A/N: Much of this story is R-rated; however, some of it will be NC-17 and will not be placed on FF[dot]net. I will make it clear when a chapter to edited to fit a R (M) rating and, if you are of legal age in your area of residence, the unedited version can be viewed at:

Sparklybat[dot]livejournal[dot]com[slash]tag[slash]cellmate

(replace words in brackets with correct symbol)

Summary: Prison orange is so not Kurt's color, but, unfortunately, that is the least of his troubles when he finds himself in a place where dropping the soap is more than just an annoyance in the shower. With no street skills and sparkly pink toenails, things aren't looking up for Kurt-especially when he's assigned to the cell of the terrifying bully who landed him in this place in the first place. But there are a lot of things for Kurt to learn about Dave Karofsky (including the fact that he knows damn well how to make you le'go his Eggo) and a lot of things for Dave to learn about Kurt Hummel (including the fact that he knows damn well how to help heal a heart.)

Author Notes: I didn't know if I wanted to post this because it's another abused!Dave fic and, therefore, is canon only to Never Been Kissed. But I like my angsty fic and tough Dave and I've been known to watch Oz on occasion, so, here we go anyway...

Warnings: Mentions of physical and sexual abuse, attempted non-con in the future, language, boy/boy sex in the future.

Disclaimer: Not mine. Belongeth to the creators of Glee and such. Ryan Murphy, don't bother to sue me, I ain't got nothin' to take! (And I don't wanna go to jail, either!)

The scarf was a lost cause.

Kurt stared down dully at the frayed satin, too numb to even really care. It was really pretty, with a pink and violet pattern crisscrossing it, so he really *should* care. It had been a birthday present from Mercedes. But he couldn't care. Because to care you had to think, and right now it seemed like he couldn't think at all. Everything was numb. It was as if the whole world was moving slowly through a vat of Mr. Schue's hair product, the movements lethargic and deliberate.

He swallowed hard and tried to focus, eyes lifting to study his father, who was making harsh, angry movements and had deep, furious sounds coming from his mouth. Sounds that Kurt couldn't understand because it was all so slow. Why was everything moving so slowly? His heart was beating frantically, yet so, so slowly, like a fist pounding away at a stop and go pace.

He tried to look around, to understand what was going on, because it was important. He knew it was important. But he couldn't really remember why.

He stared down at his hands. They were clean and white. Where was the blood? He was sure he'd had blood on his hands. Even his fingernails were clean, but there should be blood. Not his own blood. Someone else's blood. Dave Karofsky's blood.

Kurt choked a little

Oh, God, what would happen to him? Would he go to jail? He couldn't go to jail. Bright orange looked horrendous on him. Bright orange looked horrendous on *everyone*! In fact, that was probably just another way to torment criminals, forcing them to wear the most unflattering color in the universe. Construction workers wore orange. Garbage men wore orange. *Traffic cones* wore orange. Oh, God, they were going to dress him up like a traffic cone…

He shuddered and suddenly everything around him sped up. The police officer in the corner yawned, shifting around and looking bored as his father shouted at the speakerphone perched on the edge of Principal Figgins' desk, his fist waving in the air.

"My son has no record whatsoever! He has *never* acted out violently before, despite the fact that he has been relentlessly bullied at this school! By this very boy, even! Dave Karofsky has a history of violent behavior and has *threatened* the *life* of my son before!"

Yeah, but Karofsky had never hit him in the face with a textbook over and over and over until the blood was pooling on the floor, and his face was swelling up, and the shouts of protests had been reduced to soft grunts. Kurt tried his best to push away the sickness rising in his gut as he remembered the feeling, that powerful feeling, that had come over him as he had put Karofsky in his place. It had been like a shining warmth in his chest, melting away all the frustration, all the fear, all the anxiety that had been building up for months. A simple, straightforward act of defiance. He couldn't fix Karofsky's messed up mind, but he could break his face.

Kurt pressed a hand over his mouth, fighting back the urge to throw up. What had happened to him? How could he have done this?

"Mr. Hummel, while I do understand your stance, your son did commit an act of assault."

Act of assault. That sounded so nice. Neat, really. Much better than 'beat another kid's face in, leaving him broken and passed out in the hall, lying in his own blood.' Kurt shivered, then wrapped his arms around himself, trying to get warm. A nice effort but a futile gesture, really, since Kurt was pretty sure it wasn't the air conditioner that was chilling him.

