A/N: #sigh# I wish my version of Mrs. karofsky couldda ben as epic as Mrs. Badass in the Kurtofsky IMs (KIMs). I fuckin' love/stalk/worship that series. LOLOLOLOL. (My sister added Ricardo Karofsky as a friend on Facebook by using our cat's FB since she deactivated her account and I just don't have one/refuse to get one. Anyway, my sister said in the freidn request, "You're a mustache. I'm a cat. Together we make AWESOME." -Yeah, she's as genius as I am. Everybody love my little sister. XD )

On another note, I totally hopped on the Tumblr bandwagon, and now I am a little addicted. :'D

ENJOY THIS CHAPTER, Y'ALLZ. I'M SICK AND SHALL GO TO BED NOW.

Chapter 18.

"Welcome home, David," his father greets simply, as soon as the front door opens. Dave feels stiff from the cold, and tense from the music-less drive. "Merry Christmas."

"Yeah," Dave agrees quietly. He enters his own home, the place feeling both cozily familiar and unsettlingly altered. He drops his bags into his bedroom and tosses his coat onto his bed. He exhales slowly, and wanders downstairs. "Mom still awake?"

Paul shakes his head. "No, she went to bed a few hours ago. It's pretty late. I'm only up because of you. But now it's my turn to go to bed."

Dave nods. "Oh. Okay. G'night, then, Dad."

But Paul Karofsky isn't moving. He's looking at his son, and Dave can feel something squirm under his skin.

"Something wrong, Dad?"

Paul shakes his head. "It's nothing much. It can wait until tomorrow. Get some rest, all right?"

"Yeah, alright," the hockey player murmurs in response, feeling uneasy. He eyes his father suspiciously, curiously, as the man rounds a corner of the hallway and enters the master bedroom. Dave himself goes to the bathroom, brushing his teeth and emptying his bladder before washing his hands and heading off to bed.

XXX

Dave stirs awake in the morning from the sound of the clanking coffee pot and the shuffling of feet and newspaper in the kitchen. Dave scrubs his face with a hand and wipes the crush from his eyes as he wanders to the bathroom, and then downstairs.

As he enters the kitchen, Dave is greeted by his mother's smiling face. "Morning, Davey. Want some coffee? It should be done soon," his mother remarks, clearly on one of her positive mood swings.

"Um, yeah. Coffee sounds great."

"Good! Oh, and your father should be back soon. He had to run out for an emergency 'nog run. Can you believe we didn't have any eggnog? Such a crime."

"Yeah…" Dave agrees slowly. "Uh, Mom? Are you feeling okay?"

"Never better, dear," his mother answers sincerely. Her face falls slightly. "But it's not me being this way on my own. I'm on medication, now. You've always thought I was bipolar - now, before your protest, just let me say that I know it's true; I've heard you complain to your friends before – and as it turns out, you were right. It's because of some sort of depression I'm in, some lack of endorphins or something. But I'm all good now, I promise. I'm seeing a therapist. Just started after Thanksgiving."

Dave's face turns sour and grave. "God, Mom, this isn't because of me, is it? Look, I didn't mean to blurt it out like that at Thanksgiving dinner, and I'm sorry that I hung up on your all those times on the phone since, but I just couldn't –"

"Oh, Davey dearest, please don't be that way. It's not your fault. If anything, you've helped me realize that there's something wrong in this household, something I was too prideful to fix, and now I'm seeing it for the first time and I'm trying to patch it up." She sighs languidly, setting down a mug she had been reaching for out of a cabinet. She turns and faces her son fully, a hand being place don her hip. "David, you know I love you, right?"

Slowly, carefully, Dave swallows. "Yeah… yeah, I know that."

"So you would understand, then, that I'm truly trying for you because I love you, right?"

"I guess so… Where is this heading?" Dave remarks apprehensively.

