Disclaimer: Glee belongs to Ryan Murphy and Fox, not me.


"Kurt? Kurt, sweetie, it's time to get up."

He roused a little bit, rubbing his face into his pillow. A gentle hand patted his back, and he squinted up in the darkness to see Carole. "Honey, the social worker's going to be here in an hour to pick you up," she said, smoothing his sleep-mussed hair. "You need to get up and get ready."

He dragged himself into a sitting position, rubbing at his eyes with his knuckles. "Do I hafta?" he mumbled, his voice scratchy from sleep.

She scooped him up, his stuffed rabbit slipping from his fingers as he dropped his head on her shoulder. "You hafta, pumpkin," she said, kissing his temple. "C'mon, I've already got your bath ready."

He hid his face in the crook of her neck, shielding his eyes from the warm light of the hallway as she carried him to the bathroom. She set him on the floor and he whimpered, his bare toes curling against the icy cold tile. "Take your bath," she said, kissing the top of his head. "You can have your breakfast as soon as you're done."

She closed the door and he sighed heavily, his shoulders drooping. He didn't want to go. He really didn't. Maybe if he dawdled, took too much time at his bath, the social worker would get fed up waiting for him and just leave, and then he could stay forever with Mister Burt.

"Kurt, if I don't hear splashing, then I'm going to come in and give you your bath myself."

He frowned, his lower lip sticking out, and reluctantly he took off his pajamas and got into the warm water. Idly he wondered if his mother would let him take baths when he got back to their old apartment. Usually she would just make him take showers, and she didn't turn the heat on at all. But maybe if he asked very nicely, he could still take baths and close his eyes and pretend he was home.

He stayed in the warm soapy water for as long as he dared, rinsing the shampoo clean from his hair, but finally the bubble dissipated and the water turned tepid, and he dried off and dressed in the clothes he'd picked out the night before.

He dragged a comb through his wet hair, parting it neatly and swooping it over his forehead, then placed it back carefully in the drawer. His stomach was beginning to tighten in anxiety. It had been so long since he'd seen his mother. Sometimes he could barely remember what she looked like. He knew she had long brown hair, sort of scraggly on the ends, and her hands were thin, the skin papery like a butterfly wing. But he couldn't remember what color her eyes were.

He made his way reluctantly down the stairs, his socks dragging on the carpet. His blue backpack was set against the door; he turned his head away and headed into the kitchen.

There was a bowl of oatmeal waiting for him, topped with peanut butter and cream and brown sugar. A lump slowly rose in his throat. His mother didn't make oatmeal like that. She didn't even make it for him- she just handed him a packet of instant stuff and let him make it himself. But he wasn't allowed to use the microwave or the stove, so it was always sticky and gross.

"Stop staring and come eat," Mister Burt said gruffly. "It's gonna get cold."

Kurt forced himself to walk towards the table and sit down. He dug his spoon into the oatmeal and took a bite. Slowly he worked it around and swallowed hard, but it stuck in his throat like glue.

He stared down at the bowl. It was a plain white bowl with red stripes around the edges, simple and lightweight and nonfussy. He was pretty sure Mister Burt didn't pick it out. Maybe Miss Mollie did. Maybe she picked it out when they were getting married, and nice people picked out this very bowl in a store and wrapped it up in shiny paper as a present for their wedding, and even though Miss Mollie was in heaven now, Mister Burt still used those dishes every single day. Maybe it reminded him of her.

The lump in Kurt's throat thickened and his vision blurred. He rubbed his eyes and looked up at Mister Burt, who was still slamming around the pots and pans in the kitchen like he was mad at them. Mister Burt glanced back at him, his mouth set in a hard line. "You'd better finish your breakfast," he said.

"Can't," Kurt whispered, his voice rising despite himself.

"What's wrong? Stomach hurt?" Mister Burt asked, frowning as he walked over to him. He touched the back of his hand to Kurt's forehead. "You're not running a fever. Eat."

"I can't," he whispered, softer still.

