Author Notes: Sorry that I've been slow to update. The anticipation of the Superbowl episode has me too bouncy to sit down and write, dammit! Seriously, I cannot stop thinking about it. 8D Chapters have been coming slow lately. I swear I planned to write last weekend but I was on a swing set, flipped upside down, landed on my ass then my head and bit through my tongue. This does *not* make for a good writing mood, LOL. So here, my friends, is one chapter that once again became two because it was too long for LJ. Stupid character limit.
Just FYI on my WIPs: I hate reading WIPs because I always feel I can't trust the author to write more, LOL. Therefore I make myself update my WIPs at least once a week, sometimes more often. So if I haven't updated in a timely manner, please feel free to bug my lazy ass. I've been way distracted playing Puck on a Facebook RP, hehe.
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!)
NOTE ON CONTENT/RATING: In this story there will be mentions of physical and sexual abuse, attempted non-con in the future, language, boy/boy sex in the future. This version will be edited down to an R rating to fit the R/M guidelines of . I will make a note on any edited chapters. If you are of legal age in your area of residence and would like to read the unedited version that includes the smut, you can find this version at:
sparklybat [dot] livejournal [dot] com [slash] tag [slash] cellmate
(Replace the [info in brackets] with the correct symbol.)
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Chapter 9: Strength of a Father
"Oh, God, Kurt!"
One step in the doorway and Fancy's dad was all over him, grabbing the delicate looking boy and wrapping his arms around him, lifting him up until he was almost in the air. "Oh, Kurt. I love you so much."
Dave grimaced as he slunk around them, shoulders hunching as he sidestepped the hugging pair. He so didn't get that. It was so… intimate. And disturbing. Yet it made the little princess light up like a fucking flashlight.
Burt Hummel was way, way too close for comfort in Dave's mind, but then he'd never been comfortable around older men. Honestly, that was part of the reason he liked sports so much. He didn't like to be touched but it gave him an excuse to touch other people, like when he and Az would slushy some loser in the hallway, and then he'd wrap an arm around the other boy's big shoulders. It just made him less… lonely. But if someone touched *him*… it just made him want to swing.
And dudes as old as Kurt's dad just made him feel sick to his stomach. Which was why he always made sure to take a healthy dose of liquor with him when he went… out to work.
"Dave!" He jumped slightly as he heard his name called, head jerking as he scanned the room. Mr. Schuester was there, and Hudson, his throat sporting deep bruises, and his hobbit girlfriend, and the fat black chick Kurt loved so much, and Hudson's mom, too. Carole. Dave liked Carole. In fifth grade he had gone over to Hudson's house after school and she had given them Pop Tarts. He'd never actually seen Pop Tarts before and, apparently, had not done a good job hiding his excitement because, for the rest of the year, she had sent Pop Tarts to school with Hudson to give to Dave.
He blushed and dropped his gaze as his eyes met hers. She had given him Pop Tarts. And he had almost killed her son.
God, he was such a fuck up.
He made his way over toward the Adams, shoulders slumped. He really did not want to do this.
"Dave, dude, how are you?" Azimio called out as he stood, moving around the table to meet Dave halfway, looking worried as walked up to the other boy, reaching toward Dave but not actually touching him.
Yeah, Azimio knew him pretty well.
Dave gave his friend a tired smile, trying not to wonder if he'd still be able to call Azimio a friend tomorrow. "I'm okay," he said, reaching out and patting the other boy on the shoulder.
"C'mon, bro, my parents are here to see you, too."
He let Azimio lead him over to the corner where the Adams were seated in the cheap folding chairs set up along the conference table, dressed up like they were going to church or something, with Mr. Adams in a expensively tailored suit and Ms. Adams in a pretty blouse and simple skirt. Of course, Azimio's parents always dressed like that.
Dave took a deep breath as he sat down in the chair across from them, and Azimio sort of perched himself on the edge of the table. He really shouldn't have come out here. Talk about his house of cards come tumbling down as all his carefully crafted stories were ripped apart, years of lies exposed because of one stupid mistake.
Hey, what was one more loss, right? But, dammit, he had worked so damn hard to make sure Az and his parents never realized the kind of street scum he really was. And it had been a hell of a lot harder than keeping it on the down low at school—trash like Puckerman might recognize trash like Dave, but the majority of the students at that school were oblivious, and the staff was worse than the students.
But he'd spent so much time at the Adams' house after Azimio had transferred from his fancy private school in seventh grade. Dave had loved spending the night there, where it was warm and there were soft covers and pizza and Mario Brothers and even a chair in the guestroom that he could stick under the doorknob. Not that he didn't trust Mr. Adams. He trusted the kind, gracious man more than any other man he'd ever met. But, you know, just in case. It never hurt to play it safe.
