Summary: Kurt's still at square one with Blaine, Rachel's still Finn-less, and the two make an arrangement. Emphatically NOT a "turning Kurt" story.

Pairing(s): Much referral to Finn/Rachel and Kurt/Blaine
Rating: T – some fucking language, underage drinking, and sexual situations

Spoilers: Non-specific; assumes you've watched up to 2x10, "A Very Glee Christmas," after which this story picks up.

Disclaimer: Glee belongs to FOX/Ryan Murphy, and I am neither.

Notes: Oh my sweet lord, it's not a Will/Kurt story – alert the presses. Lately I've been thinking about Kurt and Rachel and how much I hope they overcome their past jerkiness and develop a strong friendship, especially now that they're not so threatened by each other. This story emerged in a roundabout way from there. Plus, I really wanted to try writing more of the Glee kids. Anyway, I hope you enjoy.

A Modest Proposal
(Part One)

An hour before dinner on Thursday evening, Kurt was lying on the twin bed in his room. Alone. Staring somewhat dejectedly at Pavarotti, whose cage across the room was sitting on a three-layers thick bed of newspapers. He'd never had a pet, especially not a bird, and he never would have expected the smell to be quite so…

Ugh, there wasn't even a word. He'd been cleaning the cage every day to keep his now sadly limited wardrobe free from the repellant Eau de Canary, but over the past few days he'd let it slide, and it was starting to smell like it.

And he wouldn't have been letting it slide if he didn't spend his days either at class, at meals, or pinned to his bed in a lovelorn stupor. He couldn't even bring himself to fashionably drape himself over his comforter, maybe with the back of his hand pressed to his forehead for an added dash of flair. He just lay there, supine, staring with wide, hopeless eyes at the ceiling, at the faint off-color stain that was shaped vaguely like a rabbit.

He wanted to go home. The first few weeks he had been at Dalton he'd been thrilled by the change and hadn't wanted to leave on the weekends. The grandeur of the boarding school so far surpassed the mundane locker-lined and linoleum-floored halls of McKinley that he may as well have stepped into another world entirely. The politeness – real politeness! – of the other students was almost unnerving after spending so many days either being shoved into lockers or waiting for the inevitable assault. He'd even gotten a thrill of satisfaction out of the uniform at first, had smiled at his blazer-wearing reflection in the mirror despite the awful red piping, because sliding into the clothes marked him as an insider.

Except that it didn't. The uniform wasn't enough. You had to think like them, not just dress like them. On good days, the alignment of the other students' attitudes and opinions seemed like an aspect of being a community. On bad days, which were cropping up with depressing frequency lately, it just seemed creepy, like a hive mind. And as one they were all silently pressuring him to assimilate. Even the Warblers. Especially the Warblers.

Including Blaine, who would probably never even consider making the friend-to-boyfriend transition unless he was sure Kurt was in line and wouldn't embarrass him. Hence the aforementioned lovelorn stupor and foul birdcage.

Kurt sighed mightily and forced himself to sit up. Tomorrow was Friday; as sad as it was, his bag was already packed and his dad had promised to be there to pick him up at 3:30 sharp, which he had calculated was enough time for him to get from his last class to his dorm room, double-check that he was bringing everything he needed, and then get back to the parking lot and hopefully straight into his dad's car.

He'd hoped that some of the magic of Dalton would have returned by the time he got back from winter break, but it hadn't. Blaine was still the brightest spot in his day, his – if he had license to be dramatic, which of course he did – his sun, even, banishing the shadows of self-doubt and pessimism that were beginning to crowd Kurt's brain. But Kurt was increasingly aware that, while Blaine was a wonderful friend to him, he also valued his status among the Warblers and therefore the school at large – valued it highly. And Kurt, if he continued to clash with the others, to be too obviously himself, would only threaten that status.

If Kurt were being totally honest with himself, which he tried to do rarely at Dalton, he'd admit that he was a little pissed at Blaine for that. Wasn't insisting that he conform contradicting the whole "COURAGE" thing?

Kurt pressed the heels of his hands to his closed eyes until colored blotches erupted against the darkness. Time to end that train of thought, if he wanted to work up the will to get out of bed and clean the cage. Pavarotti chirped and fluttered on his perch; Kurt took that as agreement. Feet on the floor. It was a start.