"Are you honestly saying that you are going to hand out the same damn punishment to a sweet kid who likes to have tea parties and go to the opera as you would to a kid who beats the shit out of people for fun?"

Kurt squeezed his eyes shut as fear shot through him. What had happened to that sweet kid? Was that really even him anymore? Surely that boy would never have attacked Karofsky. That was *not* the kind of person he was. If he was really that sweet kid, how could he have hit him, over and over again, drunk with the feeling of finally, *finally* having some *power*? How could he have slammed that book into Karofsky's drowsy, confused face even as Mercedes begged for him to stop, grabbing at his arms as he struck again and again, and as the blood sprayed from Karofsky's nose? And most importantly, how could it have felt so *good*?

Kurt stared down at his very clean hands and once again swallowed down the need to vomit. There was something wrong with him. This wasn't right.

"My son walked into that locker room and saw the boy he calls his brother lying unconscious on the floor, half way dead! He lost his head—I think that is pretty damn understandable."

Kurt tried his best to focus on his father's words, even as his head spun. Understandable? Was his dad out of his mind? How in hell was it *understandable*? There was no excuse for what he had done. Violence was never, ever, ever the answer. He hated people who hurt others just to feel better about themselves in some twisted way. And he hadn't just shoved Karofsky against a locker or pushed him in the hall. He had tried to beat his face in, a deep satisfaction welling up in him as all the fearful memories flashed before his eyes. As if every time he raised that book to hit him, he broke another piece of the words 'I will kill you'. All the pain Karofsky had caused him had turned into this big ball of wrath and suddenly it was like he was above the rules. Righteous. Like it was all justified.

And for the first time since that kiss in the locker room, Kurt had felt powerful. And it had felt so good. How could something so horrible have felt so good?

Kurt began to rub the scarf frantically against his hands again. Where was the blood? Where had it gone? How could it have just washed away? It had to be there. Surely everyone could see it. How could his father stand there, proclaiming his innocence when there was blood all over his hands?

Dammit, when had he died and come back to life in an bad parody of the Tell-Tale Heart? God, he was stuck in The Tell-Tale Scarf. Kurt blinked, not sure whether that made him want to laugh or to cry.

"Mr. Hummel," a dry voice said over the speakerphone. "I am very sorry for all the troubles your son has gone through—the way Mr. Karofsky acted in the past is inexcusable."

Kurt's heart leapt in fear. If Karofsky pushing him into the lockers was inexcusable, what was beating a boy's face in? A crime worthy of hell? What would the judge do if she could see him, blood all over his hands… Except there wasn't any blood on his hands. Had there even been any blood on his hands? He hadn't actually touched Karofsky. God, he couldn't remember. It was too much of a blur, the adrenaline pumping, the image of Finn, unconscious, and Dave Karofsky's smug face… Only, how could it have been smug? Karofsky had been lying on the floor. Puck… Puck had hit him with something and knocked him down. A trophy. Yeah. The trophy that Kurt and the Cheerios had won at Nationals last year.

How ironic. In a twisted kind of way it had been him hitting Karofsky then, too.

"We are very sorry for all the troubles your son has gone through, Mr. Hummel. The school should have acted long ago to halt these instances. However, we are dealing with the here and now. The DA is going to be pushing to charge all three of these boys as adults. In family court we have a lot of leniency when we judge cases, the ability to take the circumstances into account. However, criminal court is a whole different game—if juvenile is a rugby match, criminal court is a gladiator ring."

Panic rose in Kurt's chest. Jail. He didn't want to go to jail. People like him didn't belong in jail. People who robbed banks belonged in jail. People who sold drugs belonged in jail. People who beat other people to death belonged in—

Oh, God.

He swallowed hard. Karofsky wasn't dead. They weren't talking about him like he was dead. But he wasn't here, either. Maybe he was dying. Maybe he was lying in a hospital bed somewhere, bleeding in the brain.

And that blood would be on Kurt's hands.

He let out a choked sob and rubbed at his already raw palms with his scarf. Why wouldn't they let him go wash his hands?

A look of absolute fury crossed Kurt's dad's face. "But my son is not violent! It's that bullying bastard who is violent! *He's* the one who beats people down for the fun of it! My son is a good boy!"