Hell, the bullshit Dave had fed the Adams' over the years had gotten so complex that he'd had to start keeping a notebook so he could remember where he'd 'gone for the summer' and what his aunt's name was and where his father worked and what kind of video games he had and where he liked to eat out and what he did with his dad on weekends.
Not to mention his 'address,' from the few times Mr. Adams had insisted on driving him 'home.' Home, which was a small house with peeling paint and dying grass on the poorest side of the district. Home, where he had a key to the backdoor, which is why he never went in through the front. Home, which looked poor enough to explain Dave's Goodwill clothing but rich enough to keep the Adams from realizing the kind of trash he really was. The home he had never actually entered.
"Yo, Dave… Really, are you okay? You don't look so great…"
Azimio really sounded worried and it kind of made Dave feel good. He really did get sick of being just what Puckerman called him—the token poor kid. Of course, Azimio was kind of the token black kid, or whatever the super rich and socialite version of that was, so Dave guessed he sort of understood. He was the best friend he'd ever had, anyway.
Sure, Azimio had spent plenty of time making fun of the way Dave always died in level three of Demon Robots Anonymous and liked to watch reruns of The Looney Tunes and sometimes sang Enrique Iglesias songs under his breath in the shower, but he'd never mentioned it when Dave had to duct tape his sneakers to keep them from falling apart. And he'd never said a word about the broken tooth that showed if Dave grinned really big. And he hadn't even done anything more than shoot him a really weird look at after-game parties when Dave would stuff the other jocks' leftover pizza crusts into the pockets of his hoodie.
"Yeah," Dave said, staring down at the table as he drew nervous little circles on it with his fingertip, slumping down in his seat. "Yeah, I'm cool."
Ms. Adams' voice sounded a little shocked. "Dave, my goodness! Your face looks horrible! Is your nose broken?"
Dave glanced up and gave a little shrug. "I don't know. Yeah. Maybe."
"Oh, Dave…" He gritted his teeth as she shook her head, holding a hand over her chest like she was about to burst a blood vessel.
God, he hated that look, the one that said, 'oh, you're so sad because your life is shit and I feel so bad because my life rocks, but not enough to do anything about it.' He didn't want her pity. And he didn't deserve her pity, even if he *did* want it.
"Yeah, well, I pretty much deserved it, didn't I?" Dave said harshly. "I did nearly put Hudson six feet under?" He gave a bitter laugh. "I think that warrants a few bruises, and maybe a lethal injection for good measure." Dave shook his head. "You guys should just get back in your Beemer and go home. You didn't have to come here. You don't owe me anything."
If anyone owed anything, it was him. Hell, he'd been syphoning off their generosity since he was thirteen. How much money had they spent, just feeding him? They went out to eat all the time and they never made him pay for his food. And he had practically devastated their pantry every time he visited. Not that he actually ate a lot. He ate as much as he could without tossing it up, but when you don't eat regularly, your stomach gets small. And despite looking like a chubby Neanderthal, or whatever Fancy called him, he had a very small stomach. But that hadn't stopped him from stealing everything from jars of peanut butter to bags of marshmallows to boxes of cereal—anything that would last, really—and stuffing them in his backpack for later.
No, he didn't deserve their pity. He just needed to get out of there.
Dave started to stand but Azimio reached out and grabbed his arm, making his lip curl up a little as his friend stared at him, looking confused. "Dude, what is with you, man? We came 'cause we were worried about you, bro! I mean, damn! Jail, man? That's pretty hardcore. This is just *crazy.*"
Dave yanked his arm from Azimio's grip, scowling. "It's just juvie, Az. I been here before and no doubt I'll be here again-if they don't keep me locked up forever over this stunt, anyway."
Azimio's brow furrowed a little. "What do you mean, you've been here before?"
Dave snorted. "Did you really think my old man took me to fucking Disneyworld last summer, man? I was in juvie for a month. And in seventh grade, when I went to visit my grandma on Albuquerque or New Orleans or where ever I said? Juvie, bro. And when I took a week off school and spent all spring break with my mom in LA? I ain't seen my mom since I was five. Don't even know if she's alive or if the crack did her in or if she's in the boob-tastic version of lockup. No reason to look for her—she didn't want me. Used to call me 'Mistake.' Hey, Mistake, come clean this up. Mistake, shut your mouth!" Dave snorted, shaking his head in amusement. "A real sweetheart, my mom."
"Dave," Mr. Adams said, leaning forward, his voice soft. "Please sit down. We… we want to talk to you about some things."
Dave clenched his jaw, staring at the man. He really did like Mr. Adams. Christopher. He always told Dave to call him Christopher. But that was just another step closer to caring about someone. And nobody could hurt you as much as the people you cared about.
Dave really didn't know many men. He knew his Pops, obviously, and the line of foster dads he'd been stuck with. Most of them had quite the affinity for smacking him around or putting him in places where he couldn't get out and at least two of them had expected him to get a lot closer than he was comfortable with. Maybe three. It all kind of ran together. And by 'close' he didn't mean they wanted to cuddle on the couch. Then there were the men his old man had brought in to pay for his liquor stash, and the ones he met on the street.
