Kurt leaned out the bathroom door, where he'd been washing his face as Gwen dropped her keys on the table near the door and threw herself on his bed.
Well, technically, their bed. Kurt didn't really relish bunking with the boys in the band, and Gwen didn't really relish bunking alone – though, Kurt was adamant that there was no way, shape or form in any sort of hell that they'd be “bunking”, he'd said with a meaningful glare. Gwen had pretended to pout, but had given in graciously.
She pointed out that the whispers and rumours now surrounding the tour could only help them – keep them from trying to figure out about Kurt's love life, and would give her a nice respite from the tabloids as well. Kurt, so far as the papers could find out, was a well-dressed, handsome young man originally from Ohio. Their relationship didn't raise many eyebrows – clearly, Gwen was just looking for someone to push around – and into her bed. Photographers followed them for about a week, but when all they caught was some boringly affectionate dinners and a stroll or two in a park, they'd given up.
Gwen was in the process of unhooking her garter belt, one foot propped up on the bed. Kurt finished patting his face dry, already in his pajamas.
“Roll your stockings down, darling. They'll last longer,” he said as he passed her on the way to his side of the bed.
“And how would you know, darling,” Gwen shot back.
“I'm a tailor. I know fabrics, I know materials. Silk doesn't like to be pulled on like that.” He pulled the covers back neatly, slid into bed and lay down. He rolled to his side, curling himself around his pillow, meticulously sure to remain on His Side of the bed.
“Oh, it's not because you wear these sometimes?” Her eyebrow was raised, a mocking smile on her face.
“No. I don't wear stockings.”
“Does your boy?”
“Blaine. His name is Blaine. And no, he doesn't either.”
“Then which one of you is the girl?”
He shot a dark look at her, but her face had changed. Instead of looking like she was trying to offend, she looked honestly curious.
“Neither one of us is The Girl, Gwen. We're both men.”
“But then.....then....how does it work?”
“How does what work?” He was baffled. Gwen Andrews, the sex kitten? Gwen Andrews, the shocking seductress? Was she actually asking him about sex?
He pushed himself up to lean against the headboard.
“All right, Gwen Andrews. You open that bar over there, pour me a drink, and I'll explain it all to you. But I am not having this conversation with you sober.”
“But...just....just tell me where he puts his ---”
“GWEN! Booze, first. Salacious details, after.”

*****

“Well, that was an education, Kurt” Gwen sloshed a bit of her drink on the bed between them.
“I'm so glad I could educate you. Is there anything else you could possibly want to know?” Kurt hadn't had as much to drink as Gwen, but he'd had enough to feel drunk. And that was sitting down – he imagined it'd be worse if he stood.
“You love him? Or you just like to fuck him? Or,” she belched delicately, “Or you like him to fuck you....is that how it works?”
“Yes, I love him. Yes, to all of the above.”
“And he's a nice guy?”
“The nicest. Just ask my parents.”
“Your parents know?” Gwen looked scandalized.
“I introduced him to them a month after we met. They adore each other. When we go back to Ohio, we stay with my family – his is.....not quite as open.”
“Do they know?”
“They know. Blaine told them. However, outwardly, they pretend not to. For all intents and purposes, we are just roommates, as far as their concerned.”
Kurt leaned his head back against the wall, running his tongue over his upper lip. “Though, recently, it's been getting better. Much better. They're coming around.”
“Oh, since Blaine's disappearance?”
A vast hole seemed to appear in front of Kurt. There was no air around him, but he didn't care – had to remind himself to take another breath. He's okay, Kurt. He's okay. He's been found. You got those letters from him. Ginger saw him with her own two eyes. He's okay.
“Wow, honey, it really upsets you,” Gwen was eyeing him with bleary concern. “You're shaking. Honey, it's okay. He's not okay.”
“Right. He's okay. For now.” Kurt smiled bleakly. “”At least, last I heard. My mail's trailing me all over the country with this damn, so I haven't gotten a letter from him in a few weeks.”
“But, no news is good news, right?” She whispered.
“Most of the time, yes. His brother has our tour itinerary, and promised to call if he heard anything...”
“C'mere, honey. Snuggle with me before it's time for lights out.”
“It was time for lights out hours ago, Gwennie.”
She switched off the light on the bedside table, and turned to him. “How you want your snuggles tonight, Kurtsie?”
“Oh god, again, Gwen?”
“I sleep better cuddled up. And you know you want me well rested.”
“Oh hell yes, I do.” Honestly, Kurt really didn't mind. It was nice to have a warm body – a friend, when he couldn't have a lover – to sleep next to. His nightmares weren't so frequent or so violent with Gwen there.
“No, you're sleeping on my chest tonight, Gwennie. Waking up with your boobs under my face is terrifying to me.”
“But they're such nice boobs.” Gwen pouted, peering down at them.
“Yes, dear. They are lovely,” he held out his arms, and she curled her body into his. “Just like you.”
“Aww, gee, Kurtsie. You're swell.” She reached up to pet his cheek.
“Thanks, honey. No matter what I say while I'm sober, I think you're swell too.”
“G'night, Kurtsie.” she yawned widely.
“G'night, sweetie.”
They were both asleep within minutes.

