They agreed to shelf everything until the following day because Dave would need to talk to his dad about the day or two that they would be out of town, and, though he didn't specifically mention this part, Kurt needed to talk to Blaine. His boyfriend had quite obviously taken his cues from Kurt where the former bully was concerned, and had forgiven him for what Blaine was cheerfully calling his "Neanderthal-behavior years" but Kurt had a feeling that he might not be so understanding about Kurt and Dave going on a road trip together.

"You're telling me," Blaine began the next morning in Kurt's bedroom as Kurt flitted from one side of the room to the other in his haste to pack as quickly as possible, "That you're actually going out of town with this guy who told you he loved you? That you're going to stay in a hotel with him, alone, and I get absolutely no say at all?"

"Well, it's not really that you don't get any say," Kurt replied, opening his closet door to examine the contents. He tried to imagine what sort of attire would be required for two guys attempting to complete the Top 20 things they wanted to do before they die and decided that he should probably bring a sweater. Or two.

"Oh, so I do get a say?"

"Of course." Should be bring the Prada trench or go without? Without, he decided immediately, withdrawing it from the stack on the bed, and returning it to the closet. He'd found the thing on sale for 70% off and still nothing compared, and he could just picture the look on Dave's face if he insisted on keeping it in his sights at all times.

Blaine crossed the room and sat on the edge of Kurt's bed, careful to remain twelve inches from the clothing. "Well, then I want to throw my vote into the Don't Go At All basket."

"I can't not go," Kurt answered, taking care not to roll his eyes. He turned to face Blaine. "It was my idea."

"So?"

"So I'm the driving force behind this thing - I can't back out." How many pairs of jeans? He opened his top drawer and withdrew three pairs and shoved them as tenderly as possible into his bright red suitcase. Then he threw Blaine a tight smile over his shoulder. "He needs to do this, and I need to help him."

"Kurt, if he's making you feel guilty, or at fault for what he did-"

"He's not," Kurt snapped, exasperation slipping into his voice. Honestly, what was the big deal? He wasn't going to cheat on Blaine with Dave, the idea was ridiculous. They were friends, and barely that, and Kurt had been with Blaine for over a year now. They were committed and that wasn't going to change because he was determined to help his (yes, more than slightly attractive - Kurt wasn't blind) friend get better. Because, though Kurt held tightly to what Dave said the first time he'd gone to visit him in the hospital ("I'm really happy that you're alive, David." "Me too."), he couldn't escape the knowledge that the only reason doctors did a 72 hour watch was because suicide attempts were often repeated-

No, he was not doing this to himself right now. Dave was fine, and in about 45 minutes the pair of them were going to begin checking stuff off their lists, and that awful afternoon would be nothing more than a distant memory of another life.

He sighed and turned back to Blaine. "I'm not doing this because I feel guilty. This 'Bucket List' thing is something I cooked up because right now David needs a friend more than anything else. He needs a real idea of how many people he can count among his support system and it means something to me to make sure he knows that he can count me." He crossed his arms defiantly. "Frankly, it comes down to one simple question: do you trust me, or don't you?"

A moment later Blaine was behind Kurt, wrapping loving arms around his waist, tucking his chin into Kurt's shoulder. "Of course I trust you," he soothed, pressing his lips to Kurt's neck. "You're right. I'm just being paranoid." He took a deep breath and, in a much lighter tone that was obviously forced, he cheerfully asked, "So. What's on your list?"

Kurt knew a lot about Miss Manners. He knew what she would instruct him to do if an uninvited guest arrived at a dinner party he was hosting, how many pillows were appropriate for a guest room, how to politely decline a wedding invitation. So he had a pretty good idea of what she would say if she had known that for the second day in a row Kurt was standing outside the Karofsky residence, cell phone in hand, index finger hovering nervously over the texting keypad. He imagined that he could see her disapproving frown as she firmly reminded him that it was common courtesy to at least knock.

