Day 91

"Y'all okay back there?"

Dave shrugs at Joe's question. "Fine."

"Not much farther," Joe says. Their temporary guardian glances at the three of them in the rearview mirror with washed-out blue eyes that are currently filled with faint concern. "Only have about an hour more driving to go."

"We're fine," Kurt says shortly. The weak, croaky voice he had at the hospital has settled into a quiet rasp that dropped the pitch of his voice out of the clear, high voice he once had. It's less startling, but then, it's less sweet, and Dave feels a pang of secondhand loss for Kurt.

Down at knee level where Joe can't see, Kurt and Santana clutch hands, their free hands hovering by their sides as if feeling for guns they no longer have. On Santana's other side Dave can feel her leg muscles tensed and quivering. She's prepared to run at any second the moment they spot trouble.

Yeah, they're fine. They're so fine. They're so fine they have to drive all the way from La Rochelle to Crécy-la-Chapelle because being stuck in an airplane they couldn't escape from was too terrifying to even think of doing, and taking the train would surround them with hundreds of strangers, potential zombies just waiting to happen. They're so fine they had to alter the route like they did back in the US, changing a five hour drive into a seven and a half hour drive to avoid Paris entirely.

The hospital was easier. It was quiet and clean and private. There were never more than four people besides them in their room. It wasn't the ocean, it wasn't a road, there weren't cars or gas stations everywhere. It didn't remind them of anything from before. The drive to their new home is a different story.

Dave has been watching Kurt from the corner of his eye for the past few hours. His friend has gone from impassive to grim, from stiff to rigid, from quietly worried to silent terror. Santana isn't much better off, and Dave isn't far behind them. They have seen too much, lived through too much, to turn off the bone deep fear that at any minute this will all come crashing down around their heads.

Joe looks at them again, just a quick peek in the mirror. It's the same speculative look he's been shooting them since they met last week, the one that wonders what exactly they are to each other. It's irritating, but he's the only one who didn't ask stupid questions at the interview, and he's the only one with a military background. Between those two things and him being bigger and burlier than Dave at his healthiest, there wasn't much of a choice about who to be stuck with for a month or so. They don't have to really like Joe to find him useful, and usefulness is the important thing.

Dave expects that the speculative look this time, the one they've been getting every hour or so, has to do with where they're sitting. There's a perfectly good passenger seat up in the front by Joe, and from the way he acted when they got out to the car this morning he'd probably been expecting one of them to take it. They didn't so much as touch the handle, instead sliding into the backseat together, shoulders and thighs and knees and feet all pressed together tightly.

It feels right. It feels good. It feels like safety.

He frees his arm from where it's trapped between his side and Santana's and stretches it out across the top of the backseat. His fingers just barely brush against the back of Kurt's head, but he runs his thumb down the prominent vertebrae of his neck gently, bringing his fingertips to rest at the junction between Kurt's neck and shoulder. "Almost there," he says, pitching his voice low and quiet. Kurt leans back just the tiniest fraction of an inch. Dave wouldn't have noticed if he hadn't been touching him.

Joe looks back at them again, and Dave meets his eyes challengingly, raising an eyebrow. He wants to dare their guardian to ask, to stop looking at them like he suspects what they have isn't platonic. But Joe's never going to do it. It wouldn't be polite, and he has to be polite to them, because they're fucking "heroes," and making them unhappy is the last thing anyone wants to do.

Fuck his curiosity. If he can't bring himself to ask, they're sure as hell not going to explain anything. He wouldn't understand it anyway.

Santana leaves off searching for her shotgun and grabs on to Dave's jeans, twisting the loose denim in her clenched fist. He sets his free hand on top of hers and squeezes lightly. "Almost there," he says again. He's not sure if he's trying to convince himself or Santana more.

He sees an unmoving, faint dark shape ahead on the side of the road and stills as a cold sweat breaks out all over his body. Jesus, no. It can't be. They're done, it's safe, it's over. No. It's just –

The shape comes into focus. Black. Shiny. Boxy. Windows. Four wheels.

It's not possible, it's just a car, there's nothing to be scared of. It won't be abandoned. There won't be a corpse in the front seat.

Santana and Kurt see it at the same time. Santana lets out a panicked noise, looking around wildly before burying her face in Dave's chest, shaking all over. And Kurt – Kurt yanks his seatbelt off and drops to the car floor, staring unseeingly at Dave's knees as he takes shallow, rapid breaths.

"No no no no nonononono," Kurt moans.

Dave fumbles for Kurt's shoulder and clutches them both to him as close as he can, eyes screwed tight and trying his best not to fall apart. "Pull over!"

To his credit, Joe doesn't hesitate, and swerves out of the lane to park on the packed dirt bordering the country highway. "What can I do?" he asks immediately.

"Get out," Dave tells him, shuddering. He opens his eyes to shoot him a pleading look. "Get out and tell us there are people by that fucking car. Tell us why there's a fucking car on the side of the fucking highway."