*****
After the long, arduous trip to get them to their first concert, Gwen, Kurt and the rest of their entourage were exhausted. It was cold and foggy and dismal when they landed – only to find that a key trunk of costumes had gone missing somehow. All of Gwen's gowns – and a few of the rest of the girls – were sitting on the tarmac back in New York.
Gwen started screaming, throwing things, pitching fits. She fired everyone in sight – no one budged. They were all fired at least once a week.
Kurt sidled over to a corporal, standing shocked and open-mouthed in the doorway. A few whispered requests, met with a emphatic agreement from the soldier, and Kurt was soon in possession of several pieces of material. He slipped out, feeling Gwen's wrath shaking the walls, grabbed his sewing kit from his suitcase, found a quiet corner and began to sew.
A few moments later, he presented a still-raging Gwen with a small stack of cloth.
“What's this?” she snarled.
“Your costume. Show starts in 20 minutes, so I suggest you put that on so we can do the final fitting.”
“Kurt? What the hell--”
“Gwen,” he said sternly. “Put. It. On.”
The men – except Kurt – were hurriedly ushered out. Gwen slipped on the costume – the corporal had raided the supply room and brought him an officer's shirt – the smallest he could find – and two bright red signal flags. Kurt had tailored the shirt to what he remembered of Gwen's bust size – and sewn the flags together to make a very short skirt. It barely needed adjustments. Gwen was amazed – it was patriotic, yet sexy. The soldiers were sure to love it.
Some bright red shoes, a pilfered Officer's cap, some lipstick – and she was ready.
The rest of the girls were having trouble – their costumes had arrived but they were damp -- it was cold and raining.
Jeanette, in particular, wanted to wear her coat while performing.
“I'm gonna die of cold wearing that thing,” she whined.
“Kurt?” Gwen asked questioning.
“No, there's no way. I can't make any more – we have to go on in 10 minutes!”
“Then, Jeanette, you put it on.” Gwen's voice was steely.
“What if I say no?”
“Jeanette, you put on the fucking dress. All of you!” Gwen wheeled around to address everyone in the room. “Put on your fucking dresses. And you powder your nose and you put on your fucking heels and your fucking lipstick and you fucking smile. I don't care how cold you are. I don't care how miserable you are. You think that's anything compared to what these boys have gone through?”
There was silence in the room as the girls all stared at Gwen – they'd seen her wildly throwing things, screaming and carrying on. This new vehemence – expletives and orders being spat through clenched teeth – this was new and no one seemed to know what to make of it.
“You put on your brightest lipstick, you drown yourself in your most feminine cologne and you smile. These boys are going to get the best show we can give them, and that show starts from the minute you walk out this door. You pick your part – I don't care what it is – and you stick to it until we are back on that plane out of sight. You be the vamp, the vixen, the whore or the golly-gee fucking girl next door. I don't care. These boys have gone through – are still going through hell, and we are here to remind them what they're fighting for.”
She continued, “I don't give a fuck what you think. All I know is that it's my name on that plane out there, and if you give those boys anything less then every fucking ounce of everything you have, then you are fucking going to have to figure out how you're gonna swim home. You got it?”
Gwen stormed out to her private dressing room to reapply her crimson lipstick. Kurt was the only one to see the tears welling in her eyes.

*****

Three shows, three hospital tours. Gwen really was giving it her all – and the rest of crew had stepped up to the challenge. The shows were no matter, but after ever hospital round, Gwen would lock herself – and Kurt – into her private dressing room and sobbed in his arms.
“They all look like Jimmy,” she wailed. Jimmy was her high-school sweetheart, wounded in action, and sent home. He'd committed suicide after his arm had had to be amputated.
“He didn't think I would love a man with only one arm. He didn't even give me a chance to show him--” she could barely whisper into Kurt's arms.
“So that's why you're so always over the top with them – the soldiers.”
“I need to show them that there's someone who cares. That it doesn't matter how many arms or legs – someone finds them attractive and loveable and --- I just need them to know that someone cares.”
She wept after every hospital tour, but by the time it was concert-time, you'd never know it. She was energetic, vivacious, flirtatious and outrageous. She requested the names of soldiers in advance, so she could pull them up on stage and sing to them – curling herself in their laps, twining herself around them – much to the jealously howling delight of their compatriots.
Just before the fourth show, Gwen announced a set change. The girls would close out the show – Kurt and Rodney (the very very very dull bass they'd found in Kansas City) would sit out the last 6 songs. Kurt's voice was feeling the chill – he'd been babying it with hot tea – god, no one makes tea like the English, he thought.
They'd cut one of his solos – tonight, he was just singing “The Very Thought Of You”. As always, he closed his eyes, and thought of Blaine while he sang it.
Immediately after he'd left the stage after it, Vicki rushed up to him. “Gwen says she's popped a seam. Can you fix it?”
“My kit's in the dressing room,” he eyed Gwen, onstage, joking with the crowd. He couldn't see anything wrong with her seams. “I'll run back and get it.”
He fumbled his way through the makeshift backstage, to the small office that had been provided for Gwen's private dressing area. He rushed in, fumbling over the desk, trying to find his kit in the inevitable piles of stockings and scarves and just things the girls seemed to leave behind.
Ah, there it was. He unrolled it to check he had enough of the right thread. And found a note.
Oops. I was wrong, the seams are fine. Wait here. Xoxo Gwennie.
As he stood there, looking confused at the note, he heard a knock on the door.
“Excuse me? Miss Andrews?” Through the door, the voice was muffled.
“She's onstage,” Kurt was still trying to figure out what the hell she meant by – she was obviously plotting something and that always made Kurt a little nervous. He sneezed, wiping his nose on his handkerchief.
“Gesundheit, Kurt. Now are you going to let me in, or do I have to stand out here in the hall all night?” said the voice on the other side of the door.
Suddenly, Kurt ran for the door, tearing it open. He couldn't believe it'd taken him that long to recognize that voice.