OOO

"Kurt, wait up!"

Kurt slowed his stride; he had his weekend bag slung over one shoulder and was on his way to the front lot, but Blaine's voice jerked him back like a fish on a line.

"Oh, hey Blaine," he said, going for blasé.

"Going home for the weekend?" Blaine asked when he caught up, nodding at Kurt's bag. Kurt thought – hoped, would have prayed if he thought that would work – that Blaine's eyes lingered on his bare skin where the strap of the bag tugged his sweater away from his neck. "I hope you have a good time."

"It shouldn't be too exciting." Kurt didn't want to sound apologetic, but he did. "I'll probably just stay in with my dad and stepmom."

"And Finn." Blaine remembered details like names of stepsiblings, the street you grew up on, all the minutia you casually mentioned and didn't expect anyone to really make note of the first time around – it was one of the many (many many) things Kurt liked about Blaine.

"He does live there," Kurt agreed.

"Well, take care of yourself. Text me if you get bored – or even if you don't." Blaine's hazel eyes crinkled up with his smile, which Kurt would have been inhuman not to have returned despite his conflicted feelings – want, warmth, hesitance…hurt?

"I'll fill you in on all the juicy Lima scandal. Surely someone tipped a cow somewhere."

Blaine pretended to clutch at his pearls; he was laughing; he was already walking backwards, away.

"Do get in touch," he said as he went, another crumb scattered at Kurt's feet, and then he turned around and started jogging toward the group clustered at the entrance of the Arts building. Kurt watched him for another moment, then continued toward the parking lot. He convinced himself he'd feel better once he was with his family; the last couple of times he'd shut the passenger door, about to leave Dalton for a few days, he'd felt like he shut himself back up in his own skin as well as in the car. It was good – comfortable.

A wide smile stretched his lips when his dad honked at him by the front arch. Burt leaned over in his seat and swung Kurt's door open as he approached.

"Hey, Kurt," his dad all but bellowed, jovial, pulling Kurt into a one-armed hug. "Good to have you back."

"Good to see you, Dad."

His dad, in his baseball cap and carpenter jeans with the old oil stain on the thigh and shapeless flannel shirt. It was more than good; it was home.

OOO

"Oh hell no." Mercedes plucked the wine cooler out of Kurt's hands. "No drink for you until you give up the Warblers' set list."

"And puh-lease tell me it won't just be that dark-haired kid prancing around to Train while y'all coo in the background again," Santana added, flipping her dark ponytail. "We'd appreciate some competition."

"Spoken like a true Cheerio," Kurt said dryly, letting the reference to Blaine slide. "And you do realize your chances of prying the set list out of me would increase exponentially relative to the alcohol I consume."

"Man, Dalton's turning you into a math nerd," Mercedes groaned, slapping the unopened bottle back in Kurt's palm. "But point taken."

Saturday night: Santana's parents were gone for the weekend, so most of the McKinley Glee club plus Kurt were holed up in her sprawling finished basement, taking up the three black leather couches arranged in a boxy U around an enormous flat-screen TV. Kurt, Mercedes, and Santana occupied one couch; next to them, on the couch facing the TV, Finn, Puck and Sam were leaning forward dangling beer bottles between their knees, half-listening to everyone else and half-watching the game onscreen. Across from Kurt's couch, Mike was sprawled across the cushions with his head in Tina's lap, and Tina was idly playing with his hair as she listened to Brittany and Artie, on the floor and in his wheelchair, respectively. Quinn wasn't there; her older sister was in town for the weekend and her mom had taken them out for the evening. And Rachel was…somewhere, probably the bathroom. Kurt had lost track.

A few hours into the evening Mercedes had her head thrown back and was laughing at anything even remotely humorous; Kurt had repeatedly (and truthfully) denied knowledge of the Warblers' Regionals set list, which frankly was probably good news for the Warblers at this stage in the game. Santana was alternating between throwing smoldering glances at Puck, who noticed, and Brittany, who didn't.

Around midnight Finn reminded the athletes in the room of their morning practice, and Mike – who'd apparently drawn the short straw and was driving them, fished his keys out of his pocket. The jocks left, sans Puck, who'd disappeared with Santana some time ago. Mercedes pushed her elbow into Kurt's side.