His mother's jaw quakes, a telling signs that she's grinding her teeth out of stress. She stretches her jaw to stop the nasty habit and moves to retrieve some coffee from the pot, pouring the brown, steaming liquid in to her mug. Her eyes lose all contact with her son's. "To be frank, dear, I'm not super happy about what you told me. I'm a little sick to my stomach about it even time I think of you kissing another boy, or possibly getting married to one in another state, or never giving me any grandchildren. I get tear-eyed every time I think about how I've seen you bring home girls for a few days or a week before dumping them, and finally knowing why you did it." Her voice breaks, and she finally looks over at her son. "But… I'm getting better with the idea. It's not the end of the world. You're still the same son I've raised and loved all these years, even if there's this part of you I didn't know existed until now."

"Mom…" Dave whispers, not sure what to say. He doesn't know if he feels like crying or not. But he does know that he has the urge to hug his mother, but as he makes a move to, she shakes her head and cups a hand over her mouth and nose.

"No, don't. I'm just overreacting. I'll be fine." She dumps some sugar and cream into her mug before moving to sit at the table. Stirring the beverage, she asks gently, "What would you like for breakfast?"

"You don't have to cook for me," Dave answers. "I can cook. You're too shaken up right now; any moron, even me, can see that. Tell me what you want to eat, Mom, and I'll make it."

His mother sobs lightly, her breath ragged and her eyes pink, but dry. "Thank you, Davey. You're so sweet sometimes."

"Yeah, when I'm not being a yelling asshole," Dave grumbles to himself under his breath.

"You say something?" his mother asks around a slurp of hot coffee.

"No, nothing."

He busies himself with making French toast when his father is suddenly coming into the house, heard but not seen from their place in the kitchen.

"Back," Paul calls out, and there's the sound of stomping snow boots and the soft swishing of a coat being shrugged from his shoulders drifting from the entranceway. The rustle of a plastic pag carries throughout the house accompanied by footsteps as Paul comes into the kitchen. "Oh, that smells good. Nice work, David."

"Thanks. The first batch should be done soon enough. Pour me some of that eggnog, please?"

His father cracks a smile. "'Please'? Haven't heard that word from you in ages. Remind me to thank whoever has been re-teaching you manners."

Dave's ears burn as he hastily returns to his task, knowing full well that Kurt is the one responsible. He clears his throat. "So, um, Dad. Mom and I just had a talk about me… being gay and stuff. Uh. And I was wondering if you already talked to her about what you and I said over the phone that one time, or…"

"Yes, I had," the elder Karofsky clarifies gently. He pours his son a glass of eggnog and slides it over near his elbow. He turns and puts the carton in the fridge before addressing the topic again. "And you do remember what I said about me being okay with it. And that 'building upon' I spoke of… it still applies a bit, and I think it might help if I met who you're currently romantically involved with. I'm sure he's a wonderful boy, and seeing that would help a both a great deal. Your mother agrees."

For confirmation, Dave glances over his shoulder from his cooking and catches his mom nodding. Turning back, he murmurs, "Alright, that sounds fair. Thank you both for handling this well, 'cause I've never handled my own sexuality well."

"And that's part of the reason why we're trying so hard, Davey," his mother butts in as she stands from the table, the sound of her chair telling to Dave's ears. He feels her suddenly touching his shoulder, and he pauses in flipping a slice of custardy bread to peer over at her. She's smiling again, less intensely, but just as genuinely. "I've thought about it lot, now that my head's clear thanks to these meds. I've thought about how pressured and frightened and angry you must have been at yourself, and why your grades slipped so drastically in high school. It all makes sense now; your aggression, your frustration, your hatred for yourself and gays. You didn't ask for it, and didn't ask for parents who were so biased. But being a little more flexible isn't that hard, I've found."

And Dave again feels like he might be on the brink of crying, but he keeps it back and flips the toast before it burns. He waits a few seconds for it to cook before he loads the first bath onto a plate off of the skillet. "Here, you two can eat. I'm not hungry anymore."

"David?"