Joe gets out of the car at a speed that belies his bulk and runs down the highway to the car. Dave just hunches over his family and prays to a god he lost faith in three months ago.

He doesn't know how long it takes Joe to get back. Probably minutes, but it seem like an eternity has passed. But eventually Joe slips back into his seat and twists around to say, "It's just a couple of Parisians headed back from a weekend trip. They ran out of gas."

Tears of relief prick Dave's eyes. "Santana? Santana, sweetheart. It's okay."

"Really?" she asks in a tiny voice, muffled against his shirt.

"Really." He rubs her back and says, "I don't want to let go. But look down. I have to – it's not –"

She lifts her head and chances a peek at the floor. "Oh." She pulls back slowly, wiping her wet cheeks with the heels of her palms. "Yes."

Dave opens his door and gets out for a bare second to squeeze back in, kneeling on the floor between the passenger seat and his own. He takes Kurt's face between his hands and angles it up, bringing Kurt's blank eyes to his own. "Kurt. Tell me where we are."

"Lima," he whispers. The quiver in his voice breaks Dave's heart.

"No," Dave says softly. "We're in France. Remember France?"

"W-we…we took a boat," Kurt says. "We took a boat."

"And we were rescued," Dave says. "Kurt, would I ever lie to you?"

Kurt's eyes start to lose the terrifying emptiness that fills them, and he says, shaky but certain, "Never."

"Then believe me when I say we're safe," Dave tells him. He slides his hands down to cradle Kurt's too-sharp jaw. "We're safe."

Kurt refocuses on Dave's eyes. "Dave," he says, and then stronger, "Oh, god. Dave."

"Yeah." He tries to smile. "That's me."

"What happened?"

"Car on the side of the highway," Dave says. "Couple of dumbasses ran out of gas. We just – didn't handle it well."

Kurt's cheeks flush with humiliation, and he averts his eyes. "You didn't go crazy."

"I freaked out big time," Dave says. He lets his hands fall away to take Kurt's and holds his fingertips to his carotid artery. His pulse is still racing.

"But still," Kurt says.

Dave cuts him off. "No buts," he says. "Ballast to your hot air balloon, right?"

Kurt shakes his head. "That was there, though."

"And here, and the house we picked, and wherever we go after," Dave says, again trying and failing to smile. "I promise. I'll never let you down when you need me."

Kurt meets his eyes again and exhales shakily. "Thank you."

"There's nothing to thank," Dave says. "Are you okay to keep going? We can stay as long as you need."

"I'm alright," Kurt says. He squares his shoulders and gives Dave a wobbly smile. "Let's go home."

"Sounds like a plan." Dave backs out through the open door, and Kurt pulls himself back up onto the seat.

Santana latches onto Kurt with an enormous hug, her back against the opposite door and her hips angled toward Kurt. She hasn't stopped crying yet, and a wave of guilt washes over Dave for focusing on Kurt when she still needed reassurance. "I love you," she says, sounding so ferocious it almost comes out as angry. "I love you so much."

Kurt wraps his arms around her, holding her tight and touching his forehead to hers. "I love you too. Always."

"We can go," Dave tells Joe, closing the door behind him and strapping himself in.

"Drive fast," Santana adds. She loosens her grip on Kurt and wordlessly coaxes him down into putting his head in her lap. His bony hipbone juts into Dave's thigh, but he couldn't care less. Instead, he laces his fingers through Kurt's and forces himself to relax.

"No problem," Joe says, and he starts up the car again, pulling onto the highway and taking off at around fifteen miles above the speed limit.

Dave wants to close his eyes and keep them closed until they get there. They don't need to run across anything else like that ever again. They don't need to fall apart at the sight of a car or empty gas station. They just need each other. He reaches across Kurt and carefully wipes the tears away from under Santana's eyes with the back of his index finger. "We'll get through this," he says. "We will."

"Us against the world," Santana says quietly. "Fuck the rest of them. Nobody else matters."

Kurt gives an indistinct murmur of agreement.

Dave looks up to see Joe watching them again. The speculation is gone. All that's left is a sad understanding.

"Don't," he says, glaring at Joe's reflection in the mirror. He tries hard to push the unspoken words into their guardian's skull.

Don't fucking pity us. Don't you dare.


They all slump back in their seats as soon as they're through the gate. Joe parks carefully a few yards shy of the front door and unbuckles his seatbelt to turn in his seat and face them. "We made it in one piece," he says. "Want to take your bags up and pick your rooms now, or do you want to check out the place?"

Dave stares up at the millhouse through the windshield. It's older in person than it looked in the photograph, but he gets the feeling that people have put a lot of effort over the years to keep it in good condition. The exterior walls are stone, a soft gray-white that fits into the greenery surrounding it, and the roof looks like it might be slate. There's more width than height to it, giving it a weighty, dependable look. It's not a house he'd have trouble being comfortable in. "Kurt? What do you think?"

