So... wow. Such a huge response to my humble story! And so many people asking for additional chapters. And even more setting story alerts. Y'all do know that I'd marked it Complete, right? A one-shot? Not intended to keep going? Single chapter? Uno libro (forgive me, me no speaka Spanish...)?

Well, just in case anyone thought that their reviews make no difference, this here chapter is about to prove you wrong. This is dedicated to the fans - to the dedicated reviewers - to all those who story-alerted me and made me feel so darn wonderful - here is chapter 2! And there will be at least a couple more, because once you-all got my juices flowing on this, there was kinda no stopping it. My muse thanks you. Now if I can just beat her into submission so she'll give up the story so's I can write it, we'll all be happy, yes?

Set after "Furt" but - in all likelihood - probably going to wind up being AU. Because that's just the seriously annoying part about writing fanfic based off of a TV show that updates every week - the story may start out properly canon, but by the time the next week rolls around, everything has been tossed like a Caesar salad and anything written between one week and another is suddenly out of date. I'll try to keep it as kosher as possible, but I'll keep whatever plot devices advance my ideas. *fiendish grin*

That said, enjoy! Please review - it DOES make a difference, and I love gleaning new ideas from my reviewers! Love y'all!

The day after the Event

The doorbell rang. Kurt, bleary-eyed from his extremely late night of sitting in the hospital with Karofsky, nevertheless looked stunning in his Dolce and Gabbana shirt and matching trousers. Which was a good thing, as the person on the other side of the door was Karen Garten, journalist extraordinaire with an international readership that nearly extended all the way to Beaversdam, Ohio, on a lucky weekend, or when a passing trucker took a copy of the originally-titled Lima News on the road to use as a stash of emergency toilet paper.

"Hello?" he greeted her, eyes going up and down her Sears off-the-rack-and-definitely-needing-to-be-seen-by-a-tailor-(or better yet, an incinerator) suit.

"Mr. Hummer?" asked the bottle blonde. Kurt frowned.

"It's Hummel, and my dad's not interested," he said, swinging the door shut.

A pump that had to have originated in a Payless wedged itself in the doorjamb. "Karen Garten," she said, voice muffled by the thick door. "Lima News. I'm here to speak with Mr. Kurt Hummel."

"My dad's name is Burt," the teen replied, opening the door to glare at her. Normally, he'd be more polite. But normally, he hadn't had such a hellish night, capped by sleep truncated by nightmares. He was just a little bit on edge, and so not ready to deal with cheap wannabes. "I'm Kurt. If it's about the New Directions, I'm at a new school now, so I've got nothing to say on the subject. If it's about Dalton, I've been there, what, two weeks? So I'm still forming opinions. If it's about music, check my facebook page. Will that be all?"

He'd hoped that his usual rapid-fire attack and sudden wall would throw her, but he was to be disappointed. "Actually, I wanted to speak with you about David Karofsky," she said. Somehow, with some trick of psychic space, subtle motion, and attitude, she'd managed to make him back up a few steps. She closed the door behind her and motioned to the living room couch. "Shall we sit? It will make the interview so much more comfortable."

"Wait, interview?" asked Kurt as he was hustled over.

"Yes, yes, the interview. Now," she said, settling just across from him in Carol's wingback chair, recorder at the ready, "Tell me, what did you see last night?"

"Last night?"

"Yes, yes, last night. I understand you saved a fellow high school student's life? Your former bully, I believe, Mr. David Karofsky, is that right?"

Kurt blinked at her, to have his verbal sparring tactics used on him. "Well, yes I did, and yes, he is, but –"

The bottle-blonde charged right ahead. "So, tell me, why would you save the life of the person who had you reportedly, 'Shivering like a baby mouse in the middle of a litter of inquisitive kittens whose mother has just tossed them out to fend for themselves without even a last suckle on her feline tits to bid them farewell'?" she quoted, only having to refer back to her notes once.

Kurt blinked. "You talked to Sue Sylvester?" he asked, trying to shake his sleep-deprived brain into some semblance of order.