"Dave, dear, wait –"

The athlete shakes his head and turns to leave the kitchen. But before he can succeed, his father steps in front of him. He places his hands firmly on his son's shoulders and stares deeply into his eyes. "Don't feel ashamed or unwelcome or unloved, son. And don't let your boyfriend feel that way, either. Have him over here this break for dinner, and let us speak to him. We really are here for you, David, even if you don't feel like it at the moment."

"I know, Dad," Dave murmurs. "I'm just… a little overwhelmed." And he licks his lips and bites the inside of his bottom lip, blinking hard, to keep from crying. He doesn't like feeling vulnerable like this. But it often happens with one's parents: one feels like a child again no matter how old they actually are, and in any given moment, they can feel like rebelling or falling apart under their parents' touch or gaze.

"It's okay, it's okay," Paul soothes, and brings his son and his wife (who was hovering just behind her child seconds before) into his arms. He feels his college boy shaking, and his wife is ironically as sturdy as a rock. They stay like that for a lasting moment, a family-sandwich, until Dave's stubbornness kicks in and he breaks free, bolting out of the kitchen and heading into his bedroom, his door shutting behind him.

He breathes in shakily, but his exhale is a broken series of breathy sobs, the tears finally coming once he submits to them, his face in his hands, his hot, reeking morning breath hitting him square in the nose, but cant find it in him to think about it much when his emotional barriers are preoccupied with crumbling to the ground.

Dave's never been very sensitive, even underneath. Okay, so maybe he has been, in the sense that he's always cared far too much what others think of him and has always bottled up his emotions unless they were furious violence. But now…

Now, after hating and then loving Kurt, after being partially rejected and then accepted by his parents, and after all of the little fears strewn across the center of the web (like what his teammates would do/say if they knew that one of their stars is homosexual), Dave can finally let it all out.

Half an hour later, he's sniffling and blowing his nose, weakly tossing the used tissues into his wastebasket. His mother knocks on the door, and for once, he doesn't deny her entrance.

Mrs. Karofsky slips in and comes to sit beside her son on his bed. She lightly touches a hand to his back, right between his shoulder blades, not a trace of any emotion but sympathy on her face. "How are you feeling?"

"Like a recovering Katrina victim. Emotionally, anyway; my stupid breakdown being the hurricane, and my body being New Orleans." Dave sighs heavily, more meaning in his sigh than his actual words. He glances over at his mom. "What's wrong with me? I'm not like this. This isn't me."

"Oh, sweetie, of course this is you. This is the little boy I remember, the one whose eyes would tint green when he cried, the one who would watch Disney movies with me, the one who loved his pet kitty until it died, and when it did, it's the same little boy who told me that he was okay with it in the end because he knew that the cat was loved, and that's all that mattered." She brings him close to her chest and rocks him back and forth, not minding that his arms are hanging limp, not returning the embrace. "You're reverting during a time of emotional turmoil. It's completely understandable. It's what I went through time and time again, and finally found a name for when I started seeing a shrink. It's human, David. It's human to feel this way."

"So you're basically telling me that it's totally normal to feel like shit."

She laughs a little. "Yes, pretty much."

"Fantastic."

She rolls her yes at his sarcasm and pulls out of the embrace, her arms not leaving one shoulder as she does so. "Come on, dear. Let's make you some food. I left out the French toast supplies so that we can make some more. What d'ya say?"

"I say 'okay.' I was lying earlier; I'm fuckin' starving."

XXX

"So they're okay with it?" Kurt asks as he walks alongside Dave down the street, headed into Boarder's bookstore. "With you and me, and your sexual preference?"

"More or less," Dave shrugs. "I think the only thing keeping them from fully freaking out is how pathetic I am. Well, that, and the fact that I'm biologically their spawn. I think that accounts for part of it."

Kurt chuckles oddly. "I think that last thing is part of why my dad is so accepting of me, too," he replies as they enter the store and retreat from the nipping December chill. "But I'm glad. This is a good thing, even if it doesn't feel like it."

"It only doesn't because I'm a fuckin' wreck and I don't know how to handle anything worth shit," Dave spits out under his breath as he inhales the scent of new books and steeping coffee. He walks down a random aisle, quickly, and hears Kurt trot to keep up.