More tears ran down Kurt's cheeks. His dad was wrong. He didn't understand how it had made Kurt feel to attack the other boy. He'd never understood before today why guys like Puck and Finn shoved people around and roughed each other up. But now he knew. When you couldn't win any other way, it made you feel *strong.* And that made Kurt feel sick.

"Mr. Hummel," the judge said over the speaker, voice clipped. "May I be frank?"

Burt's dad sat back, looking disgruntled. "By all means," he snapped. "I would appreciate some straight answers."

"Elections are coming up in a month, Mr. Hummel. And violence in schools in a very hot political issue right now. Showing how they are stepping up to the plate in dealing with school crimes could make both the mayor and the DA look very good. Prosecuting three boys involved in a fight that put another boy's life at risk will make a beautiful headline. The people will never realize that your son and Mr. Puckerman did not attack Mr. Hudson, or that the fight was instigated by Mr. Karofsky. All the world cares about is the big print." The irritation in the judge's voice was apparent. "However, after hearing the details of this matter, I believe that it would be best to suppress it as much as we are able by making certain that it is handled in juvenile court, rather than presented to an unsympathetic jury. I do have some sway in the system and should be able to keep the DA from jumping on this." There was a slight pause and some murmuring in the background before the judge spoke again. "I will set a hearing for two weeks from today at ten o'clock. Due to the extent of Mr. Karofsky's attack, combined with his previous offenses, I feel that he should be detained until which time I can review the case and make a decision on the terms of parole. Mr. Puckerman and Mr. Hummel will also be detained, per Mr. Puckerman's violation of parole and the vicious nature of Mr. Hummel's attack. A psychologist will be sent to the detention center to interview Mr. Hummel and I will issue his parole based upon this evaluation. As the court is now officially closed for the day, I will review their case on Monday and… hm… I am free at five pm. I will make a decision on the terms of the release of the minors to their guardians at this time."

Kurt rubbed at the tears rolling down his cheeks with his scarf, not caring that he was getting snot everywhere. He was going to jail. Would he ever get out of jail? What would happen in jail? Maybe Puck could protect him…

Kurt glanced over at the other boy, eyes widening slightly at the pale color of his skin and the panicked look on his face. He was shaking his head over and over again, looking like he was in shock or something.

He was definitely screwed.

"I… I can't go to jail," Kurt said dully, barely aware that the words were even coming from his mouth. It was so hard to focus with all the blood that wasn't on his hands… "I-I can't even go in the boy's locker room without getting beat up. How am I supposed to go to jail?"

His father reached over, squeezing his shoulder reassuringly as he turned a furious look on the phone, raising a fist as if the judge could somehow see him. "Monday? You'll discuss parole *Monday*? That's almost four days! You want my son to spend for days in *prison* before you'll even set a parole hearing?"

"He'll be in juvenile hall, not prison, Mr. Hummel," the judge said soothingly. "Before I release your son I need to be assured by a licensed psychologist that he is not a risk to others. Whatever his history, he brutalized another boy's face. I do understand the circumstances, but that is the same sort of pent up rage that drives boys like Dave to act out."

Oh, God, it *was*, wasn't it? The pleasure he'd felt as that oversized oaf's head had tipped black, blood running from his nose, that chubby face already beginning to swell… Oh, God. He was turning into Dave Karofsky.

Kurt sniffled. He really wished he could wash his hands.

"Boys like Dave?" Kurt's father shot back, glaring at the phone. "Like *Dave*? Are you on a first name basis with him now, judge? Are you people allowed to be all buddy-buddy with your cases these days?"

"I have seen Mr. Karofsky in court before, Mr. Hummel. But I have taken an oath and there is no reason to recuse myself simply because I have seen a child before. If juvenile judges did that, half of our cases would never make it to court. Repeat offenders are the norm." Kurt winced at the annoyance in the judge's voice. "There is usually a reason why a child commits a crime and the act is often repeated. Now, the officers can escort the boys—"

"I ain't going back to juvie!" Puck spoke up suddenly, jumping up and slapping his palm down on Figgins' desk as if throwing a temper tantrum was actually going to *help* his cause. "I'M NOT GOIN' BACK THERE!"

"You are in no position to argue, Mr. Puckerman," the judge replied sternly. "I am afraid that all three of you will be spending a couple of days in juvie. I will see you all then." The phone clicked.