Ms. Garten smiled at him. "That certainly sounds like her, doesn't it? Yes, she verified that you and Mr. Karofsky had… history. But that only deepens this mystery. Why would you bother saving the life of your tormentor? Was your identity so wrapped up in his that you couldn't let him die and so rob you of your life's definition?" She had a predatory glint in her eye.

But Kurt's mind was waking up now. "Or was it his inability to live without someone to torture that drove him to suicide and only my unthinking altruism and value of human life that thwarted his attempt at death?"

Karen's lip twitched up in a smile. "Touché. So, was it?"

"Was it what?" Damn, she was quick on the uptake. Kurt would have been enjoying this verbal thrust-and-parry, but for the subject. "A spoilt child's reaction to having his favorite toy taken away? Perhaps. Perhaps not. I believe that the only person who can truly comment on the state of mind of Dave Karofsky is Dave Karofsky."

"But you must have a theory," she pressed, leaning forward. The little black button of material that masked the mouth of the recorder opened wider, swallowing in all sounds. Kurt had a sudden dizzy feeling. Revenge. It would be so easy. Just a slip of the tongue, as it were, a veiled euphemism, a smile, a nod, a wink. A hint to Karen Garten about Karofsky's sexuality would be as good as singing it from the rooftops – better, as it a) wouldn't be coming from Kurt and was likelier to be taken as truth and not rumormongering, and b) would reach a wider audience. He'd be ruined. Kurt would win. Karofsky would never threaten Kurt again.

Mostly because he'd be dead. Karofsky wasn't the type to be able to live with shame. Kurt had the sudden, gut-certain feeling that if he so much as breathed a single whisper of Karofsky's secret, he wouldn't give anyone a second chance to save his life.

Kurt shrugged, flippantly. "Personally? I'd say it's because he's a glory-hound. He lost his favorite punching-bag – me – and his space on the football team. A guy like that, he's emotionally immature. He can't deal with any emotions deeper than a Chicago-style pizza. His only way out is… out."

"Wouldn't you say that's a trifle… glib?" she asked, brows arching a bit at this.

"Perhaps," he allowed, rising deliberately. Almost as though pulled by a string, the journalist followed suit. "But you're just looking for sound-bytes anyway. Feel free to plagiarize me, by the way. It's a brilliant turn-of-phrase, if I do say so myself." He'd led her to the door by this point and he opened it and waved her outside, very gentlemanly. "It's been a pleasure speaking with you," he said by way of farewell, "but please, call first next time. I've been rehearsing quite strenuously lately. Competition, you know, lots to catch up on. Good day."

He had the door closed on her before she even knew what had happened.

Kurt breathed a sigh of relief once she was gone. He hadn't spilled the beans, hadn't given away anything that might be remotely considered important, and had, he hoped, pointed her in as opposite a direction from confusion over sexuality as he could steer.

And mentally kicked himself. He'd covered for Karofsky for so long, concealing his bullying, hiding the worst of his sins, protecting his secret. Even at the new school, here he was, still worried about telling the whole truth.

Karofsky, darn you, you'd better appreciate what I just did for you… Fat chance. But, at least he wasn't going to be hunted down by an enraged – outed – grizzly bear of a mentally-unstable, gay jock.

Maybe I'll just call it self-preservation and leave it at that.

A few days later

"Come on, Pavarotti," Kurt said, gathering up the canary's cage. "Let's go." He rather liked the little yellow bird. It was sunny, and happy, and liked to sing almost as much as Kurt himself did. And Kurt felt like he needed cheering up. The visit to the psych ward yesterday had been draining. He'd never thought to see Karof- Dave - so... vulnerable.

"Kurt!"

Kurt turned, his face brightening. "Blaine!"

But Blaine's face wasn't so happy. "What did you do?" he asked, holding out a newspaper. "It says here that you saved that, that bully's life?"

Kurt set the cage down, the smile draining from his face. "Yeah," he said, slowly. "What else was I supposed to do? I couldn't let him die."

"But you covered for him. I mean, have you read this article? You know why he was up there – he couldn't handle that he's gay! But here – it reads like you're still suffering from Stockholm Syndrome!"

