All We Are

[adi_rotynd]

Spoilers: Up to 2.22
Warnings: Oh god. All the warnings. Homophobia, sexism, bullying, suicide (no main characters), sexual assault, sexual encounters that are technically consensual but icky in every other way possible.
Rating: R
Word Count: 10,698
Disclaimer: RIB and FOX own everything ever.
Beta: rdm_ation
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For these prompts, in part. Dave Karofsky cannot get a girlfriend - right up until he does. Santana makes everything worse.




That is all we are, lookers-on. Nobody really wants us. So let us watch and say jaggy things, in the hope that some of them will hurt.
– J. M. Barrie, Peter Pan


Dave would, in retrospect, define his time in high school in terms of three girls.

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The first was Brittany.

Dave met Azimio his freshman year, when he tried out for the hockey team. He felt like all his prayers had been answered. Azimio was so obviously, comfortably straight, so at home in his own skin, and he liked Dave. Out of all the cooler, more together guys who were there, boys who weren’t snarling and defensive and unpleasant, Azimio picked Dave.

“Yo, let’s grab some lunch,” he said after practice, like they already knew each other.

“Uh, sure,” Dave said.

“You were ripping some mad Gs out there,” Azimio said approvingly.

Dave didn’t even know what that meant. His dad had suggested he try out for a sports team this year because over the summer he’d gotten sullen and aggressive; his dad thought it would give him a chance to work off his anger and improve his attitude. Dave hoped maybe it would make him normal. Either way, he wasn’t up on sports slang. “I guess.”

“You don’t got to be modest about it,” Azimio said, clapping his shoulder. “You’ve got moves.” He jerked his head toward the cafeteria “Now come on, before somebody gets all the corndogs.”

Dave, who loathed corndogs, sat with Azimio and ate four servings.

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Azimio made being normal look so effortless. He was just sort of – casually into girls. He mostly talked about sports and video games and booze. When a hot girl came up, sure, he was into it, but he wasn’t aggressive about it or anything. He didn’t even actively look for a girlfriend or sex with girls. Sometimes he dated, but it was usually because the girl approached him first. Dave, who knew it was pathetic but had started counting, could present evidence that Azimio joked about hot guys fully one third as much as he talked about hot chicks, and that was like… pretty high, right? Like maybe it was normal to notice guys were hot? Maybe Azimio even got turned on by it sometimes, maybe that was just a thing that didn’t mean anything, maybe Dave was normal too.

He even thought sometimes that if he were going to talk to anyone about the mess in his head, it would be Azimio.

Then the subject of glee club came up. “Man, that fag,” Azimio said when someone mentioned Hank Saunders. “Why is he even in glee club if he’s gonna have a girlfriend? Ain’t no straight guy who wants to dance around to show tunes. Those guys in glee, they’re all messed up. It’s like theater geeks,” he gestured to indicate one place, “who are boys.” He moved his hands to the left and drew out a separate place. Never the twain should meet. “Doesn’t make sense.”

“They’re all gay,” Dave said. “Singing and dancing is gay.”

“That is what I just said.”

“So let’s let them know how we feel about that,” Dave proposed, and the mess in his head curled in on itself but he wasn’t gay because singing and dancing were gay and he was never going to sing and dance.

He didn’t talk to Azimio about the mess. He joined him in his campaign to end gayness at McKinley. He felt normal and good whenever he was with Z, when they were actually slushying some confusing loser. He felt worse whenever he was alone. He thought it was a fair trade for safety.

And he was safe with Azimio. Hell, they had sleepovers and no one questioned him. Azimio always knew exactly where the line was. It worked and it was perfect. Right up until Azimio got laid.

Lee-Anne Felton went to Azimio’s church. Their parents were friends. She wore lots of short white dresses and smelled like lilacs. She was pretty and nice and she liked Azimio a lot, for a while. For a while, she made him happy. Dave hated her. She and Azimio drove out and parked in the cemetery and had sex almost every night while they were dating. They broke up just a few days before their one-month anniversary; it was amicable and Dave couldn’t really even understand why they did, but he was still overjoyed, because he thought it meant that Azimio would stop. This was not the case.

Dave personally thought that sex was probably overrated. Girls were great and all, but he couldn’t say that he thought getting sweaty and naked with one and exchanging bodily fluids with her sounded like an earth-shattering experience or anything. He suspected that guys who had sex just lied and said it was great because it was what they were supposed to say; he knew he would.

If Azimio was lying, he was going for broke.

“Man,” he said the morning after the first time, and then just stopped. He leaned back against the lockers and looked heavenward. He shook his head. “That was some good shit,” he said reverently.

“What?” Dave was distracted trying to remember which books he needed in class today, and whether they were in fact in his locker.

“Sex,” Azimio announced, “is real good.” Poetry it wasn’t; sincere it was.

“Congrats, bro,” Dave said, shifting. How much was too much here? He hadn’t realized Z was even planning on having sex; this was a total blindside. Were guys allowed to be blindsided by other guys having sex? He should be more excited for his friend, right? He tried, “Nailed her, huh?”

“We have got to get you laid,” Azimio said.

That became a thing, and the longer he dated Lee-Anne, the more of a thing it was. Apparently sex just got better with experience, and the better it got, the more Azimio wanted Dave to have it too. At first Dave just agreed with him, loudly and fervently, and talked some more about girls. It didn’t really occur to him that he’d have to do anything about it.

Azimio had other girlfriends. As a rule, he slept with them. By late freshman year, Dave was convinced Azimio had slept with every willing and able girl in school, and he had not given up on getting Dave laid, either.

“How about Susan?” Azimio said one night over a vicious round of Grand Theft.

“What about Susan?” Dave couldn’t place the name; he knew she was a Cheerio, but that was it.

“Well, she’s hot. And she’d probably put out. You should go for it.”

“Yeah, definitely,” Dave said.

He didn’t. He couldn’t pick her out in the mess of red, black and white uniforms that swirled around the school and was embarrassed to ask someone without knowing why it should embarrass him. She’d just be boring anyway, he thought. Giggle and talk about makeup. It wouldn’t even be worth it.

And what if she could tell. What if –

But eventually Azimio caught on to the fact that Dave kept saying he was going to ask Susan out but not doing it, and took matters into his own hands. “Yo, Karofsky,” he called from across the hallway one afternoon just before school let out. “Check this.”

Dave assumed he had a new video game or something, and waded through the rush of people to oblige. “What’ve you got?”