Come outside, he sent again.

Immediately the door flew open, almost as though Dave had been waiting on the other side for his arrival, and the relaxed, boyish grin on the young man's face was a little staggering. Kurt could count on one hand, with as many fingers probably, how many times he had seen that smile before, and he couldn't pretend that it didn't kind of warm him a little from the insides. Strangely, even though it had been pretty much omnipresent their junior year, Kurt was finding it harder and harder to remember what his face looked like, twisted in an angry scowl. He decided this was a good thing.

"Are you seriously never going to knock on my door," Dave questioned, his eyes bright and teasing. "I mean, don't get me wrong, I'm kinda digging the Covert Operations aspect of all this, but if you really think you're going to take me out of town for a couple of days without my dad grilling us about the destination, I'm about to break your heart." He stepped back to allow Kurt entry into the house, but the smaller boy didn't move.

"You dad's home?" If Kurt was being honest with himself, he'd have to admit that there was a small part of him that had been half-hoping he would never have to come face-to-face with either of Dave's parents again. He had never met Dave's mom, but from the small picture Dave had painted of her at the hospital, Kurt was certain that this was a woman with whom he could never get along. And no, he had nothing against Dave's dad at all because he'd never forget the way Mr. Karofsky had stood up for him that day in Figgin's office, but the idea of looking him in the eye after everything that had happened filled him with more feelings than he could even identify.

Gone was Dave's chipper grin and the speculative stare that replaced it released a slew of butterflies into the pit of Kurt's stomach. He didn't think he liked this, the too-careful way that Dave was examining his expression, not to mention the flicker of recognition that came a beat later.

Before he could formulate any sort of comment, Dave's hand shot out and caught a firm grip around Kurt's wrist, and he pulled him forward, across the threshold. "Kurt," he began, almost dragging him into the living room, "I thought you meant it when you said we were friends."

"I did," Kurt squeaked in protest. He peered around the bigger boy and was relieved to find the room empty, save for the two of them. "I did," he repeated, somewhat more calmly.

Dave dropped his hand and the smirk he shot Kurt's way was so reminiscent of, well, himself, that he couldn't smother a small grin in return. "You did? And you figured you could do this successfully while avoiding all communication with my family?"

"I was hoping," Kurt muttered in annoyance, frowning when Dave took a step towards the kitchen. He lowered his voice. "He's in there, isn't he?"

"Kurt, come on. It's going to be fine."

"I seriously doubt that."

"Please? It's on my list."

Kurt narrowed his eyes. "Really?"

"Well, no," Dave confessed. "But if I had known you'd developed such a phobia about it, I would have put it on there. Dad!"

Kurt jumped at the sudden shout, but even as he tried to quickly weigh the pros and cons of darting for the front door, Paul Karofsky stepped out of the kitchen.

"David," he scolded, shooting his son an irritated look. "Was the yelling necessary? You knew I was sitting at the table reading The Shining."

"Sorry," Dave apologized brightly. "I had to get you in here before Kurt decided to make a run for it." He shrugged. "He thinks you hate him."

"Dave," Kurt gasped in horror. Oh God. Maybe he'd get lucky and the Karofsky's floor would open up and swallow him whole. However, when nothing happened, he turned his attention to Dave's dad. "Mr. Karofsky-"

"Paul," the man interrupted.

Kurt cleared his throat. "Um, Paul." The first name sounded odd on his lips, but he pressed onward. "David's just kidding. I don't really think you hate me." He tried for a smile that was hopefully convincing.

Paul studied him silently for a moment, and Kurt was assaulted by the realization that the 'I can see straight through your bullshit' stare Dave used on him before was hereditary. "Kurt, let's sit down."

All three found seats - Paul settling into a navy La-Z-Boy, and Kurt sitting beside Dave on the couch. There was absolutely no way Dave was going to leave him to deal with his dad, and at least if they were sitting this close Kurt was pretty sure he could catch David if he tried to take off.