"Let's see the inside before we explore the outside," Kurt says. His voice is steady again. His eyes are once more taking in everything, noticing, assessing, evaluating. "We'll want to have dinner soon."

"I'll make it while you get acquainted with the house," Joe says. He gets out and pops the trunk.

Santana follows his lead, and Kurt slips out after her. Dave takes a moment to look at the millhouse again, admiring the early evening sun glinting off the narrow windows of the outbuilding to the back of the house. This could work.

"Coming?" Santana calls to him, and he opens his door and slides out. His spine pops as he stretches.

Joe pulls out two large suitcases full of clothes provided by one of the groups of people who've taken an interest in them. Dave can't remember if it was the Americans or the French. "I'll be back for the other two," he says.

"No need," Dave says, and he intercepts Santana and Kurt to take the other two. "I've got it." He ignores their put out looks and starts walking to the front door.

They all file in together, one right after another. Joe's waiting for them in the hall with their bags.

"Pretty," Santana says, looking around at the white plaster walls and exposed beams. "Not bad."

"Where are the bedrooms?" Kurt asks.

"Two on the ground floor, four on the first," Joe tells them. "I have a room in the building out back, so whichever ones you want are fine by me."

"Four upstairs?" Kurt's mouth curves in that faint smile he's taken to making when he's feeling alright. "That sounds good to me."

"It sounds better than good," Santana says, and Dave nods.

"Lay on, MacDuff," Kurt says to Joe.

Joe grins and picks up one of the suitcases. "And damned be him that first cries 'Hold, enough!'"

A brief spark of interest lights Kurt's eyes, and suddenly Dave can't help liking Joe just a little.

Their guardian keeps up a running commentary as they climb the narrow staircase. "There's a bathroom up there, and another one off the front hall. Ground floor's living space – bedrooms in the back, kitchen and dining room to the left, living room, library and study to the right. Basement's used for storage right now, but you can do what you want with it. Garden's out back, so's the well, and you can't miss the river."

"How old is this place?" Santana asks.

"Seventeenth century," Joe says offhandedly. "Last owner did a lot of renovation. Electric wiring, plumbing, central heating and all that."

"Whoa." Dave looks at the walls with renewed interest. "That's pretty cool."

They reach the landing, and Joe inclines his head in both directions down the hall. "King and two queens down that way, another king and the bathroom down the other."

There wasn't any need to even talk amongst themselves to come to a decision. Not where something like this was concerned. They set off down the hall to the three bedrooms, leaving Joe to bring up the rear. Santana opens the door to the right and nods decisively, crooking her finger at Dave, and he and Kurt follow her into a decent sized room done up in soft shades of yellow and white. The queen sized bed lies square in the middle of the room, headboard snug against the wall. Up against the adjoining wall is a wardrobe of dark wood. It's a friendly room. A warm room.

"I'll take it," she says. Dave drops her suitcase just inside the door. "Next?"

"Let's find out," Dave says. They head back out into the hall and open the next door they see.

"I suppose we've found mine," Kurt says, sweeping his eyes across the room. It's nearly identical to Santana's but for the muted blue-gray colors and the small rectangular window above the bed. "I like it."

Dave knows why. It's not a friendly room, or a warm room. It's quiet, and it's restful. It's the best room Kurt could have.

Joe hands off Kurt's suitcase to Dave, and Dave deposits it right inside just like he did for Santana. "Guess that leaves the last one for me," he says.

"Big guy, big bed," Santana says, and she ducks under his arm to reach the door at the end of the hall first. "This is good," she says with finality, as if daring anyone to challenge her statement.

Dave looks over her head and has to agree. It isn't much bigger than Kurt and Santana's rooms, but it's a little wider, and the bed, neatly made with a dark blue bedspread, dominates the room. There's no color scheme to his room; it's all clean and crisp white, relaxing and refreshing at the same time. "Great." He wiggles around Santana and goes inside to dump his suitcase at the foot of the bed.

"It works," Kurt says quietly, eyes fixed on the bed.

"No argument here," Santana says.

Dave reaches back and grabs the first hand he finds, not caring whose it is. "It's just right."

Joe clears his throat. "I'll be downstairs making dinner," he says. "Shout if you need me."

They don't say a word in response, and after a few seconds Dave hears his footsteps retreating back down the hall to the stairs. A few seconds more go by, and Santana asks diffidently, as if she couldn't care less, "Want to check out the rest of the house?"

The hand in Dave's slips free and Kurt moves past him to sit on the bed. "Not a chance," he says, unlacing his shoes and falling back against the mattress, arms outstretched.

Santana grabs Dave's arm for balance and kicks off her shoes. "I'd hoped you'd say that." She takes a running leap and launches herself onto the bed, wrapping herself around Kurt like an octopus. "Get over here," she demands, looking over at Dave.