But Mr. Adams was probably the only one he had ever really talked to. The only one who had actually sat down with Dave and explained things that everybody else seemed to just know, but no one had ever bothered to tell him. Like what it meant when he was sweating but felt so, so cold and his body ached for no reason. A fever. He had a fever.
Dave had thought a fever made you feel hot.
Or why his body had been doing weird stuff since fifth grade when his voice had started to drop and he'd started… changing down there. Seriously, he had learned more about his body in the thirty minute sex lecture he and Azimio had gotten after Az's dad had caught his son making out with a topless girl than he had learned in fourteen years. Like the 'real' names for things he'd been doing for years and hadn't even really known what they were.
"We tried to go see your father, Dave," Mr. Adams said quietly as Dave sat back down, eyes on the table. "But it was funny. The house I've dropped you off at? Dave… your father doesn't live there. And the couple that does? They've been there over ten years. And they'd heard of a Dave Karofsky."
Azimio's brow furrowed as he looked over at his dad. "Wait, what? You didn't tell me that. I don't get it."
"Dave," Ms. Adams said, "we're really confused right now. First we find out that you attacked a boy at school, then that you have a social worker, and then that you don't live where you told us you do. And now you're telling us that you've been in juvenile detention before. Please, Dave, help us understand what's going on."
Dave sucked in a deep breath, letting out slowly. "What's it really matter?" he asked tiredly. "It's not your problem. I don't even know why the hell you're here."
Dave licked his lips nervously, doing his best to keep his face wiped clean, to hide the pain that was cutting through him at the thought of losing the few people who had never hurt him, even when he'd kicked their coffee table, even when they'd caught him stealing cash out of the jar they kept for their pocket change in the kitchen, even when he'd thrown up all the liquid courage he'd downed to get through the night in their car, even when he'd knocked over their big, fluffy Christmas tree.
"I don't know why you even came here." Dave leaned back, gripping the edge of the table. "I don't know what you want from me. An apology? I'm sorry that I'm a lying piece of shit. I'm sorry that I took everything I could from you and never gave you anything back. I'm sorry for whatever I'm supposed to be sorry for, okay?" His voice was growing louder, an edge of panic to it. "There, is that what you want from me?" Dave swallowed hard, choking back the hurt. He didn't care. It didn't matter. These people weren't anything to him, anyway. So fuck it all. "Now will you just leave me the fuck alone?"
"Please, Dave," Mr. Adams said, voice serious. "We came because we care about you! You've been in our lives for years now! You're in half our family videos and I can hardly remember a weekend that you and Azimio didn't spend together."
Dave shook his head, sneering. "Yeah, well, plenty of people have known me for a hell of a lot longer than you—like the homeless dude on 5th street—and you don't see them here."
"Dude, what happened to us being best friends?" Azimio said, looking a little lost. "Why have you been lying to me, man?"
Dave ducked his head at the hurt in the other boy's voice, then gave a little huff of laughter. "I dunno. 'Cause I wanted you to be my friend? 'Cause I liked you. 'Cause you were the only guy at school who wasn't there in sixth grade when I wore the same two t-shirts all year long and would carry other kids' books to class for a quarter?
"I mean, what was I supposed to say? 'Oh, I don't know where I'm living this week, it's hard to keep the foster homes straight, I get kicked out of 'em so fast'? 'I gotta go, need to steal myself some new shoes before these fall apart'? 'Sorry, you can't come over, my Pops doesn't like blacks much and since he's always drunk he might hurt ya'?" Dave snorted. "Because, you know, everyone wants to be friends with someone like *that*."
"Dave, man, we knew you weren't exactly rich, bro," Azimio said, sounding so confused. "Who the hell cares? It's just money."
Spoken like a true rich person. These people had no idea what kind of person Dave was. Even with all this, they just didn't see. Because if they knew—really knew—they'd be running for the hills. If they knew the kind of sick things he'd done, if they knew how low he'd stooped just to survive, just to put food in his stomach and a roof over his head...
If they knew the things he'd done in all his pitiful, hopeless attempts to get his Pops to love him. A man who hated him. A man who hurt him.
The only man he really, really loved.
What was it about his father that made him love him just as much as he feared him?
"Dave, if you were in trouble, why didn't you come to us? We'd have helped you," Mr. Adams said in an almost pleading tone.
"Yeah," Dave said, choking up a little, "for awhile. And then you'd start to see just how sick and fucked up I am. First it wouldn't seem so bad. Then your food would start to disappear. Then there would be nightmares. Loud nightmares that woke you up. Then the smart ass remarks. Then the yelling and the kicking and the hitting. And nothing would stop it, 'cept *making* me shut the fuck up. But even that wouldn't stop it for long. And then I'd be standing on the curb with next to the trash with my backpack and maybe twenty bucks in my pocket if I'm lucky." His voice broke slightly. "Been there, done that."