Kurt whimpered and his dad looked at him in concern. "Don't worry, Kurt," he murmured as he knelt down next to his son, wrapping his arms around him. "We're gonna get you a damn good lawyer, and you will be out of there faster than you can say 'not-guilty.' It's all going to be okay."

"Okay?" Kurt's voice came out higher than usual, which was pretty high considering that he spoke like a castrati on an average day. He swallowed nervously. "How can it be okay, Dad? I-I hit him! There was blood…" He shivered and his dad tightened his arms around him, rubbing his back comfortingly.

"It's okay, Kurt," he said soothingly. "What you did was normal. That boy hurt your brother and has tormented you relentlessly. You acted out. That's not unusual, Kurt. You're not a bad person."

Kurt sniffled, raising tear filled eyes to meet his dad's. "Then why am I going to jail?" he questioned, barely more than a whisper. His dad's shoulders tensed and he pulled back slightly, blinking rapidly as he stared down at his son. "Because they're stupid, Kurt. But I swear, it will be okay." His dad palmed a hand roughly across his face and Kurt's breath caught when he realized that his father was crying.

They'd already lost so much. He couldn't lose his dad.

"Dad," he whispered, "I'm scared." His father wrapped his arms around him again, squeezing Kurt tight.

"I know, son. I know. But just be strong and remember that I love you, Kurt, more than *anything*."

o o o o o o

"Dad… I'm scared."

"I know son, I know. But just be strong and remember that I love you, Kurt, more than anything."

Dave lumbered through the door, raising an eyebrow in a dark sort of amusement at the pretty boy and his dad's little hug fest. Aaaaw. Daddy-son bonding. If it hadn't sounded so kinky, it might have been sweet. Of course, Kurt's dad was getting a little too close for comfort, in Dave's opinion, but Kurt seemed to like it, so whatever. Probably just another faggish thing about him, liking to be held by men. Dave's lip curled up slightly. He couldn't imagine why you'd ever want some guy pressed up against you like that. Of course, he wasn't a homo.

A little sob came from Kurt, and Dave shook his head in disgust. What a big baby. He hated criers. What was the point of crying? That's what they *wanted* you to do. That was why they hurt you to begin with. Why give them the satisfaction?

He glanced around the room. There was Puck, sporting a bloody nose and sitting next to a woman Dave guessed was his mom. Principal Figgins was lounging behind his desk as usual, looking pissed off. Of course, the man always looked kinda pissed off. Maybe it was a foreign thing. And then there was Kurt, of course, all cuddled up with DaDa like there was no place in the world he would rather be. Weirdos. His caseworker was nowhere to be seen, which was all good in Dave's mind, but probably wouldn't last. The bitch would never miss a chance to nag at him.

Mrs. Mitchell's hand came down gently on Dave's arm and he flinched slightly. He'd forgotten she was behind him. Hopefully the throbbing in his head was affecting him more than he realized, otherwise he was *really* losing his touch, forgetting that there was someone at his back, and he needed to be on top of his game if he was gonna go to lockup. Hopefully Puck wouldn't go with him. The loser would probably expect Dave to protect him, the selfish fucker. But screw that. Puckerman was big enough and had enough attitude not to end up someone's bitch or something, so let him get roughed up a little when he went off about his guns or being a sex shark or whatever. It wasn't Dave's problem.

"It's going to be okay, Kurt."

"That's what they all say," Dave spoke up suddenly, a flashing a bloody smirk. "Right before they shove a steak knife in your back." He winked. "Thanks for the shiner, homo." Dave wagged his eyebrows just for the effect, despite the fact it hurt like hell. His right eye was swelling pretty badly. He might not even be able to see out of it soon. But it would go down before he made it to the pen, and that was all that mattered.

Kurt's dad sort of leapt up, a furious look on his face and Dave tensed, ready to take whatever the man was going to dish out to him. He was already fucked up and this guy couldn't go too far, not with all these people around. If they'd been alone he might have worried about broken legs, or even a "special" kind of punishment for messing with his faggot son. But he couldn't do that shit here, and if Dave had even a glimmer of hope that he wouldn't be tried as an adult, then he couldn't return the punches. And if you can't return them, well, you gotta roll with them.