Azimio beamed and nudged a tall, athletic blonde girl with a vacant expression. “Look, bro, I know you’re shy or whatever,” he said kindly, “but this is Brittany, she is going to change every damn thing for you.”

Brittany wiggled her fingers at Dave. “Hi,” she said.

“Hi,” said Dave, who was sweating.

“Have fun,” said Azimio, and left.

“I don’t need him to fix me up with girls,” Dave told Brittany.

She blinked owlishly. “You need to relax. Do you want to go somewhere and make out or not?”

And what if she could tell – but what if saying no told her everything she needed to know right here and now? She was the perfect cheerleader. What normal guy wouldn’t want this? What would he tell Z tomorrow, that she hadn’t been his type? She was every guy’s type.

“Sure,” he said.

She smiled, and he felt better. Her voice was a low monotone and he’d kind of thought she might be pissed about something; she looked a lot nicer when she smiled. “Okay, come on,” she said, and took his hand. Hers was strong and cool and dry. He felt gross and sweaty and unspeakably awkward. She beamed at him and said, “So do you want to use my car or yours?”

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They took his, because how else was he supposed to respond to that, and drove to Dave’s house, where they had two hours before his parents got home.

“Do you want a snack?” Dave asked, and flinched internally. A snack, really? Smooth. “I mean, can I get you something to eat, or whatever.” Saying it twice, though, that’d bowl her over with his charm. Screw this anyway, she was here because Azimio had asked her to do the dirty with some guy she didn’t even know and she’d said yes. It wasn’t like she was some class act.

“Do you have peanut butter?”

“Yeah, probably.”

“Then I want a peanut butter and jelly sandwich,” she said decisively. “Coach Sylvester doesn’t let us have them, but there’s no way she has cameras here.”

“…Sure. No problem.”

“Do you want to make out first so that my mouth doesn’t taste like peanut butter and jelly?”

Dave wasn’t sure if it would look more suspicious to let her keep taking control or to be fine waiting to make out, or whether “make out” meant she didn’t expect him to have sex with her after all. He didn’t say anything for too long, and she smiled and took his hand.

“So,” she said, “let’s just make out now,” and tugged him toward the stairs.

“Do you do this a lot?” he asked as she sat him firmly on the bed and straddled him.

“Yeah,” she said, the duh hanging heavy in the air. “This is what I do.” She smiled and pushed him onto his back. “I plan to have a perfect record someday. Not even Santana has a perfect record.” She bent over him, looming, and pressed her lips against his.

Dave had sort of thought that once he got this point, animal instinct would finally take over and he would know what to do. He hadn’t thought, but he’d hoped, that if he ever got this far with a girl he’d realize that there had been some mistake. Of course he was normal. He just had to try it out.

Nothing came to him. He still didn’t know what to do, and he still didn’t feel normal.

“You should probably open your mouth,” Brittany said patiently. She smelled like strawberries and hand soap. Her hair was in his face.

“I know,” he said. “Shouldn’t I be on top?”

“Do you want to be? It’s more work,” she said. “And I can’t do this as easily if you’re on top,” and she reached down and palmed him through his jeans.

He jerked. “You don’t have to,” he said, and grabbed her face and kissed her, sloppily, nerves singing.

She shrugged and kissed him back, moving her hand to his hip. She wasn’t nearly far enough from his junk as far as he was concerned; at this rate she was going to notice that he wasn’t into it.

At this rate? Who was he kidding?

“Hang on,” he said, and pushed her off.

“Well, if you really want to be on top you just have to say.” She scooted around to lie down with her head on his pillow.

“Yeah,” he said, still sitting on the edge of the bed. It felt like his stomach and chest were trying to twist up and hide together. He could tell Azimio it had been fine, but Brittany would talk, she’d talk to her friends, she might even talk to Z – they’d talked about this, apparently, so they might talk about it again – like that wasn’t creepy as hell, discussing your best friend’s sex life behind his back with the girl you’d arranged for him –

Brittany beamed at him. “Let’s just kiss for a while, okay? Kissing is super nice, trust me.”

“I know it is. God.” He moved over her. She was right, this was more work. He didn’t want to put all his weight on her. At least it gave him something to do with his hands. He bent his head and kissed her, intent and focused and still nothing but a mess. She put her hands on his cheeks, then stroked his neck, which actually felt kind of good.

“You can calm down,” she said when he stopped for air. “I already know.”

“You already. You already know what?”

“Azimio told me you probably haven’t done anything before. It’s totally cool, I was nervous my first time, too.”

“You’re a girl,” he said. “I’m not nervous.”

“Okay.” She wiggled a little against him and pressed her knee into his crotch. “Well, you’re not super into it. That’s usually because the guy is nervous. I know I'm not the problem, because I’m like the finest girl in school.”

Everyone knew the finest girl in school was Quinn Fabray, but Dave, who didn’t really have a strong personal opinion one way or the other, nodded uncertainly. Quinn Fabray was not the one with her knee between his legs.

“So relax. You can touch my boobs if you want.”

No normal guy would turn that down, Dave thought. It was hard to balance over her with one hand, and he didn’t get what was so appealing about boobs anyway, not even in his hand. They felt okay, he guessed, nice even, but not sexy or anything.

He pulled away from her again, breath coming short. There was no way for her to not know. He wasn’t getting out of this.

Brittany sighed. “I’ll just give you a hand job.” She sat up and started tugging at his pants. “Lots of guys worry about not being able to get it up, Dave.”

“Seriously?” He was distracted enough by this not to notice her success until her hand was on him, lithe and warm.

“Uh-huh.”

He tried for casual. “Like who?”

She pulled at his jeans some more, trying to get room to maneuver, and flipped her ponytail over her shoulder. “I’m not going to tell them about you, so I can’t tell you about them. That would just be rude. You’re going to have to pull your pants down.”

“Fine, I mean right. Yeah.” He did, technically, pull his pants down, at least a little. It felt weirdly like the moment in a nightmare when he realized he was wearing his underwear in the middle of a math test.

Brittany licked her hand and went unceremoniously to work. “Close your eyes and pretend we’re doing something you really like,” she suggested. “I’m going to pretend you’re kissing my armpits.”

Dave closed his eyes and couldn’t think of anything.

“You can touch me if you want,” she said, and he obediently groped for her, eyes still closed. His hand closed on her leg, long and lean, and suddenly he could think of something, or someone at least. He could pretend it was Hummel.