Kurt had read the article and personally disagreed with him, but before he could voice that opinion, Blaine continued. "Yeah, we gays don't out one another. But, damn Kurt! It's like you stood up for yourself once, and, bam, that's it! You can't stop at just once, you've got to keep going at it, prove that once wasn't a fluke, that you really do have that backbone and can keep dishing it out, making them respect you!"

Kurt stared at the floor. "I'm not sorry I saved his life," he murmured quietly. How could he make Blaine understand?

Blaine sighed and quit shaking the paper, setting it down and leaning against the table. "I know, Kurt. I'm glad you saved him, too; it was the right thing. I just… I wish it wasn't so hard, you know?"

The two Dalton boys stared around the austere school, the uniforms that marked them as just a pair in a crowd. It vaguely reminded Kurt of the first real, serious talk he and Blaine had had, the one that had ended with Blaine declaring his own cowardice in choosing to run rather than to fight the prejudice that had dogged him. Kurt cast a sidelong look at the other teen; what must Blaine think of him, now that he'd run, too? And how could he tell him that he'd visited Kar- Dave, without sounding defensive? Why had he visited the hospital, anyway?

"Well. At least you tried," Blaine finally said, gruffly. "I've got to run or I'll be late to class. I'll see you around."

Some two months later…

"Blaine, will you stop it?" Kurt giggled, batting the other boy away from him.

Blaine gave one final nuzzle and grinned, hugging him around the shoulders before swinging around the table and taking the seat opposite. Kurt grinned back, blitzed by the sneak attack. One of the other patrons of the Dalton Academy library rolled his eyes at the pair, then turned back to his notes.

"Whatcha studying?" the older boy asked, trying to read Kurt's notes upside-down. Giving up on that, he reached out and flipped the notebook around.

"…Kurt, with as neat as your handwriting usually is, you'd think I would be able to read at least some of this. What is it, Latin?"

Kurt reddened, slightly. "It's shorthand. The teachers here talk so fast, I had to develop my own system to speed up my note-taking. At McKinley, I was always the top of my class without hardly trying. It's a lot harder here."

Blaine frowned, and Kurt mentally kicked himself. Blaine hated it when he talked about his former school. He'd stopped badgering him about the New Directions when Kurt had put his foot down, two months ago now, but that had started the moratorium on all things having to do with Kurt's life at the public high school. At first, it had been a relief, not having to talk, to think about it. Then, as he'd started to relax, to try to wrap his head around what had happened, well… Blaine hadn't exactly been the most supportive. His theory seemed to be that if he ignored it, then it had never happened, Kurt had always been at Dalton, and Karofsky didn't exist.

"'Without hardly?'" Blaine echoed. "Better practice your grammar, Porcelain."

Then it was Kurt's turn to frown. Of all the things for Blaine to latch onto about McKinley, he wished to God it hadn't been that. He'd told him about it as a joke. Now, Blaine had made it into a pet name, and Kurt couldn't get rid of it.

They exchanged some more inane small talk, Blaine said, "I'll see you after class," and he exited the library, leaving Kurt to his studies.

Once he was gone, Kurt sighed, staring off into the distance, letting his mind drift. The faint buzzing of his cell phone in his pocket jolted him out of his reverie, and, glancing around – no librarians had heard him, thank goodness – checked the screen.

It was a text message from Dave. Hey. How RU?

They'd exchanged numbers the last time he'd visited the other boy, the day before he'd been set to be released from the mental ward. This was the first time that Dave had contacted Kurt - three weeks after the fact. Kurt had begun to think he'd lost the number, and he hadn't been at all sure that was a bad thing.

Well. Evidently he'd found it again. If it had even been lost to begin with. Kurt thought, somewhat guiltily, about the scrap of paper with a hastily-scrawled number on it that was taped to the back of the drawer of his bedside table at home. Never looked at, never used, but always there, at the back of his mind.

He stared at the readout. Hey. How RU. He mentally shuddered. And Blaine thought his grammar was atrocious. He considered just tucking the phone back into his pocket, to mull over, think about, consider his response. Though he knew that if he did that, it would never get answered. He'd forget about it, let a few days pass, then feel guilty about ignoring it for so long, and awkward about texting back, and wonder if it would be rude to send a reply after such a long time had passed, until he deleted it out of pure self-preservation, just so he wouldn't have the thing lurking in his inbox, making him feel guilty.