Dave shrugged. "So, yeah, I lied to you. And maybe it meant that I was standing outside in the snow, looking in the window at you guys sitting around the fireplace. But it was better than spending just long enough inside to get used to being warm and then getting shoved outside in the cold again."
A small sniffling sound came from Ms. Adams and Dave dropped his eyes as he saw her wiping at tears. Why the fuck did he always make people cry? Why did he hurt everyone around him?
"Dave," Mr. Adams said quietly, reaching out as if he was going to take Dave's hand, then pausing when Dave flinched away, withdrawing his hands slowly. "Now that I look back… I think we ignored a lot, Dave. And that was very wrong of us. There were so many signs. So many things that weren't really explained by the things you told us." He gave a sigh and rubbed at his forehead. "I just… I feel like we really owe you an apology, Dave. You shouldn't have felt like you were—" Mr. Adams cut off, swallowing deeply. "Like you were outside looking in. Dave, we love you—"
"Don't say that," Dave said sharply, clenching his fists. "You don't know me. You don't love me." No one loved him. No one had ever loved him and to try and pretend he wasn't the reason for that was just a bunch of bullshit. People could whine and moan about how it wasn't *him*, how it was everybody else, how someday someone would love him—but he knew the truth. Did they really expect him to believe that it was just coincidence that, in sixteen years, nobody had ever loved him? That it really wasn't something wrong with *him* that turned people away?
Talk about bullshit.
"Dave, we—"
The slamming of a door cut off whatever Mr. Adams had been about to say, and Dave turned automatically, eyes widening at the large figure who had just entered the room, a sneer on his face as he looked around the room.
Dave's breath caught. No, no, no. This was not good. Talk about the worst possible time for his Pops to show up. In a room full of his black friends and Glee clubber queers.
The big man's eye caught Dave's and he dropped his gaze, trying desperately to wish his old man away.
It had never worked before, but it was always worth another try.
"What the hell you been getting into now, boy?"
His Pops' voice carried across the room and Dave stood abruptly, pushing Azimio aside as he made his way toward his father, cutting the man off before he could make it to the conference table.
"Pops," Dave said, keeping his voice low. "You don't need to be here. It won't help nothin'. Why don't you just go home, okay? I'll be home soon and it will all be fine—"
"Fuck that," the man interrupted, making a rude face. "I wanna know what the motherfucking hell you think you doing. You end up behind bars, I lose my goddamn check. And how am I supposed to pay the bills if you ain't putting in your share?"
Dave's face reddened slightly and he took a deep breath, doing his best to suppress his anger. Getting pissed at his Pops never helped anything. But talking about Dave putting in his 'share'… Ha. His 'share' paid for *everything*.
"Pops," he said quietly, swallowing down the anger. "I—" he grimaced slightly, "I'm sorry, okay? But it'll be alright. It was Nothing. Just a stupid fight. They arrested all of us, but there's nothing to hold any of us for."
Except the whole bit where he put Hudson in the hospital. But that was need to know information. And his old man did *not* need to know. "So just go home, okay?"
Dave winced as the Smile of Pain crossed his Pops' face. God he hated that look.
Really, looking at his Pops when he was pissed was like looking into a mirror. A big, terrifying mirror. The kind of mirror that made Dave want to claw his own face off if it would just make it go away.
"Like hell, I'll go home," his Pops said, grabbing suddenly for Dave's collar, dragging the boy toward him. "Seriously, boy, who the fuck do you think you are to order me around?"
Dave winced as a sweetly sour smell filled his senses. Whiskey and sweat. The smell of father. "Please… I'm sorry, sir. I didn't mean it like that…" He turned his eyes to the side as much as he could. He didn't want to see that dangerous smile. But, even more than that, he didn't want to see the poorly disguised hate in those eyes.
"Listen here, boy—"
"Hey, what do you think you're doing? Let him go!"
Dave winced at the sound of Mr. Adams' voice. Things just kept getting better and better.
"I'm fine, Mr. Adams," Dave said through gritted teeth, stumbling a little as his Pops shoved him away, turning an angry stare on the other man.
"Who the fuck is this?" his Pops asked, raising an eyebrow in disbelief. "You hangin' out with niggers now, boy?"
"Excuse me," a voice came from behind Dave, making him jump a little. He hadn't realized anyone was behind him. What the hell was wrong with him? Damn, damn, damn.
Mr. Hummel stepped around Dave, moving to stand face to face with Dave's Pops, a furious look on his face.
"Are you Dave Karofsky's father?"
Dave's Pops looked down at the man, looking mildly amused. "Yeah. Unfortunately. What the fuck you want?"
"I'm Burt Hummel. Kurt Hummel's father. The boy your son has been bullying?"
