Fic: The Fame Monster (3/?)
Title: The Fame Monster (3/?)
Author: Invalidattempt
Characters/Pairings: Kurt, Mike, Puck, Mercedes, Artie, and Matt. Pairing will be Kurt/Mike.
Length: ~3,000 words in this chapter
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Mild violence, swearing.
Disclaimer: I do not own Glee. Or Fight Club. Or the Lord of the Rings. Or Le Bernardin (which is a real restaurant, and actually very close to the Ed Sullivan Theatre. Oh yeah, I also don’t own the Late Show with David Letterman.)
AN: Written for the Kurt/Mike Summer Love Fic Fest prompt #68: Movie Star Kurt, Body guard Mike. Why Kurt Hummel doesn’t date.
Summary: Mike Chang really doesn't like Kurt Hummel. Mike Chang thinks Kurt Hummel is a pretentious egotist obsessed with garnering media attention. Too bad Mike Chang's new job is protecting Kurt Hummel.
The call came from Matt barely a week later. Apparently, he had received a call from Quinn Fabray detailing a list of terms, conditions, and rules of employment that were absolutely not up for negotiation. Nevertheless, Matt had accepted.
“So here’s the deal,” he had told Mike, “You are working with Mr. Hummel’s personal assistant, Ms. Jones. She will send you the schedule for the day, and you follow it. You pick Hummel up in the morning, and stay with him until he heads home again. And,” he paused for a moment, grinning, “You get off early on Sunday, at 7:00 pm. Convenient, huh?”
Which was why Mike now stood at the door of Kurt Hummel’s penthouse at 5:00 in the morning. Hummel had to be at the set of his next movie in half an hour, so Mike woke up at an ungodly hour to escort him there.
Tina had been ecstatic when he told her about his interview with Sue Sylvester, stammering in excitement as she asked him to get her an autograph. Mike explained that nothing was written in stone, that he may not get the job, but Tina’s enthusiasm refused to be quelled. Then, Mike had been subjected to full ‘prep’: Tina had gotten out her favourite movies starring his prospective client and had forced him to watch them. (Mike fell asleep half way through the very first one. It wasn’t boring, really, he’d just had a long day. The women of SS Corp were exhausting.)
The door slammed open. A woman stepped out, chattering away on a cell phone.
“Okay, Artie, honey, sorry it’s so early. We’ll see you soon? That’s right, pick us up at Kurt’s flat. Oh! Gotta run, white boy, the new bodyguard is here. Work never ends, does it? Alright, ciao ciao!”
She hung up, slipping the phone into the oversized purse that hung off her arm. She looked him over, slowly. Oddly, Mike felt as though she wasn’t judging his strength of character, but rather his outfit.
Finally, she frowned, and said, “Aren’t you a little small for this job?”
Mike tried desperately not to roll his eyes. He’d heard it all before. “Ms. Sylvester thought I would do fine. Is Mr. Hummel ready to go?”
She showed no such restraint, rolling her eyes extravagantly with a muttered “what a stick-in-the-mud.” However, she did turn, calling, “Kurt, are you ready?”
“Right behind you, Mercedes,” the reply came. Before Mike even saw Kurt Hummel, he heard his voice, and he had to admit that Tina was right; Kurt Hummel did have a unique voice- ‘like dark chocolate’, Tina once said, rich and deep and dark.
Then the man himself entered the scene. His voice was somewhat unsuited for his looks, Mike thought; the deep timbre of his voice did not in any way reflect his slim build and soft features. Looking at him made Mike feel severely under-dressed, despite the rather nice suit he was wearing. He had a feeling that the outfit Hummel was wearing probably cost more than Tina was paying for one year at Juilliard. Hell, the ascot alone looked to be more expensive than Mike’s car. Everything about Kurt Hummel just screamed ‘rich’.
The look Hummel threw at Mike, however, just screamed ‘disdain’. It wasn’t just the look, really; in fact, his posture, his upturned nose, the position of his hands on his hips, the prim white pea coat, and the subtly raised eyebrow all fairly stunk of superiority.
All in all, not a great first impression.