"So, Kurt," Paul began. "I was planning to just remind you boys to be careful in New York. David's eighteen, so it's not like I could tell him not to go. And to be completely honest, I do think my son could use a few days away from all of this."

Kurt privately agreed.

"But, since I have you here," he continued, "there's something I've been wanting to say to you ever since I found . . ." His voice trailed away, and Kurt blinked when it hit him that Dave's dad wasn't having any easier time saying the words than he was. Paul glanced at his son, but not before Kurt saw the tears forming in the corners of his eyes. "Anyway, I just wanted to thank you for everything you've done for David."

"I didn't do anything," Kurt immediately objected. He couldn't accept credit for any of Dave's transformation. After all, he'd only seen the guy a handful of times since Senior Year had began.

Dave rolled his eyes. "Oh sure. He's willing to take as much blame for the bad as he can, but you try to give a little kudos and he turns all humble."

"I'm a complicated creature, David."

"I believe that."

Paul smiled at the boys' bickering before addressing Kurt again. "It'll be up to you whether you believe it or not, but honestly, Kurt, you've done more than you know. You could have cut off all communication with David after everything that happened at McKinley, and instead, you encouraged him, accepted his forgiveness. And I want to thank you for that."

Kurt flushed and glanced quickly at Dave as he realized that Dave must have told his dad about that day in the hall before prom. "It's really . . . Thank you. Too."

"Okay," Dave said, "well, as much as this obviously been for Kurt-" He paused to gesture to the deep scarlet that was spreading over the boy's fair features, "we're going upstairs."

"Upstairs," Kurt questioned as the pair made their way to the staircase. "What's upstairs?"

Dave gave him a confused look. "Uh, my room?"

Kurt stopped short, though they were nowhere near the top. Upstairs. Upstairs was Dave's room, and Dave's room meant- "You know, I think I'm going to wait for you outside." He made to step around Dave, but when the bigger boy refused to move, he found himself cut off from the bottom floor.

"No way, Fancy. Keep going."

Kurt clenched his jaw to keep from yelling at Dave to get the hell out of the way, then he took a deep breath to steady his heart rate and tried another tactic. "Dave, really, it's fine. Actually, I'm feeling kind of sick - I told Finn that the McFrappe run this morning wasn't a good idea, but you know how he gets when-"

"Kurt," Dave interrupted, and it was annoying how the corners of his lips turned up, like Kurt was being all cute instead of panic-stricken. "We have to go upstairs to get the list."

"I . . ." He swallowed hard, astonished when he felt the thick lump in his throat. He glanced up at the landing above them, and shook his head.

Dave silently took in Kurt's expression and - would wonders never cease? - he reached out and offered his hand to Kurt. "It wasn't easy for me at first either," he murmured as Kurt allowed the strong, heavy hand to close around his own. "I slept on the couch for a week." He took a step forward, gently pushing Kurt onto the next stair. "But then I realized-" Another step. "That all I was doing-" And another. "Was avoiding the inevitable."

They were at the top of the stairs before Kurt was ready, and suddenly Dave was leading him to another set of stairs on the opposite side of the hall. "I'm in our version of the attic," he explained off Kurt's questioning look. Without releasing Kurt's hand, Dave continued to lead him up to the next landing, and then to the solitary door on the left.

"Here we are," Dave quipped, letting go of Kurt's hand so he could gesture to the dark wood. "Home sweet home."

Kurt studied the door and firmly reminded himself that there was nothing scary behind it. Dave was here, standing beside him, and not in a motionless heap on the floor of his bedroom, pale and broken. It was fine. Really. Everything was fine.

As though guessing his thoughts, Dave reached over and gave his shoulder an encouraging squeeze. "It's just a room," he said softly. "Four walls, a window. A tiny-ass bed that I've been begging my dad to replace for five years . . ."

"Right, I know," Kurt forced out shakily. And he reached for the doorknob.