A/N: There have been a lot of strong opinions expressed about my treatment of Karofsky in this story - since the warnings in the summary contain 'violence' and 'attempted rape' you can probably guess what Karofsky does. It is absolutely 150% understandable to me that someone would disagree with that choice and of course you are more than welcome to tell me where to shove this fic.

But I DO want to say that I wrote this back in early January, (so it's obviously completely AU) and at that point Karofsky just terrified me. Like, to the point that I was sick to my stomach. I would look at Kurt's face every time he was on screen and see how absolutely petrified he was of him and I couldn't help feeling that same way. That was where this story came from. I would not make that same choice now; I'd write a very different Karofsky. But at the same time, I think this made sense when I wrote it in January, I am proud of the writing, and so... that's why it's here. Thank you so much for reading!

Five Times Kurt Hummel Makes Excuses For Dave Karofsky's Deplorable Behavior (and the one time he absolutely freaking doesn't)

One

It really is like being bitch-slapped by an iceberg.

Kurt remembers that first slushie – thrown at him a scant week into his freshman year at McKinley – in excruciating detail.

There have been countless slushies thrown at him in the interim. But none of them carry that sting of the first – the unanticipated, freezing shock of it. The memory of gasping in stunned dismay as red corn syrup and ice sting his eyes and drip down his face, sliding slickly down the front of his shirt and seeping into the waistband of his pants. His uncontrollable shivering. His teeth chattering loudly. The feeling of wanting to disappear into the floor as the conversation in the hallway ceases, as people turn to stare at him with an almost-morbid curiosity (and gratitude. At least it's not me; can you imagine?)

The mad dash to the boys bathroom. The awareness that he's dripping red corn syrup across the floors of the hallway, leaving a fake trail of blood in his wake that puddles at his feet when he stands still. The jocks that point and laugh at him in the bathroom. The dawning sense of horror as he looks in the mirror – at his spectacularly stained shirt and pants – and thinks: What am I going to do now?

Karofsky had done the honors, of course. Kurt hadn't known who he was before. He had seen him around but hadn't taken any particular notice of him, beyond: This guy's a ninth-grader? He's built like a freight train.

Well, he'll sure as hell remember the boy now.

He remembers the look on his face right after he'd thrown it, although he hadn't been looking at Kurt at all. He had instantly turned and looked to his left, seeking approval from the even taller teenager beside him wearing a letterman jacket.

The second boy had smiled. "All riiiight. Now you're one of us. Good going, dude!"

And Karofsky had given him a look so unabashedly relieved and delighted that if Kurt hadn't known better, he'd have said the boy had some sort of crush on the upperclassman jock. But the idea of Karofsky being gay is outright ridiculous. Obviously he'd just been trying to fit in with a new group of friends.

And despite Kurt's anger, embarrassment, and desolation over the loss of his brand-new cardigan, he could excuse the boy's behavior to a certain degree.

Kurt didn't have any friends.

But supposing that he ever did, he could only imagine the lengths to which he'd go to impress them. To keep them.

Kurt didn't like it.

But he got it more than he cared to admit.

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Two

The admittedly haphazard tag-team intervention they'd staged for Karofsky had actually been Kurt's idea, not Blaine's.

When Kurt had called Blaine, choking from trying to hold back his tears (when isn't he crying these days?), Blaine had been startlingly vehement:

"This isn't normal bullying, Kurt – not that you should be subjected to that, either. But terrorizing someone and then forcing an unwanted kiss onto them is a textbook definition of sexual assault. And there's always a chance the behavior could escalate. I think you need to tell someone."

"I told you."

Blaine sighs. "I meant someone who can do something about this. Don't get me wrong, Kurt – I'm glad that you told me. I haven't known you for very long, so you'll have to forgive me if this is out of line, but you strike me as being a fairly private person."

Kurt is forced to concede the point. "I usually am. It's just – I've never met anyone else who's been through this sort of thing, so…"

"To be honest, it sounds like you're having a much worse time of it than I ever did. You're a lot stronger than you give yourself credit for, Kurt. But the point is that you shouldn't haveto be that strong. Not all the time. Not every day."

"But…"

"Report it, Kurt. I'm serious."