Mister Burt touched his hand to Kurt's forehead again, but he paused and smoothed his hair back. "Go upstairs and brush your teeth then," he said. "I'll have Miss Carole pack a snack for you or something, okay?"

He nodded, wiping at his nose, and slid off his chair. The TV echoed as he passed the living room; Finn sprawled out on the couch beside Sammy, dozing off during a morning cartoon, and Kurt wished he could just curl up next to him and stay there all day.

But the social worker would be there soon. And he'd have to go.

He dragged himself up the stairs and peeked into his room. Miss Carole was still packing, folding his clothes and stacking them neatly in the red duffel bag she'd brought for him. She seemed sad, so he didn't stop.

He picked up his little purple toothbrush and squirted toothpaste onto the bristles. Dully he stared at his reflection as he brushed his teeth, his arm moving mechanically up and down. His stomach flipflopped unhappily, and he spat into the sink.

He didn't want to leave. He liked it here. He liked his purple toothbrush on the left side of the sink, he liked making up the covers of his cozy bed in the morning, he liked taking Sammy on walks, he liked doing his homework at the kitchen table every night. He liked Mister Burt.

"Kurt? Honey, you've got to hurry."

He rinsed his toothbrush and dropped it in the holder. Miss Carole was closing up the zipper on the duffel. "I've got all of your clothes in here," she said, closing up his dresser drawers. "Have you packed your toys?"

He gazed at the toys tucked neatly on the shelves. "Not yet," he said in a tiny voice.

Mommy didn't like toys.

Mister Burt cleared his throat; Kurt glanced back to see him standing in the doorway, arms folded across his chest. "Listen, kiddo, if you, uh, don't have enough room to pack all of your stuff, you just pack what you can fit," he said. "I can bring the rest of your things later, okay?"

The doorbell rang. Kurt froze.

"I'll get it," Carole said quietly. She patted the top of Kurt's head as she walked out of the room.

Kurt watched her go, ducking past Mister Burt into the hallway. Mister Burt looked down at him. "You all right, kiddo?" he asked quietly. Kurt shrugged. Mister Burt sat down on the edge of the bed, the mattress creaking under his weight. "You wanna go see your mom?"

"No."

The words burst out of him before he could stop it and he ducked his head. Mister Burt leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "Kiddo, when you first came to live with me, your mom…she sent a note. Saying I could hit you if you misbehaved. And she had a belt." He leveled his gaze. "Does your mom hit you?"

"I can't," he whispered. "I can't."

Mister Burt put his hands on Kurt's narrow little shoulders. "I put some envelopes in your backpack," he said. "They've already got my address and a stamp on them. All you have to do is put a letter in it and stick it in a mailbox and it'll come right to me. Understand?" Kurt nodded. "And you remember our phone number, right?"

"Yeah, you made me mem'rize it," Kurt whispered.

"Well, you call me if you need me," Mister Burt said. "And you remember what I told you, okay? That if anyone ever tries to hurt you, or scare you, then you get away. You go someplace safe and get someone to help. Tell them to call me, and I'll come get you."

Kurt nodded, his throat tightening, and Mister Burt gripped his shoulders, his mouth pressed in a hard line.

"Kurt? The social worker's waiting for you."

Mister Burt let go of him and picked up the red bag. Kurt silently shouldered his backpack, and they headed down the stairs. Slowly he reached out and twined his tiny hand around Mister Burt's big rough fingers.

He could hear Miss Carole talking to the social worker and he slowed his steps. "We're concerned about his home situation. Is there anything we can do to keep him away from his biological parent?"

"We did a thorough investigation of the home and interviewed the mother," he heard the social worker say. "She's been very compliant. She's agreed to send Kurt to the local elementary school, and we'll be making regular visits to check on them."

Mister Burt tugged lightly on Kurt's hand. "C'mon, buddy, let's go," he said.

The social worker was waiting in the living room, the heavy lines around her eyes looking darker in the early morning. "Hi," she said. "You ready to go?"

"Just let him say goodbye," Mister Burt snapped.