He could hear her breathing, and he could smell hand soap and strawberries still. His mouth tasted like her lip gloss, sweet and sort of powdery.

He moved his hand up to her ass and clutched at it and pretended, grimly, because he was going to get off during this. The pleats of her skirt were distracting him. He could see Hummel in a skirt, though. Hummel’s hand on him, not hers, Hummel’s lips parted with want, not her expression of kindly disinterest.

It worked. It felt nice. He wasn’t sure if it was possible that coming all over someone’s hand could be not sexy, but it… wasn’t. Nice, but not sexy.

He made Brittany a peanut butter and jelly sandwich after, and used a cookie cutter to slice it into two star shapes. She beamed and kissed his cheek.

“So I guess Azimio thinks we’re having sex,” he said as she carefully bit off one point of the stars at a time.

“We did,” she said. “Mrs. Torres in health class said that if anyone had an orgasm it counted as sex.”

“Oh. Sure, yeah. Definitely.” He nodded to himself. “So… if he asks you, I mean…”

“We can say we had sex.”

“Okay. Yeah, cool.” It wasn’t as big a relief as he’d been hoping for, but at least he could breathe again.

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The thing he had with Brittany was less than ideal, but it worked as long as they weren’t actually together. The first time, he told Azimio they’d slept together and cribbed details from some porn he sat through after she left. They high-fived and he felt safe and normal. Azimio was excited and wanted to talk about it, but wanted to talk to Dave about it more than he wanted to hear Dave’s opinion on the subject.

Most guys on the hockey team had yet to bag either Brittany or Santana, he realized after practice a few days later. Most guys actually envied him this. This didn’t just make him normal, it made him impressive. It made him… kind of popular. It made him want more.

More, unfortunately, was not forthcoming. News faded; he was a flash in the pan, and the only guy who could count on flashing long enough to last his four years was Finn Hudson. Dave started to really dislike Finn Hudson, because it had been one thing to know the dude was a jerk and watch everyone else act like he was a demigod, but it was a lot worse once Dave had a taste of how good it felt to be treated that way.

Popularity didn’t really come for his calling, though, and him hooking up with Britt was definitely old news – not enough to keep him high in the top tier, not the way Fabray would have been – but she did keep him safe. He talked like they were going out but he didn’t want to be tied down, so they weren’t exclusive, which was a good way of saving face when she went out with every other guy on a winning sports team. And since he did get semi-regular dates with her – like once a month or so – he had enough cred to be safe and to get the odd date with some other Cheerio.

He was really glad it was the guy’s job to call. He just never called them after the first date – two, tops. Most of the Cheerios were too stuck up to put out on the first two dates. Sometimes he got one who wasn’t, one who expected them to do stuff, and then he – did. He got good at not thinking. Or thinking hey, at least he was getting some. And could he just not. It was just so… frustrating to have everything he was supposed to want right in front of him and not want it.

Brittany stopped saying yes when he asked her out after one time when they tried to go all the way and he couldn’t, which she said was normal, but he grabbed her leg so hard he left bruises and didn’t stop when she told him he was hurting her, which wasn’t normal. “This isn’t even a little fun with you anymore,” she said that time. “Santana says I shouldn’t go with guys who hurt me because it’s beneath my dignity, so I guess this is it.” Usually she kissed him on the cheek when she left, but not that time. She never went out with him again.

Which was fine, would have been fine, because he had an okay rep with the other Cheerios. He got enough dates to stave off doubts. He weaseled his way out of having sex by doing everything but. He was safe and he was normal. The guys on the team liked him okay as long as they won enough games. Z never suspected anything as long as they tormented enough freaks, and it felt good to keep people in line so that was easy, even if it was... bad. Everything was fine. Until it wasn’t.

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The second was Tina.

Shoving her wasn’t anything. It definitely wasn’t a big deal, or even the first time he’d shoved a loser who happened to be a girl. Hell, she was covered in a protective layer of champagne bubbles at the time; she probably didn’t even feel it. It had practically been Azimio’s idea, and he definitely didn’t care when Dave followed through. He approved.

And for the first time, that wasn’t enough. Following Azimio’s lead didn’t keep him safe, didn’t make him normal.

“You can do what you want to me, but don’t hit a girl,” Hummel said, tiny and stupid and brave, and Dave had laughed. Because really, given Hummel and a girl, what was the difference? Most of all because Dave could do whatever he wanted and the school would side with him. Hummel was a freak; what did he know about acceptable behavior? Might not be good, or right, but it was acceptable. Everyone did it. Dude was wearing a silver dress and a wig and he thought he could tell someone normal how to behave, what a laugh.

For the first time, the school disagreed.

Tina Cohen-Chang was in glee club with Santana and Brittany now. Brittany and Tina were both dancers, so sometimes they talked. Apparently, they talked about him.

And that was it. Every time he’d laid a finger on a girl was suddenly dragged into the light, from when he’d tripped Suzy Pepper freshman year, through slushying a pregnant Quinn Fabray, all the way up to Tina's collision with the lockers courtesy of an offhand shove last week.

Lots of guys did this stuff. Azimio did this stuff, Puckerman did this stuff – even Finn Hudson had egged Rachel Berry.

Still, he was the one who was blacklisted. He first realized something was different, wrong, when he turned a corner and nearly ran into Tina. She flinched away and backed into Santana.

“Watch where you’re going, Sweet and Sour,” Santana snapped, and Dave went on his way. He wouldn’t have thought about it again, except that he looked over his shoulder before he went into Chem and Tina was still standing there, with Brittany now too. Tina was talking and batting her brown eyes, and Santana was listening.

Tina shrugged and hunched in on herself, and leaned against Brittany. Santana touched her hair, and looked down the hall at Dave, and smiled. He knew he was screwed.

At lunch, Santana was practically in Fabray’s lap, whispering to her, and they both looked over at Dave way too often. Santana looked mean. Fabray just looked concerned, and nodded once at Brittany. After that, Santana looked meaner.

So Santana talked to Quinn, and they talked to the Cheerios, and the Cheerios set the standard. If they said what Dave did wasn’t okay, then it wasn’t. Not with any girl worth having, and not with any guy with a worthwhile girlfriend to whisper in his ear.

For the first time, Dave wasn’t useful to Azimio. He had no social edge to offer; he wasn’t even neutral. He was kind of a walking disadvantage.

Azimio didn’t drop him. “It’ll blow over, man,” he would say. “Just ignore it.”