For the very first time, Kurt considers the option – and it's tempting, it really is. He shudders every time he thinks of that awful kiss. Forceful fingers gripping his jaw. Chapped lips mashing painfully against his own. The surprise. The fear.

And yet- and yet –

Kurt can remember a time when Finn Hudson had sat next to him on a set of steps. When he'd stood on creaky attic floorboards, staring up into Finn's eyes and brushing imaginary dust off his shoulder. When he'd knelt on the floor with him after Glee Club, talking about everything and nothing.

He remembers the pounding of his heart, the blood rushing in his ears. He remembers an urge so intense as to be painful: Kiss him. Just kiss him. You know you want to.

Kurt had wished for it. Dreamt of it. Spent days thinking of nothing butkissing Finn Hudson.

He can still practically taste the tension in the air between himself and the taller boy. He remembers his hands crackling with energy. He remembers longing to grab Finn's face, close the gap between them, and press their lips together. If I kiss him, he'll understand. I can make him see how right this is. How perfect we are for each other-

-and he'd known that such a kiss, if he ever attempted it, would be utterly and completely unwanted. But he hadn't cared about that at the time. And if he had ever lost control and kissed Finn, Kurt would have filed it under the "Made A Complete Idiot Out of Myself" memory folder. Not the "Today I Committed Sexual Assault" folder.

But if Blaine is saying that that's what had been done to him…

Isn't it really only the merest, luckiest chance that Kurt hadn't done the exact same thing to an equally unsuspecting person (victim?)

"Kurt?" Blaine asks. "Will you at least think about it?"

"I – yes," Kurt lies. "Yes, I'll think about it. But you know, I've been thinking. Karofsky's really just acting out because he's feeling… alone and, uh, misunderstood. I'm sure that if I just talk to him"- (he'll pound my face in with his fist) –"and let him know he's not alone"- (he'll try to finish what he started) "-he'll come around. I really think there's hope for him." (There's zero hope for him – Kurt's sure of that, if he's sure of anything).

"You think so?" asks Blaine, sounding surprised.

"Sure. Yeah. I'll talk to him tomorrow." (No, he really, really won't. But Blaine doesn't need to know that).

There's a short pause.

"Okay," says Blaine slowly. "If you're absolutely sure that you don't want to tell someone, then maybe you could try talking to him again – but you're not doing it alone. Does tomorrow afternoon work for you? I can be in Lima by 12:30. When's your lunch break?"

Kurt lets out a small squeak and almost drops his phone in surprise. Well, he certainly hadn't been expecting that response. But Kurt supposes there is always the smallest chance Karofsky will listen. And hey, if it means that he gets to see Blaine again…

"That would be great. My lunch break starts at 12:15. I'll meet you in the parking lot – oh, and Blaine?" Kurt blushes. "If you wouldn't mind parking on the far end of the lot – away from the dumpsters?"

No point in tempting fate, is there?

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Three

Kurt can't help but think that this disciplinary hearing in "Principal" Sylvester's office would be going much differently if Dave Karofsky's mother had attended in lieu of his father.

He chances a glance at his own father; sees the hard set of his jaw, the tense, angry planes of his shoulders, the half-concealed disdain he is displaying toward the boy and man seated across from him.

Kurt feels, not for the first time, a flutter of unease in his stomach – if not for the fact that he is wearing designer pants, he knows he would be wiping his sweaty palms on them. His thoughts are a chaotic swirl of fear and guilt. Damn it, he shouldn't have said anything.

Concern for his father is at the forefront of his mind now (as it always should be – how had he been so stupid as to forget that?) And it isn't just his physical well-being, either. There's the knowledge that deep down, former high school jock Burt Hummel must be cringing with embarrassment at having to stick up for his gay, unpopular weakling of a son, who not only couldn't throw a punch to defend himself – but couldn't even walk through a damn hallway without his heart pounding in terror.

And then there's that question. The question Kurt should have seen coming a mile away it was so obvious:

"He threatened to kill you if you told anyone what?"

It's not even asked in a disbelieving or accusatory tone. It's asked as though there must be some logical explanation. And there is: He kissed me. And then he tried to kiss me again. I know his secret.