"Wha'?"

"You stayin' over?"

"Guess I have to," Kurt said, feeling generally bleary. "Finn'll tell Dad n' Carole."

"Then move your skinny ass – I want this couch."

"This reminds me of riding a killer whale," Brittany murmured vaguely, stroking the leather beneath her cheek.

"I'm gonna find an actual bed," Kurt mumbled; Mercedes waved a hand, already half-asleep. What bunch of boring drunks they turned out to be, Kurt thought as he carefully ascended the basement stairs.

The stairs topped off near the open arch that lead to the kitchen, currently dark and cavernous. On Kurt's other side, there was another staircase leading up to the second floor, and a little beyond that the living room yawned wide and nearly black. Kurt half-walked, half-shuffled toward the stairs, hoping he wouldn't hear anything from Santana and Puck.

Something stirred in the living room. Kurt froze, blinking hard in an effort to clear his head. It was hard to tell in the almost nonexistent light, but a dark mass rose in front of Kurt and moved unsteadily forward. Kurt gripped the banister; he wanted to run or yell but he couldn't.

"Whozzat?" he gasped. The faceless figure stepped into the entryway and into what available light there was.

Rachel.

"Holy Gaga," Kurt groaned, sitting down heavily on one of the steps. "Rachel, you scared the shit outta me."

"Forgot I was here?" Rachel's voice was expressionless; Kurt glanced up and saw that her face was similarly blank.

"Were you just in there the whole time?" Abject terror had sobered Kurt up a bit.

"As opposed to what? Sitting down there? With Finn? He hates me." Rachel folded her arms and looked away, muttering, "And then no one looked for me anyway."

Kurt valiantly refrained from rolling his eyes. A gambit for attention and then a pity party when it didn't work: classic Rachel Berry.

"You were gone so long, they probably thought you left," Kurt pointed out. Rachel released an exasperated breath in his direction; he caught the faint smell of wine. As if reading his thoughts, Rachel admitted, "I took a bottle of wine with me. To help me ruminate. Wine's kind of disgusting, actually. I had to choke down the second glass."

"Wow, two whole glasses. We should sign you up for AA."

"Shut up," Rachel snapped. "Drinking's stupid, anyway. You get all dumb and numb and then you feel horrible the next day – what a blast."

"I think the idea is you drink with other people and not in someone else's dark living room," Kurt said. "But I'm sorry – only room for one at the pity party."

Whoops. Not so valiant after all.

"You should talk," Rachel said, dark eyes narrowing.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Oh, nothing," Rachel said loftily. "I just hear you're having weeklong pity parties of your own in your dorm room. Mercedes said something to Tina that I happened to catch," she admitted grudgingly at Kurt's incredulous expression.

"Yes, well," Kurt said stiffly. "It's really no concern of yours."

Rachel was silent for a moment, and when Kurt glanced back up she was biting her lip.

"I'm sorry," she blurted out. "If Dalton's not what you hoped it would be. I know you were looking for…well, for things to be better. But the change of scenery isn't enough. Doesn't flip that magic switch."

That right there, Kurt thought, was why he could be bitchy and catty and generally annoyed with Rachel, but could never actually hate her. Could sometimes actually really like her, despite everything. Because beneath the self-absorption she saw and even understood.

"It is pretty nice scenery, though," Kurt said after a short pause, and their low chuckles echoed slightly in the stairwell. He shifted over on the step and Rachel sat next to him, folding her hands in her lap.

"Is it because they put you in the background?" she asked tentatively. "Like Mr. Schu did?"

"It's because there's not even a foreground," Kurt said, testing the words out slowly. "Everything, everyone – it has to blend in. I have to blend in. Like I was so good at that before."

For once, Rachel didn't jump in with comments; she waited.

"And every time I mess up – you know, act different – I can feel them shutting me out." He drew in a shaky breath. "And even though they aren't going to push me into lockers…that's not the only way of making someone feel like an outcast."

"What about your friend?"

"Blaine? He's amazing, when it's just the two of us. But in a group, he's Them and I'm just me trying to be Them. And until I am, he's – we're – limited."

He laughed, and it sounded more bitter than he thought he felt.

"You're right – I thought one change would change everything. I thought I'd go to the magic castle and get my prince and it would be…." He shakes his head.

