Story: And We Danced

Author: ibshafer

Rating: PG-13 (for Dave's potty mouth…)

Characters: Dave, Kurt, Blaine, Randy Andy (sort of OC – Tina Turner drag), one-sided Kurtofsky

Disclaimer: I don't own these people, they own themselves and are just nice enough to let me spin them around the page now and then.

Summary: Dave ran out of the Prom without dancing with Kurt. The dance floor at Scandals might be a poor substitute for the McKinley High gym, but Dave isn't about to let a second chance go to waste…

Spoilers: Season 2, Season 3 up to 3.05

A/N: A special thanks to the special people who came to my rescue when I was desperate for a song – to david_of_oz (for music and a much-needed history lesson), and to prosen8966 my pal, amelias_nature, yay_for_gays, captain_love, my buddy lizzypoodle, carolina_hope, meghan_84, and deeniebee. And finally to myownghost for providing me with the "winning" song, the Hooters classic, "And We Danced" which you should all immediately go watch on YouTube. Thanks, you guys, for your time and your research and your fabulous suggestions – and for a fun, fun night of music for me as I reviewed them all. :)

And We Danced


Dave hadn't expected anything momentous from this evening.

He'd finished his homework early, gotten an outline for his term paper on "Hamlet" roughed out (though he still had over a month until the final paper was due), and put away the pile of clothes his mom had passive/aggressively left on the end of his bed. (Jeez, mom. The bed is 24 inches from the dresser; couldn't you have just put my shorts and socks in the drawer?)

As far as entertainment went, his new best friend, Corbin Fisher, hadn't added any videos to the site since Dave had downloaded Trey's and Dru's latest scorchers on Saturday, and his Xbox had been a bitch all week. (It wasn't his game. It wasn't.) And while his dad was always ready to be trounced at chess and his sister always wanted to play dress up, (he never obliged her! never, I say!), he wasn't in the mood for either tonight.

Which left him with an evening of Ghosthunter repeats on Syfy…and an unspoken-for twenty in his wallet…

And so he'd put on the manliest thing he had clean – full denim from head to foot (well, his work boots weren't denim) – and snuck out so he didn't have to explain himself to his parents.

He was getting pretty good at that, actually; flying under the radar.

If the 'rents noticed, they didn't say anything; his grades had been near perfect since he'd transferred, he had started in every game so far this season, and he'd already asked his dad to take him on two college visits – one to OSU, the other to University of Cincinnati – so he could check out their architecture programs.

Needless to say (but let's say it anyway, eh?), Joan and Paul Karofsky were happy campers, particularly in light of the train wreck that Dave called his junior year…

So, what was a little bit of Scandals when he was walking on water in the Karofsky household again?

Nothing looked out of the ordinary when he got to the bar, apart from the little sign taped to a window that read "Drag Queen Wednesday." No hint that anything was different, apart from the random lame ass drag queen straggling in from the parking lot.

There was nothing, no sign, no bolt of lighting, to indicate that this would be a momentous night. Nothing out of the ordinary – beyond the seeming unlikelihood of finding Dave Karofsky, former McKinley High line backer and closeted homophobe, at a gay bar – to say that anything unusual at all would be happening tonight.

So when Dave strolled past the bouncer who didn't even bother to check his awful fake ID anymore and saw who was sitting at the bar, he had to stop because, suddenly, somewhere very near his head, a bell was ringing.

There, looking pissed off – and how familiar was that look – while his miniature boyfriend danced like a spazz on the dance floor with some prep, sat the last person Dave would ever have expected to see in this filthy dive he'd lately called home.

Kurt Hummel.

Expectation and hope are two very different things…


When Dave had walked up to the bar, he'd been the very picture of nonchalance.

Never mind that he'd needed Randy Andy – the spitting image, if you didn't look too closely, of Tina Turner – to get him a beer, which he hastily downed, before he could walk up to the bar and feign nonchalance…

But he did and he had and their conversation, his and Kurt's, had been a freaking revelation.