His thumb hovered over the delete button. Why not just short-circuit the whole mess right now? he thought. It'd be easy enough.

Instead, his fingers brushed the keypad. I'm okay. How about you? He hesitated a long time before looking up, eyes drifting across the books and papers strewn across his appropriated table, and his thumb ever-so-gently brushed the Send button. A muted chirp indicated that the message had been sent.

Kurt's stomach flip-flopped. Too late to call it back now.

Tucking the phone deep into his pants' pocket, to muffle the sound of the vibration when Karofsky sent his return message – Kurt didn't want to get in trouble, after all, and cell phone use was prohibited at Dalton – Kurt turned back to his notes.

He'd gotten good at shorthand. Well, it was his own method, after all. Why shouldn't he be proficient? It was a good system. Logical.

His eyes skimmed his History notes. McKinley had only offered American History; here, he was having to tackle the history of the entire human race from Adam and Eve on down. And Literature wasn't just English Lit. The teacher was a huge Classics buff, so they were studying (in the English versions, thankfully) Dante's Inferno; The Epic of Gilgamesh; Victor Hugo's Les Miserables – at least Kurt knew the basics of that one from the musical, but he was rather surprised at how much more there was to the story; the Nibelungenlied; Shakespeare's THe Merchant of Venice; and Beowulf, which the teacher assured them was in English, just a very, very old form of it. "Hwæt. We Gardena in geardagum," he muttered to himself. "How the heck does she get, 'What, We Spear-Danes in the old days,' from that? No way is that English."

And where was Dave? His pocket hadn't buzzed yet.

He turned over his algebra notes, blinked at them, and set them aside for later. That final wasn't until Friday, so he had a few days yet to cram. He mentally reviewed the finals' schedule, and realized that Biology was coming up on Monday.

He grinned, remembering the teacher's first words to the class. "In this class, we won't be studying the science of biology. We'll be studying the science of sex." That had gotten the attention of the class, all right. Mr. Letrom went on to explain that biology was essentially the study of why and how things reproduced, and what went into making more little copies of themselves, and all the things that made it so that a cow didn't look like a horse and how to tell the difference - 'besides the underside excretions, boys...' - and so on and so forth. And he expected a lot out of Kurt. That was probably the most stunning part, that a teacher outside of the arts had taken a personal interest in him, thought he had potential, and pushed him to excell. And he was darn good at it, too. His father had been stunned to hear Kurt burbling about science at the dinner table and not - so much, anyway - glee club.

Which had become a bit of a sore point, to be honest. Kurt had been warned - strenuously - by not only Blaine but the entire membership of the Warblers that Kurt wasn't to go talking about them to anyone, Burt included and Finn especially. Finn kept Kurt up to date with all the New Directions member's news, but it wasn't the same. Rachel had forbidden Finn from talking to Kurt about any of their pieces, so that meant that dinner conversation was rather limited.

Kurt frowned to himself, thinking of the last several dinners they'd shared as a family. Things had been tense all around, and not just between him and Finn. Huh. He hadn't noticed it at the time. What had his dad and Carol been pussy-footing around - ?

Bzzzzt.

He whipped his phone out of his pocket. Karofsky.

Can we meet? Need 2 talk.

Oh. Joy. Dave wanted to see him, face-to-face? Just what he needed. With his luck, the ignoramus had decided that there was only one way to get back his equilibrium and that was taking a certain gay kid down a few more notches. Belly crimping, Kurt typed, NO!

Then thought better of it. Karofsky - Dave - he'd seemed... changed, in the hospital. Kurt knew too well that people were vulnerable in the psych ward, and that vulnerable people didn't behave the same way once they had their walls back up. But maybe...?

Caribou Coffee? he suggested. 4:00? Busy place, busy time, and a lot of the off-duty cops liked to hang out there. Dave - Karofsky - would be on his best behaviour in that crowd.

The reply was almost instantaneous. Be there. CU then.

Kurt tucked his phone back in his pocket, swallowing hard. What have I just gotten myself into? he thought. I must be ten kinds of idiot for this.