The man's fists clenched and Dave winced inside, though he kept his face carefully blank. This was gonna hurt. Not that he didn't hurt already. But God, he was tired, and he could really use a damn break between beatings. Nap time, anyone? The man started forward and Dave steeled himself, but then the pretty boy leaned over and caught his father's arm.

Dave raised an eyebrow at that. Brave kid. He would never have tried to reign in his dad when he was pissed. That's how you ended up being shoved off the fire escape or some shit.

"Dad, don't!" Kurt scolded, making Dave shake his head in disbelief. Was his dad really going to take that shit? "It will just make it worse." The turned around fully in his chair, his gaze locking with Dave's. And then he went pale. Like, literally, all the color drained away and he was left wide eyed and white, his hand actually trembling where it rested on his dad's sleeve.

Dave frowned. Why the hell was the homo acting like the boogie man had just gotten him? Surely he knew that Dave couldn't jump him in here. The cops would take him down, if the boy's dad didn't get to him first. He stared at him for a moment, then chuckled inside as a wicked idea took shape. He couldn't hit the showy little slut, but he could make him sorry he'd flaunted his pretty self at Dave Karofsky.

Dave moved his tongue around in his mouth, pressing at the loose tooth in the back. Oh, yeah, this would be amusing. The tooth would have to come out anyway, and his dad wouldn't pay for no visit to the dentist—might as well put it to good use. He smirked again and opened his mouth wide as he reached in with two fingers. A grunt and couple of tugs later and it was free, sitting bloody in his hand. "Hey, fairy," he said with a grin, holding up the tooth. "Gonna give me money for this tooth?" He tossed it in Kurt's direction, laughing when it landed in the other boy's lap. The boy jumped out of his seat with a girly little screech and Dave smirked. "No? Oh well. Thanks anyway for the makeover, princess. I really like the Fight Club look."

Kurt's head snapped up from where he had been staring with a look of horror at the tooth on the floor, eyes narrowing. He opened his mouth, probably to say something bitchy, then suddenly their eyes met again and he just froze, that horrified look crossing his face once more. Weird. Seriously, what was wrong with this kid?

Obviously something, because the next thing he did was collapse to his knees on the floor, puking his guts up. Right onto his pretty little fag scarf, nonetheless. Dave stared in disbelief, shaking his head.

"What the fuck?" he said, after a moment, raising an eyebrow as he watched Fancy's dad kneel down next to him, muttering sweet nothings. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

Kurt just stared at the ground for a moment before those eyes raised, slowly meeting his. "I'm sorry," he whispered, a pained look on his face. "I'm so sorry." Okay, either someone had eaten some bad Chinese food today or the pretty boy was just nuts.

Dave's brow furrowed. Seriously, he was *sorry*? For what? All he'd done was hit Dave in the face, and there was no point in trying to pretend he hadn't deserved it. And Fancy was sorry? Hell, he should be *happy*, seeing his biggest bully all fucked up. "Oookay," Dave said slowly, looking at the other boy strangely. "Whatever." Not the most brilliant of responses, but what the fuck was he supposed to say? 'It's okay?' 'I forgive you?' He searched his memory, trying to remember if anyone had ever apologized for hitting him before. Nope. He'd heard 'I'm sorry I *didn't* hit you,' many a time, but this was a whole new ballgame.

"It's okay, Kurt," a whiny, feminine voice came from the doorway, and Dave grimaced as his caseworker, Jessica, walked around him to kneel next to Kurt. "You don't have anything to be sorry for, young man."

Dave scowled at that. What a bitch. Okay, it was the truth, but still. Any excuse to call Jessica a bitch was fine with him.

Kurt whimpered like a little girl, glancing back up at Dave and then looking away. "I hurt him… God, *look* at him…"

Jessica looked up at Dave, shooting him a disgusted look, then turned back to Kurt. Dave suppressed the urge to roll his eyes and inform her just what part of his anatomy she should have her mouth wrapped around. In the end it really was better to stay on Jessica's good side or he might very well find himself in the type of foster home where you got rewarded with a piece of toast and half a banana after you mowed the lawn, did the laundry, painted the house, cleaned the bathrooms, sucked some dick, and washed the car-then you could go back to your closet and rot there while the family ate pot roast and apple pie.

"Don't you worry," she said calmly, smiling down at Kurt. Yeah, she *would* like the princess. Why the hell was Dave the only one who saw what a flaunting little whore he was? "It looks worse than it is. It's mostly swelling, and that will go down. He just needs to wash some of the blood off of his face. That's what makes it look so bad."