Dave toes his shoes off and goes around to the other side of the bed, collapsing by Santana's side. Santana rolls into him, still clinging to an unresisting Kurt, and Dave slides his arm beneath their bodies to pull them closer. "We're going to be alright," he says. "We really are."

Santana laughs. It's just a little laugh, and it doesn't last long, but it's still a laugh. "I keep telling you. We're just too awesome for it to go any other way."

"Mm-hmm." A bit of the lingering tension seeps out of Kurt's shoulders. "Think Joe knows how to cook?"

"As long as it doesn't come from a can I couldn't give a shit," Dave says honestly.

"Yeah," Santana says. "Me neither."

"I agree completely," Kurt says. "And speaking of agreeing, we are going to sleep in here, right?"

"Wouldn't have it any other way," Santana says.

Dave just squeezes them lightly and closes his eyes. It's been too long, and there's nothing in the world right now that he wants more than to take a nap with the two most important people in the world.

Day 106

"I'm raising your dose of Paxil to forty milligrams," Dr. Moreau says, dashing off a note on her prescription pad and handing it to Kurt. "We'll continue with the psychotherapy on Thursdays."

Kurt folds the prescription into quarters and sticks it in his pocket to give to Joe later. "We'll see you in a couple days, then."

"And don't forget, Kurt," she says firmly, dark eyes serious and direct, "I want you to call me if you have another flashback. Day or night."

"Right," Kurt says. "Sure." He leaves the study as fast as he can and heads to the kitchen to grab something to eat for a mid-afternoon snack. There's nothing like a quick bite to eat to get the sour taste of talking about PTSD and survivor's guilt out of his mouth.

There's nothing like knowing he can have a quick bite to eat whenever he's hungry without it endangering their lives.

He cuts three thick slices off the huge loaf of soft country bread on the counter and spreads them thickly with butter from the crock by the stove. The sweet strawberry preserves in the refrigerator top them off. He locates three sturdy stoneware plates and three tall glasses, and pours a generous measure of milk into each one. The bread and milk all get set on a large tray, and he makes his way past the back staircase and out to the garden.

Santana discards her textbook and jumps up to take the tray at the sound of the creaky door opening. "Food!" she says. "A distraction, thank god!"

"It's not that bad," Dave says, accepting a plate and glass from Santana and setting aside his own textbook.

"Speak for yourself," Santana says. "You aren't the one who needs a French to English dictionary to get through the assignments." She hands Kurt the last glass of milk and plate and takes an enormous bite of her own bread. "How'd it go?"

"The same," Kurt says. "New dose, more therapy. 'Any flashbacks? Any panic attacks? Call me.'"

Of course he'd have PTSD. Of course he'd be the one who fell apart the worst when they stopped being in constant danger. It's downright humiliating. Even Santana managed to escape it with a diagnosis of panic disorder, and Dave… well. Kurt would kill to have general anxiety disorder instead. It doesn't matter that they tell him he's not weak, that he didn't let anyone down, that he's still their "fearless leader." It feels like a lie.

"Minus the flashbacks, that's probably how it's going to go for me," Santana says. She polishes off the bread and drains her glass. "I hate Mondays. Wish me luck."

"Good luck," Kurt and Dave tell her. There's less humor in it than there should be. They all hate seeing Dr. Moreau. She's nice, and smart, and they need her, but they can't help it.

She jumps up and goes inside with a quick touch to the back of Kurt's head, reassuring the both of them that they're still there.

"We brought your books out," Dave says, raising a history text for proof. "Feel like joining in?"

"I think I'm going to garden," Kurt says. "History can wait." He finishes his bread and jam with slow, measured bites, rolling his head from side to side to loosen his neck muscles. He always tenses up after seeing Dr. Moreau.

"Want some help?"

"Of course." Kurt stands and offers a hand up to Dave. Dave's kind enough to pretend Kurt has regained the strength needed to pull him to his feet.

Their garden didn't come with the fruits and vegetables they'd dreamed of on the boat. When they decided to poke around the property the first full day after their arrival, they discovered that it was filled with lilies, irises, daffodils, and small rosebushes. It was charming and beautiful, and for the most part it still is, other than the far corner by the well where they tore out the flowers to make room for a vegetable patch. Joe didn't think they'd have much luck planting anything in the middle of August, but they'd insisted and he'd come up with a list of vegetables they could grow without any trouble.

Kurt drops to his knees beside the dark patch of soil and reaches for a spade. "She's put me on the highest dose that's typically prescribed, you know," he says conversationally, as if his situation wasn't gnawing away at him constantly. He digs into the soft soil to create a hole for one of the seedlings and wonders what the people in charge of paying their bills must think of them.

"You always were an overachiever," Dave says mildly. Kurt can't help smiling a bit. Even when he's feeling weak, and ashamed at his weakness, Dave always manages to keep his head above water instead of letting him drown in his bad mood.

