AN: Kurt Hummel is trying to make a fast buck by renting out his apartment to those who need a little privacy. What could possibly go wrong? [Based on the The Apartment and written for canuckpagali]. Set mid season two. Previously published under MotherGoddamn.

Mi Casa Es Su Casa
Chapter 1

'I can explain!' Kurt said, before his rear had even hit the chair. 'It's not what it looks like.'

His boss, David Karofsky, stood there with Kurt's appointment book in his hands. He looked up, narrowing his eyes. 'Oh, really?'

'It just- it got out of hand. At first it was a favour for Finn and then Noah asked if I could help him and then pretty soon Mike wanted it and-'

'Brittany. The girl from the canteen?' Karofsky frowned down at the page. 'The daffy one?'

'Ah, yeah,' Kurt pulled on his collar. 'You see-'

'And what do all these little notes mean? Next to Jesse St. James it says two theatre tickets for Promises, Promises, matinee.' Karofsky tapped the page. 'Is that- Is that payment, Hummel?

Kurt bit his lip. 'In a manner of speaking-,' he said, ducking his head. Oh, God. He was sofired.

'So,' Karofsky slammed the book shut. 'Let me get this straight. You've been renting out your apartment so people can hook up in it?'

Kurt opened his mouth. It sounded so sordid when you put it like that. Sordid but- fitting. '...Yes.'

Karofsky pressed his fingers together and leaned back in the chair. 'Hmm.'

'I know this looks bad, and weird and- and indecent, and morally dubious but I honestly have a good explanation and if you could just see it in your heart not to-' Kurt took a deep intake of breath, 'you know, fire me, I could-'

'I don't get it,' said Karofsky, holding a hand up to forestall him. 'This isn't like you. You seem so-so-' He twirled a finger, searching for the word.

Kurt sighed and nodded sadly. 'Moral?'

'Prudish. Frigid.' Karofsky tapped at the desk with a grin. 'Sexless!'

Kurt nearly bit through his tongue. Four months working with Dave Karofsky and it was a wonder he still had a tongue. 'I see,' he answered between clenched teeth.

Karofsky threw the book down, regarding Kurt for a moment. His finger pressed to his top lip, just under his nose. 'Hmm,' he said after an uncomfortable minute.

'Look, if you're going to fire me then just do it.' Kurt crossed his legs and stared at the window behind him. 'But you know you won't get another assistant as good as me.'

'You can't work the intercom.'

'I-' Kurt blushed. 'I'm getting better at it.'

'You keep telling my clients that Lord Satan will see them now.' Karofsky pointed at the device. 'Red button means off, Judy.'

'That- I thought that was our little joke!' Kurt made a little running action with his arms. 'You call me girly names and I call you-'

'A balding, chubby neanderthal who covers himself in glue, runs through Target's menswear section and hopes for the best?'

Kurt really needed to get the hang of that intercom.

'Ah.' he hedged. 'But that aside you can't deny how since hiring me your clients have doubled, that everything is more organised and efficient and- and-' Kurt was grasping now, '-colour co-ordinated!'

Kurt couldn't lose this job. He couldn't. That would have made everything he had done so far pointless.

'Yeah, you do put all these fruity tabs on shit.' Karofsky tapped a file. 'And the clients like you but-'

'Please,' Kurt heard the whine in his voice and hated it. Forget it. He'd regret it later. He had his pride sure, but he had responsibilities more.

'I want in.'

'In where?'

'Your apartment. I want on your books, except I'm free. You get me?' Karofsky clasped his fingers into a prayer gesture. 'You can carry on whatever—this is- but I want the ultimate say so on what nights. Shit like that.'

Kurt blinked. No. He couldn't have Dave Karofsky in his apartment. His lovely little East Village loft, his refuge from the horrifying reality of...well, Dave Karofsky. It was bad enough having him in the same state. 'But you-'

'Married? Like everyone on this list of yours are pure virgins. I know for a fact that Hudson got married last year to that blonde chick.' Karofsky smiled. 'Who's he screwing? Berry from accounts?'

Kurt reddened and he began to pick at the hem of his sleeve. 'Part of the deal is, I don't say, Sir.'

'Whatever. Look, I need a break from my wife. She's loud, bitchy and sometimes a guy needs to just get laid without the nagging or dubious credit card bill. I'm sure you know where I'm coming from.' Karofsky frowned. 'Well. You've probably read about it in books.'