Hummel held Mike’s gaze a moment too long. To Mike, this seemed like a deliberate challenge. However, Ms. Jones interrupted the staring contest with a huff. “Kurt, honey, you look fabulous - that coat is gorgeous; is it from Gucci’s spring collection? - but we are running late already. You two can get acquainted later. Artie should be downstairs by now, so we should really hurry.”
Hummel nodded curtly, then swept away towards the elevator. Mike trailed behind with Ms. Jones, who was busily scanning her violently purple day planner.
Mike peered over her shoulder at the planner, wondering what was on the schedule today. Ms. Jones, however, had other ideas.
“If you wanted a look-see, you could have just asked, Mr. Chang,” she snarked at him, snapping the planner shut.
He sighed, but said, “I’m sorry. What’s up for Mr. Hummel today, Ms. Jones?”
Ms. Jones chuckled, replying, “Mr. Chang, you don’t gotta call me Ms. Jones. Mercedes will do just fine, capische?”
Without waiting for an answer, she turned to Kurt as she entered the elevator behind him.
“Well, you have to be in the costume and makeup trailer on set in Central Park in twenty minutes; then, you’re filming until 6:00. I’ve made reservations at Le Bernardin for 6:15-” Here, he prepared to interrupt her, but she raised a hand, signalling him to remain quiet so that she could explain. “I know, you prefer vegetarian, but Ms. Sylvester says that meat is the food of champions, because ‘anyone who only eats plants is going to die when technology fails, but anyone who can eat meat is prepared for cannibalism. Survival of the best.’”
A speaker in the elevator announced their arrival on the ground floor and the doors opened. Hummel swept through them, heading towards a young man waiting in the lobby. Mercedes followed after him, still talking. Mike walked behind them, doing an instinctive sweep of the room (hidden cameras/mikes, hidden people, anyone watching, any threat?). “Anyway,” she continued, “I thought sea food would be a compromise, because it’s super low fat. So, dinner, and then from seven thirty and onwards, you’re at the Ed Sullivan Theatre filming with Mr. Letterman. You should be out of there by ten at the latest.”
The man waiting for them looked to be in his early twenties. He held the door open for Hummel and his assistant, greeting them both cordially and with great enthusiasm, then turned to Mike as the others hurried towards the waiting car. Mike walked beside Hummel’s driver out the door and into the brisk morning air. He was suddenly glad for the work clothes - even if they did limit his ability to move quickly - because they certainly did keep him warm.
Just as he reached the passenger seat door, for Mercedes and her boss had already taken the backseats of the luxury SUV, the other man paused and held out a fist with an expectant look on his face.
When Mike did nothing, the other guy shook his fist a little, saying, “Don’t leave me hanging, new guy.”
Mike sighed and presented his fist to the man. The fists were bumped, and the guy chuckled as he walked around the front of the vehicle.
“You know,” he said once Mike was in, as he turned the key in the ignition, “You’re the first one that’s actually responded to the call of the waiting fist. Either they’re too stuffy, or, like the last guy, Tanaka, I just don’t really want to touch them. He smelled terrible.”
He backed away from the curb, then took off. They drove in silence until he hit a red light, at which point he reached up, adjusting his glasses, then used his thumb to snap his suspenders. He turned his eyes from the road toward Mike in the passenger seat and said with a lopsided grin, “I’m Artie.”
“Mike Chang.”
A voice from the back drawled, “Artie, you don’t have to consort with the hired help just because he’s sitting next to you. Awkward silences are healthy.”
Amidst giggles from Mercedes, Artie glanced back around his seat (and Mike worried for his life- shouldn’t he be watching the road?), and replied, “Kurt, I am the hired help. And you only think awkward silences are healthy because they look good on screen with silly music in the background.”
There was a low chuckle, and then Mike found himself forgotten amidst the bantering that ensued. Instead, he gazed out the tinted window at the empty streets, and he wished for coffee (strong and black) and possibly earplugs to help deal with the way that Hummel’s superior attitude and patronizing tone, as he openly mocked the few people on the street for their clothing, bearing, or assumed success at life, just grated violently on his nerves.