Kurt swallowed hard. Miss Carole and Finn stood on the other side of the room, Finn half hidden behind his mother. Sammy was still on the couch, watching them carefully.

"Finn, baby, can you say goodbye?" Miss Carole said.

Finn hesitated. "Bye," he said at last.

"Bye," Kurt echoed, and Finn beat a hasty retreat to the couch. He didn't want to say goodbye to Finn- it was bad enough to say goodbye to Lucy and Blaine the night before. But someone Finn's mournful expression was worse than Lucy's tears and Blaine's feeble attempts to cheer him up. It was like he wanted to say goodbye, but he didn't know enough words to say it.

Miss Carole held out her arms for a hug and he went to her shyly. She felt like a mom, soft and comfortable, and she smelled like lotion and clean laundry. He rested his cheek against the shoulder of her soft sweater and closed his eyes.

"I'll miss you, my little man," she murmured, pressing her hand against the back of his head. "You be good, okay?"

"I'll try," he offered.

She kissed him several times on the cheek, as if she was stockpiling affection for him to take while he was away, and let go. He took a step back, his lower lip trembling.

Mister Burt cleared his throat. "You gonna say goodbye to me?" he asked.

Kurt turned towards him, his steps dragging against the carpet. He didn't want to say goodbye. He wasn't ready. Mister Burt hugged him around the shoulders, limp and not very reassuring.

"Come on, Kurt, we need to go," the social worker said.

He turned to pick up his backpack, then froze. "Wait!" he said. "Wait, wait, one second." He unzipped the front section and fished around inside, his hand closing around familiar worn plush. "Mister Burt, I…um…"

He hesitated. Mister Burt knelt down. "What is it?" he asked.

Kurt squeezed his hands into tight little fists. "I know you keep Miss Mollie's vanity in your room 'cause she was special and you don't want to forget her," he said. He grabbed one of Mister Burt's hands, turned it around, and placed his present in the middle of his big callused palm. "So if you keep him, you won't forget me, right?"

Mister Burt flexed his fingers, staring down at the tiny rabbit in his hand. "Thanks," he said hoarsely. "No, I…I won't."

Kurt reached out and petted the top of the bunny's head with the tip of his finger. "You'll take care of Bun?" he said.

"Yeah," Mister Burt said, his fingers closing around Little Bun. "I'll take good care of him. I promise." He picked up Kurt's coat, the new red one, and held it out for him to slide his arms in. "You'd better keep this on. It's cold out."

Kurt allowed him to button his coat up to his chin. "Thank you," he said. He bent to pick up his backpack, only to find Sammy waiting there, sitting upright like he was waiting for his leash to be snapped on or his food bowl to be filled. Gently he patted the dog's ear. "Bye, Sammy."

The dog whined, nudging at his hand. "No, no, Sammy," he said. "I have to go." His eyes watered. "Bye."

"Kurt, we need to go, your mommy's waiting," the social worker said, falsely cheerful. She held out her gloved hand and he took it reluctantly, allowing her to lead him out of the house and down the front walk.

The sky was gray and dreary, threatening to spill snow over the dry brittle grass. He tried to pry his fingers out of the social worker's grip, but she held on absently tight, too tight to pull away. She tossed his bags into her trunk and loaded him into the backseat, buckling him in like a baby.

The door slammed with a clang. Kurt scrambled onto his knees, squirming under the restraint, and pressing his hands against the window. Mister Burt stood on the front porch, his arms still crossed over his chest. He could see Little Bun's ears poking out of his shirtfront pocket.

Kurt pressed his face to the window, his breath fogging the glass. "Goodbye," he whispered, but his voice was drowned out by the sedan's engine roaring to life.

"Sit down on your bottom," the social worker said absently as she backed out of the driveway. He obeyed reluctantly, but he twisted around in his seat, trying to keep his eyes on the little house for as long as possible, until at last they were down the street and out of the neighborhood.

He sank down in the seat, barely tall enough to peek out the windows and watch the streets roll by. They drove past his school, the park, even the entrance to Lucy's neighborhood. The streets got more narrow, the buildings older and more rundown. It was a long drive, longer than he remembered. The sky grew darker and the surroundings got dirtier.