And the broken nose didn't help. But it wasn't at a weird angle or anything, so Dave guessed it didn't count. Oh, who was he kidding? His nose had been broken at least a half a dozen times, so why should anyone give a shit? He couldn't even breathe through it anymore because his dad had fucked up his… some weird word that started with an 's'… when he hit him in the face with a baseball bat.

Dave shook his head in disbelief. The pretty boy had really tossed his guts because Dave was bloodied up? It was just his damn nose. Noses bled when you fucked them up. A lot. And there wasn't much you could do about it short of sticking a bunch of toilet paper up there and hoping for the best.

"Dude, you puked because I got blood on my face?" Dave snorted slightly at the pitiful look on Fancy's little face. "Wow. Someone's got a weak tummy." He laughed dryly. "Fucking homo." Really, what an innocent little bitch.

o o o o o

The other boy's face was so swollen that you could barely tell who it was. There was a medical tape on his forehead and his nose was stopped up with tissue. The blood had been haphazardly cleaned off, but it was still dripping from his lip and there was a big smear across one cheek. One of his eyes was swollen almost completely shut. Kurt swallowed hard and Karofsky chose that moment to flash him a big smile, revealing a mouth full of blood covered teeth.

Oh, God. He was really, really starting to wish he hadn't eaten breakfast this morning.

Kurt shivered as a wicked look came over Karofsky. That was not a good look. What was he—OH GOD!

The other boy yanked a tooth out of his mouth with a small grunt, then turned a smile on Kurt, holding it up like some sort of prize.

"Hey, fairy. Gonna give me money for this tooth?" He tossed it suddenly in Kurt's direction, laughing when it landed in his lap. With a yelp Kurt jumped to his feet, knocking it to the floor as he wiped frantically at his trousers. Karofsky laughed again. "No? Oh well. Thanks anyway for the makeover, princess. I really like the Fight Club look."

Kurt turned back toward him, a snappy retort on the tip of his tongue, but the words died as he looked over that bloody, bruised face again. He had done that. *He* had done that. The blood, the swelling, the missing tooth… It had all been him. He had done that to another person.

The battle with his breakfast was finally lost as Kurt collapsed to the ground, choking up every last bit in his stomach. Right onto his scarf.

Yeah, it was *definitely* a lost cause.

"Kurt!" His dad knelt down next to him, looking worried. "Are you okay?"

Kurt sniffled, trying to wipe away the vomit on his lips with the back of his hand as he continued to stare up at the bigger boy, unable to take his eyes off of what he had done.

"What the fuck?" came Karofsky's disbelieving voice. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

"I'm sorry," Kurt whispered as he continued to stare, not even hearing the other boy. "I'm so sorry."

Karofsky opened his mouth and the shut it again, looking confused. "Ooookay. Whatever." Whatever. Whatever wasn't good enough. Kurt wanted him to understand, to realize how sorry he was—

His thoughts were interrupted by a feminine voice. "It's okay. You don't have anything to be sorry for," a woman Kurt didn't know said as she knelt down next to him.

"I hurt him… God, *look* at him…"

The woman reached out, brushing his hair lightly with her fingertips. "Don't you worry. It looks worse than it is. It's mostly swelling, and that will go down. He just needs to wash some of the blood off of his face. That's what makes it look so bad."

Karofsky needed to wash the blood off his face, and Kurt needed to wash it off of his *hands*. Oh, God.

"Dude, you puked because I got blood on my face?" Karofsky asked disbelievingly, shaking his head. "Wow. Someone's got a weak tummy."

"Be nice, Dave," another soft voice said. Kurt looked up as a tiny woman dressed in scrubs stepped out from behind the hulking boy, patting him gently on one big arm. She stepped up to them, glaring down at the woman. "Hello, you must be Ms. Williams. It is nice to get a chance to speak with you face to face. *Finally*." There was a chill to her voice and Kurt frowned as Karofsky jerked slightly, turning to look at the old woman with a slightly worried face.

"You must be Nora Mitchell," the woman replied sweetly, standing up and offering her hand to the older lady, a somewhat plastic looking smile on her face. "Please call me Jessica. It's a pleasure. I am sorry that I never got the chance to come in person. I'm afraid that I have been extremely busy."