He should just tell them – he's come this far already. He should just let the words spill out, lift the weight that's been anchored in his chest for too long. However embarrassed his father will be, he knows that he'll believe Kurt and that he'll rush to his son's defense. He's even reasonably confident that Coach Sylvester will believe him. And Kurt's voice can do amazing things - if he tells his tale with just the right balance of fear and derision and conviction, he's pretty sure Karofsky will crack.

But then Kurt looks at the man seated next to his tormentor; the man Karofsky keeps glancing toward every few seconds, undisguised worry etched onto his face.

And he can't bring himself to say it. He just can't.

Kurt knows a little something about fathers and sons, you see. He knows about subverted expectations and dashed hopes and the desperate fear he'd had that he would somehow disappoint his dad simply by being himself.

He remembers false starts and broken promises and every damn New Year's Resolution he'd made since the age of eleven:

This year I'll tell him that I'm gay. This month I'll tell him. This week.

If the Buckeyes win, I'll tell him.

If Kate Winslet gets the Oscar….

If Gaga's album sells more than "X" copies…

On my fourteenth birthday…

On my fifteenth birthday…

I'll do it tomorrow. I'll do it tonight.

I really mean it this time -

I'll tell him. I'll tell him. I'll tell him.

He remembers dozens of different versions of the speech. "Dad, can I talk to you about something?" "Dad, do you remember that time when…?" "Dad, you know how Mom always said…?" "Dad, there's something I need to say." "Dad, I am beyond scared that if I tell you this you'll never look at me the same way."

As heinous as Karofsky's actions have been – as frightened as he is of this vicious Neanderthal – he can't take this away from him. It's just not his story to tell.

"Just..." Kurt searches for a plausible lie. "…that he was picking on me?" He shrugs somewhat helplessly.

Karofsky expels a breath of air that sounds to the room at large like an annoyed huff.

But Kurt Hummel has a vocalist's well-trained ear.

He knows a sigh of relief when he hears one.

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Four

The Woodlawn Cemetery on Spencerville Road is as familiar as it is depressing.

It's a beautiful place in its own way; a gently sloping lawn with willow trees standing sentinel around the edges. It is well-kept. Tranquil. Pristine.

But Kurt can't help the abstract ache that sweeps over him every time he opens the gate. He can't help the tremor in his hands as he brushes back overgrown foliage from the gravestone he'd come to visit. Can't help the tears that escape as he places the forget-me-nots on the grass, the tops of the flowers just barely brushing the elaborate script: Beloved Wife and Mother.

It's been five months since he transferred to Dalton and the school year is nearly over by now. He feels oddly like he's divorced himself from his dad and his friends, an analogy that is not helped by the fact that he visits them "every other weekend and on holidays."

Kurt is looking forward to the summer, where he'll be free to spend as much time as he wants with Mercedes and Tina and Artie and Brittany and – everyone. He even misses Rachel, much to his surprise. He wants to spend time in the garage with his dad. Pick out new drapes for the living room with Carole. Go to the movies with Tina. Go to the mall with Mercedes. Play violent and idiotic video games with Finn and Puck and Mike and Artie. And sing. And sing. And sing.

It's a Friday evening – still light out, though. The days are getting longer. He had intended to surprise Mercedes, but for some reason he'd found himself struck with a desire to come – well – here.

Kurt usually doesn't come to the cemetery alone. For years, it had just been him and his dad. Carole has joined them the last few times. Finn had come once; his awkward, hulking presence providing more comfort to Kurt than Finn could possibly know. Kurt had returned the favor, visiting Finn's father's grave as they'd (at long last) buried his ashes. He had reached his hand out, just a light and tentative pressure on Finn's fingers. Finn had seized Kurt's hand as though he were drowning, crushing it in a fierce grip. And whereas a year ago that display of physical contact would have thrilled him, he now finds the gesture achingly sad for reasons that he can't quite articulate.

Kurt has been an atheist for many, many years – even before he knew what the word meant. He knows that his mother's atoms have long since separated and drifted out into the open sky, into space, into the rocks and the trees and the wind – maybe even into him, a little.

So he is fully aware that when he "talks to her," it's basically just a way to make himself feel better. He knows that it's strange and self-indulgent and not a little morbid. But it's something he's done since she died, and he's not going to stop now.

Kurt takes a deep breath.