"Yeah," Rachel said quietly. Kurt looked at her sideways.

"So you and Finn are still…?"

"Not speaking," Rachel finished for him. "He used to glare at me, or look hurt. Now he looks through me."

"This is almost stupid," Kurt jumped in, laughing a little. "But you know what gets me most?"

He twisted toward Rachel and their knees bumped. She leaned in conspiratorially.

"I can't just mess around like a normal teenager," Kurt said. He pointed up. "Like Puck and Santana. They just go upstairs. With me, everything's touchy. Complicated. So I get nothing."

Rachel nodded. "Yeah, well. At least you wouldn't have to be so…controlled every time you make out with someone. With Puck, and Jesse, and Finn it was always, 'Slow down, wait, hands off.' And not because I wanted them off," Rachel added in a lower voice, eyes bright with her admission. "It's just…they don't get it. What a girl has to worry about."

"Like Quinn," Kurt said.

"Like Quinn," Rachel agreed. "And it's not fair, always having to be the responsible one. Just because they lose their heads, it's not their fault and they're allowed to just…push. And I'm the horrible one for not letting them. I know Finn complained about it – to me and probably to everyone in the locker room."

Her face darkened. "And then I find out he could just get it somewhere else. How did he expect me to feel?"

"I'll be the first to admit Finn can be obtuse," Kurt told her, and she smiled a little. Then something changed in her expression; Rachel had a very mobile face, and right now it was shaping itself around an idea. She glanced at Kurt sideways under her lashes, then away, biting her lip.

"What?" Kurt asked lazily, leaning back against the steps above him. "Spit it out, Berry."

"It's just…" Rachel paused, collecting her thoughts. "What you said about getting nothing, and what I said about being sick of having to keep things in check?"

"Yes, sex is somehow hard to get and avoid. And therein lies the paradox."

"Well, I was thinking…we might be able to help each other."

Kurt sat up, raising a skeptical eyebrow. "Pray tell."

"When you had your experiment with straightness," Rachel put finger quotes around the phrase, "you fooled around with Brittany, right?"

"I got more information about her armpits than I ever wanted or needed."

"What?" Rachel shook her head. "Never mind. Did you – did you get anything out of that?"

"It wasn't…unpleasant, exactly. I'm not sure where you're going with this – the result of the experiment was that I am in fact 'capital-G Gay.'"

"That's my point," Rachel said, talking faster. "You didn't get all out of control on Brittany because you really didn't want to, plaid or no plaid. But the actual physical stuff was enjoyable enough, right?"

The pieces were coming together, and it was one crazy fuckup of a puzzle.

"Rachel," Kurt said, going for firm but kind. "I really don't think that would work."

"Really? Because I'm personally not seeing a downside," Rachel countered. "You get to fool around – albeit not with a boy, but still, it's bodies. And I get to fool around too, without worrying that you'll try to push me where I don't want – where I'm not ready to go."

She looked at him almost pleadingly. "Kurt, you're the only one who understands how complicated this is – for you, for me. Why make it any more complicated than it has to be? Just now and then, on the weekends, and no danger of feelings on either side. You're gay and I'm in love with someone else – this isn't some romantic comedy setup."

Kurt swallowed, meeting her eager gaze. Something was stirring in him – not desire, but something similar. Excitement. Kissing Brittany had been nice, in a bland way. He hadn't cared at all about going further, but he had a certain distant, aesthetic appreciation of women – their softness and their nice smell.

Rachel smelled like lilies.

It wouldn't be what he really wanted – not close, not even in the same general area – but it would be something.

"I guess…there's no harm in trying," he said hesitantly. Then, more firmly: "Okay."

"Okay," Rachel whispered, and scooted closer. She leaned in, eyelids lowering, and Kurt focused on her lips. They were, objectively speaking, nice lips, even if annoying things frequently came out of them. Before he had let Brittany take the lead, but Rachel was hovering, waiting for him to meet her halfway.

Think of it as practicing your technique, he told himself, and so he leaned in carefully and kissed Rachel Berry.

A pig was probably flying past the window over their heads.

Rachel tasted like wine and skin and faded strawberry lip gloss, and she wrapped her arms lightly around his shoulders like she wasn't quite sure how to hold onto him. The discomfort might have been the stairs' fault; Kurt's butt was getting sore.