"Give me one of the pea sprouts," he says, holding out a hand.

Dave gently removes the sprout from its plastic container and loosens the web of roots at the bottom before passing it over. "I can't wait to eat these," he says. "Hey – want to do tomatoes next spring?"

"You know," Kurt says, settling the little plant into its hole and very loosely packing soil over the dirt from the container, "I'd forgotten."

"Hmm?"

"That there's going to be a spring." He resumes digging in the soil and adds, "I'd love to plant tomatoes then."

He doesn't look, but there's something in the short silence following his response that tells him Dave just smiled.

"Sixteen days and we get rid of Joe," Dave says.

Kurt can't wait until Dave turns eighteen. Sixteen days is too long. But on the other hand, he's not looking forward to having to go into town to buy their own groceries or get their prescriptions refilled. Maybe they'll see if they can hire someone. "What do you want to do to celebrate?"

"Maybe do something different with the living room," Dave says. "Turn it into a den or something. Games, a bigger couch, maybe a better TV."

"That's a worthwhile project." Kurt accepts another bean sprout to plant and spreads fresh soil around its base once it's in the hole.

It truly is a worthwhile project. The millhouse is the perfect place to recover. No one intrudes upon their privacy; it's quiet and peaceful and beautiful. But it feels a bit like they're tiptoeing around themselves, avoiding doing anything that might make them laugh or really let their guard down. Kurt suspects it's because they don't want to feel truly happy when they've lost so much. That's how he feels, anyway.

He feels like he doesn't deserve it.

They work in silence for a while, Kurt digging holes and planting the young vegetables while Dave prepares them for their new home in the ground. The repetitive work is soothing, and the muscles between Kurt's shoulder blades slowly unclench as they go.

"So I have a question that's probably inappropriate and definitely has shitty timing," Dave says as they start in on the turnips.

"Given how frank you tend to be, it's amazing you were ever good at lying," Kurt says, and Dave laughs.

"Yeah, well."

"Go ahead and ask," Kurt says. "It's fine."

Dave passes him a few turnip seeds and says carefully, "We said we'd talk when we were safe."

"We did." Kurt drops the seeds into the little holes he's dug in a neat row toward the back and covers them with soil. "I'm not ready for that particular conversation. But I am ready to talk."

"I'm listening," Dave says.

Kurt sets the spade aside and turns to face Dave, sitting cross-legged on the short grass. "We're safe," he begins. "And we're recovering, and we're grieving. And these are all good things. That's what I said we'd do when we talked."

Dave nods. "I remember."

"When I said it at the time, I honestly had no idea how much the both of you would come to mean to me," Kurt says. "There are only two people left in this world that I love: you and Santana. There's no limit to how much I love you both. You've seen me at my worst and not lost faith in me. I trusted you with my life for two and a half months when every day could have been our last, and I'll trust you until the day I die. But I absolutely cannot start anything right now."

"I understand completely," Dave says. He doesn't look even the slightest bit disappointed, to Kurt's relief, but Kurt still has to correct him.

"No, you don't," he tells him. "I love you and Santana. I don't love myself. I don't even like myself. I can't look in the mirror without wondering why I lived when better people – kinder, smarter, more talented people – died. There is a crack running through me that I'm desperately trying to fix, because if it gets any wider I'm going to stop being damaged and just break."

"Kurt," Dave says, reaching out with dirt-streaked hands.

Kurt takes them tentatively in his own, studying the dark brown soil that's worked its way under his nails. The grit feels real, grounding. It's been a while since he's felt so tied to his immediate surroundings without any fear or ruthless calculation involved.

He casts his mind back, trying to remember the date their world went to hell. Just three months since it started, and now he relishes the dirt under his fingernails and on his jeans. No wonder he sometimes feels so lost. He's half a world away from Lima. He's a universe away from the Kurt Hummel of mid-May.

"I know that someday I'll stop feeling like this," Kurt says with a conviction he only half believes. "And I promise that the day I can look in the mirror and smile at my reflection, we'll have the conversation that we should have."

"I love you," Dave says seriously. "You deserve to be happy. And I can wait. Waiting's easy. Watching you get there is the hard part."

"We all have a ways to go," Kurt says. He doesn't say that his road feels like it'll never end.

"Yeah," Dave agrees. "But no one said we have to go it alone. So lean on me when you need to, okay?"

"Just you try and stop me," Kurt says. He hesitates for a moment, searching Dave's face. All he sees is the steady support that's been there since they all poured their hearts out that first night on the boat, and he leans in to brush a swift, light kiss across his lips. "I hope that's good enough for now."

Dave just offers him a smile. "You know it is."

Kurt pulls his hands free and looks away, unsettled and off-balance. "Where were we?" he asks.

"Turnips," Dave says. "Turnips, and then lettuce."

"Let's get back to it," Kurt says. He picks up the spade and digs into the soil once more.