"Hi, Mom. I miss you." He pauses. "I'm going to a new school now. It's…" He searches for the words. "It's not the same. I haven't made as many friends as I'd hoped. And I don't always feel like myself when I'm there. But it's definitely much safer, so Dad's happy. And I'm not unhappy. I've made one really good friend. His name is Blaine Anderson and he's… wonderful. Beyond anything I could ever have imagined."

"I think maybe," and Kurt considers his next words very carefully, "I think I might bring him here the next time I come. You would have liked him. I like him. I – love him, actually. Maybe by the time I'm here again, I'll have told him that." He smiles wistfully. "So it's entirely possible that you won't be meeting him after all."

Kurt kneels down now, in the dirt. For once, he's beyond caring about the state of his clothing. He traces the words on the gravestone gently with his index finger, skimming it across the date of her birth and the date of her death. Katherine Elizabeth Hummel reads the inscription. June 14, 1970 – April 9, 2002.

His eyes are welling up again as he stares at the dates. The entirety of Kate Hummel's life is contained between the letter J and the number 2. He places the tip of his finger on the hyphen. That small black line represents the years during which his mother had lived and breathed and laughed and cried and sang. She had loved him in that hyphen.

He can just barely remember the sound of her beautiful voice; a clear, soaring mezzo-soprano. But when he closes his eyes and concentrates very hard, he can still hear-

"-the fuck, Hummel? What are you - fucking stalking me now?"

Kurt spins around, abruptly taken out of his thoughts, the first vestiges of panic starting to sink in. Because unlike his mother's voice, he doesn't have to try to remember the sound of this one. He hears this voice in his nightmares.

Unfortunately, the scene before him is all too real.

Dave Karofsky is towering over him; an angry scowl stamped on his face, his fists clenching and unfurling rapidly. Kurt stands up shakily. Karofsky still towers over him, even when he draws himself up to his full height.

"I don't know what you're talking about," says Kurt, trying to stall. Trying desperately to think of a possible escape route.

"I said," repeats Karofsky, "are you so desperate for it, homo, that you'll follow me around, like some kind of psycho stalker?"

And for a second, Kurt's terror lessens slightly and his default sarcasm takes over. Yeah. That's exactly right, Karofsky, he thinks. I'm so desperate for you that I transferred to a boarding school two hours away and uprooted my entire life in the process. However did you guess?

Karofsky seems to sense that Kurt has lost some of his fear. He grabs Kurt's arm and shakes him roughly. "Answer me, you little fag!"

Kurt lets out a sharp whimper of surprised pain. He tries to twist out of Karofsky's grasp, which only seems to aggravate the jock further. He tries to push Karofsky – it's more of an instinctual move than a deliberately planned one – and then the next thing he knows, Kurt is being shoved hard.

He smashes into his mother's gravestone, scraping his back against the unforgiving concrete, and flips over it, landing on his stomach on the other side. Wincing and gasping for breath, his heart pounding in terror, he manages to stand up again. He remembers his father's voice: No one pushes the Hummels around.

He's not going to cry. He's not. He's not giving this asshole the satisfaction. He's not going to plead or beg. He's going to try to defend himself; and if he's going to get beat up, he's taking it like a man.

Kurt gazes directly into Karofsky's eyes, trying to let him know that he's not afraid (which is hard, considering he's terrified), and his entire train of thought goes careening off the tracks. Because – for the love of Gaga – is Karofsky crying?

He stares at Karofsky. He's not exactly crying, Kurt decides, but there's a suspicious red tinge around the boy's eyes that makes Kurt think he's well on his way to it.

Kurt can't help the question that tumbles out of his mouth: "Are you – okay?"

Um. Wow. Ironic much?

Even Karofsky seems to think so. He lets out a sharp bark that might be a laugh.

"You're an idiot, Hummel," he says, shaking his head, still scowling.

And then a new voice: "David? David – oh, there you are. What are you doing over here?"

Both boys turn to see Paul Karofsky making his way toward them. Despite the warmth of the night, Mr. Karofsky is wearing a button-down shirt with a heavy sweater over it. There is a bouquet of Easter lilies in his hand.

He approaches his son and holds out the flowers. "I brought these for you to put on her grave. They were your mother's favorites."

Karofsky accepts the bouquet automatically, not looking up to meet his father's eyes, (or Kurt's for that matter).