"Hey," Kurt says, concern in his eyes but a reassuring smile on his palely pink lips, "How about I buy you a four-dollar pick-me-up? It's the perfect thing for troubling matters such as these."

Dave stops and glances back at his boyfriend, noting idly how the paler boy discreetly hugs Dave's arm with his hands. He faces forward again, nodding briskly. "Yeah, sure."

One order of coffee later, Kurt and Dave are seated in the back reading area of the bookstore, a cozy nook amidst bookshelves. Kurt is the first to speak, his eyes peering over the rim of his beverage in that purposely flirty way he does. "So. When am I coming over to your house for dinner?"

The hockey player winces, swallowing a gulp of his coffee roughly. "Uh. Soon-ish?"

"And how soon is 'soon-ish,' I wonder?" Kurt remarks as he delicately sips his latte.

"Um… tomorrow? Or the day after? Before Christmas Eve, since my parents figure you want to spend Christmas Eve and Christmas Day with your family," Dave answers unsurely. He subconsciously rubs a calloused fingertip on the soft foam of his to-go cup. "I dunno. They seem way too hyped to meet you, and I don't know why."

"Because I'm amazing," Kurt grins, "And because you might not realize it, Karofsky-my-dear, but you are very obvious about how you feel about me. I'd be surprised if your parents weren't in a hurry to get to know me. I mean, your dad saw me, like, once, but he doesn't know me, know me." He shrugs and sets down his latte between his legs as he uncrosses them. "So… tomorrow, then? To keep things simple?"

"Sure. Tomorrow," Dave mutters in agreement.

"It's a date," Kurt grins. "I look forward to meeting your parents. I bet I can woo both of them like I do every adult I meet. I'm very charming to adults when I need to be; just ask any of my Dalton or McKinley teachers, or even any of the professors we have now. They all love me."

"I'll bet," Dave snorts, "Seeing as how you're this witty, cocky sonuva bitch who plays up his good looks and soft voice to his advantage."

"And don't you forget it," Kurt chuckles, even adding in a wink.

His boyfriend simply rolls his eyes. "Thank God my parents will never know what a manipulative little minx you are."

"I'm loving the fact that you know what a minx is," Kurt comments offhandedly. He adds, "Although I'm not as fond of the fact that you're indirectly comparing me to Rachel Berry. She and Finn were probably the biggest manipulative couple I've ever seen. I recently discovered the story of their elaborate duet plan from junior year at Puck's party last night," Kurt states. He shakes his head. "I swear, Rachel is still an enigma to me. She's like me but isn't like me. I thought I had her pegged, but every time I think I've got it, she'll do something to surprise me." He smiles a bit. "Actually, we get along most of the time, but that doesn't mean I really understand her. She's so kooky."

"Insanely," Dave agrees. "I hardly know the chick at all, but I know that much."

Ad their conversation carries on a while longer, until both of their coffees are drained and Kurt up and decides to browse the vast collection of magazines in the store, looking at all of the celebrity gossip ones while Dave stalks the ones centered around manlier things, such as motorcycles and video games and the like. He avoids the ones with scantily clad women on the cover, however; he's past all that.

Eventually, Kurt is purchasing a magazine in particular full of pin-ups of actors he likes while Dave stands awkwardly off to the side of the register lines, waiting. When they leave the store, Kurt again does that subtle arm-hold, and Dave doesn't mind, now really, because no one is in the parking lot and it feels so nice to have that spot of warmth on him as the midwestern cold rushes up in his face and under the brim of his coat (a wool pea coat Kurt insisted on getting Dave for Christmas as an early gift because Dave needed one and it looks nice and fashionable on him; it has large lapels and is a dark gunmetal grey, which suits Dave just fine).

Despite the drama (really, what else did Dave expect; Kurt Hummel is involved, after all, and he's part of the definition of dramatic), Dave is actually… content. He feels like there's no obstacle he can't overcome, now.

Hopefully.