That they could talk to one another that way, without anger, without guilt, without fear of exposure; just two gay guys talking to each other about their lives. Well, mostly about Dave's life, actually. Kurt's life was painfully obvious – and currently making an ass of itself on the dance floor.

Before Kurt had leapt from the bar stool to wrestle back his boyfriend from the smarmy rich boy putting the moves on him, he and Dave had had, well, they'd had a moment.

More than one, in fact.

Dave had never had the chance before to really look in Kurt's eyes. He'd always interacted with Kurt with his elbows and shoulders, with angry words grunted or shouted whilst seeing red, so he'd never really noticed before, just how Kurt's eyes glowed from within, as though there were a little light inside them setting off sparks of brown and green in the midst of all that blue grey, or how he seemed to have more facial muscles than any ten people, because his expression could turn on a dime, go from surprise, to amusement, to annoyance, to pleasure, all in a matter of seconds.

When Kurt looked at him with those eyes, Dave couldn't seem to control his heart; it just started pumping blood full bore into his face. It was working so hard, it seemed to be tripping over itself. He could feel it, skipping and twitching in his chest and he fought like a mother to keep his nonchalant in place.

These weren't new sensations for Dave where Kurt was concerned, but they'd only ever arisen from stolen moments before, vicarious moments where he'd been close enough to get caught in the emotional buckshot Kurt exchanged with his friends, moments when Dave had been stealthy and no one had seen him there. He had never experienced them so close to the source before and never had them leveled directly at him. The full force of Kurt Hummel – the boy, the myth – was like a really, really good buzz.

It was intoxicating.

Even after Kurt had bounced off to join his boyfriend, after Randy Andy/Tina Turner had dragged Dave out on the dance floor, long after the affects of those two steadying beers had left his system, Dave was high.

Dave was also, sad to say, starting to feel some real ass guilt.

Not over the crap he'd pulled with Kurt last year, thank Whoever; he'd worked that off in penance those first awkward weeks at the new school when he'd yet to establish himself and had come under the bully scrutiny of his classmates. Quickly dispelled when he stood up for himself – and being 6'2", two-forty didn't hurt – and when he'd proven himself on the football field. And of course, Kurt had forgiven him and been way nicer to him than a fuckwad like Dave deserved.

So, no, that wasn't the specific species of guilt that was currently poking him in the side like an annoying kid sister.

No, it was this: Dave had walked out on their dance.

At that totally fucked up prom, where he'd been crowned King (was that even legit?) and Kurt had been crowned, in an act of extreme fuckery, Queen, they had walked out on the stage and down onto the dance floor…for "their" dance as King and Queen and…

…and Kurt had urged Dave to seize the moment, to make a statement, to strike while the gay was hot (seeing as how they seemed to have turned on the proverbial dime and suddenly accepted his Braveheart-skirted ass…) and come out.

Come out, come out, whoever you are!

And Dave…

Dave, god screw him, had wanted to.

Or, at least, he'd wantedto dance with Kurt Hummel.

Never mind that the kid was pretty much glowing out there. Never mind that seeing him in that outfit, the skirt close on his slim hips, his pale, pale skin flushed with pride at his own daring, had beyond the shadow of any friggin' doubt proven to Dave that he was, if he'd still had any doubt, well and truly gay. Never mind that he had the overwhelming urge to take him and protect him from the asswipes and the losers, to keep him safe, to keep him for himself.

No, Kurt Hummel was more than just a cutting smile, a pair of unreal blue grey eyes, and a collection of ridiculous clothes; Kurt Hummel was someone who had looked at Dave, in spite of everything Dave had done to him, and seen him.

He'd seen the Dave behind the asshole.

And he'd seen that Dave was a thing that even Dave hadn't realized.

He'd seen that Dave was in pain.

And ever since he'd said those words – 'all I can see now is your pain' – Dave had been filled with this overwhelming feeling of, well, a feeling of gratitude.

He was grateful, of course, to have been forgiven. He was grateful, too, that Kurt had respected him enough not to let his secret out. And though he should have been angry at what others would have dismissed as pity, he was in fact, grateful that Kurt had cared enough to want to help him not be in pain.