And as the week passed, things in no way got any better. Kurt Hummel’s casual brand of cruelty towards the tech crew, his co-stars, and even random strangers spoke heavily to Mike of his conviction of his own greatness. For the most part, Mike found himself ignored, which should have been a blessing, but it rankled. Mercedes and Artie were both good company, but the moment Hummel joined them, everything changed. It was obvious they both admired the star, but the incessant attention and slight fawning was really a bit of a mystery. It became clear to Mike that his employer didn’t chat with friends: he held court. And since Hummel ignored him, Artie and Mercedes did too, probably glad of the extra attention he gave them instead.
Frankly, this wasn’t the worst job Mike had ever taken, (that was definitely the time he had to work for Mr. Ryerson, a paranoid nobody who somehow got hold of enough money to hire a bodyguard to protect him from... well, Mike had never really figured that part out.) However, it was probably the most exhausting. Every day was a struggle for power, as Hummel constantly reminded him of his position as an employee. Lazily assessing glances and orders were thrown at him constantly.
“Are you eating a chocolate bar? I know it’s your lunch break, but really. I can feel my skin breaking out as we speak. I’m going to have to insist that you throw that out. Please don’t argue; I’d hate to have to fire you over something so trivial.”
Friday night he got off early after escorting Hummel back to his apartment. Artie gave him a lift home, playing some indie rock CD by a band Mike had never heard of, (and he was certain he heard Artie singing along at times), so he made it home relatively early. Because of this, he was able to watch the Letterman Show.
He hadn’t watched the filming on Monday, having opted to wait with Artie in the foyer of the theatre instead. Now, as he watched, he felt an angry tightness in his chest as Hummel skirted questions about his love life to instead talk about his new movie. In the end, he muted the interview until it was done so that he wouldn’t be forced to listen to that damned pretentious voice. He turned the volume back up for the next interview however, to listen to the current Vice President discuss the situation with the withdrawal of troops from war zones.
His opinions on his latest employer came up on Sunday, a week after he got the job. At the Shark Fighting Ring, he was facing off against Noah Puckerman.
Mike had met Puck mere weeks after he returned to New York following his departure from the army. Mike had been attending the funeral with Tina when he was reunited with Matt, his best friend from high school. They hadn’t had time to talk then, because it was cold and miserable and Tina looked like her whole world was ending. However, Matt had left Mike his number, so they met up at a bar later that night.
Mike had only been back a few weeks by that point, but already he was feeling hemmed in. There was a constant hum of noise everywhere he went, and there were so many people. After three years of constant movement, he felt directionless. Sometime between the third and the seventh drink Matt noticed this.
The next day he dragged Mike down the street at sunset towards a small boxing club.
Fighting was something Mike loved. It was pure energy, all speed and grace and violence. All his life he had felt lost- he’d dreamed his way through college, dropped out of university. But fighting... fighting gave him focus. It set off a fire in his chest not unlike the one he felt when dealing with Hummel, except that in the ring he could respond, he could fight back without the risk of being fired. And if he occasionally saw Hummel’s face as he dragged other men down to the ground? A little imagination harms no one.
The man he was currently dragging down to the ground was the self-proclaimed King of the Ring. (Matt kept changing it to ‘Lord’ instead, always with a little smirk on his face. Puck got it, but Finn, the co-owner, didn’t. When asked about it later, Puck explained that he didn’t watch it for all that nerdy shit, he watched it for the hot chick with the sword.)
Puck was definitely Mike’s favourite opponent. He was big, and he was strong, and he fought dirty. It was almost a challenge.
The jeering audience, all bloodied and bruised from their own fights, yelled out praise and insults, but it all faded into the background as Mike swayed out of the way of a wild punch. Everything around him was white noise, static, standing still while inside the ring everything moved at lightning speed. His vision tunnelled until all he could see was Puck, and all he could hear was the pound of feet against the mat and his opponent’s taunts.
“ Getting any action on your new job, Chang? I’ve seen Hummel in a couple movies, seems like a prissy little queen.”
