – that damned resigned look, the way he won't look at Kurt anymore…

"Why are you doing this?" Kurt asks. "Why now?"

The other boy actually looks thoughtful, like he's debating how much to tell Kurt. "Because this is the last chance I'll have."

Oh god…

Kurt's mind is going in all kinds of terrifying directions right now.

"Karofsky, what –?"

"They threw me out," Karofsky says flatly. His face had gone blank.

Kurt knows the mortification is showing on his face. "What?" he breathes again.

"I came out – I didn't even mean to, it just kind of slipped out, but… I came out, they threw me out and now I'm getting out. Of Lima." He shrugs. "Of Ohio."

This is just… Kurt doesn't actually know how to deal with this. It's horrible, and at one point, for a bare moment, he understood that fear; the days leading up to him coming out to his dad were very nearly soul-crushing. He thought he'd lose the one thing he had left in his life, the last fragment of his family – but this is just so, so much worse. Karofsky had no lead up, no way to prepare himself or his family and now…

"I – I thought your dad was okay," Kurt stutters. "I mean he seemed okay that time in Figgins office…"

"Some people are okay with it right up until it's their kid, Fancy," Karofsky tells him, then winces at the use of the old taunt. "And anyway, I'm fine. It's fine."

"It's not," Kurt says, but Karofsky either doesn't hear or pretends not to.

"I mean, I always wanted to get out of that town." He lets out another small bitter laugh. "Just never figured on it being like this." He gets up, resettles his coat, and Kurt knows that this could be the last time he'll ever lay eyes on Dave Karofsky.

"Wait," he finds himself saying, taking a few quick steps forward. "What're you going to do? Where are you going? I mean it's getting late, you can't just…"

Karofsky pauses, hands frozen in the act of turning up the collar of his coat. "My uncle's in Washington. I've got enough gas to get me there, so... yeah."

"Your uncle'll take you in?"

He can see the uncertainty in the bigger boy's face; Karofsky doesn't know, but he's going to blow over seven hours' worth of gas to get to an unfamiliar city on the off chance that some part of his family still wants him. The worst part is that under the uncertainty he can see the stubborn clench of Karofsky's jaw, and knows he won't be able to dissuade the other boy – and besides, what other option could he offer that Karofsky would take?

"Its fine," he says again, and turns to go.

Kurt wants to say, "Wait," again, but the word sticks in his throat and his head hurts. He reaches out instead, to the other boy's turned back, aborting the gesture before Karofsky sees.

"Good luck," he says instead, wrapping his arms around himself.

Karofsky pauses, looks back at him over his broad shoulder. "Yeah," he says, and Kurt tries not to notice how rough his voice is, "you too."

He stands in the lobby, very still, until Karofsky has left and is no longer visible through the stained glass panes in the big front doors.

Then he turns away, and walks numbly to Blaine's room. Blaine is alone there tonight, his roommate somewhere or other and Kurt really doesn't care… He looks up when Kurt lets himself in and smiles.

"You know, usually, it's customary to knock but… Kurt?" The smile fades. "Kurt, are you… what happened?"

Kurt doesn't say anything, but when Blaine puts his arms around him he finally starts to feel safe and warm again… and then he's crying, shaking with the force of it, and can't think why.

It was stupid – monumentally stupid – but Dave drove through the night, and now that he's on his uncle's doorstep (or rather in yet another rich but tastefully appointed lobby), it's just past two in the morning, and he's ready to collapse and possibly suffering from some kind of mental hysteria.

The night-watch guy at the desk, or whatever he is, is staring at him, radiating disapproval and looks thisclose to throwing him out. He's already rung up to Uncle Jack's apartment twice, and Dave knows that unless the third time really is the charm, he's going to be sleeping in his car tonight.

"Please…" Dave says, and the night-watch guy purses his prissy mouth.

"It's ringing," he snaps. Then, "Mr. O'Neill? I'm very sorry to bother you, but… Yes, I know what time it is, but I assure you… I am sorry, sir, but there's… I understand, but there's someone here to see you." He puts his hand over the mouthpiece and, giving Dave a serious hairy eyeball, asks, "Who are you?"

"Dave," says Dave. "I'm his nephew."

Night-watch guy looks doubtful, but dutifully relays this to Uncle Jack. There's a pause in which Uncle Jack replies, then night-watch's eyebrows go in search of his hairline and he says to Dave to "go right on up," and buzzes him through the brass trellis that divides the main lobby from a bank of elevators.

He gets out on the seventh floor and finds Jack waiting for him there, wearing a set of Air Force sweats and a crotchety expression. His hair is all over the place, as usual, and he's barefoot on the lush cream carpet. It's weird seeing Uncle Jack in a place like this; Dave grew up watching him move through settings like the cabin in Minnesota and the leafier suburbs of Colorado Springs.

"Hi," Dave says, suddenly at a loss, and stops just in front of the elevator.

"'Hi'?" Jack repeats, looking caught between peeved and puzzled. He retrieves Dave from his spot by the elevators, grabbing his duffle bag and herding him into the apartment. "Kid, do you know what time it is? Do your mom and dad know you're here?"

The reminder of his parents drains something out of him. Shoulders slumped, he mutters, "No. Not that they care."

He regrets the comment immediately; Jack is frowning, worried. "Dave. Kiddo. What's going on?"

Dave sits, or rather, drops onto his uncle's swanky blue couch. Jack lowers himself slowly into the matching armchair opposite. He looks more awake now; dark eyes alive with caution and curiosity. And concern.