Even if Dave wasn't ready for it, he was still grateful.

And later, at the prom, after the Carrie-esque shenanigans had transpired, and Dave was in a position to at the very least repay Kurt for all he'd done (and not said) for him, repay him by giving him the true prom experience he deserved, the experience of every other Prom King and Queen before, when Kurt had offered to share his own moment in the spotlight with Dave, and to no doubt stand by and with him in what would be the aftermath (for Dave), giving him the opportunity to show them all, to show the world, who Dave Karofsky really and truly was – and all he had to do was dance with Kurt…

…and Dave had whimpered what every five-year old says at the top of the big slide:

"I…I can't!"

And then he'd run.

Dave had no idea what had happened after he'd left, he'd frankly been too busy being self-absorbed and freaked-the-fuck-out to spare it a thought, but he was fairly certain Spanky McWhiteypants, hair lubed to within an inch of his life, would have stepped up and stepped in for Dave.

This wasn't so much about someone dancing with Kurt, though.

This was about Kurt trying to help Dave and Dave…Dave being a little girl, slapping the offered hand away and taking a powder.

Dave was a pussy, in the very worst sense of the word.

But that was over seven months ago, worlds away it seemed now, and Dave was a very different person.

He couldn't turn back the clock, he couldn't take back what he'd done, but he did think he could try to make it right. Not so much to dance with Kurt, though he very much wanted to, but to show Kurt that he was stronger now, that he appreciated what Kurt had tried to do for him, and that, yes, just maybe, Dave Karofsky, former all-star asshole, might have, at least, one romantic bone in his body. (And here he ignored the Beavis and Butthead-type cackling in his head – damn, late night TV!)

It wasn't the dance floor of the fully decked out gym at McKinley High, but it would have to do…


Out on that dance floor now, the Blainster was waving his hands and making a lot of noise, bouncing and weaving between the smarmy prep and a clearly-on-the-verge-of-losing-his-patience Kurt.

Dave didn't know how long he had before Kurt threw in the towel and dragged the hobbit's drunken ass home, and he wished he'd had more time to plan this better, but then that was probably for the best. Better planning would probably have made it seem less of the gesture of apology he intended and more like a full-out declaration – of what? intent? adoration? stalker status? of whatever the fuck it is people declare to one another…

So he thought fast, something he was not always good at, but the beer was serving him well tonight, and as coolly as he could, ignoring the Casablanca synchronicity of bartender Rick, dressed tonight not as Bogey, but Bergman, ("of all the gin joints, in all the…"), and got his song – and lighting – request in as quickly as his decision-making skills would allow him. Andy promised to clear some space on the dance floor for him, not that that would be hard, since most of the bar's patrons had either found cars or corners to retire to with their pick for the night, but he wanted to inject a least a tiny element of the event he was trying to echo here now, and that night at McKinley High's junior prom, they would have had the dance floor to themselves, at least for a little while.

His song choice had been a tough one, but he thought he'd called it right. He'd passed on several perfect, but all-too-perfectly romantic, songs: Michael Buble's version of "Save the Last Dance for Me" – a personal favorite of his; Annie Lennox's "Why," which added apology to the romance, an angsty combo, (the song had worn a groove, as it were, in the hard drive of Dave's iPod last year – maybe he'd save that one for another time…); the Nat King and Natalie Cole classic, "Unforgettable," innocuous on the surface, what with the father-daughter angle, but a problem because it very accurately summed up Dave's feelings for, well, for Kurt; and the disco classic, "Last Dance" by Donna Summer, word perfect for the sitch, but flat-out verboten. (Randy Andy and a couple of the bar's other regulars had been schooling him on gay history and culture. Turns out Ms. Summer had bit the very generous gay hand that fed her when she declared that AIDS was God's punishment against homosexuals, tanking her career in the process.)

Dave needed something that set the right tone, without going too far, that said the right thing, without saying too much. He ended up choosing a tune that was too quirky and sweet to be blatantly romantic; if there was deeper meaning or a hidden message there, and there could be if you wanted there to be, the bopping rhythm and mid-80's Springsteen-esque vibe kept your feet moving too fast to notice.