“Maybe I should apologize,” Dave offered once.

Azimio snorted. “No way Fabray or Lopez would take an apology. Anyway, sayin’ you’re sorry? You’d look like a pussy and prove them right about you being wrong. Everyone will forget, bro. We’re almost out! No way anyone will remember when we get back for junior year.”

Dave had meant that he could apologize to Tina.

The year wasn’t actually all that close to being over, either. Azimio was sort of right about it blowing over – the intensity of it suddenly being an awful thing he’d done when no one else ever got shit for the same stuff, that did go away. It even left him with sort of a rep for being edgy and dangerous, like Puckerman used to be. He wasn’t as well-liked as he had been before, but he was as popular as he had been, which was the important part.

That was the guys, though. It turned out girls had longer memories or something.

It really kicked into gear when junior year started up. The summer had been long and sweaty and plagued by a huge upswing in his interest in what dudes looked like, and compulsive erasure of his browser history. He was looking forward to school – practice, the guys, even the homework and the classes, anything to distract him from his own head and from his parents.

It was a distraction, at least. Unfortunately, so was Kurt Hummel, who’d… grown up a lot. Physically.

But at least he could get back to normal with girls, he thought, and the second week back he jogged over to Karen-whose-last-name-he-could-never-remember and said, "Hey, you look nice." It was easier if he could compliment their outfit, but the Cheerios only ever wore their uniforms, so he was stuck being vague. "Did you get a haircut?" he ventured, for texture.

“Thanks,” she said. “Actually I dyed it.”

“Oh,” he said, and tried to remember what color it had been before. She was in his head as a blonde, she was blonde now. Girls. “Good look for you. So hey, you want to grab something to eat later today at Breadstix?”

Her eyebrows lifted. They were impeccably plucked. “Karofsky, there's no way. People know about you,” she said. “Shoving that goth chick? So not my scene, sorry.” She slammed her locker and walked away, rejoining the ranks. Those ranks closed behind her, and he realized that Quinn Fabray was back in front of the pack.

Shit, he thought.

After that, he couldn’t think about anything else – if it wasn’t Hummel, it was that he had to get a date; if it wasn’t that he had to get a date, it was Hummel. The thoughts chased each other around his brain and worried at him like dogs with a bone. People would be able to tell if he didn’t date. He wasn’t normal, wasn’t safe, unless he was dating – just a little, just occasionally, but he couldn’t even get that much.

He could feel people reconsidering. No matter how many comments he made about girls’ legs, no matter how many sports he played or answers he got wrong in class, no matter how many friends he had or how many goals he scored – eventually people were going to notice. Every day that he let himself go without trying to get a girl, he became more suspect. And whenever he did try he got turned down flat, which was also the mark of a fag; nothing helped. He could run in circles all he wanted. He was unconvincing. People were unconvinced.

Azimio was understanding for a long time. He was privy to Dave’s multiple rejections and, having been turned down a few times himself, he sympathized. Until Dave got too scared, too constantly, and started snapping at him, too.

They were still friends. They just… weren’t as close. He was being punished. Z was in charge, Z was the one who knew what to do and how to do it, and Dave was ungrateful. He was in the doghouse, effectively. He had to wait it out and be apologetic without apologizing, since apologizing which was a wuss move. He’d be welcomed back eventually.

But in the meantime, Dave had no girl to cover for him, and he had no friend to cover his back constantly, and he wasn’t sure any more. He didn’t know that what he was doing was right. And he took it out on Hummel. Over and over, whenever he could. It was all fucking Tina’s fault but he couldn’t touch her again, and Hummel was the one reminding him every time he walked down the hall – that he wasn’t normal, that he wasn’t safe.

If Tina hadn’t gone crying to Brittany, he never would have been in that locker room alone with Kurt Hummel.

After that, he was back to not being able to breathe. It was as bad as the first time with Brittany, but it was every minute. His grades fell even lower. Fewer people liked him. Azimio hung out with him at parties, and he felt safest like that – buzzed, following Azimio’s lead – but not even he could stand to be around Dave one-on-one at school. He didn’t get any less popular, but he definitely didn’t have friends. He didn’t have a girlfriend, either. He stopped asking. He reminded people that he’d been the one to get rid of Hummel, and he laughed the loudest at fag jokes.

He relived the moment with Tina in the hallway all the time – especially when he saw her, even though she avoided him like the plague and was better at it than Hummel. He wanted to shove her again. He wanted to apologize; better, to be the kind of person who had never done it in the first place.

It was winning the championship game that changed things. No more competing with Evans or Hudson – he was on top. He was one of the most popular guys in school. He relaxed some, and Azimio took him back. He was popular, he was normal, he was safe – even without a girl. And no way was he letting this get away.

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Third, and last, and always, was Santana.

Her plan made sense when she was laying it out. Most things she said made sense while he was with her. They were scary, but they made sense. And Dave Karofsky was a little bit in love. Santana spun and burned and shone. She was beautiful and terrifying. He felt like more when he was with her, when he was going along with her plan to make the school a better place. The kind of place people like them could be safe (by capitalizing on the people they were pretending to be; there was no threat of Santana pressuring him to come out). He felt like a good person with her, and still safe.

At first.

Mr. Schuester thought his kids were stars, and everyone knew it. He looked at the school and it was a sea of black, punctuated by the points of light that were his glee kids – beautiful and bright and shining. Dave's brush with that attention and belief (“You're actually really good”, “You'd be one of the most talented guys in this school”) had been as intoxicating as performing itself. You can be more, it said. You can be anything.

So Mr. Schuester thought his kids were stars. Dave, after prolonged exposure to Santana and maybe because he wanted it to be, thought it was true.

Dave had read a book when he was little; he no longer remembered the title or the plot, only a place. There was a world with a dying sun, huge and red, on the verge of collapse. Dave remembered that – a dry, dusty, dead place filled with ruins, the sun looming and scorching, a terrible woman in red. That was Santana. She was a star, and she was beautiful and bright and shining; and she was burning and spinning too close, always nearer to collapse, but you couldn't get away. At least, he couldn't.

She had the brains – and the intimidation factor – to do what Kurt should have done the minute Dave kissed him: she blackmailed him. Dave, once he was over the initial palm-sweating, chest-tightening panic, didn't mind. For the first few weeks, it was... kind of nice.

Well – “You're what we call a late in life gay,” she said the first day, a sweet litany of his nightmares, of what he saw for himself, and “I accept that about you,” with a smile, sealed with a kiss.