Mr. Karofsky looks at Kurt curiously. "Is this a friend of yours, David?" And then recognition dawns in his eyes. "Wait. You're… aren't you the boy who…?"

Kurt makes a split-second decision. "Kurt Hummel," he says, holding his hand out for Mr. Karofsky to shake. "We've met before. But I was just, um, telling Karof- David – how very sorry I am for his loss. And for yours."

He takes a deep breath and tries to catch Karofsky's eye. "I lost my mother nearly ten years ago. She's buried here."

Karofsky doesn't react to that statement in the slightest.

Mr. Karofsky looks from his son to Kurt and then back at his son. He seems uncertain about something, but then he steps closer to his son, and puts a hand on his shoulder.

"Thank you," he says flatly to Kurt. "It was… recent. And unexpected."

Kurt doesn't know what to say to that. Except: "I'm sorry." He turns around to leave, trying his best not to appear as though he's limping. He walks down the central path of the cemetery, through the gate, and down the block to where his car is parked.

He gets into the car, wincing as his back touches the seat, fumbles for his keys – and breaks down completely. He doesn't know how long he sits in that car, sobbing as though he's only just heard the news about his mother.

Sometimes, Kurt thinks, it's just too much. It's all just too damn much.

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Five

Not that Kurt is keeping track or anything, but this outing to Breadstix marks his and Blaine's twenty-fourth official non-date.

It is June now. Dalton has just let out for the summer – McKinley is still in session for an additional week – and Blaine has driven down to Lima to visit Kurt.

They had spent the whole day together; visiting an art museum in Columbus, going shopping at the mall, going out to dinner together. And now they are out for a late-night coffee. All the things that couples do together. Except for the whole them-not-being-a-couple part.

Blaine is his friend, and despite Kurt's bitterness, he really does mean that in the most literal, powerful sense of the word. The two boys have conversations that last for hours, and neither of them ever runs out of things to say. They support each other. They are honest with one another. They go out of their way to do nice things for one another. They have even playfully bandied about "the L word." ("…I can't believe you said that to him! See? This is why I love you so much.") or ("…I'll give you my undying love if I can have half of your cinnamon bun.")

Kurt has shared more of himself– his thoughts, his dreams, his fears – with Blaine than he has with anyone. And he is desperately, tremulously in love with him.

But despite being an eternal optimist when it comes to romance, even Kurt has been forced to admit to himself that if something was evergoing to happen between then, it probably would have by now.

So yeah. Twenty-fourth non-date.

Mediocre coffee. Relaxed conversation. Empty carbohydrates.

And through it all, Kurt has been attempting to keep his facial expression neutral as Dave Karofsky stares at them grimly from an adjacent booth.

Blaine is sitting on the opposite side of the table and can't see Karofsky from his vantage point. But he's alone in the booth. And just… staring at them. Glaring, to be more accurate. His eyes dart from Blaine to Kurt and his jaw is clenched so tightly that it looks painful.

Kurt is doing his best to ignore him for two reasons. The first being that he doesn't want to ruin the mood. He and Blaine have had an amazing day and there's no need to spoil that now. The second reason is that, despite the jock's utterly vicious personality, Kurt sort of understands where Karofsky's coming from.

He's felt that before. That bitter, seeping anger he'd felt toward his classmates as they'd paired off and gone out on dates; gone to parties and concerts and dances. It had hurt so much to know that he couldn't have that.

A year and a half ago, Kurt would have been in Karofsky's place, looking over at Finn and Quinn and wishing for the hundredth time that he could have the impossible.

True, he doesn't think he would ever have stared at anyone with such ferocious intensity, but then Kurt's not the type to get aggressive and angry. Weepy, dramatic, and bitchy – that's a given. But not wrathful. Kurt's not even sure he's capable of real violence. Somehow he doubts it.

"Heavy thoughts?" asks Blaine, smiling teasingly. Kurt's heart flutters painfully in response.

"No. Just wondering if I should tell our waitress that her utter travesty of a haircut makes her look like Donny Osmond circa 1989."

Blaine breaks into a wide grin; he's far too well-bred to say things like that himself, but he seems to take enormous pleasure in listening to Kurt's acerbic commentary.