It's the concern that does it. For the third time that night, Dave blurts his big secret and waits for an explosion.

"I'm gay."

Jack looks nonplussed. "Uh, okay."

Now Dave is nonplussed. "O-okay?" he echoes. "That's – that's it? That's all you're going to say?"

"You were expecting something else?" Jack asks, an inquisitive eyebrow going up.

"N-no, I just…" Oh, God, please, no. "I…" He's going to…

Jack's face softens. He rubs a calloused hand through his silver hair and sighs, resting his chin on his fist.

"Dave," he says gently, "why're you here, kiddo?"

Dave stares hopelessly back. "They kicked me out." And then he drops his face into his hands and can't hold it back anymore.

In the following storm of sobs – deep, wracking, body-shaking sobs – Dave hears Jack murmur, "Christ," before the couch dips next to him and a strong, wiry arm goes around his shoulders.

Jack doesn't say anything, doesn't make any promises, but the strength of the embrace never wavers and Dave finally finds something to anchor him after spending the last year lost at sea.

Jack spends the next morning reorganizing his day, taking some emergency leave and getting the run down on something called pee-flag from one of the secretaries. Adelaide is a tiny human whirlwind of vital, vital information that Jack simply must have, and he's beginning to realize why Col. Adshell always looks so harassed.

"Is he awake yet?" she demands.

"Nah, thought I'd let him sleep in. He had a late one last night, y'know?"

"Don't let him stay in bed all day," she tells him. "He'll stew in his own juices and make himself miserable. Get him up, fed, and keep him occupied."

"Occupied?"

"You know; just do things that he likes doing, spend time with him. Show him the city or something. Talk to him, but let him come to you with what happened at home. He came to you for help, so chances are he wants to tell you, but let it be when he's in the right headspace, alright?"

"Right." Jack takes a breath. He can do this. For all that he was fond of avoiding his own mental… issues, he's usually been on the ball about taking care of his team. His former team.

God, he needs to call them. Addie's advice is all well and good, but… maybe this would be easier if he weren't doing it alone. He thinks of Sam, missing her fiercely, and rubs a thumb over the gold band on his left ring finger. Dave always liked spending time with Sam whenever his family visited Jack and she happened to come over.

"General," Addie is saying stridently, "are you listening?"

"Yeah!" Jack starts. "Yeah, I'm… I'm listening." He scrubs a hand over his face. "Sorry. S'been a long week, Addie."

"I know," Addie says, sympathetic. "Look Lily's cleared your schedule for the next week –"

"How the hell did she manage that?"

Addie laughs. "We have our ways. Look, just focus on David, alright? Treat him like you've always treated him, but just be aware, alright? You'll be fine."

"Yeah, thanks, Addie. Tell Lily 'thank you' from me."

They hang up, and Jack just stands in his stupidly fancy kitchen for a few moments. It's just past ten now, so he pulls out the ceramic pans Lily got him and always raves about and starts throwing together some breakfast. When the room is filled with the scent of frying bacon and hash-browns, Dave stumbles in, rubbing sleep from his eyes.

He looks a little better than he did last night; flushed with sleep instead of exhausted and pale. His hair is sticking up on one side, which makes Jack smile. Dave gets those dark curls from Jack's side of the family and he thinks with a pang that he's going to have to call Kathy and read his sister the riot act. What the hell were she and Paul thinking, turning their only boy out just because of…?

"Hungry?" Jack asks, and is relieved when Dave nods and settles at the small kitchen table.

Jack serves up two plates of shoulder bacon, hash-browns and scrambled eggs on toast, and because breakfast is the one meal he can do well (or at all) the eggs are fluffy and the rest is crispy-but-not-burnt. He watches Dave tuck in with familiar gusto and goes about eating his own a little slower. His nephew gets about halfway through his meal before slowing and then stopping completely.

"I'm sorry," he says thickly, "about last night, I – I shouldn't have – I just… I should've called you first, but I wasn't…thinking."

"Dave," Jack tells him. "Kiddo, you got nothing to be sorry for. A call woulda been nice, but you're here and you're safe and that's what I care about. Got it?"

The kid smiles for the first time since he got here, and Jack smiles back. They resume eating – or in Dave's case inhaling – their breakfast. When Jack's putting their dishes in the sink, Dave asks a question that's been worrying Jack since the words, 'they kicked me out' came out of the boy's mouth.

"Uncle… What's going to happen to me?"

Jack heaves a bit of a sigh and stands by the sink, crossing his arms. He meets Dave's eyes squarely though and asks, "What do you want to happen?"

Dave looks startled, like choices of any kind are unexpected and unfamiliar. "I…I wanna go home but…" His shoulders slump. "I know that's not an option."

Jack nods. "I know. Okay, so, option two?"

Dave looks at a loss.

"Right." Jack makes a decision, but keeping it to himself says, "Go wash up and get dressed. We're going out."

"…We are?"

"Yup. Since you've finally come to see me, might as well show you the city," he teases, smiling.

Dave smiles, still uncertain though.

Jack puts a hand on his shoulder. "Look, just give your brain the day off, okay? Maybe have a think about what you wanna do, but… Relax, kiddo. Whatever happens, we'll make sure it works for you."

Dave searches his face, looking heartbreaking unsure, before turning his gaze to his feet and swallowing hard. "Thanks, Uncle Jack," he says, voice rough.

Jack half-smiles. "Yeah-sure-you-betcha."

SOS GUYS: Any tips of writing Azimio? He's showing up next chapter and I need to get a clue.