The social worker finally pulled into a parking spot on the curb of a gray-sided apartment building. "We're here," she said. "Go on, get out of the car."

He obeyed, his legs heavy and wooden. She pulled his bags out of the trunk and handed them off; he tried not to stare at the rusted bicycle propped up against the wall. Weeds twined around the spokes.

The woman prodded him towards the rust-coated metal stairs. He climbed them carefully, clinging to the railing. The stairwell had always made him nervous; he could see the cracked concrete below. When he was little, he used to be scared of sliding between the steps and falling to the ground below.

He remembered the front of the apartment now that he was standing on the stoop- the crack above the deadbolt, the peeling dark green pain on the door, the tarnished brass numbers over the small mailbox. The social worker knocked lightly. His arms suddenly felt too heavy for his body.

The door cracked open, the chain pulling taut. "I don't want to buy your magazines," a soft hoarse voice rasped. "Go away. Go away, I'm busy."

"I'm not selling anything, I've brought Kurt home," the social worker said.

He could his mother's eye through the crack in the door. They were hazel. He'd forgotten.

"Oh," she said, and she unlatched the door.

He remembered her now- pale as snow, her eyes wide, her bare fingers constantly moving and fidgeting. She'd cut her hair, up to her shoulders. It didn't look so stringy anymore, but it was lank and greasy, like she hadn't washed it recently. She wore a baggy cardigan over her dress, the sleeves heavily pilled and a button dangling by a thread.

She stared at him. "Hello," she said, holding the door open. "Please, come in."

Kurt crossed the threshold of the apartment. His mother touched his shoulder to usher him inside. Her fingers felt like tweezers, plucking at the seam of his coat. The social worker kept talking to his mother, a steady stream of chatter. He held tight to his duffel bag, eyeing his surroundings critically.

The apartment was small and sparse and painfully clean. Everything was scrubbed spotless, stinging his nose with the scent of bleach. The kitchen looked untouched, like it always was. The carpet was worn and stained from prior occupants, but as he stared down at his shoes (the nice new school shoes that Mister Burt had just gotten him) he could see stains left behind, as if bleach had dribbled across the floor. Slowly he stuck his thumb in his mouth. It made him feel a little better.

But not enough.

His mother wanted the social worker out of the house. He could tell. She kept plucking at her sleeves, pulling them over her hands and pushing them back to her elbows. Her eyes darted from the social worker to the door and back again, as if she was waiting for her to get the hint and leave.

"I'll be back to check on things in a few weeks," the social worker said, finally gathering her coat. "Just normal procedure. We'll stay in touch."

"Yes, yes, of course," his mother said, hands fluttering to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. "Thank you. Yes, we'll stay in touch."

In a moment the social worker was out of the house. His mother closed the door and locked it tight, pulling the chain tight. She turned around, too fast, her lips trembling like she was trying to smile but couldn't quite remember how to do it.

"I missed you," she said.

He said nothing. She frowned and pulled his thumb out of his mouth. "No, no, don't do that, it's dirty."

He dropped his hand like she'd burned him. She didn't seem to notice. "Go put your things away," she said. "Nice and neat, you understand."

He picked up his things and lugged them into the single bedroom. The bed was unmade with the worn quilt bunched up in the middle and the lumpy pillows cockeyed against the headboard. His narrow bare mattress was still pushed up against the wall, under the window. She'd taken the newspaper down from the panes, making the room brighter than he remembered. He knelt down beside the bed and began to unpack his things from his duffel bag, but a strange noise distracted him.

Kurt crept towards his mother's bed. He knew he wasn't supposed to touch it, he couldn't touch any of his mother's things, but he was curious.

A baby was tucked in the middle of the bed, small and pale, dressed only in a yellow onesie, stained across the front. He wondered if his mommy had bleached it too. Cautiously he leaned closer, staring. The baby regarded him coolly, brown eyes too large in its little thin face.