They stay on the topic of Donny Osmond for a few minutes, which devolves into a conversation about Dancing with the Stars (Bristol Palin? Really, America?), which leads into a conversation about politics in general –

- and by the time Kurt remembers to flick his eyes over to Karofsky's table, he notes with no small amount of satisfaction that the athlete is gone.

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One

Breadstix is closing soon. The waitress with the dreadful hair is sending them not-so-subtle hints that they should pay their bill and leave and Kurt sighs with regret at the realization that their non-date is drawing to a close.

"Would you believe," says Blaine, shaking his head, "that I left my wallet in my car?"

"How unlike you," scolds Kurt, raising his eyebrows. Which is true. Blaine is probably the most responsible person he knows.

"Well, considering the company, I don't think you can blame me for being distracted," replies Blaine, flashing Kurt a wickedly sexy smile and – ohmygod – is this happening? Is Kurt imagining this? Is he at home, asleep in his bed, dreaming? Because, although Kurt will be the first to admit that he has virtually no experience in this area, that sounded like pretty blatant flirtation.

"I – uh – oh." Kurt wants to die. That was absolutely the least suave reply in the history of replies.

Blaine is still smiling, though. "I'll be right back," he says, standing up. "I'm just going to run out to the car."

Kurt protests. "That's just stupid, Blaine." And to top it all off, he has just called the love of his life stupid. This is going great. "Look, I'll just pay and you can pick up the tab next time or whatever."

Blaine stares at Kurt, his expression unreadable. "We always pay our own way," he says finally.

Well, yeah, they do, but…

"I'll be right back," says Blaine. "It'll take less than a minute." And he gets up and walks out the front door of the restaurant, which at least has the benefit of allowing Kurt to stare at Blaine's ass.

Three minutes later, Kurt is starting to get worried. Why on earth would it be taking Blaine this long to get his wallet? Unless he's lost it in the car somewhere? The waitress stares pointedly at him the next time she passes – Kurt's pretty sure he and Blaine are the only patrons left at the restaurant by now – and Kurt flags her down and pays the bill, Blaine be damned.

While he waits for the waitress to return his credit card, his mind races through possible scenarios. Maybe Blaine had run into someone he knew in the parking lot? It's unlikely, given that he doesn't know many people in Lima, but it's possible. Who else would be in the Breadstix parking lot at this time of night, though? There aren't any other patrons here. Even fifteen minutes ago, it had just been he and Blaine, a college-aged couple, and Karofsk–

Kurt's heart stops.

Oh, no. Oh, God, no.

There is no rational thought process whatsoever. Acting completely on autopilot, Kurt slides out of the booth, steps out the front door of the restaurant and sees – nothing. Absolutely nothing. No people. No cars. Just darkness. He remembers suddenly that the front lot had been full when they'd pulled in, and that Blaine had parked his car around the side entrance.

Ears straining, heart pounding, Kurt makes his way around the side of the building. There are two cars in the parking lot. One of which is Blaine's. The door of the car is open, and the car's inside light is on.

The image that Kurt sees, illuminated in that dim glow, is one that gives him nightmares to this day.

Karofsky has Blaine smashed up against the side of the car; his right arm pinning Blaine's wrists behind his back and his left hand clamped over Blaine's mouth.

Kurt tries not to move or even to breathe. His shaking fingers are reaching into his pocket for his cell phone. Please don't hear me, please don't turn around. His fingers close around – nothing. And with a sickening sense of dismay, Kurt remembers.

He remembers that his stupid fucking phone is in the pocket of Blaine's pants. Kurt had chosen to wear his goddamn painted-on skinny jeans and he hadn't – fuck – he hadn't wanted to ruin the effect, so he'd asked Blaine if…

Kurt feels the start of tears pricking at his eyes. Don't fall apart, he begs himself. Don't fall apart. Blaine needs you. You just have to think of… something.

In the end, he doesn't consciously think of anything.

Kurt, still frozen in place, sees Karofsky move his right arm and do… something. Kurt can't see. But whatever it was causes Blaine to let out a desperate, choked scream against his attacker's hand – and to twist his body furiously, kicking and thrashing madly against the much-larger boy.

He hears Karofsky's voice; low and menacing: "I guess you liked that, huh, pretty boy?"