At his side, Dave begins humming as he sorts out the seed packets. Kurt doesn't know whether it's out of habit or instinct, but he joins in, singing quietly in a voice that sounds nothing like his own.

"Hey Jude, don't be afraid. Take a sad song and make it better," he sings. It sounds like he's been chain smoking for ten years. It's lower, and it's gravelly, and it's not the way he was ever meant to sing.

But he's on pitch, and this stranger's voice is the best thing he's heard come out of his mouth in over a month.

"Remember to let her into your heart, then you can start to make things better."

Day 129

"I'm not going to pass French," Santana says, her bare feet propped up on Kurt's lap and her head resting on a cushion at the opposite end of the couch. She juggles her French text, her dictionary, and her notebook on her stomach, picking them up and setting them down fast enough to make her head hurt. "Seriously, this is just going to drive me nuts."

"You have a year to pick it up," Kurt points out. "And if you aren't ready, I'm sure the British government will be accommodating enough to let you take their A-levels or whatever the SAT equivalent is." He writes down an answer to an algebra problem in his notebook and sticks his pencil behind his ear.

"Isn't it supposed to be easier to pick up another language when you're already bilingual?" Dave asks, craning his head around to look at Santana from his position on the floor.

She shifts all her books to one arm and tousles his hair. He hasn't cut it short yet, and there's a slight wave to it that's fun to play with when she's bored. "Kind of yes, kind of no. It depends on the language. This one should be easier, but it's not. I'd probably have better luck with Italian or Portuguese or something."

"Or Welsh," Kurt suggests. "They have the same grammar structure that we do."

Dave leans into her fingers and shifts his calculus book off to the side. "How'd you learn that?"

"Marnie Jones' dad was from Wales," Kurt says.

It takes Santana a moment to place her. Oh, right. The cute little theatre geek with the button nose. Poor kid. She had been sweet, in a mousy kind of way. "Did she ever teach you anything?"

"Just one thing." In a painstakingly slow voice, tripping over the unfamiliar syllables, Kurt recites, "Nad ydych yn gwybod yr hyn rwyf yn ei ddweud."

"That's an actual language?" Dave asks incredulously. "What the hell does it even mean?"

"I have no clue." Kurt takes up his pencil again to scribble down another answer. "But it sounds really interesting."

"You have to be fucking with us," Santana says.

"Trust me," Kurt says. "When I decide to mess with you, you'll know."

Santana wiggles her feet in Kurt's lap with delight. Very little makes her happier than when Kurt actually joins in on the joking. "I'll believe it when I hear it," she tells him.

He picks her feet up and shifts them onto his knees. "Your heels need to stay away from certain parts of my body."

"My apologies, fearless leader," she says. "I'll try not to damage the goods." The corners of his mouth lift in a small smile, and she wiggles her feet again.

"I forgive you," he says, still smiling that little smile of his. "Look, why don't you get started on chemistry or algebra? There's not nearly as much French as there is in the French and history textbooks."

"I knew there was I reason I like you," she says. She shoves her pile of books to the floor and grabs her chemistry book in their stead. "Ooh, reaction rates. My favorite."

"Don't worry," Dave says. "The next one's acids and bases – it's really easy."

"You big geek," she says, running her fingers through his hair one more time before turning back to her text.

"Uh-huh." He absentmindedly wraps his left hand around Kurt's ankle loosely while writing out a lengthy answer to a problem with his right. Looking just as distracted, Kurt shifts in his seat, bringing his leg closer to Dave's hand.

Something happened between her boys recently. She's not sure what, and she doesn't want to ask, but something's definitely different. It's not that their bubble of personal space is bigger or smaller, or that they talk more or less, or even that things have changed emotionally. They just seem – calmer. That's the word for it.

"So what did Alain bring for us to burn in the fireplace today?" Santana asks, putting the thought from her mind. Alain, the local grocer, had signed a confidentiality agreement not to reveal their names and address right before Joe went back to Paris, allowing the three of them to avoid going into town to pick up groceries and their mail. Wednesdays are his weekly mail and grocery delivery, and Alain had handed off the bundle of letters to Dave at the gate when he arrived with the large basket of groceries this morning.

"Still no fan mail, thank fucking god," Dave says. "Yves is good about not letting it come through. But he did forward another three requests for us to speak at these big shot colleges and city halls and shit. Um – Imperial College London and Universitat de Barcelona. And the capital building in, um, Edinburgh, I think."

"You told them all to fuck off, right?" Santana asks.

"You mean did I write back and say 'We're flattered, but we won't be making public speeches or appearances for the foreseeable future?'" Dave says. "Yeah."

"You should trademark that answer," Santana tells Kurt. "How many times have we used it now?"

"Sixteen including today's," Kurt says. "I don't know what they're expecting to hear, anyway."