Oh, dear God. Did this man really think his old man gave a damn if Dave was a bully? Talk about naive. It must run in the Hummel family or something. The innocence gene.
Dave's Pops raised a thick eyebrow. "Uh, okay. And I give a rip because…?"
Mr. Hummel's brow furrowed. "I just want to make sure you realize that, despite how it might look," he gestured vaguely toward Dave's face, "your son is not the victim here."
A loud snort came from Dave's old man. "No shit? The victim. Ha. That little cocksucker ain't no victim. Irritating bastard, yeah. Whatever the fuck he did for you to sock the shit outta him, I'm sure he damn well deserved it."
"What? I didn't hit your son."
His Pops waved away the words. "Yeah, whatever. Now get lost. I got things to chat about with my kid here."
Dave flinched as his father's big hand came down on his shoulder, an overly sweet parody of a smile on his face.
"Your son has been targeting my son all year!" Mr. Hummel said, his face a quickly deepening shade of red. "Don't you even care?"
No. Obviously.
"Dad, stop it!"
Dave winced as Fancy appeared suddenly, prancing his pretty little ass out of the midst of the Sing Along Club. Wonderful. First blacks, now homos. His old man was gonna have a ball with this.
Dave's Pops stared down at Kurt for a moment, then turned a cruel grin on Dave. "This his kid? The one you been picking on?" He laughed. "Looks like a faggot to me. That why you like to play with him? You fucking queer." He shoved Dave almost playfully, shaking his head derisively. "Sick bitch."
"Pops," Dave said, voice a little desperate. "Why don't you go home now?" Look, I got some money in my locker at school. In my Algebra book. That's the math one. Almost a hundred bucks. That'll be enough 'til I get out Monday. Then I'll be home and I'll get you some money, okay?"
Even if just thinking about it made him want to vomit.
His Pops' eyes narrowed and Dave's stomach twisted in knots. What had he said…?
"You been keeping money from me, Davey?"
Oh, shit. Shit, shit, shit. Adrenaline spiked in Dave's veins as his mind began to scream at him to run, to talk, to get on his fucking knees and beg forgiveness—anything to wipe that look off his Pops' face.
"No! No, sir, I promise. I mean, I just put it there 'cause it was in my pocket. I forgot to give it to you. Then I forgot to take it home. I swear, Pops. I swear!" Scout's honor. He hadn't been saving it for three months to buy new cleats. No, not at all.
Anything to keep his old man from pounding his already busted face into little pieces.
"Don't lie to me, you little cocksucker," his Pops said, voice low and dangerous.
Dave swallowed hard. He was not anything short of a very big boy. So how was it that his Pops could make him feel so damn small?
"Pops, I ain't lying! I swear it, sir." And the lies continued.
"Bullshit. You think I can't see right through you, boy? I'm your fucking father. Don't you have any respect?"
Respect? Dave's face reddened. Who was he to bitch about respect? It wasn't like his Pops had ever respected *him*. God, Dave was *sick* of this shit. He was sick of spending all his time begging his old man, 'no, no, no'. If he'd given his Pops the money, he'd have already drunk it away. So fuck his Pops. It would just be another black eye on an already broken face.
"You know what?" Dave spat, the rush of anger overpowering the fear. "Go to hell, Pops. I *was* hiding the money. And I've done it before! *I* was the one who worked for it! I never saw you put *your* ass out there to earn a few bucks!"
Wow. He had almost forgotten how big and hard the back of his old man's hand was. Fighting with teenagers in locker rooms was really spoiling him.
Because there was really nothing quite like a father's fist against your face to make you feel like that scared little boy again.
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Kurt wrapped his arms around his father, choking back tears of happiness. There was really nothing quite like a father's arms to make you feel safe.
Kurt pressed himself more firmly against his father's broad chest, just basking in the feeling of his grip, tight and strong, the steady pounding of his heart. It was like being cacooned in love. Like nothing could hurt him as long as he had his dad there to protect him.
"Oh, God, Kurt," his father murmured, voice hoarse as he held Kurt tightly against him. "I've been so worried about you. Are you okay? Has anyone hurt you?"
Kurt gave a little huff of laughter. How did you answer a question like that? *Was( he okay? No. Had anyone hurt him? Yes. But would he *be* okay? Maybe. Hopefully.
So many answers, so little meaning.
Kurt pulled away from his father, wiping at the tear that trickled down his cheek as smiled up at his father as bravely as he could manage.
"Kurt, I am so sorry this happened." The voice was hoarse but steady and Kurt glanced over, a real smile blooming on his face as he saw Finn's dopey grin.
"Finn!" He moved around his father, reaching out to grasp the other boy's hands. "Oh, your neck!" He winced at the many shades of purple decorating Finn's throat.
Finn gave Kurt a friendly pat on the shoulder. "I'm fine, Kurt. Kind of hurts to swallow, but it should be as good as new in a couple weeks. Nothing permanent."