And then he can see Karofsky's hand lifting the hem of Blaine's shirt, exposing his tanned stomach, and he sees Karofsky drag Blaine by his shirt and start shoving him into the car, and –

OH – HELL- NO.

BITCH. NO.

It's as though he's been struck by lightning; as though every part of him has been electrified. Kurt is suddenly filled with a rage so blindingly huge, so white-hot and fierce, that it almost seems to come from outside himself.

Without even realizing he's doing it, he is striding up to the car, shaking (in ANGER, not fucking fear) and growling in the lowest octave he's ever spoken in:

"Get – the fuck – off - of my boyfriend."

Karofsky lets go of Blaine and whirls around in surprise. And before the Neanderthal can even draw breath, Kurt has brought his right leg up and smashed one of his Cole Haan Air Jefferson Side-Zip Boots into Karofsky's groin with all the strength he has. Which, as it turns out, is kind of a lot.

To Kurt's relief and amazement, Karofsky makes a horrible choking sound and collapses to the ground; and as soon as he does, Kurt draws his leg back again and aims a vicious kick at Karofsky's face. (Thank Gaga for Sue Sylvester's Cheerios Training Regimen.)

Blood spurts out of the (fucking rapist's) nose and he falls backward onto the cement. Still shaking, still furious, Kurt places his foot on Karofsky's neck and applies just enough pressure to let the asshole know he means business.

"If you try to move," he says flatly, "I will absolutely break your neck."

Kurt's not sure if he could actually ever go through with that threat. But, you know? At the moment, he's perfectly willing to try.

Karofsky does move then; twisting suddenly onto his side in an attempt to knock him off-balance. But before he can throw Kurt off completely, Blaine – whom he had almost forgotten about in his fury-induced tunnel vision – launches himself down on the ground next to his assailant and swings his arm back. There is a satisfying crack as Blaine's fist connects with Karofsky's jaw, followed by a thud as Karofsky's head falls to the pavement.

Blaine has knocked him unconscious.

And Kurt looks down, for the first time since this nightmare began, into the face of the man he loves. Blaine's shoulders are shaking and he is taking short, shallow breaths. His eyes meet Kurt's. They are bright and wet and frightened.

"Are you okay?" chokes out Kurt in a panic. He knows he'd shown up three minutes too late. What if – what if - ? "Blaine, please, I can't – just tell me, are you hurt?"

Blaine closes his eyes. "Not much," he says. "Thanks to you. The adrenaline hasn't really worn off yet, so it's hard to tell, but I think I'm okay. It all happened so fast…"

"Hey!" shouts a voice. "Hey – are you boys all right?"

Kurt never thought he would feel relief at the sight of that awful, hideous haircut. But he does. The waitress comes running across the parking lot toward them.

"I saw the whole thing from the window," she says, panting from the effort of running. "Cops and ambulance should be here any second. I can't believe," she says, turning to Kurt, "that a kid your size was able to take him down like that. It's the damnedest thing I ever saw."

Honestly, Kurt kind of can't believe it either.

By the time the police officers and paramedics arrive on the scene, Kurt is kneeling on the ground, both his arms holding Blaine in a tight, protective grip. He can feel both of their hearts pounding furiously, can feel Blaine trembling slightly. His forehead is resting against Kurt's shoulder and Kurt is rubbing the older boy's back in slow and soothing circles.

"You're okay," he tells him. "It's over. You're okay."

The waitress gives her version of events to the officers and then Kurt and Blaine watch as Karofsky is loaded into the ambulance; a police officer stepping in with him to act as an "escort."

Blaine and Kurt are both checked over by the ambulance crew and treated for minor injuries.

The police officer speaks to them afterward. "You can wait until morning to give us your statements – but if might be better to do it now while the incident's still fresh in your minds."

Kurt glances over at Blaine to see what he wants.

"Now," says Blaine, his voice hoarse but his tone certain.

"Okay," says the officer, nodding. "We'll call your parents and have them meet us at the station. If they say it's okay, we can talk to you before they get here – or if you'd rather, you can wait until they arrive. It's up to your families."

Blaine nods. "If my parents say that it's all right, I'll give you my statement as soon as possible. I'd rather get it over with."

The officer seems to approve. "No offense meant, kid, but I don't think you're in any shape to drive. If you want, you can come with me in the squad car; and then maybe your friend can drive your vehicle to the station?" He glances sideways at Kurt.