But after that. Then it was nice. He finally had a girlfriend, and one who was hot and popular and scary-sexy. One who understood... everything. And despite her speech, she didn't accept him, at first. For a while she made him better.

He'd lost Azimio lately, and the Bully Whips were the last nail in that coffin. Maybe if he'd come to him alone and tried to explain bro to bro – but he couldn't think of an explanation and then it was too late, he was siding with Santana in public. And it felt good. He felt good. He was doing the right thing.

The guys didn't get it, but they didn't have to nerve to call him out or even snub him for it. A lot of people even liked him better, though they weren't the kind of people he normally cared about. He was fine – with Santana, he was safe. And Kurt came back.

That was where the problem started. Santana liked Kurt, as much as she liked anyone; and she wanted Kurt and Dave to get along for her plan. But maybe she hadn't thought the plan through all that well, because sometimes she couldn't be there – sometimes Dave had to walk Kurt places without her, just the two of them, in order to keep Kurt safe. Kurt didn't mind, but something changed with Santana.

He didn't get it at first, what she was doing. He thought it was part of her plan to help Kurt.

After school one day he got to his car and found her leaning against the hood, legs crossed, filing her nails. “Hey, sweetie,” she said, with her sudden, sunny smile. “Take me home.”

“Yeah, okay,” he said, kissing her perfunctorily. “Where's your house?”

“No, take me to yours.” She leaned in, hooking her ankles around his legs and kissing him back, deeply. Somewhere in the parking lot a boy hooted. Santana bit his lip lightly and then slid closer, skin slipping against his face. She purred into his ear, “There's something I want to show you.”

A van pulled away from the wheelchair ramp. Brittany waved from the back seat. Santana watched her go, face set, and only from the corner of her eye.

“Cool,” Dave said. “Yeah, let's go.”

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In his bedroom, Santana pulled out his laptop. He didn't know when she'd gotten his password. “Sit down, baby,” she said, smiling and patting the bed.

He sat down. “Is this like... some porn thing? Because no offense, but I don't really want to jerk off with you watching or some weird shit.”

“And you keep telling yourself you're not sure if you're gay.” Santana slid the computer onto his lap and sat behind him, legs slipping alongside his. She pressed warm and soft against his back, her breath scalding his neck, chin sharp on his shoulder. “Remember your speech to the glee club?”

“Sure.”

“Well, I'm a woman of my word - eventually.” She laughed and it smelled like that candy his grandma made from burned sugar.

He looked at the first tab she had open. It was a story about a fourteen-year-old boy who'd hung himself in his basement because of homophobic bullying at school.

“Oh, come on,” Dave said.

“No,” she insisted, voice light. “I made you say I'd shown you these, so why not? Unkept promises give you zits, everyone knows that.”

“Fine, I'll read them, whatever.” Dave tried to shrug her off.

“No, it's my promise,” she said, thighs flexing at his sides. “Anyway, there's no reason for you to tax that brain of yours. I'll read them.” She leaned in, one long, soft hand creeping over to perch on his chest. The other smoothed itself over his eyes, hot and cloying, plunging him into darkness. “I've got you,” she said, and started reading aloud.

She read three stories. In between each one the hand on his chest tapped the keyboard momentarily, switching tabs, then returned to latch onto his shirt.

She replaced the name of each dead boy with “Kurt Hummel.”

The first time she did it, he thought she'd made a mistake. “Santana,” he said.

“Shh.” Her fingers traced an old pattern on his chest, a childhood game: criss, cross, applesauce... “Kurt Hummel,” she said again, “seventeen, committed suicide in his Lima home this past Wednesday.”

In the dark behind her hand, Dave watched Kurt die three times.

Once he was survived by a single father, who refused to comment and was leaving town to stay with relatives following the funeral. Once by both his parents, who said that he was smart and kind; “We should have moved,” said Carole Hudson. “A lot of kids don't make it out of this town, but...” and the quote ended there. His father was rumored to have attacked one of the school bullies. Once it was his brother who lived, and said, “I don't know what we're going to do with his clothes,” and cried.

Kurt hung himself, shot himself, slit his wrists in a warm bath.

His bullies had shoved and threatened him, stolen things and taunted him, followed him and tormented his friends.

Santana finished the last story and let Dave go, then squirmed around to lie on his bed.

“That was sick,” Dave said when he could speak.

“You did that shit,” Santana said, eyes half-lidded. "I read it back to you."

“You're psycho.”

She smiled, slow and wide. “Davey, don't be shy. I'm your girlfriend. You can cry in front of me.”

Dave paused, swallowed. “How are Artie and Brittany doing?”

Santana stretched, catlike; her eyes flickered, but it hadn't had the affect he'd hoped. “Artie's nothing. Cheating with a girl doesn't count as cheating.” She rolled her eyes at the sing-song incantation. “I get mine.”

“But you're the one she's not cheating with,” Dave said. “And Artie's her boyfriend."

“For now,” she answered and pointed at him, a flick of her finger. “That's what you're for.”

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Sometimes she was fun. Usually, even. He liked being with her even when she wasn't fun – at
least he liked it better than being without her.

She liked to go out for ice cream. She ordered a large milk shake in exotic combinations of flavors and toppings; once she made the attendant pick out all the pink sprinkles for her. She never finished the shake. Dave could tell how upset she was by how much she did drink.

They laid claim to a picnic table by the stand and held court. Santana needed his status together with hers, but she was the one who knew what to do with it – to welcome Ashley even though she was at the bottom of the pyramid in Cheerios, to dismiss Jeff unless he'd recently scored an important goal, to sweet-talk Mahad even when he was a dick, to tease Karen and when to stop teasing her. Dave was safe with Santana.

His favorite part was when they got there first, alone, just the two of them. Santana tied knots in cherry stems with her tongue and shot spitballs at him through her straw. She whispered gossip and commentary in his ear whenever someone she knew passed by - Sandy Ryerson had come out of the closet to everyone but his online girlfriend and his marijuana fortune was getting out of hand; Suzy Pepper had upped her dosage and gained five pounds as a consequence; Caroline Hettner had lost twenty pounds in a month, who did she think she was kidding, buying ice cream she didn't eat or threw right up; Carl Fitpatrick was doing steroids and putting out for Mr. Ryerson to get marijuana on the side. Nice dress, did her mother make it for her? Oh yeah, hurry, you need these calories. Right, someone just got dumped. In Lima Heights you would get jumped for the crime that is that dress.