"He can still sing!" Rachel put in, causing Kurt to roll his eyes. Yeah, because that was *totally* what he was worried about.
"Puck, Kurt, we've been talking to some lawyers," Burt said, squeezing one of Kurt's hands reassuringly. "And we're going to get you out of here."
"And hopefully lock Karofsky away forever," Mercedes added, shaking her head.
"Really, that boy ought to hang," Burt said, voice unusually harsh.
Kurt looked up sharply. "Dad, don't talk like that. Dave may be a bully, but you shouldn't judge him."
Finn raised an eyebrow. "Dave? Since when are we all buddy buddy with Karofsky? He hasn't tried to hurt you, has he? His social worker said they'd put you in the same, like, cell neighborhood or whatever."
"Actually, they put us in the same cell," Kurt said, shaking his head.
His dad's mouth dropped open. "They *what*? Are they *insane*? He hasn't hurt you, has he Kurt? I swear to God, I am going to sue this place form here to hell—"
"Don't worry, Mr. Hummel," Puck said, flashing the 'Mr. Bad Ass' smile that he hadn't dared to pull out since they'd been stuck in this hell hole. He tossed an arm over Kurt's shoulder. "I'm watching out for him."
Kurt rolled his eyes. Because no one made a better bodyguard than the guy with a dick shaved on his head.
"Actually, Dave has mostly been the one watching out for me. We came to a kind of… understanding." He shrugged off Puck's arm. "But Puck's done a good job of running off to get Dave when something goes wrong." He smirked slightly as Puck shot him a glare. Watch the bad boy reputation come a'tumbling down.
"We have been soooo worried," Rachel said, unceremoniously shoving Finn aside as she made her way to the front of the group, flashing them an almost manic smile. "In fact, I was so worried that I prepared a musical number just for the occassion! I was going to bring Brad, but when I called about scheduling a time to use the piano, they told me they didn't have one. Can you imagine? No music room? Really, how do they expect to rehabilitate boys with no music room? And they took my iPod at the door, so I guess I'll just have to sing it acapella!" She cleared her throat and raised her arms, beginning to sway.
"Feel free to join in at any time! The warden threw a party in the county jail, the prison band was there and they began to wail!"
"Oh my God," Mercedes said, eyes wide. "Is she insane?"
"The band was jumpin' and the joint began to swing—you should have heard those knocked out jailbirds sing!"
"Rachel! What's *wrong* with you?" Finn gave her a little push. "Don't sing that here!"
"Let's rock, everybody, let's rock, everybody in the whole cell block was dancin' to the jailhouse rock—"
"Rachel, I *really* don't think this is appropriate," Mr. Schue cut, in looking embarrassed. "In fact, I think it's really, *really* inappropriate."
"Rachel, seriously, just shut up!" Finn said, shaking his head in disbelief.
Rachel cut off, frowning deeply. "I was just trying to be supportive!"
"Oh for goodness sake," Mercedes muttered, shoving Rachel out of the way as she moved toward Kurt, an somewhat forced looking smile on her face as she reached out, grabbing his hand and squeezing. "We tried to bring you some moisturizer, Kurt, but they wouldn't let us bring it in. Apparently you can, like, smuggle drugs in that way or something."
She stared at Kurt for a long moment, then suddenly flung her arms around him, wrapping him in a tight hug. "Oh, Kurt, we've been terrified! And you're in a *cell* with Karofsky? He should be locked up for life—but not with you!"
Kurt patted her back a little awkwardly. "Hey, it's okay, Mercedes. We're okay. I mean, maybe we shouldn't judge Karofsky too quick. I really don't think he meant to do what he did—"
"Are you really defending him Kurt?" Burt said in disbelief as Mercedes pulled away, staring at him strangely. "After the way he's bullied you? And what he did to Finn?"
Kurt winced. What was he supposed to say? 'Oh, well, you should really cut him a break 'cause he's gay and doesn't want to accept it and, oh yeah, his entire life sounds like a bad mix of a Law and Order: Special Victims Unit episode and an illegal porno'? Somehow he didn't think that Dave would appreciate the sentiment, even if it might win a few more supporters to his side. Or maybe not. His dad looked *pretty* pissed.
"I just think that maybe we need to get his side of the story, you know?" Oh, that was brilliant.
"You mean the side where he hates you for being gay and throws you against lockers every day?" Mercedes said, sounding annoyed. "Kurt, I love you, baby, but are you, like, defending that asshole? I know you feel guilty for hurting him but, damn, boy, he really deserved a good smack to the face."
Kurt threw up his hands, suddenly annoyed. "Why does everyone keep *saying* that? Nobody deserves to have someone beat their face in! Nobody! I don't *care* what they did or didn't do. Violence does not help *anything*! You guys, his social worker, Dave himself—is there anybody in this world that *doesn't* think the sixteen year old boy deserves to be beaten black and blue, no matter *what* he's done?"