Puck could be a bit of a jackass in a fight. Mike kicked him hard just above the kneecap for good measure. The man went down.
“Shit, man, don’t need to be offended. I was just wondering if you had gotten to stop any nasty criminals yet.” The snide chuckle rung in Mike’s ears as Puck wiped the sweat off his forehead with extreme nonchalance, then wiped his hand off on his mohawk. Mike had to admit it was a little bad-ass.
His slight admiration didn’t stop him from getting onto his knees to get in a solid right cross. “Yeah, well, euphemisms are a bitch,” he replied.
He pressed his forearm against Puck’s bare throat and pressed him down to the ground, pinning him. He said, “Besides Hummel doesn’t date. He doesn’t flirt, he doesn’t date, he doesn’t even seem to really like men. Besides, he’s annoying as hell.”
Puck shoved him off, using his superior weight to send Mike flying across the slick mat.
Clambering up, Puck gave Mike a sardonic little grin, saying, “Maybe he’s just pulling your pigtails, Chang.”
Then Puck dove at him.
Everything seemed to slow in Mike’s mind. It was the make-it-or-break-it moment: Puck was leaping towards him, arms outstretched and a manic glint in his eye. This fight could end two ways. Either Puck would be in pain, or Mike would.
As Puck threw himself at Mike, Mike extended his right leg directly, with the heel of his foot pointing towards Puck’s kidney. In slow motion, he saw Puck crumple around his foot. Puck’s eyes bulged out and sweat flew off his forehead, beating a light rhythm against the ground. His face reddened heavily. Then time snapped back into place and Puck was flying backwards, clutching at his stomach and cursing heavily. He collapsed to the ground, gasping for breath, and yelled, “Stop!”
And Mike started to notice the world around him again.
Puck had lost, and the fight was over.
As Finn stepped into the ring to check on his friend, Mike pushed his way through the crowd, thoroughly ignoring the approving slaps he was receiving on his back, his arms. He grabbed his shirt off the floor. He felt like he couldn’t get enough air, like his lungs were suddenly too small. Mike stumbled out of the room, and the stench of soured sweat dissipated as he swung open the front doors into the cool night air.
Mike slumped down against the hard, cement steps that led up to the club. Using his shirt, he swiped the sweat off his face, then shrugged it on. (You never know what kind of perverts are eyeing the view.)
That had been intense.
Normally Puck wasn’t able to get under his skin that easily. Mike knew that was just Puck’s thing when he fought: he talked shit to distract his opponent, to make them stupid. Every guy in that room had their own technique. Finn was huge, all he had to do to win was sit down on the other fighter and stay put. Matt was incredibly ambidextrous, and would surprise his attacker with a sudden left hook. And Mike was fast. So, so fast.
The doors behind him swung open, and he could hear boisterous shouting from within. Another fight must have started.
Footsteps approached, then a bottle of water was thrust into his hands. Nodding his appreciation to his friend, Mike unscrewed the cap, tipped his head back and gulped it down. Once he was finished, he stared blankly at the empty bottle in his hands.
Matt punched his arm. Turning, Mike saw that he was being offered a second, full bottle. He smiled shakily at Matt.
The two friends sat together on the steps in the real world as behind them others continued to live their fantasy. And maybe in another five minutes, they too would return to keep fighting, keep living. And tomorrow, they would go back to their jobs again, back to managing a company and back to silently protecting a spoiled starlet, in dreary monotony until next Sunday at 7:30. But for now, Mike was content to sit beside Matt, under the dark sky as a slight breeze chilled his soaking shirt.
AN: Eowyn is so fucking bad-ass. End of story.
I’m so sorry for the long wait- my computer got infected and McAfee was being incompetent. Anyway, there should only be a couple more chapters left; the big reveal (or whatever) for Mike is next chapter, and after that there’s just a little angst until a happy ending. I just hope that I get this up before the deadline for the Kurt/Mike Fest... I am so easily distracted, but there’s so much good fic out there that needs reading! It calls to me, my preciousss!
... Am I the only one who finds Artie ridiculously hard to write for?