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Dave apologized to Kurt, Santana's stories thrumming in his head. Just like that, he was forgiven.

He had looked the stories up himself a few days later.

The kids had been fourteen, sixteen, and eighteen. One of them was a girl. It had been a single mom left, not a dad. The brother was in his thirties, and hadn't said anything about clothes; the dead boy collected old baseball cards, and that was what he'd been talking about. There had been online harassment, and no shoving.

He could still see Kurt dying, three different ways.

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They went out to a movie that night; Santana liked the drive-in outside of town but they went to the mall because that was where people went. They wouldn't be seen at the drive-in.

Santana sat half on his lap so they could whisper and would look like they were making out. Her perfume was new, mango, and it gave him a headache.

“Kurt forgave me,” he said.

Her hair tickled his neck. “That's so sweet, Davey,” she said. “You can send him flowers and adopt little gay babies with him. He doesn't actively hate you for terrorizing him for a few formative years of his life. That's such a breakthrough.”

“I didn't say that.”

“I'm just trying to congratulate you,” she said. “You're so defensive. People will say you're hiding something.” She walked her fingers up his leg, nails prickling. “People will say all kinds of things, and then what will you be?”

“This was your idea. Jesus. I was just telling you it's working.”

“Okay,” she said. “As long as you're just telling me.”

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“What was that?” he hissed as they reached his car. Santana's car was better, but guys drove, and she wasn't handing over her keys. “Will you chill out about me doing exactly what you told me to do?”

“Backseat,” she said, bumping him with her fist when he went for the driver's door. He huffed and changed directions. She held the door for him, just to be annoying. She pushed the seat back, too, and coaxed him in, pushing him onto his back. She straddled him and patted his chest. “People need to see us. We can discuss this after.”

“Why are you on top?”

She snorted. “Because I can fake it, Dave. I'm sure you think you're God's gift to porno but trust me: I'm better.”

“You should wear cherry chapstick.” Dave kissed her.

“Don't,” she said.

“Brittany's the nicest girl I've ever made out with. She was sweet,” Dave said, “even when I fucked everything up she was sweet. The first time we made out, she started out on top,” and he lifted her, switching their places. “She said it was easier that way, for her to do this –” He reached between her legs, slipping his hand under her skirt. Her thighs parted; her eyes hooded.

Dave kissed her lips, which were slack over clenched teeth, and smiled. “She told me I was supposed to open my mouth for kissing.” He kissed her again, more deeply. “I was so scared she'd know. The first thing that felt good was when she touched my neck.” He kissed hers, which was arched, her hair crushed against the seat. “She smelled like strawberries.” He kept working between her legs, through her panties. He could do that – he wasn't great, but he knew how. Some girls liked it better than sex. “And she tasted like cherries.”

He reached deeper now, around her panties, and rolled over, pulling her back on top of him. “I got on top – because I felt like I should, you know – and she told me not to worry, that she'd just... do this...” Santana sank farther onto his fingers, gasping once before quieting, her face soft and creased. Her eyelids fluttered.

“She told me I could touch her breasts,” Dave said, and traced Santana's with his free hand, feeling the soft heavy weight of them. Her fingers tightened on his shoulders. “She said to close my eyes,” Dave said, “and to imagine something –”

Santana tightened and moaned and came. She was beautiful, Dave thought, long and dark and glowing – beautiful with her mouth open and eyes shut, beautiful when she bit her lip hard and collapsed.

She slumped over, breathing in his ear, cheek wet against his. She was heavier than she looked. “Oh David,” she said. “If you want to play pretend...” and he regretted it, had felt like he'd won for once but already regretted it the second he saw her eyes. “If you want to share,” she said.

She rolled onto her back, pulling him over her. She smoothed his shirt. “Did you know Britt made out with Kurt once?”

“Bullshit,” Dave said, like that hadn't gone straight through him, like she couldn't feel what it had done to him.

“Mm-hm. He was trying to convince his dad he was straight or some stupid shit like that. They dated for like... five minutes. And they made out.” Her fingers brushed over his eyes, shutting them, then wandered downward. “Brittany told me all about it,” she said. Dave kept his eyes closed. “Kurt was under her,” she said. “Britt was lying on top of one of his legs, with the other one like this –” She shifted under him, fitting a leg beneath him and crooking the other alongside his hip.

“She kept trying to touch his ass,” Santana said, “because... who wouldn't?” and she laughed. She took his hand and nudged it along her thigh.

It was long, lean, and soft - and too smooth, hairless and curved, but he could pretend. He could see Kurt beneath him, searing behind his eyelids. His hand was on Kurt's leg...

“He never let her,” Santana said, pushing his hand gently back down. “He lit candles and played French music,” she continued, “And he didn't really know how to kiss.” She – Kurt – kissed him, soft and inexpert, eyelashes brushing his face, a nervous breath ghosting across his nose. Kurt loose and trusting, shy, in his arms, Dave came easily.

“His dad walked in on them,” Santana said into his chest, words sinking through his breastbone, under his ribs. Kurt's dad. All fists and roaring because Kurt's scared, scared of Dave, because he –

Santana's lips curved against his neck. “I accept that about you.”

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Mahad high-fived him in the hallways the next day and said something loud about scoring.

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Sometimes when Santana got drunk she talked about Brittany. She was a weepy drunk.

“Just, I mean,” she wailed, “what was she thinking?”

“Does she at all?” Dave was on her bed, watching her flail around her room, in case she hit something breakable.

“Don't,” Santana snarled. She turned, finger spinning slowly like the spoke on a wheel, creaking to a stop on him. “Don't you say that about her.”

“Okay.”

“You said she was sweet – you said – don't you –” her hands clenched on her hips, hair flying as she shook her head. “That bitch. Plays for the other team – God.”

“Everyone knows you have a boyfriend.” It wouldn't help. No. He knew that.

“I can't,” she said. “I can't. Kurt. I won't be that. Fucking Quinn. I'll tear them all –” Her arms clutched around her waist, fists tugging at her shirt, dimpling gray shadows into the gauzy white of it.

“I'll beat Artie up for you,” he offered, maybe a little buzzed himself.

“Shut up, I'm rehabilitating your image. We're good now. We're good.” She crawled onto the bed, into his arms. “I'll say we had sex. We'll be good. We'll win.”

“Yeah,” he said. Prom king. He'd be popular. He'd be safe. He'd be normal.

