Disclaimer: I own nothing.
A/N: This was written for a prompt over at the glee_angst_meme on livejournal.


For a while, Kurt is pretty sure they're just getting mugged. Six men surround them, low voices rumbling out from under dark hoods, and a gun is pointed at Kurt's chest. Burt's truck is in front of them, blocked by two of the burly men.

His Dad's hand closes around his upper arm and yanks him close. Kurt leans unconsciously onto his Dad, who is tearing into his wallet and emptying cash and cards into an outstretched hand.

"Give me your fucking phones."

Kurt hands his over quickly, wincing as they throw the phones to the ground and stomp on them. His Dad's hand is on Kurt's wrist now, holding him as if he thinks Kurt is going to try and run.

"That's all we have," Burt's voice comes out clear and strong; Kurt feels a little braver hearing it.

And then the gun flicks towards Kurt's face and the command comes: "Give me the kid."

Burt growls and pulls Kurt a little closer and Kurt feels bad because he's just finished telling his Dad about some of the bullying at school and that he always feels safe when he's at home because he knows his Dad would never let anybody hurt him and Kurt knows that his Dad can't keep him safe from this.

"No fucking way." The language startles Kurt, but he doesn't react. He's already pulling up his mask; it's the one he wears when he gets slushied or somebody throws an insult his way or the jocks throw him over the side of the dumpster.

Apparently, the men don't have time to argue, because they descend on them. It's not really a fight; four of them haul Burt away, punching and restraining and waving guns around, but Kurt only has a second to process what's happening to his Dad before the other two are forcing Kurt against the truck.

There's a hand on his neck and a knife pressed against his stomach, so he doesn't move.

"On your knees, queer." Kurt flinches and he hears his Dad protest from behind the two men.

He shakes his head, wishing he could tell his Dad that it's not his fault, but he barely manages a quiet, "No."

One of them hits him in the stomach. He cries out, and it's enough to make his legs buckle, and then one of them slams his head back against the car and he falls, landing hard on his knees.

His Dad's voice roars around the mocking laughter. A hand meshes through Kurt's hair and tugs backward, pulling his face up so he can see his Dad.

"You do what we say or we kill your pops."

Kurt looks away from his Dad struggling against the four men and nods, feeling pitiful and sick to his stomach and sorry for making his Dad feel like he's failed. The man keeps his head pulled back and brings the knife up to slice across his face.

He gasps, closing his eyes against the stinging pain in his cheek, and then his head his free and he drops it, trying to pull himself together and be strong for his Dad.

When he hears the zipper, his head jerks up so fast his neck cracks, and then the man is pushing towards him, commanding.

He opens his mouth, feeling the tears well up as the man locks a hand back into his hair. Kurt keeps his eyes closed, gagging occasionally and not participating even though the men seem to think he is. It doesn't end for a long time, and when it does, they make him swallow and then another man replaces the first.

He chokes through four of them abusing him before the sirens blare through the parking lot. The man drops him and by some unspoken signal, all six of them take off. His Dad is by his side in an instant and Kurt tries to tell him he's okay and it's not his fault, but bile rises in his throat and he collapses, heaving against the pavement.

His Dad pulls his bangs away from his forehead and rubs circles on his back.

"I'm so sorry, Kurt. I'm sorry," he keeps repeating it, even when the police surround them and start asking questions. Five of the six men are being dragged into police cars and Kurt knows they could've been killed and he's really lucky they didn't hurt him worse but then he's crying and he can't help it.

His Dad is finished giving a statement–choppy because of the two dozen "I'm sorry"s that were woven throughout it–so when his Dad wraps his bulky jacket around Kurt and pulls Kurt to him, he brings his arms up and clench in the flannel shirt. He's shaking violently under the warm coat, and the paramedics keep trying to calm him down.

He can hear their voices; they're swirling around him and he can't seem to focus on more than a few words. He catches his name and the word "shock" and thinks, "I'm fine," but he's not, so his Dad bundles him up and practically carries him into the ambulance, holding his hand while he throws up again. Somebody fixes an oxygen mask over his mouth and he stares, unfocused, at his Dad, trying to convey everything he can't seem to find the air to say.

Eventually, at the hospital, they fill him with morphine and he leans on his Dad and smiles through the grogginess that makes his tongue feel thick and warm and manages, "Don't worry, Daddy. I still feel safe."