Kurt accepted his dad's hand, stumbling to his feet and wiping at the throw up with the tissue he'd just ben handed. He frowned. Who was this lady? Karofsky's grandma?

"You've been busy, hm? Too busy to help kids? And here I thought that was why they call it the Child Welfare system."

Jessica gave the woman a tolerant smile. "Ah, well, I did look into your reports, ma'am, but I didn't see anything out of the ordinary. If you know Dave at all, then you know he is prone to violent behavior. Boys like him get into a lot of trouble. A few bumps and bruises are to be expected."

"I am a school nurse, Ms. Williams, and have been for twenty years," the woman replied, her voice clipped. "And in all my time at schools, I have *never* seen a child get second degree burns on their hands from a fist fight in the corridor."

Principal Figgins handed Kurt of can of ginger ale and he accepted it, taking a dainty swallow. That's right—this woman was the nurse. Mrs. Mitchell. But how did she know Karofsky? She seemed pretty upset for just being a nurse.

"Mrs. Mitchell," Jessica said, crossing her arms over her chest, "you would be *amazed* at what boys can do to one another."

Karofsky made a rather rude sound, causing the caseworker to turn toward him, scowling. "I suggest you be on your best behavior, Dave, because I am sick of dealing with your crap. And unless you want to be eating out of trash cans and selling your butt for small bucks, I think you had better shape up."

Whoa, what the hell? Kurt choked slightly on his ginger ale, eyes widening, and even his dad—who he was pretty sure wanted to beat Karofsky into pulp—looked mildly offended. But Karofsky just rolled his eyes, a sullen look on his face.

"Yeah, yeah, keep your fantasies to yourself, lady." He raised an eyebrow in Kurt and Puck's direction. "So what's up? Am I going to the slammer?"

Kurt's heart fluttered. God, if Karofsky bullied him here, what would it be like when they were in jail together? Especially after what he had done to his face?

"All three of you will be detained at the West Lima Center for Juvenile Offenders until Monday, when Judge Martin will make a decision regarding your parole," Jessica informed him flatly, flashing him a not particularly kind look.

Though the swelling kind of made it hard to tell, Kurt was pretty sure that Karofsky looked shocked. "Whoa, hold up. The *three* of us? You putting Puckster and Fancy in with me? Are you outta your goddamn mind?"

"Trust me, I dislike the situation as much as you," Jessica responded primly. "Personally I think that your ass should go to state for this mess and these boys should be able to get back to their lives. But the parole hearing isn't until Monday and Judge Martin wants you all detained."

There was a long moment of silence before Karofsky began to laugh, a deep, almost vicious sound. "Oh, my God. This is so freaking crazy that I can't even think straight."

"Dammit, Karofsky, it's not funny!" Puck snapped, managing to look both pissed and terrified at the same time. "This is serious, dude. You may think that you're a bad ass here at McKinley, but this juvie thing is a whole new level."

The laughter continued. "Oh, man," he said finally, voice choked by the chuckles still coming from him. "Seriously, you're gonna put the faggot behind bars? Because he hit me in the face?" He shook his head. "People hit me in the face all the damn time. You stick Pretty in the pen and you might as well write 'prison bitch, $10' on his goddamn forehead." He laughed again, eyes narrowing as he looked at Kurt. "Ready to lick some boots, Fancy Pants?"

Jessica glared at him. "That's enough, Dave."

"You better start practicing your 'sir, yes, sir,' Pretty."

"I said enough!" Jessica reached out and smacked the big boy on the back of the head. He stumbled slightly and clutched at his bandaged head, glaring.

"Hey! Head injury here."

"I wouldn't worry yourself to much about it. It's not like there are too many brain cells up there to injure," the woman said dryly. "Now quit acting like a hooligan before I lose my temper and do a hell of a lot more than slap you on the head."

Karofsky shook his head, smirking. "Whatever. Just don't expect me to cover your asses, bitches." He chuckled. "And my best advice? Don't drop the damn soap."

With no warning Karofsky was suddenly next to Kurt, tilting his head up with one big hand as he planted a big kiss on his temple, leaving behind a bloody print of his lips. The officer moved forward and grabbed at him as Kurt let out a squeal of protest, and Karofsky laughed again, winking wickedly at Kurt as they yanked his arms behind his back, cuffing him.

"See you in lockdown, homo."