"Maybe we should sit on the couch," he suggested, breaking the kiss.

"I was going to say."

By mutual and unspoken agreement, neither of them went for the light switch. Kurt was grateful for the darkness that swallowed them; with Rachel's long, thick hair tucked away between the back of her head and a throw pillow, it was fairly easy to pretend, as long as he didn't press too closely, that he was kissing a boy.

Albeit a rather feminine-smelling and –tasting boy.

But – another surprise – Rachel was a pretty good kisser. Kurt liked how her hands moved from his hair to the sides of his face, and her tongue sliding against his, combined with his half-formed fantasy of a boy doing it, was kind of really good. At one point he even sighed against her mouth a little, and he thought he felt her smile when she shifted her mouth to his jaw.

Kurt wasn't sure how long it would have gone on – without the urge to move things along, he probably would have been comfortable continuing to just kiss Rachel for quite a while – but heavy footsteps thudded on the stairs above and Kurt hastily shifted away from her. The footsteps belonged to Puck, who was tugging on his letter jacket as he clumped downstairs. He ran a hand through his mohawk, dug around in a jacket pocket for a set of keys, and from the sound of it let himself out through the kitchen door. No doubt he had made several such exits in the past.

Rachel sat up, patting down her hair.

"I should get home," she said. "My dads are going to give me the Spanish Inquisition in a few hours. Um. Do you want a ride?"

Thinking this over in his own bed sounded much more appealing than crashing somewhere in Santana's house.

"Yeah, thanks. I'll just text Mercedes so she knows where I am in the morning."

Kurt typed a short message on his iPhone, and a second later Mercedes' cell trilled downstairs. There was a sleepy groan, then a muffled thunk as the presumably chucked phone hit something solid. Kurt and Rachel looked at each other, stifling laughter, and took Puck's route out of the house.

"You drive like an old lady, Berry," Kurt said a solid twenty minutes later when she pulled up in front of his house – technically less than fifteen minutes from Santana's.

"I don't like driving at night," Rachel said, stating the obvious – she'd spent the drive over leaning half-over her steering wheel, terrified that a woodland creature would make a suicide leap in front of one of her dads' cars. She put the car in park and they sat quietly for a moment while the proverbial elephant made itself comfortable between them. Typically, Rachel broke the silence.

"So I won't see you before you leave," she said. The light from the dashboard cast her face in odd shadow. "But…let me know if you – if you want…"

"Yeah. I will," Kurt said, fiddling with the strap of his seat belt.

"For what it's worth, you're a really nice kisser," Rachel offered. "You must take good care of your lips."

"I use two different kinds of balm," Kurt said – stupidly, he thought.

"Well. I hope you have a good week. Good luck out there," Rachel said, with finality, and Kurt took his cue to unbuckle himself and open the door.

"Thanks for the ride. And for – well, everything, but mostly for listening."

"Any time," Rachel smiled. "You have my number, feel free to drop me a line. But I do not accept booty calls," she added with mock sternness.

"And I don't stoop to making them," Kurt returned, smirking. "Good night, Rachel."

He watched her taillights recede down the street, which took a long time because she was probably going about five miles an hour. Kurt let himself into the house silently, and it wasn't until he was upstairs in his room that he identified the weirdly light feeling in his chest as something like optimism.

He would, of course, never have feelings for Rachel Berry beyond reluctant affection and grudging admiration. But their new arrangement: he could and would live with it, until he didn't have to.

End Notes: I'd just like to reiterate that this is not a Kurt/Rachel romance – my focus is going to be on their developing friendship. The not-quite-friends with benefits thing just seemed like an interesting approach.

Speaking of which, if Kurt and Rachel's "action" seems awkward, good, because it's kind of supposed to – especially at this point. Not being a gay man, I'm concerned about my portrayal of Kurt's feelings about getting physical with women – I hope his attitude toward the situation is at least plausible, if not exactly accurate. Also, with regard to Blaine, I'm kind of running blind because we haven't gotten a lot of information about him in-show, and I haven't seen A Very Potter Musical so I'm not taking any cues from that, either. Hopefully he doesn't seem too flat.

As always, any advice on how to improve my writing, characterization, or what-have-you is highly encouraged. But review or no review, thanks for reading!