It was just a gesture – romantic in the strictest sense, yet not about romance – and one he hoped would show Kurt that Dave appreciated what he'd tried to do for him and his gratitude for Kurt forgiving him.

And considering the pain he could see at the edges of Kurt's forced smile as he watched his boyfriend spend so much of the evening focused on someone else, someone more relaxed and clearly more comfortable with the sexual side of "homosexual" than Kurt was, Dave just wanted to do something that for Kurt and about Kurt.

Rick nodded to Dave when the song was cued up, his hand flipping the switch for the mirror ball, which for some reason, hadn't already been on, and he could see Randy Andy whispering in a few ears as the dance floor cleared – all save Kurt, Kurt's boyfriend, and his boyfriend's stalker.

Now or never…

Taking a deep breath, Dave set his cap on the bar, ran a hand through his curls, and walked across the dance floor.


Dave had thought his face had been hot during their conversation earlier, but his body had decided he didn't know jack about blushing and was out to show him how wrong he had been.

He was pretty sure his head was going to burst and fly around the room like a balloon…

Luckily, Randy Andy (who was pretty handy), came to his rescue, passing behind him and giving him a shove (and a cheeky pinch on the ass while he was there).

"Waiting for something engraved, baby," he whispered, so close to Dave's ear his Tina Turner spikes tickled Dave's face.

Dave rolled his eyes, raising a hand and rubbing his middle finger so Andy could see. Andy's snorted air through flared nostrils, eyebrows flagging his amusement.

"I keep telling you, baby – any time you want."

Dave was pretty sure that if his face had gotten any hotter, he'd've set off the sprinkler system…


He looked back at the bar to see the bartender still standing impatiently by the sound system, his "well?" expression saying it all. For someone who ran a gay bar that hosted a weekly drag night, you would have thought he'd be more patient. Or at least, that he'd have a sense of humor.

Dave raised a finger – wait – and continued across the dance floor.

When Dave reached them, Sebastian was showing Blaine something on his iPhone and Kurt was looking irritated and slightly bored.

Kurt looked up as if for the first time noticing Dave's presence, the mirror ball which was now sending sparks around the room, and the empty dance floor.

Awkward and kicking himself for it, Dave cleared his throat.

"So, yeah, I…um, I think I owe you—"

"You've already apologized, David," Kurt said quickly, smile slight but glorious. "I accepted, remember?"

Dave shook his head, laughing softly. "A dance," he said, shyly. "I owe you a dance."

Kurt's "oh…" face was immediate and breathtaking (and here Dave mentally smacked himself for translating "oh…" into 'O'…), and was followed shortly thereafter by a shy smile and, (damn, if it wasn't) a faint blush. (Oh. so easy to see on that pale skin…)

Kurt held out his hand and Dave stared stupidly at it for a half-beat, before turning to Rick with a nod and slipping Kurt's smooth fingers into his palm, leading him into middle of the floor.

The club was suddenly filled with the sweet sounds of mandolin and melodica and Kurt's face registered amusement, and confusion, at the sound, clearly wondering what strange piece of music Dave had chosen for them to dance to, but when the 8-bar intro, gentle and old-timey, finished with a scream from the lead singer and the song just fucking took off, Kurt couldn't seem to help himself, grinning widely and giggling at contrast in tones.

"She was a be-bop baby on a hard day's night. She was hangin' on Johnny, he was holdin' on tight…"

The song was infectious and Dave could feel himself moving to the beat without even realizing it, pleased to see Kurt doing the same.

"I remember this now," he shouted over the music. "My mom and dad used to dance to this all the time." For a second, a shadow passed over his features, but then it cleared. As he started to dance, he grabbed Dave's hand for a second and gave it a squeeze. "Great song, choice, David." He winked. "So much better than 'Dancing Queen…'"

Dave was concentrating on his feet, trying to keep them from stomping on the toes of Kurt's expensive-looking boots and working hard to keep himself from making that 'we bad, we bad' dancing face that Santana had told him was just fucking stupid, so he wasn't paying attention to what the hobbit and the bean pole were doing until he heard someone slur something from off to his right.