"A big, exciting story about crap they'll never do, and what to do if they're ever in our shoes," Dave says. "They'll be all awed and excited and getting their rocks off over how dangerous it sounds. Then they're going to start thinking about how cool it sounds. People are going to start thinking, 'Hey, if a couple kids could do it, I bet I could do it too.' Then some idiot's going to get himself killed, and we're going to have to make a statement about how it's not fun and games, and we'll have to go back to giving talks and hammering it into their thick fucking skulls that it wasn't some sort of fucking extended weekend warrior vacation."

"I love how optimistic you are," Santana says. "I really do."

"You know that's how it would be," Dave says. "What's that quote, Kurt?"

"Hell is other people."

"Sounds about right," Dave says. He shrugs. "I mean, I'd never think that about you, and there are a couple folks from the embassy, plus Yves, Joe, Alain, and Dr. Moreau. But the bigger the crowd of people, the stupider they get, and the more dangerous they get, too."

"For real," Santana says. She slams her chemistry book shut and sighs. "Kind of puts a big fat 'hell no' on ever going to college, doesn't it?"

"On a campus? Yeah," Dave says.

"There's still distance learning," Kurt says. "We're not going to be unable to get degrees." The side of his upper lip twitches up in self-contempt. "Double negative. I'm slipping."

"Don't worry," Santana says, stifling amusement. "We love you anyway."

Kurt shuts his math book as well, tossing it to the floor. "I give up. I officially can't concentrate."

"It's official, huh?" Santana says. "In that case, we'd better find something less boring to do."

"Chess? Poker?" Dave suggests. "Mario Kart?"

"Mario Kart," Santana says. "Kurt?"

Kurt nods reluctantly, and Santana sits up to hug him hard. It's not easy to get him to have fun without working hard to convince him. It's hard enough convincing herself. But when Kurt agrees to have fun, she knows she has to have fun too.

Maybe it was a stupid decision to get a video game about racing cars when they fixed up the living room for Dave's birthday, but it hasn't sent her or Kurt into a panic attack yet.

"Get the Wii remotes," she tells Dave. "Dibs on Bowzer."

"I get Princess Peach?" Dave asks, standing and going to the cabinet by the TV. "Awesome."

As was intended, Kurt smiles again. "Dave Karofsky, secure enough in his masculinity to play a little pink princess in a video game. My heart can't take the shock."

Dave laughs and slips the disc into the player. "You'll shut up and play your hyperactive little Yoshi like you always do if you know what's good for you." It's the emptiest threat Santana's ever heard in her life. Judging by the surprised snort of laughter that it startles out of Kurt, he feels exactly the same.

"Get ready to have your asses handed to you," Dave says, tossing remotes to Santana and Dave.

"You wish, Princess," Santana tells him.

He joins them on the big couch, claiming the right hand cushion for himself, and brings up the menu on the first screen. They're ready to settle in for a couple hours of mindless entertainment. Then the phone rings.

They all sit abruptly upright at the sound. As a general rule, the phone almost never rings. No one calls. Not unless it's important.

Dave leans over to the side table and stabs the speakerphone button. "Hello?"

Yves' voice fills the living room. "Dave," he says instead of his usual polite greeting. "And I assume Kurt and Santana as well."

"We're here," Santana says. "What's up?"

There's a palpable pause on Yves' end of the line, and then he says, "There's been a rescue."

Kurt grabs Santana's wrist, just this side of painful, and leans across her to make himself heard. "Who?" he demands.

"I don't have that information yet," Yves says. "But there's a recording being broadcast on television, and I wanted to let you know. Turn on the news."

Santana fumbles for her remote and exits out of the game. "Where's the TV remote?" she demands. Kurt passes it to her, and she switches to TV mode, punching in the channel numbers for France's BBC news station.

A serious looking reporter in a stiff black suit jacket and maroon tie stares into the camera intently. "More details have yet to be released," he says, unable to totally conceal the excitement in his voice as he addresses the audience. "But mere hours ago, a search and rescue aeroplane flying over Canada made a stunning discovery when their airband radio picked up some unusual chatter."

"Canada?" Santana whispers.

"It's a big country," Dave says, but his hand is trembling when he takes hers and laces their fingers together.

"Although the identities of the people who were saved have yet to be made public, we at the BBC have obtained a copy of the radio transmission that led to their rescue," the reporter says. "Anyone with young children watching at home should be advised that there is quite a lot of profanity in the recording." The reporter disappears from the screen to be replaced by a light blue background. As the recording starts to play, the transcribed words begin to appear.

" – ank you for tuning in to Zombie Radio, where every hour is 'Fuck the Zombies' hour!" an unforgettable male voice says. He sounds tired and weak, but irrepressibly cheerful. "As always, we're your not really all that humble hosts, the goddamn Puckasaurus and the eternally badass Laurenator. Today's broadcast is brought to you by a hand-crank generator – never leave home without one, folks."

"Listeners should remember that every Thursday we give you wild and crazy new ways to kill your undead neighbors, so stay tuned," an equally familiar female voice adds. "And to any zombies out there listening: it's zombie hunting season. Consider yourselves warned, assholes."