He turned toward his father. "What about me, Dad? You know what I did last week? I told Rachel that she couldn't sit with Mercedes and me and lunch because we were afraid that her toddler's clothes would attract pedophiles and that if she planned to hang out with us she had better stop shopping at Babies R Us and get some grownup clothes, 'cause the panda print on her sweater made me want to put her on a plane back to where it was made in China." He laughed shortly at the look on his father's face. "Not real nice of me, was it? What do I deserve, huh, Dad? A punch in the face? A kick in the ass?"
Burt took a deep breath, crossing his arms over is chest as he looked seriously at Kurt. "Kurt, that's not the same. It makes me disappointed in you, but it's not the same as physically attacking someone for no reason—"
"He had a reason. I was gay. He didn't like it. In his mind, that was a valid reason to try and hurt me. And he *really* believed that. How do you know that *your* reasoning as to why it's okay to hurt somebody isn't just as screwed up as Karofsky's. Fifty years ago 99% of the country would have *agreed* with him. But that doesn't make it right, now or then."
"Seriously, Kurt," Finn said, sounding exasperated, "why are you defending Karofsky?"
Kurt let out a long sigh. Why *was* he defending Dave? He was sure that Dave wouldn't want him to defend his honor, not that he had a lot of honor. But maybe that was just it. He wouldn't want him to, but maybe he *needed* him to. Nobody else was going to do it, not even Dave himself, as messed up as that was.
Kurt glanced over to the other side of the room where Dave was sitting, looking uncomfortable, across from Azimio and what he assumed were his parents. The boy ducked his head as one the neatly dressed woman leaned forward, saying something softly. Dave had been so shocked when he'd heard that they'd come to see him. Puck and Kurt had a room full of visitors. Who had visited Dave when he'd been here before? That sick bastard of a father?
"You know what, let's not talk about it right now, okay?" He moved back into his father's arms. God, he was so tired. Too tired to argue, to tired to do anything but stand in the safe arms of the man he loved more than anything in the world. Why had this happened? Why couldn't he just go home? He was so, so tired, but it was like he had the weight of the world balanced on his shoulders.
He nuzzled his father's shoulder. "I love you, Dad."
Burt's arms tightened around him. "I love you, too, Kurt. And don't you worry. We'll get you out of here soon."
Kurt jumped as a loud bang came from across the room and a man half strutted, half stumbled, if that was even possible, through the door, a sneer on his face.
First thought: he was enormous. Second thought: he was Dave.
The man was big enough that his shoulders were almost as wide as the doorframe, and he had to be six foot four or five, at least. His head was shaved, but he had the same sort of round face as Dave did, though he was bigger below, with tree trunks for arms and a beer belly hanging over his belt.
The man threw up his arms as he moved toward Dave, cocking his head dangerously. "What the motherfuckin' HELL did you think you be doin', boy?"
Dave practically leaped up from the chair he was sitting in, moving to cut off the bigger man before he reached where Azimio and his family were sitting, saying something that Kurt couldn't hear, a desperate look on his face.
"Damn, is that Karofsky's dad? He's huge, man," Finn said, his eyes wide.
"Is he *drunk*?" Rachel asked, sounding a little disgusted. "It's not even noon yet."
Burt clenched he jaw and started to move away, pausing when Kurt caught his arm.
"Dad, what are you doing?"
Burt tugged his arm away, frowning. "I want to talk to that boy's father! He should know what his son's been doing!"
Uh-oh. This was not good.
"No, Dad," Kurt said, dancing in front of his father. "Look, it won't help anything, okay? I don't think Dave has a very good relationship with his dad. Please, just leave them alone—"
"Kurt," Burt said, sounding annoyed. "Karofsky's father should know what his son's been doing! I do not want him thinking that his son is the innocent one here!" He pushed Kurt to the side and moved toward the man, a furious look on his face. Kurt grimaced. So *very* not good.
"Are you Dave Karofsky's father?"
The twisted sort of look on the other man's face kind of made Kurt want to run and hide. "Yeah. Unfortunately. What the fuck you want?"
Kurt's dad crossed his arms over his chest, narrowing his eyes. "I'm Burt Hummel. Kurt Hummel's father. The boy your son has been bullying?"
Kurt glanced over at Dave, who was staring hard at the floor like maybe if he didn't look then it would all just go away.
"Uh, okay. And I give a rip because…?" The man moved a few steps closer and Kurt's lip turned up slightly at the smell of alcohol that reeked from, well, pretty much everywhere.
Burt shook his head. "I just want to make sure you realize that, despite how it might look, your son is not the victim here."
Kurt took a deep breath, feeling a little ill, as he watched Dave continue to stare at nothing, face expressionless beneath the bruises. Really, who was more a victim than the victim who didn't even know they were the victim?