“Once upon a time there was a queen,” said Santana crooned. “She made a proclamation, and henceforth the law of the land was this: that Brittany is mine, mine, mine. She'll believe it. She believes things. A-ny-thing.” Santana coiled around him, hot, too hot, and Dave felt cold.

“That's,” he said. “That's not good.”

“Oh, like you wouldn't do it.” She climbed on top of him, arms tight, head tucking under his chin. “If Kurt were a ditz.” Her voice was savage.

“Don't,” he said.

“No, you'll grab him and force him – you'll back him into a corner and watch him cry – but you wouldn't trick him, you're good,” she said. “You wouldn't lie to watch him happy under you.”

“I won't,” he said. “I won't hurt him again.”

“No. Not him. Let yourself get scared again and desperate, find someone new, over and over until you learn to pay for it on street corners and in restrooms. I accept that about you.” She sat up, makeup smeared, lipstick to her chin and mascara under her eyes, still beautiful. “Mine,” she said. “Oh. I need her. She's all I am. Please.”

Dave held her.

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“It didn't work,” she spat, days later. “Jew-fro ben Rat-face isn't buying either my stolen laptop story or our true and everlasting love – the hell kind of question is that, anyway?”

“Keep your voice down,” said Dave, closing his bedroom door behind her. His parents thought he was better. They needed to keep thinking it.

“He's onto us,” she said. “I know he is.”

“No, he's not,” Dave said, like he wasn't as terrified as she was, like he had anything else to fall back on if this didn't work, anything else to be. “And your life will be over.” She was right. What were either of them without… what they were?

“We'll fix it.” The light of her whirled and burned and consumed itself. “I know how to fix it.”

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They had sex in the back seat of his car, which they parked in the cemetery on a busy Friday night. New rumors, more, from diverse sources, hit Israel's blog; the timeline was a little fuzzy, but the message got across.

It was Dave's first time. Santana was all hard edges, and then later she cried. Her tears scalded and dried quickly.

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Dave picked Kurt up after chemistry every time. He was never late. He was always alert. No one could touch Kurt while he was there. He was good.

But sometimes – later. After Kurt was safe. He would remember walking down the hall next to Kurt, close enough to hold his hand, and just... think. If there were one lie he could tell, one simple lie, even if it were huge, even if it hurt –

It's not cheating.
The law of the land.

If Kurt would believe, Dave thought. She's right. If he would believe it, I would tell it. At least he thought so when – when he pictured Kurt smiling at him.

Kurt only ever looked upset around him. Lately it was because he felt bad for Dave, instead of because of him, but Dave still never saw him smile.

Kurt didn't put as much stock in the Bully Whips as Dave did, but he waited. He stood just beside the classroom door, where the teacher could see him, and waited for Dave. When Dave showed up – his best time was forty-five seconds after the bell, his worst one minute twenty seconds – Kurt would look up, expectant and relieved, and step toward him.

He never thought it in that moment, but later he would play it back. Kurt stepping toward him. There you are. Once he'd seen Kurt's private-school boyfriend pick him up after school, seen Kurt's ear-wide smile, and he sometimes in his head overlaid that smile on Kurt's face, that comfort and trust in his eyes, when he stepped toward Dave. And if there were a lie, he'd tell it. Santana was right about him.

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“I'm sorry,” he said to Tina.

“Really?” she challenged.

“Well... yeah. You're Santana's friend,” he groped, trying to sound believable. “Look, I already apologized to everyone, I'm just telling you personally, I feel awful –”

“I don't care whether you're sorry or not,” she said. “Just don't do it again.”

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They attended prom. McKinley reminded them how much it hated them.

Santana was right about him, but still, Dave had felt a little heroic, being in the Bully Whips. He'd felt good. Even telling Kurt that he was only safe because he was being protected, Dave hadn't thought about what he was protecting Kurt from, that it was just... the same people he was supposed to win votes from.

Some of the school was grateful, maybe, and wanted things to change – if someone else would change them – and so Dave won king.

But everyone Dave cared about was laughing behind his back, because most of the school felt –

“I'm on top. Why would I want to change things?”

Or they thought they could make it to the top. Or they were close enough – felt normal and safe enough – anyway they didn't want it to change.

“I can't,” Dave said, and left Kurt alone, because he didn't know any other way to be.

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He went to Santana's house at midnight and climbed in her window, which was bordered by a convenient tree.

“Jesus Christ,” she said, starting from her chair at the desk. “What the hell, Dave?"

“What happened after I left?”

She stared like she didn't recognize him.

“What did Kurt do?”

“He danced with his boyfriend.”

“You stayed, huh?”

“I talked to Brittany. She made me go back,” Santana said. “She calmed me down and we went back together to be there for Kurt. She took a picture with Artie.” She sank back into her chair. “It didn't work, my plan, so.”

“Are you dumping me?” He tried to laugh.

“I probably wouldn't even have told you, but since you're here.” She smiled thinly. “Feel free to date other girls. Or whatever.”

He leaned against the windowsill. “Yeah? You got Kurt back. How are you gonna look to Brittany if I start messing with him again?”

She laughed, head thrown back, neck long and smooth. “You won't. You have a taste, now. Of him trusting you? He thinks you might not be so bad after all, Davey. He thinks maybe, deep down, under the fear, you're good. Somehow... I don't see you throwing that away just for another chance to grope his chest.”

Dave shook his head. “So I'm – what am I supposed to do?”

“Frankly, my dear,” said Santana, “I don't give a damn.” She laughed again, and then cocked her head. “I already have me,” she said. “Why would I want two of the same thing?”

“Because you'll be alone,” he said. “No one will know what you are.”

Her mouth turned down at the corners, twisting. “Britt knows I'm a great big lesbo.”

“That's not what I'm talking about.”

Her eyes flickered. If anything worked –

– but it didn't.

“I don't need anyone to know me that well, David.” She smiled sidelong. “I don't think you do, either.”

“Kurt knows, though. It's not like you and Brittany, Kurt knows what I did to him –”

“Get out,” she said, quietly. “Get out of my room, Karofsky.”

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Dave sat on the bleachers after practice, sometimes, just to think – about what he'd done wrong during practice or during school, to think of better ways to have... acted, reacted... Sometimes he sat there for a very long time.

This time someone sat down behind him.

“Hi,” said Brittany.

“Hey.”