Blaine covers Kurt's hand with his own. "Actually, he's my boyfriend," he tells the officer, his voice calm and measured. "And I'd really appreciate it if he could stay with me." Under normal circumstances, Kurt would be dancing and singing at this revelation. At the moment, though, it's all he can do to squeeze Blaine's hand back.

The officer raises his eyebrows slightly, but doesn't say anything except: "Do you both want to come in the squad car with me or - ?"

Blaine looks at Kurt. "Can you drive, do you think?"

"Yeah."

Blaine nods and turns to the officer. "He'll drive my car. I'll go with him."

Kurt and Blaine both hug the waitress - Helen. ("You boys come back soon – all the coffee you want, on the house, okay?")

They watch the police officer pull out of the parking lot and they walk slowly, hand-in-hand, to Blaine's car. The second they're in the car, Blaine gathers Kurt up in his arms – a reversal of the position they'd been in earlier.

And Kurt lets himself be held; lets himself be vulnerable for the first time tonight. And then he says the thing that's been preying on his mind since the very first second he'd seen Karofsky and Blaine:

"This was my fault. I could have stopped this."

Blaine looks stunned. "I'm sorry – what did you say?"

Kurt shakes his head, disappointed in himself beyond belief. "All those things he did to me – all those times he hurt me. God, he forced a kiss on me and threatened to kill me afterward. He cornered me against a locker and ran his finger down my chest. What other future-rapist warning signs did I need? But I kept making excuses for his behavior. What is wrong with me? I could have stopped this." He lets out a loud sob. "I could have stopped this."

Blaine cups Kurt's face in his hand and stares deeply his eyes. "Kurt," he says slowly and seriously. "I don't really know if you noticed – what with all the excitement and all – but you did stop this. It was all you. You saved me when it counted. You were amazing. I've never seen anyone do anything so brave in my life. You saved me from being"- He cuts off the sentence abruptly. "If you hadn't gotten to me in time… it would have killed me, Kurt."

Kurt's heart breaks all over again at the pained look on the other boy's face. "It would have killed me, Blaine. Because I – damn it - I know this is terrible timing, okay? But I have to say this now before I lose my nerve: Blaine, I am so fucking in love with you that I can't even see strai"-

And he never finishes the thought. Because before he even knows it's happening, Blaine has yanked Kurt against him hard and pulled him into an abrupt and searing kiss. The next thing Kurt knows, Blaine's hands are tangling themselves in his hair and he is slanting his mouth over Kurt's possessively. Blaine moves his hands down to grip Kurt's shoulders, and he pulls his mouth back just enough to run his tongue across Kurt's lower lip - and Kurt can't stop the choked gasp that escapes from his throat any more than he can keep from kissing Blaine back.

By the time they break apart a few minutes later, Kurt's heart is racing (as Blaine puts his hands on him, in his skin-tight jeans) and for the first time tonight, it's for all the right reasons.

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Epilogue – One Month Later

Assistant District Attorney Benjamin Thornton looks across his desk at the two boys – young men, really – sitting across from him, their hands intertwined and their faces resolute.

"So I suppose," he says, clearing his throat, "that you know why we're here. David Karofsky has entered a plea of not guilty. It is his claim that both of you boys made unwanted advances toward him and that he was acting in self-defense. I should mention that, while I'm absolutely convinced that your version of events is true, juries in Ohio are generally unwilling to convict males who sexually assault other males."

The boys continue to look stony-faced.

"That being said," continues Thornton, "it would be helpful to us if we could either: A) establish a motive for his assault or B) establish precedent."

He looks into the faces of the two young men carefully. "I'm aware that you've both had previous interactions with David Karofsky. Can you tell me if there have been any other instances – any at all – where he has either threatened to assault you or actually has assaulted you? Either of you?"

The two boys turn to each other slowly – almost eerily, in Thornton's opinion – and exchange looks of deep understanding.

Thornton is shocked to see that the younger boy – the boy with ocean-colored eyes that tear up easily and a face like an eleven-year-old milkmaid (a face that will tug at the jury's heartstrings, no doubt) – actually smiles at him. Like Christmas has come early.

He opens his mouth and says in his breathy, feminine voice:

"I thought you'd never ask."

FIN