Dave slides off the couch with a painful sounding thump, staring dazedly at the screen. "No fucking way," he says.

On Santana's other side, Kurt starts to smile, and then to grin, wider and wider until it stretches almost ear to ear. "They made it!"

She's not sure which of her boys to tackle first, so she grabs Kurt's shirt and tugs him down to the floor with her, laughing wildly.

"So, Laurenator," Puck says over Santana's howls of laughter. "You owe me a Jeopardy rematch."

"I still think you're just a sore loser," Lauren says. "But okay. Today's categories are 'How Did We Kill That Zombie,' 'Important Tools and Where to Find Them,' and 'Our Favorite Badasses.'"

"I'll take Our Favorite Badasses for six hundred," Puck says.

Lauren clears her throat. "This Badass is so badass that when she went to get wood from beneath the porch, she brought back a hacksaw too."

"Who is my little sister?"

"Correct!" Lauren says. "Next?"

"Important Tools for a thousand," Puck says.

"What do we need to get out of this fucking place, and where can we find it?" Lauren asks.

"No idea, and fuck if I know," Puck says.

"Correct!" Lauren says again. "Okay, everyone, it's that time again – we're gonna shut up for three minutes, and you'd better speak up. If you're listening, you know the channel, so tell us that you're out there. If you used to work for the FCC, your complaint about our fucking language is pointless, so don't even bother."

Dave's still staring at the screen with watery eyes, shoulders shaking from silent laughter. Kurt, his eyes wet with unshed tears, hasn't stopped grinning since the moment they heard Puck's voice. And Santana's still practically crying with laughter, but for some reason the screen looks blurry and she can't read the words anymore.

There's a long, breathless pause in which the sound from the TV is filled with nothing but faint static. And then a new voice comes on.

"Hey, guys," the new voice says. It's male, with an accent that reminds Santana of the Midwest. "First time listener, first time caller, but I'm already a huge fan."

Static hisses and spits for a few seconds again, and then Puck, sounding stunned, says, "Who the hell are you?"

"Captain James McDowell, US Air Force, at your service. Now what do you say to getting out of here?"

Over the cheers and celebrations on Puck and Lauren's side of the radio, Santana hears someone rattling off coordinates to the pilot, but she's already stopped listening. She's still laughing. She's laughing and sobbing and struggling to catch her breath, and her heart hurts from how big it feels and how wildly it's pounding.

"They're alive," Dave says in a quiet voice that's probably meant for his ears alone. "Oh my god. They're alive."

"I take it these are people you know?" Yves asks.

They all jump, startled, having forgotten he was still on the line. Kurt hugs Santana from behind and says, "They're our friends, the ones who went to Canada. Noah, Margaret, and Sarah Puckerman, and Lauren Zizes."

"Where are they?" Dave asks eagerly.

"I don't know," Yves says. "But I would assume in the infirmary on one of the naval carriers. Would you like me to find out more?"

"Find out everything," Kurt says. "Everything."

"Don't let them get sent anywhere but here," Dave adds. "They have to come here."

"I'll be certain to arrange it," Yves says. "Do you have messages you'd like to have conveyed once it's possible to communicate with them?"

"Ask Puck if Canadian zombies groan with Canadian accents," Dave suggests with a giddy, relieved smile, tears still leaking from the corners of his eyes.

"Tell them to get to France before we go even crazier from the anticipation," Kurt says.

Santana sniffs hard and scrubs her face free of tears before she adds her own message. "Tell them to come home."

"I'll do that," Yves says, and he gets off the phone with a quick goodbye, leaving them with only the sound of the reporter speculating about all the things they didn't know yet.

Dave turns the television off and shakes his head in disbelief. "They made it."

"We're not alone," Kurt says, and he hugs Santana even tighter. She leans back into his arms and tries to stop crying.

She's tried so hard to not think about any of them for so long. They've been locked away in a little corner of her mind for months. And now the locks have been broken from the inside, and Puck and Lauren have jumped out, alive and apparently unharmed, real and true and still so fantastically sarcastic.

In a way, leaving everyone behind at that crossroads outside of Lima was worse than knowing what happened to people – what happened to most people, anyway, and that's still a box she won't open anytime soon. But they knew who was dead, and who was missing. The way they parted that evening was like they suddenly stopped existing, like they'd vanished off the face of the earth.

Here they are, back from wherever it is that things that don't exist disappear to: Puck and Lauren, Mrs. Puckerman, Puck's little sister Sarah. They're back, and they'll be here, and Santana won't ever let them stop existing again.

They're alive. They're really alive.

Santana loses the battle with her tears and pulls Kurt's arms more firmly around her. Her throat is tight, her face is wet, her nose is runny.

She doesn't remember ever being so happy.


The Welsh used in this chapter means "You don't know what I'm saying."