Dave's father snorted. "No shit? The victim. Ha. That little cocksucker ain't no victim. Irritating bastard, yeah. Whatever the fuck he did for you to sock the shit outta him, I'm sure he damn well deserved it."
Burt's mouth dropped open. "What? I didn't hit your son."
The man waved the words away. "Yeah, whatever. Now get lost. I got things to chat about with my kid here." He laughed loudly as he reached out and smacked a hand down on Dave's shoulder, making the boy flinch, panic flashing across his face for an instant before it was wrestled back into expressionless submission.
"Your son has been targeting my son all year!" Burt's voice was furious. "Don't you even care?"
Dave's big shoulders slumped, his head hanging down, as his father flashed Burt an obviously fake smile and gave Dave's shoulder a little shake.
Kurt had to end this. This would not make things better. This would only make it all worse. "Dad, stop it!"
"This his kid?" the man asked Dave with a cruel laugh. "The one you been picking on? Looks like a faggot to me. That why you like to play with him? You fucking queer." He shoved Dave and made a rude gesture with his tongue against his cheek. "Sick bitch."
"Pops," Dave said suddenly, raising his face to meet his father's eyes, voice a little hoarse. "Why don't you go home now?" He wrapped his arms around himself as if he was cold, hunching down a little. "Look, I got some money in my locker at school. In my Algebra book. That's the math one. Almost a hundred bucks. That'll be enough 'til I get out Monday. Then I'll be home and I'll get you some money, okay?"
There was a deafening silence as a furious look took over the man's face, his voice lowering dangerously when he spoke, words slow and angry. "You been keeping money from me, Davey?"
Kurt literally shivered. Fathers should not look at their sons like they were going to rip them into pieces.
"No!" There was a terrified edge to Dave's voice as he took a step toward his father, a pleading look on his face. "No, sir, I promise. I mean, I just put it there 'cause it was in my pocket." His voice grew higher with every word. "I forgot to give it to you. Then I forgot to take it home. I swear, Pops. I swear!"
The elder Karofsky's fists clenched at his side as he bent slightly so that his face was right in Dave's. "Don't lie to me, you little cocksucker."
Dave began to shake his head, over and over again. "Pops, I ain't lying! I swear it, sir."
"Bullshit. You think I can't see right through you, boy? I'm your fucking father. Don't you have any respect?"
Dave's face tightened suddenly as he pulled back, clenching his jaw, fury flashing across his face. "You know what? Go to hell, Pops. I *was* hiding the money."
Oh, God.
"And I've done it before! *I* was the one who worked for it! I never saw you put *your* ass out there to earn a few bucks!"
The man's whole body moved as he slung his fist across Dave's face like he was swinging a bat, sending the boy toppling.
"Hey!" Burt said sharply, stepping forward. "What the hell do you think you're doing?" He moved toward the bigger man. "You can't just hit a kid like that!"
"Who the hell do you think you are, tellin' me what to do with *my* son?"
"For fuck's sake!" Dave said as he climbed to his feet, blood running from his nose. "Will everybody calm the hell down? I'm fine, dammit!"
He wiped at his face, just succeeding in smearing the blood across his entire face, blood continuing to flow. He raised up his shirt and ripped a piece off, stuffing it up his nose as he moved between Burt and his dad, looking up at his father.
"Pops, please," he said, voice very quiet. "This… is not the time, okay?" His eyes flickered over toward Burt. "I… I'll be home on Monday. We'll… talk about it then, okay?" His voice was steady but Kurt could still see the pain on his face, even through the blood and bruises.
The man took a deep breath, glaring at Burt then glancing over to the guard who was standing at the other end of the room, not looking like he gave a shit.
"Fine," he said finally, his voice practically a growl. He shoved a finger in Dave's face. "But we will be… talkin' 'bout this, boy. You hear me?"
"Yes, sir," Dave said, dropping his eyes.
His father sneered at them, then turned to where Mr. Adams was standing, looking shocked.
"Fucking nigger," Dave's dad said with a shake of his head. "You stay the fuck away from my boy. Go find you a piece of ass in Africa. He's mine." He shoved Dave slightly as he turned and headed toward the door.
The door slammed behind the man and everyone just kind of stared after him for a long, very uncomfortable moment.
Finally Dave broke the silence, letting out a nervous little laugh. "Sorry 'bout that. He ain't a morning person." More silence. "You know what? I think I'll go, uh, wash this off. Now. Yeah."
"Dave, wait," Mr Azimio called out as the boy fled toward the door back to the cell block. "Dave!" The door slammed shut behind him.
"Wow," Finn said after a moment, staring down at the bloody cloth on the floor with wide eyes. "Karofsky's dad is a real jackass."
Talk about the understatement of the century. Kurt swallowed down the sick feeling in his gut and moved back toward his father, hugging him again.
Really, he had never felt so grateful for the safety of his father's arms.