"Heeeey… Dave Karofsky's dancin' with my boyfren'! I need to go rescue him… Kurtie! Do you need me to rescue you!"

"Kurtie" either hadn't heard him or was choosing to pretend he hadn't; he was still bopping to the music, eyes closed and enjoying himself, though Dave thought he detected a hint of determination in the way he was squeezing his eyelids closed…

When Dave glanced back to the see whether he needed to worry about the hobbit taking a swing at him, he noticed the prep shushing Blaine and pulling him back over towards his iPhone. (Maybe they were watching porn?) Dave felt a slight burst of satisfaction, but quickly pushed it away.

Kurt wasn't his to feel possessive about and he damn well knew it.

And that wasn't what "this" was about anyway. He was trying to give Kurt some prom closure and to show Kurt that he understood what Kurt had been trying to do for him that night.

This wasn't about a boy liking a boy.

Not at all.


How couldn't it be?

If a boy hadn't liked a boy, liked him in a way he didn't understand, liked him in a way he couldn't handle, then this whole mess would never have started.

Dave had spent the past year trying to forget that, trying to pretend that little bitter kernel of truth even existed, but here, now, with Kurt dancing so close to him, smelling like heaven and smiling at him like Dave was someone he liked, someone he cared about? Dave felt his heart start twitching in his chest again and he kicked himself, kicked himself for reading into the light in Kurt's eyes, into the fact that he was looking at Dave at all – not with anger, not with pity, but with honest pleasure.

And suddenly that little bitter kernel wasn't bitter anymore and it most definitely wasn't little. It spun and burned in his chest, sending sparks into his hands and feet, making his lips tingle with expectation. And when he looked down at Kurt and found Kurt looking right back at him, a slow, sly smile lifting the corners of his soft, soft lips…

Dave couldn't help himself. He couldn't stop himself. He slid his hand beneath Kurt's chin, looking him straight in the eye, and when Kurt didn't flinch, when he didn't pull away, when his eyes actually flicked down to Dave's mouth and back up to his eyes, Dave leaned forward and…

"Hey, kid. You really don't want to fall asleep in here. You don't know what these losers'll do…"

Dave looked up to see Rick the bartender setting a class of Coke in front of him.

He nodded to the glass. "Is that good enough or do I need to call you a cab?"


He'd fallen asleep at the bar again. Not good…

Rick was right. The last time he'd dozed off here, he woken up with some old guy's hand down his pants…

Raising the glass, he nodded his thanks then downed half its contents, shuddering at the sensation as the cold, cold liquid ran down his throat.

All in all it had been a great night – a little catch up with the person he'd terrorized, a little humiliating dancing with the worst Tina Turner drag queen in the world – while Kurt shimmied up against the world's most perfect boyfriend, a little fantasy dance and make-out session that stirred up crap best left unstirred…

He could hear the hobbit laughing like a donkey from the dance floor and knowing he just didn't have the stomach – or the heart – to deal with it anymore, he pulled himself off the bar stool and turned for the door.

He was fishing his car keys out of his jacket pocket when he felt a hand on his arm.

Turning, he found Kurt looking at him, doe eyes earnest, a strange, almost petulant, look on his face.

"I was just thinking," he said with a quick glance over his shoulder to the dance floor. And what – was that a blush Dave spied? (Couldn't be. Must be the bad lighting in here…) He still had his hand on Dave's arm and now there were two there, pulling, pulling him back towards strobe and the music.

Dave didn't know what to make of it – Kurt's grin, his flushed cheeks, the sudden embarrassment Dave saw there – but he was intrigued.

"What were you thinking, Fancy," he said, smiling, hoping Kurt wouldn't mind the name, now that they were, apparently, cool.

Kurt's smile grew wider, his hands on Dave's arm squeezing gently.

"I was thinking you still owe me a dance…"


"And We Danced"

© 1985 Eric Bazillion, Rob Hyman