“I'd like to talk to you about doing an interview on my internet talk show, Fondue for Two. I'm doing a segment on my ex-boyfriends. Kurt and Artie have both said yes and it would mean a lot to me to have you too.”

Dave shrugged, then nodded. “I guess. Not at the same time, right?”

“Absolutely not. I wouldn't want to be responsible for a brawl over my womanly affections.”

Dave laughed. “No talking about which team I'm on, though.”

“Guest has expressed a wish not to discuss his controversial retirement from the hockey team or tempestuous status on the football team,” Brittany said, paper rustling. “Got it.”

“You'll have to ask Santana why we broke up, too. She hasn't briefed me.”

“Guest blames his recent high-profile breakup on ex,” Brittany murmured, pen squeaking. “Have you ever stomped on an anthill?”

“What? I dunno, when I was a kid maybe. Is this on the record?” He tried to chuckle and it died halfway through.

“I have. They're super gross and they freak me out. I stepped on a bunch of them. Lord Tubbington found out and told me that ant colonies are an advance mission from beyond the stars, sent to observe and safeguard Earth, and I felt totally awful.”

“Yeah, that's gotta suck,” Dave said, because really, how could you respond to that?

“Anthills still really gross me out though. And it felt good to step on them. I know that now.”

“It's a problem.”

“So now I know I can, and that it feels good, but I know it's wrong and hurts people too, so even though I could, I just don't do it anymore.” She stood and brushed her skirt into place. “Also, Santana is actually mine, unofficially, so. She actually loves me, not you.” She bounced away, calling back, “I'll be in touch with your people to set a date for your appearance.”

“Wait,” he said.

She didn't.

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Once Santana had shown up at his house at 3 a.m., sobbing. He'd thought at first that she was drunk but she didn't smell like it. He let her in and smuggled her to his room, where she clutched at her own hair, her shoulders. “I can't breathe,” she said, over and over, “it feels like I can't breathe.”

“You are, though,” he said frantically, and tried to hold her but she wouldn't let him touch her.

“I can't,” she said. “Anything. I'm – I'm Alice in Wonderland, oh my God, I'm falling, but all the time.” Her hands shook as they pummeled the air in emphasis, fingers waving. “Through dark and nothing makes any – any sense, there are just things there, falling too. David, I can't. The only time I stop spinning is when she's with me. I can't breathe.” And she laughed and laughed and said, “Ain't love grand?”

Over breakfast the next morning she smiled, big and beautiful, and charmed his dad. She held his hand and he felt safe. He wished she did too.

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And he wished, now, that he could walk up to her and say, “I'm not like you. I won't be.”

But that would just be cruel.

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When he was little, he and his sister had a Promise Tree in the woods behind their house. You wrote down your promise, put it in a bottle, and hung it from the tree; it was only for deadly serious oaths, like never to steal Danielle's seed pearl necklace that her godmother had given her, or to play Ninja Turtles with Dave sometimes instead of stupid Barbies. Breaking a promise from the tree was, they solemnly agreed, a one-way ticket to Hell.

Dave couldn't remember whether he'd ever broken any of his promises. He guessed he had.

Still, he dumped the last of one of his mom's wines into a clean jar and rinsed the blue-green bottle. He let it dry as he sat staring at a piece of paper, chewing on a pen.

He thought Santana might be in real, true, fairy tale love. Die-without-you love.

He thought of Kurt.

He thought he would settle for normal love, then – someday.

He wrote, I promise not to hurt anyone because I love them.

It took him a while to find the tree again. It was surrounded by shattered glass, and he remembered belatedly that he had shown it to Z one summer – suggested they use it for target practice. They had spent hours launching rocks at the bottles dangling in the branches.

He climbed as high as he could and hung his promise anyway, knotting dental floss around the neck of the bottle. “Cross my heart,” he muttered, and lurched back to the ground.

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He felt like he should be able to tell Kurt that he was safe around Dave now, really safe. He didn't. He suspected Kurt would be unimpressed by “I'll never attack you again” and actively creeped out by “if I ever magically get the chance to trick you into sleeping with me, I swear I won't take it.”

Still, he felt better around Kurt. He practiced being happy for Kurt when his phone buzzed and his face went soft and dreamy. Dave felt good – exuberant even.

“Someone's awfully chipper,” growled Kurt the first morning after the promise as Dave walked him to class.

“I am,” Dave confessed.

Kurt, who had not had enough coffee yet to be held responsible for his actions, glared. “Nice for you.”

“Have fun in class,” Dave said, and gave him a friendly push through the door.

“Personal. Bubble,” Kurt snarled, no different than he would to anyone else this early in the day, and Dave laughed.

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Santana was on the roof of the school. She went up there to be alone from time to time. Dave followed her today.

“What do you want,” she said.

“I just wanted to tell you I talked to Brittany, and she gave me an idea.”

“Yeah? Well, I'm sure you two will have fun finger-painting flowers onto live kittens or whatever.”

“I thought - I made a promise. To not ever... you know, hurt someone again. I thought maybe you...”

“That's cute, Dave. Really. It's super sweet that you pinky-swore. Here's to you never getting slapped with those sexual assault charges in your second term in office.”

“It's just something to help.”

“You know, people are babies about promises. There aren't promises. It's not like you say something out loud and bang, done. Promises aren't magic. You say it out loud and then, yay, you get to keep making it every single second for the rest of your life, or until you get tired and slip up and start all over again. Good luck with that.”

“I can do that,” he said. “I can keep making it every second.”

She shook her head and looked across the empty rooftop. The sun glanced off her hair. “The only time I believe I could is when I'm with her.” She shrugged, the movement too slow, jerky and exaggerated. “Sorry.”

He waited. “You could just try.”

She snorted.

He said, “You know, I'm doing this so I don't end up like you. I won't be you.” Her head snapped around, features slack. “I don't think you should end up like you either.”

“My prince,” she said.

“So?”

She shook her head.

“So?”

“I don't know. It's stupid.”

“Got any better ideas?”

“No,” she said. “I don't have anything.” She put her hands on her hips, elbows slicing the air, and looked down at her feet.

“There you go, then.” He waited again.

Santana moved her gaze to her hands. “There I go.” She shook her head. “Get out of here. I'm pretty sure I remember dumping you, and unless you've finally taken one blow too many to the head, you should remember it too.”

“Okay,” he said, “but... there you go.”

"Sure." She smiled fixedly down at her hands, a rictus nothing like her real smile. “Go on already. I've got stuff to do.”

Dave left her standing there, alone.




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