"Are you obeying?" his mother called. He heard the click of her lighter and he scrambled away from the bed as she walked into the bedroom. "What are you doing?"

"There's…there's a baby," he stammered.

"Uh-huh," she said, fumbling to light her cigarette. "Jesus sent us a baby. Isn't that nice?" She dropped the lighter in her pocket and frowned at his tidy piles of clothes. "Where did all these things come from?"

"Presents," he whispered.

She picked up a sweater, a green one, and shook it viciously. "Did you steal these?" she demanded. "You stole these. Oh, god, you're a fucking thief!"

"I'm not!" he protested. "I didn't, they were presents, Miss Carole gave-"

She pushed him back till he tumbled onto his little mattress in the corner, the sweater falling over his face. "You're a thief!" she said. The baby began to cry, a thin little wail. His heartbeat picked up, racing in his chest. "Put all those things in the closet. You hear me? You put all those things in the closet."

He gathered up his things hastily and ran down to the hall closet. The painted-over pipes against the back wall rattled as he threw all of the things that Mister Burt had given him inside. It made his heart ache to leave his nice clothes inside that creepy closet and slam the door, but maybe he could wait until Mommy was asleep and take them back out. He was glad that he'd left Little Bun with Mister Burt. Little Bun wouldn't like the closet very much.

The baby was crying hard now, really crying. His mother still just stood in the doorway, her cigarette twitching in her fingers. Kurt hesitated. "Are you going to make the baby stop crying?" he said.

His mother made a frustrated noise, sucking in air through her teeth. "You're not the mother, I am," she snapped. "Leave the baby alone. Just…just go, and sit, and be quiet. You understand me? Be quiet!"

He did understand. Silently he went to his old spot, against the wall and beside the armchair, and sank down to the floor, arms folded around his knees. His mother curled up on the couch, socked feet tucked up under her, and she turned on the television. The baby continued to cry.

It had been so long since he'd done this. He didn't like sitting still for so long anymore. His knees began to ache and his back began to prickle, but he didn't dare move. Mommy didn't like it when he got up without permission.

His toes were asleep by the time his mother finally glanced at him. "Oh, you can get out of timeout now," she murmured. She turned back to the television, tapping the ashes onto the scratched coffee table and sweeping them into a pile with the side of her finger.

Kurt unfolded himself from his uncomfortable crouch and stood up slowly, his legs prickling painfully. He made his way to the bedroom and scooted onto the bed beside the baby, who was still crying weakly. "Hi," he said, scooching on his elbows. "Hi, baby. I'm your big brother Kurt."

She was still crying, her brown eyes bloodshot. He glanced around to see if there was a pacifier around, like what Lucy's mom gave her baby brother, but no luck. Carefully he offered his knuckle for the baby to suck and she latched on, her cries quieting.

"Nice baby," he cooed, petting the light dusting of dark hair on her little head. "Nice pretty baby."

Kurt rested his head beside hers, closing his eyes and letting her suck on his finger in contentment. He wished he could get Big Bun out of the closet. The baby would like Bun, he was pretty sure. But he didn't dare take his things back, so he stayed where he was, singing little bits of songs and telling her the stories he'd read in his books. He was pretty sure she liked Velveteen Rabbit best.

"Maybe I can get Bun out and you can see what a real bunny looks like," he whispered. "He'd like you."

He heard footsteps and slid quickly off the bed, plopping onto his trundle bed on the floor. The baby began to cry again without his finger to suck on.

His mother paused in the doorway. "Dinner," she said shortly, and she left. Kurt got up slowly and followed her.

The small rickety table was set with two plates and plastic utensils. Kurt slid into a seat and watched his mother warily as she moved around the kitchen, pausing often as if she couldn't remember what to do next. The microwave dinged; she opened the door and pulled out a black plastic microwaveable tray.

"Here," she said, lips still quavering as she carried the tray over to him. "I made you dinner. See? Won't it be nice?"

He gazed down at the contents of the tray. Watery potatoes, a perfectly round meat patty covered in slick gravy, mushy corn, a spongey brownie. "Well?" she snapped, throwing a second tray into the microwave and pushing a button. "What do you say?"