Kurt felt his eyes narrowing and only barely held back his impulse to retort, Oh, and you're familiar with books, are you, Sir? He managed instead to confine his remarks to a simple, 'You wouldn't be the first person to say so.'

'Tale as old as time, right?' Karofsky smirked. 'I want it tomorrow, Hummel. Make it happen.'

'It's done.' Kurt marked a large X across the specified evening. 'As it turns out, I have tickets to see - '

'I really don't care,' his boss interrupted. 'Just don't be there. Now get back to work.'

Kurt trudged back to his desk and dropped down heavily into his chair. How had Karofsky found out? Probably Israel. He couldn't keep his mouth shut about anything. Why had he ever allowed himself to get into this ridiculous mess? He glanced over at the picture of him and his father, lined by a silver decorative frame.

Oh.

That was why.

The phone shrilled out loudly and broke Kurt from his thoughts. With a sigh, he composed himself and answered on the third ring.

'Fury Industries, Kurt Hummel speaking. How can-'

'Cut the crap,' Santana said. 'The less I have to hear of your freakish Betty Boop voice, the better.'

'Mrs. Karofsky,' Kurt rolled his eyes. 'Do you want me to transfer your call?'

'I need the apartment.' He heard ice cubes hitting glass. 'And I'm bringing my own CD's. Celine Dion? How do you ever get laid, Hummel?'

'Well, that certainly seems to be the question of the day.' Kurt pulled his book to him, opening to the current date. 'When?'

'Tomorrow.'

'Ah,' Kurt cringed at the black X that was scrawled across the page. Karofsky. 'It's out.'

'Unout it. I need it.'

Well, this was awkward. How do you tell one cheating spouse that their husband had beaten her to the punch?

'I can't. I'm really sorry, Mrs. Karofsky.' Kurt braced himself for the deriding that was sure to follow but it didn't come. Instead, Santana sighed heavily.

'Fine. Put me through to Good and Plenty.'

'Um, okay. Sure.' Kurt pressed the transfer button and hoped he hadn't sent her through to Beijing. Again.

The phone was barely back on the hook a second before it began ringing once more.

'Fury Indu—'

'I need the apartment.'

'Puck.' Kurt rubbed at his temple. 'Good morning to you, too.'

'Yeah, whatever. Listen, I need it for tonight. There's this girl, stacked. And I mean stacked. But I can't take her back to my Mom's. She'll think I'm pathetic.'

'Imagine.'

'So, I need it from, say, 8ish to midnight.'

'Oh, no. I've just had the worst day and it isn't even nine, yet. I just wanted one relaxing night where I can soak in the bath, wrap myself up in my new Gloleni bathrobe and watch The Grand Hotel while eating bad Chinese food.' Kurt sighed, settling back into his chair. It was going to be Heaven.

'Hummel, come on. Have your gay orgy another night. I'll owe you.'

'You already owe me. Can't you just take her to a hotel? Just this once?'

'What? Chicks don't like that. It makes them feel cheap. They feel all classy and stuff in your place. I think it's all the pine.'

'Puck—' Kurt said, a warning note in his voice.

'$200. Up front.' Puck snapped out quickly. Kurt's gaze moved over to his father staring back at him, his eyes crinkling as he laughed at something off camera.

'Okay. But be out by midnight, and this time leave the right key out. I had to sleep in the park last time. I nearly froze to death.'

'I thought that was where your people all met up?'

Kurt removed the phone from his ear and banged it hard three times against the desk. He put it back to his ear.

'—king ow, what the fuck!'

'Sorry!' Kurt trilled. 'I dropped it. What were you saying?'

'Nothing,' Puck muttered. 'I'll be more careful about the key. Thanks.'

'And no red wine in the bed this time, Puck. Those sheets cost more than you're paying me.'

They didn't, actually, since he was an excellent bargain hunter, but Puck didn't need to know all of his secrets.

'Jesus fuck, any other rules you want to lay down, Mom?'

Kurt smiled sweetly. 'No flushing the condom, take it with you when you go.'

He hung up, cutting off Puck's indignant howl at the idea of carrying a used condom around, and fired off a quick text to Mercedes suggesting a bad movie night and copious amounts of ice cream. She was starting to think his place was haunted. Kurt was starting to wish it was.

Okay. This day officially sucked. He needed something to take the edge off.

He needed Blaine.