"Thank you," he whispered to his plate.

He waited for her to pull her dinner out of the microwave and sit down across from him at the table. When she folded her hands, he copied her obediently, murmuring a meek "amen" at the end of her long, rambling grace.

She ate like a starving person, digging her plastic fork into her food. He poked tentatively at the potatoes and took a small bite from the center. It was cold. He winced.

He took a second bite, this time from the edges, and this time it was too hot. "Ow!" he yelped, dropping his fork.

His mother looked up suddenly, eyebrows drawing down. "Don't like what I made you?" she jeered.

"No, I just-" he protested.

She flung her arm to the side, pointing with her fork at his corner. "Go!" she said. "Go sit! Sit until you can be polite like a real person!"

He slid off his chair and moved quickly to obey. His tummy rumbled, but he didn't feel hungry.

His mother picked up her tray, nearly knocking her chair to the side, and sat down on the couch. The television played noisily, a brightly colored game show rerun. Kurt curled his knees into his chest and pressed his forehead to his knees.

He didn't know how long he'd zoned out, but suddenly he heard a muffled thump from the bedroom. The TV still played, but his mother was gone.

He unfolded from his crouch and peeked carefully into the bedroom. His mother had unzipped his backpack and dumped the contents across her bed. "Those are mine," he protested.

"Where'd you get these?" she asked, tossing his books into a pile.

"From school," he said. "And from Blaine. For my birthday."

She frowned. "Who's Blaine?"

"My best friend," he said.

"You don't have a best friend," she said, tossing The Velveteen Rabbit aside. Kurt flinched as the pages bent at the corner.

"But he is," Kurt objected. "Blaine's my best friend and I love him."

She whirled around. "You can't love a boy," she said.

He shifted his weight from one foot to another. "But I do," he said.

"You can't," she hissed through her teeth. "You can't, it's nasty. Jesus doesn't like it." She gave him a shove aside. "Go sit. I didn't tell you to get up. Go sit."

"But I-"

"Go!" she screeched, and he fled. He ran into the living room, his sneakered feet sliding on the floor, and fell on his knees in his usual spot. He huddled there, his breath catching in his throat.

"I wanna go home," he whimpered into his hands. "I wanna go home."

He wanted home so badly that it made his stomach hurt. He wanted to eat a homemade dinner at the polished wood table, with Sammy begging by his chair. He wanted to do his homework while Mister Burt washed dishes. He wanted to take Sammy on his bedtime walk. He wanted to crawl under the safe warm covers of his bed and doze off while Mister Burt read him a story. He wanted to cuddle Bun to his chest, half asleep and cozy, and have Mister Burt tuck him in and pat him in the head and tell him to have a good sleep.

"I want Mister Burt," he whispered.

He straightened suddenly. The phone. He could call. Mister Burt promised.

Kurt crawled over to the coffee table. The phone was old, the plastic yellowed and cracked along the edges, but it would still work. Carefully he picked it up, the dial tone echoing in his ear. He pressed the first number lightly.

3...5...6...2...9...4...

"What the hell do you think you're doing?

He started, the phone dropping from his hand. His mother loomed over him, arms dangling at her sides like a scarecrow's. "I'm…I'm just…" he whispered.

"You're not supposed to touch the phone!" she screamed. "You know that! Why can't you follow the rules? Why can't you obey? Everything would be perfect if you just obeyed!"

She yanked the phone away from the wall, the brittle plastic of the cord snapping. "I'm sorry!" Kurt cried. "I'm sorry, Mommy, I'm sorry!"

"No, you're not, if you were sorry you'd be better!" she shouted. She grabbed him by the arm. "Why aren't you better? Why can't you be better?"

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry!" he shrieked.

She shook him hard, her hand tight and viselike on his slender wrist.

"I'm sor-"


Author's Notes:

Special thanks for Katelyn and Christina for betaing this chapter, and especially to beonmyrightankle for her fabulous advice on the social work details.